Hidden 6 yrs ago Post by Dark Jack
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Zerul City, somewhere near I’onriyi’s estate

The bustling noises of the city rousing from its night of rest filled the air as she found herself rooted to the spot, finding herself overwhelmed by the sheer number of alien impressions and allowing herself a moment to simply take it all in. Look at the people, living lives that must seem ordinary to themselves, going about to perform tasks that were so extraordinarily mundane that she could barely even imagine what they were. Listen to the voices, the clatter and rustle of the city, so full of life, so fragile yet so determined to persevere. Feel the breeze on her skin, cold but gentle, occasionally alleviated somewhat by a still-pale ray from the rising sun peaking through the patchy clouds above.
She closed her pale red eyes and breathed in, marveling – not for the first time – in how different a world this was compared to what she was used to. She knew that people looked at her, pointed, whispered among themselves and kept their distance, but she was far past the point of caring about their attention. Even if she resolved to behave as normally as possible, the midnight-black feathers on her head down er spine were liable to make people notice her anyway, bringing their attention to her eyes of cool flame, slight frame and to them unusually shaped ears. Behaving oddly or not, humans seemed cautious of true deigan as a matter of course. Not that she blamed them; her head was filled with memories of just how grim life in one of their subterranean cities could be, and how that life could mold or break people. The dagger by her hip, given to her by her parents on her fortieth birthday, was physical evidence of just how cruelly true deigan lived their lives; a tool to carve out her place in the world and defend herself from those who wished to take it from her.
And then... everything else, the things people around her could not see or know. Light and darkness. Above and below. It was all so... confusing. But she had decided to live, and to use her life for something greater than herself. To find adventure where the ordinary and extraordinary joined, and to hopefully understand.

She opened her eyes, a soft smile creasing her pale lips, she walked down the street in search for her destiny. Her soft shoes made little noise against the cobblestone, not because she tried to be quiet but simply due to natural grace and the lightness of her body. Her velvet, faded-red dress flowed loosely around her legs even more so now that it had gotten frayed and tattered, and felt somewhat insufficient in the face of the autumn chill. At least it had sleeves, she figured, though she would have preferred trousers.
She was getting close to the address she had been given for one I’onriyi Stonehand, a supposed adventurer in good standing with the townspeople. According to what she had heard he was a mage, a craftsman and a penin, and had just returned from his last adventure somewhere. Beyond that, however, she knew next to nothing about him... but he was her best bet at the moment. What she could do on her own felt so painfully inadequate – particularly compared to what she could once have done – that she had no doubts that she needed allies. She had done good already, helping the refugees from Nemhim, but... she had helped so few compared to how many there were. She could give all she had and most would still be hungry, and she could rip bandages from her clothes until she was naked and undressed wounds would remain. She wanted to do more. To be more.

She stood before his door, raising her fist to knock.
He could still be sleeping.
She froze in mid-motion; she had not even considered that. Was that an actual concern? She had not slept, herself, but I’onriyi might be sleeping this moment. Was it unacceptable to disturb him if that was the case? The sun was up... surely that meant that it was time to be awake. Was that not how this world worked?
He might not even be home. I’m sure he has business elsewhere in the city during the day.
Blinking, she found herself stunned by a whole new kind of alien circumstance. What was she supposed to do? Should she check through the windows if he was at home, or sleeping, before knocking?
No! I’m pretty sure that downright illegal, spying on people like that. Just knock.
Nodding to herself, wearing a frown of concern, she raised her fist anew and knocked.
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The Duchy of Zerul, by a road in the southwest

Interestingly, continuing to listen to Angora made the rage her words had previously awakened in him flow out of Jaelnec, draining from his body as though it had been an actual physical liquid occupying the shell of his body. He felt calm now, yes, and ceased to feel a desire to punch the immoral woman, but it was far from a pleasant calm that was left in the wake of his anger. It left him cold inside, feeling empty and indifferent toward her. He did not want to punch her, no, but he was also filled with an awareness that he could punch her, or worse, and would feel no remorse for doing so. That he could choose to ignore her if she needed his help.
It was a highly disturbing feeling, completely new to the young nightwalker and evoked memories in him of how Freagon expressed his displeasure; coldly, calmly and cruelly. He had never been able to understand how someone could face the things the one-eyed knight had without ever succumbing to one’s emotions, but feeling this... he felt like he understood a tiny bit better. It was not self-control, courage or strength. It was simply coldness.

“Your private life is yours, and mine is mine,” she said, arguing that he had no right to meddle in her affairs, but the argument made little sense to him. His private life was his, she said? In essence this was probably correct; it was his choice to forego most of what people referred to as “private life” and instead dedicate himself to things greater than himself, to serve, protect and champion the weak and innocent. But her? Her “private life” had a very real and observable negative effect on others in that she stole, hurt and killed. The squire had killed and would kill again, yes, but those who had fallen to his blade were people like Angora; people who set themselves above others and were willing to sacrifice things that did not belong to them for the sake of their own fortune. People who were selfish, sadistic, greedy... evil.
He helped, she hurt. They were on different sides of alignment, whether that be referred to as “good and evil” or “selflessness and selfishness”, but he could not accept her feeble attempts at justifying her actions.
But he would not kill someone who was not hostile to him or his friends, and they could not simply let her go and possibly revert back to the state they had found her in, so she had to come with them. Once they got to Zerul City... well, what then? Hand her over to the Ducal Guard and tell them... what? “This woman is guilty of many heinous crimes, but there’s an entity in her that has and may again drive her into an insane murder-spree. She’s your problem now.” What would they even do with her? Prison? Who knew if the anti-magic seals in place on the Zerulic special-built cells even worked against the powers of the entity inhabiting her? No. Would they sentence her to death? Even more unlikely; Zerul was a duchy built around the pursuit of magic and knowledge, and the likelihood of them simply disposing of such an unusual magical phenomenon as this was practically nonexistent. But then again, maybe the Zerulic mages could find a way to remove the entity. Cure her.
But the Black Sword – or whatever its true name was – had almost certainly been forged and enchanted by Klorr, possibly the most skilled artisan and enchanter in Reniam and an immensely skilled magus. Judging by the way Angora described the Black Sword affecting the penin transporting it, odds were overwhelmingly in favor of Klorr having condemned the artifact to oblivion because even he had been unable to contain the entity, let alone remove it. Could they really place their hopes in the Zerulic mages succeeding where even Klorr had failed?
No. He could not in good conscience hand her over to Zerul and leave her to a life as a magical test-subject, especially with such low chances of them being able to help her. He wished Aemoten was here to make the decision for him... but hopefully he would decide when he rejoined their group. Jaelnec only had to shoulder the burden of responsibility until then.

He sighed, shaking his head in quiet indecision and indifference. Angora had outright refused to comply with any of the things he had asked of her, but he could simply not produce the investment to grow annoyed with this. He did, however, still feel the craving to touch Roct and let her soothing influence wash over him, and that craving was only made stronger by looking at Angora affectionately handling the dark blade that seemed almost like a counterpart to his own white one.
Blinking in surprise, he abruptly realized that he wanted the Black Sword, that he was fantasizing about taking it from Angora and claiming it for himself. And he doubted that he, if he got his hands on it, would want to part with it either. He also recalled how Roct had reacted to touching the blade, and privately decided that it was probably for the best if the sword stayed in Angora’s possession.
“Fine,” he said, responding to everything that had passed with just one word. What else was he supposed to do? The alternative to simply complying with Angora was to either let her go, which was out of the question, capture and tie her up, or kill her. She would be in the way and dangerous as a captive, and they would have no way to get rid of her, and if they killed her... well, obsidite was practically indestructible, so it was not like they could just destroy the Black Sword. They could just hide it somewhere, but would they be able to leave it like that? Would he be able to resist the temptation of taking it for himself?
It was not worth the risk.
“I suppose it isn’t important in the end, you know?” Olan supplied after a brief silence. “The Withering doesn’t care who you are or what you do. And that’s our objective, right? Getting rid of the Withering?”
Jaelnec looked up, surprised once again. There was some truth to the old man’s words... maybe the day would come when Angora could redeem herself, if by no other means then by saving countless more than she had killed simply by helping them end the Withering. Or maybe she would die trying, and gain forgiveness through her sacrifice.
He nodded his head. “Yes. We all have a common enemy in the Withering.”
Hidden 6 yrs ago Post by yoshua171
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I'onriyi Stonehand


Knock knock

"Mmh," a groggy I'on vocalized, shifting slightly in his bed. For a long moment he thought he was still dreaming, but the feeling rapidly faded away as consciousness beckoned him. After about twenty seconds he opened his eyes properly, sighed, and forced his small frame out of bed. It took several minutes, but he dressed himself in something mildly appropriate, grabbed some water, and then headed for the door. If there were more knocks on the interim, well that was just too bad. They'd woken him up...and from a decent dream no less. A dream about home.

It had been so long. Too long perhaps, since he had seen his own kin, his parents. As he made his way to the door he called out, "Yes, just one moment." In the next moment he had unlocked and opened the door to find himself looking up at a deigan, and by the build and feathers, a True Deigan at that. Not unheard of on the surface, but not exactly terribly common either. The woman looked...out of place, really. Narrowing his eyes as he stared up at her in silence, he noted the condition of her clothes and his small natural scowl lightened, becoming something of a scowl.

"Well, out with it. You've woken me up and I've yet to eat breakfast. What is it!" He clapped his hands once, issuing a sharp noise before he crossed his arms over his chest. Having no intention to let a strange deigan into his home and wanting this over with so he could eat, it seemed that the penin had decided that it would be easier to be rude and pragmatic rather than polite.
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Zerul City, outside I’onriyi’s estate

The deigan woman had almost given up hope that anyone was going to answer her knocking by the time she heard someone shouting inside, but ultimately just waited patiently until I’onriyi appeared, idly brushing off part-real and part-imagined dirt from her once-regal dress. When the penin finally appeared he did so in a state that suggested that she had indeed disturbed his sleep, which was confirmed by his words but a moment later. She did not flinch in the slightest at realizing that she was bothering him, nor did she react to him hurrying her on. She did, however, shoot a quizzical look to either side, up and down the street, as she confirmed her earlier observation that there were indeed people out and about already. She had presumed that people would be more synchronized in their daily schedules here, considering that they had a common means of telling the time in the sky, but apparently she had been mistaken.
Her impression of I’onriyi was also immediately positive in many ways, although she had no doubt that making a good impression had been the last thing on his mind just now. His bluntness and rudeness was refreshingly different from what she was used to; the true deigan of her city were almost perpetually polite, displaying nothing but smiles and cordiality to one another even when everyone knew they were in the middle of bitter rivalry. Many of their kind would keep a smile on their face and in their voice, right up until one swallowed their poison or felt their dagger between one’s shoulders. I’onriyi’s behavior also meant that his good standing in the city did not come from him being likable or personable, which meant that it had been earned through his actions.
Another, more superficial reason that she liked I’onriyi was simply that he was smaller than her. With her stature of 5’1” and ninety-seven pounds she was considered small even among her own people, and in the time since she had come here she had realized that she was almost pathetically so compared to most humans. It was nice to encounter someone she did not have to look up at or generally seem intimidatingly big.

“My apologies,” she offered, placing her left hand on the small of her back and her right on her stomach as she bowed stiffly to the penin, an inelegant but humble gesture. She wondered what to say, now that she had actually met the man. Which approach was most likely to garner his attention before he slammed the door shut in her face? To explain the purpose of her visit, or to reveal her identity and her... situation? Deceiving the little guy somehow never even registered as an option.
Both. First purpose, then identity. Just keep it brief.
“I am here seeking I’onriyi Stonehand, adventurer in good standing,” she told him, trying to express as much information in as few words as possible so that he would not feel that he was wasting his time. “I want to accompany you on your next quest, that I may possibly do something good with my life.”
All right, now hit him with the really interesting part. I’m sure that’ll make him curious.
She placed her right hand on her chest, between her humble breasts, and smiled at him ruefully. “This is Male’dai, apprentice arcanist of Cahl’nai’sulooth’iel, which was recently raided and nearly completely destroyed. I -” she made a vaguer gesture at herself “- was given the honor of bearing the name Nimbus by my Lord. Nimbus of Laon’s archangels.”
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Domhnall and Angora


It appeared that the young black-eyes was not particularly opinionated on the matter, Domhnall had to conclude. Either that, or he decided to keep his opinions to himself. Whatever the case, the current leader's placeholder grudgingly resigned to accepting Angora's revelations with just a single word, fine. Huh. The forestfolk's eyes flitted from Jaelnec to Angora.
It... wasn't the response she was expecting from the man who had so vehemently been crusading against her way of life. Angora smiled - at least he was no longer hell-bent on demanding that she turn her life away from the Firm overnight. Such a thing was simply not possible, not to mention she might have a visit from a Con or two over her defection away from the Firm... or even her father. Erik was a Captain-Junior in the Dramburgh family - a family that was built on the Cleaners... Erik himself was a rarity - an outsider who attained high status in a family despite lacking their name. The Kelenwyn group was not a large one, but they were efficient. Angora doubted that even she would escape with her life. Admittedly, the man had a point - her hands were soaked in the blood of those she had killed, though perhaps he and others like him didn't quite realise what a Cleaner did. No matter.
Angora returned her attentions to her clothes. They were still damp - not to mention freezing cold - but they could probably ill-afford to spend too much longer sitting in front of a fire. Next to the green and brown man, his companion with the shock of red hair and blue lips slowly came to from her nap. Perhaps a subtle clue from the gods, Angora thought to herself, giggling quietly. The Black Sword's glow had ebbed away to a dull smoulder from the bright fiery runes that had been showing earlier. Angora turned the blade over in her hands several times... it was warm, very warm to the touch. She laid the blade on her clothes.
“I suppose it isn’t important in the end, you know?” Olan piped up. “The Withering doesn’t care who you are or what you do. And that’s our objective, right? Getting rid of the Withering?” Though somewhat surprised, the young black-eyes seemed to agree. That was right, this was their mission... The group's, and now theirs by extension. Iridiel had said her goddess instructed them to join the group on their quest ... or something of the sorts. The gist was what was important here. Healer first and foremost... Seemed like the sort of thing that would fit the bill quite nicely, in any case. Speaking of Iridiel, she was certainly beginning to stir now.
"Yeah... the Withering." Angora's face fell. So that was their mission was it? To cure the Withering, the greatest plague that the mortal world had ever seen? Wonderful. "Funny thing, isn't it, disease? From King to common folk, you're just as vulnerable. Makes you wonder, doesn't it - what truly makes a King so worthy of respect and obedience, when they're just as soft and fleshy and mortal as the rest of us?" Angora shrugged and went back to poking at her clothes. Iridiel - at least Angora thought that was her name - seemed to have woken up fully by now, though she was still yawning her head off and murmuring something in her native language to her companion. Were they a couple? Or were they just very good friends? Angora didn't know, nor did she really think it was her place to know. They were foreigners, they could have banned marriage for all she knew... She looked around at everybody. Perhaps she could let the clothes dry on her body, using her natural heat...
"I should probably get dressed."
"Ya do that," figured Domhnall. The clothes were probably still damp, but then again, she could also just move herself closer to the flames... Probably had a lower risk of setting the clothes on fire than just moving the clothes by themselves even closer to the fire.
What really separated a king from the common man... Some agreement made by the majority? The woman was quite right as far as Domhnall was concerned. King, peasant, at the end of the day they were just all people. Did not mean one was more correct than the other, or that the majority was necessarily right, or fair. Iridiel was only here because someone decided that her intentions did not matter, after all...
"Good morning," he noted to Iridiel, who had now lifted her head from his shoulder. He kept his arm around her for the time being, though; the warmth was nice, and he'd been sitting still for a while...
"Hmmmh... morning, still? I can't have slept for long I suppose..." Iridiel yawned and gently placed her head back on Domhnall's shoulder, pressing herself into his chest slightly. The warmth was most definitely welcome ... and Iridiel watched as Angora was going to find that out the hard way.
Angora got to her feet, cursing quietly as she took hold of her clothes from by the fire and moved them away from the odd spark or two, before snatching them up in her hand and allowing the cloak to fall from around her shoulders, heedless of what the others might think of her naked form on show to them all. Shit, that's cold! Instinctively she drew her hands about her breasts, shivering from the chill wind biting at her flesh, but she forced herself to forget about the chill for the moment in exchange for donning her clothes - though she wondered quite how well they'd actually protect her, given their poor state of maintenance. She swore repeatedly as she dressed herself as hastily as she could, though true to what she thought... it wasn't much good. The rips and holes combined with the damp clothing to render her perhaps even fucking colder than before! At least she could rely on the cloak to keep her warm- the cloak that was on the floor in the mud.
At last, her temper perhaps snapped once and for all. "Fuck it all!" In her anger, Angora aimed a kick at the fire, which missed, thanks to her still-foggy state of mind, and perhaps the side effects of having been kicked in the face several times. She fell to the floor, lying there thoroughly upset, embarrassed and exhausted.
Evidently still drowsy, Iridiel took his comment as an invitation to snuggle closer to him (not that he had anything against it), whereas Angora, from what he knew, quite uncharacteristically to Rodorians, opted to just change her clothes in the full sight of them all. It might have been that living in the forests under the influence of some critter that did not care at all for the common manners of its host for ten months or so had slightly dampened her sense of privacy... If Domhnall had any further thoughts on the matter, he did not seem to show them, and instead seemed to be trying to figure out whether he could reach one of the nearby logs to toss it to the flames and not move himself while he was at it.
All was fine and good until Angora decided to ... kick their campfire? Whatever her intent, she missed her target and fell flat on her back, eliciting an instinctive jerk from Domhnall's free hand and shoulder before he caught up with the fact that there was little way for him to do much unless he removed Iridiel from himself and got up. For a moment he paused, looking at Iridiel, then back at Angora, then at the two black-eyes. Assuming that one of them had not moved already (or, in Jaelnec's case, made himself sink underground), he lifted his eyebrows at them. Well? Are you just going to sit there with your hands free?
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I'onriyi Stonehand


Observing the deigan woman's bow, exhaling in a huff at her apology he awaited her actual reason for disturbing him. Perhaps she was someone's errand girl and he was needed elsewhere. More likely she was a beggar who had heard of his occasional generosity to people in the lower classes. He did have a penchant for giving, even though he would often act as if he disliked doing so. At the thought, one edge of his lips twitched upwards, before being forced down once more. Listening closely, despite the grogginess he was still shaking—not to mention the growling of his stomach—I'on tilted his head to the side slightly as the deigan stated her reason for bothering. He raised an eyebrow as she identified herself and her background. It wasn't much to go off of, but it was interesting in its way. Particularly the statement referring to Laon's Archangels.

Appraising her once more as he considered how to proceed, he let silence hang between them as he scratched his chin thoughtfully, turned, and walked into his home. He had to admit he was intrigued and it was because of this interest that he left the door open. When he was just turning a corner he called back, "Make sure to close the door behind you!" He took to fetching some bread and starting a fire in the hearth so he could perhaps make some tea. Of course, he could use magic, but that was an awful misuse of it, even if it would hardly tax him at all. Besides, every time he had heated water for his tea or soup it had come out tasting different.

Still, while he had invited her in, and indeed turned his back on her, he was no fool and did not trust her. He decided to say as much, glancing in her direction as he did so, "I do not trust you, Male'dai, but you have my attention. Just don't try anything funny, you won't like the result." He waved a wooden spoon at her as warning, before setting it down on a counter and opening a cupboard to extract some herbs.

"I must ask," he begun, putting the herbs in a metal sieve, which he then placed on the counter while he waited for the water to boil. He retrieved a knife went to cutting the bread into smaller pieces, placing some on a plate before pushing it her way. "...why follow me? Why adventure at all in fact. There are other ways to spend one's life and there are more well known figures than I." He shot a glance her way before taking a bite from his portion of bread. He kept his gold-eyed gaze on her as he ate, his focused scrutiny of her person making it a piercing look. He hoped there was more to her than the posturing that her introduction might be. Then again, if there was little else, there was likely little harm in letting her come along. At the very least she was likely to be significantly less shady than the individuals he had recently encountered.

The thought brought a tiny smile to his face, his eyes crinkling slightly as the edges of his lips turned up to a similar degree. It was a subtle expression, one that she might not catch. Not that it mattered.
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The Duchy of Zerul, by a road in the southwest

“I once asked Freagon – my master – about the king,” Jaelnec commented on Angora’s apparent pleasure at vulnerability despite station. It was true, too; he barely even remembered a time before the death of Paul IV, the “last king of Rodoria”, having been just nine years old when the Withering claimed him and threw the kingdom into the civil war that still raged to this day, eleven years later. Angora could not remember it much better, by his count having been seven years old at the time, so he was honestly a little surprised at her implied bitterness towards a ruler she barely knew. “He told me that the primary purpose of a monarch is to keep the throne occupied, to make sure others aren’t tempted to take it for themselves. That kings are revered not because they are ‘special’, but because they stop people from tearing out each others’ throats the way the dukes do now.”
He sighed. “He told me that most people mistook their hatred for the throne as hatred for the king... that they didn’t really want to get of the man as much as they wanted to destroy his seat.”

Other than that he remained fairly impassive, barely even reacting to Angora’s statement that she was going to get dressed – though he inwardly thanked Laon for it – and merely raised his uniform black gaze casually to look at Domhnall and Iridiel as the priestess stirred. He sat there a moment and smiled, warmed by the sight of the two foreigners’ interaction even if he could not understand their language. That is, he did so exactly until the moment he heard the sound of heavy cloth hitting soil, much closer than made any sense to him.
He knew that he did not want to look even as he felt his head and eyes turning, felt his muscles clenching in his neck painfully as he tried desperately to stop his field of vision from shifting. Helplessly his focus moved to Angora, fully visible before him, naked as a newborn. For an instant his heart felt as though it had stopped, as though time slowed, and he stared at her with eyes that grew wider as his face turned redder. His jaw clenched so hard that his teeth hurt, sending a quiet noise of straining bone resonating through his skull, much louder to his ears than it truly was. His throat constricted so that it felt like someone was actively strangling him...
She placed her hands on her breasts, the movement irresistibly drawing his gaze. Locked it there. And then his heart started beating again, rapidly, and the expression of shocked fascination upon his face instantly turned into one of horror.
Letting out a desperate, high-pitched cry of primal regret, the squire felt his legs kick out, his boots strike the ground, and suddenly he was doing a veritable backflip off the log he had been sitting on... only, due to his seated position the rotation only took him three fourths of the way, leading him to landing face-first into the ground, body outstretched, just behind the log. There he remained, silent and motionless, as he stewed in his own self-hate.

“The fire didn’t do anything, you know?” he heard Olan comment after some commotion, probably – in Jaelnec’s mind – caused by the woman’s outrage at his base fascination with her body. He did not know what had happened, nor that the explorer extraordinaire went to the fallen Angora to offer his hand. “In any case I’m pretty sure it’d be better for you not to kick it. You know?”


Zerul City, outside I’onriyi’s estate

Nimbus felt confused and uncertain as she awaited I’onriyi’s response to her introduction, her brow furrowing in a worried expression as memories and knowledge flowed through Male’dai’s thoughts and drifted through her mind, pointing out the different interpretations and implications of the way he was looking at her. She became aware of just how seedy this scene must have looked to random passerbys on the street; a petite but attractive deigan in a ragged dress, being scrutinized by a male penin in a state that was less than fully dressed, implying immediate association with his bedchambers. Nimbus worried what rumors might be ignited by the scene and how these could impact poor I’onriyi. What if people thought she was but a pauper looking for scraps to survive another day, and the penin was a wealthy lecher looking to take advantage of her? Surely they had to ensure that such misunderstandings were avoided by explaining the situation. She could not allow this man to suffer for her mistake.
But then the penin simply turned around and went back into his house, leaving Nimbus dumbfounded and rooted to the spot, deeply uncertain of what was expected of her. He had not closed the door... was she supposed to follow?
Of course you are, Male’dai told her with an exasperated mental sigh. You worry too much.
She still hesitated for another moment, trying to determine what was expected of her, until I’onriyi himself clarified his intent. After all, she could not close the door “behind her” unless she had passed through it, could she? Breaking into a blinding smile she hurried past the threshold, gently closed the door and then eagerly but cautiously went after her host, holding her arms close to her body to avoid any risk of accidentally touching and breaking anything in the penin’s home.

Soon after she had reached what appeared to be the little man’s kitchen, remaining by the door and making an effort to be as small, silent and motionless as possible to avoid being in the way, I’onriyi spoke to her again, uttering words that made her eyes widen in horror.
“Uh, no, of course not,” she assured him, wondering for a moment what she had done wrong until Male’dai’s thoughts reminded her of how people perceived true deigan.
It’s unusual that trust is even a relevant topic when my kind is concerned, the deigan pointed out. We don’t trust anyone and no one trusts us. It’s no surprise that he – a penin – would be particularly suspicious of me.
“But I’m not Male’dai,” she corrected him a second later, pointing at her face. “This is Male’dai. I’m Nimbus.”
Listen to yourself, Nimbus. How much sense do you think you’re making to him?
She faltered, looking momentarily crestfallen. She had not meant to deceive him... but had her explanation been inadequate? She had to clarify things immediately!
Relax. He’s a smart guy; he’ll get it, just give him a little time. You tried to say a lot with very few words, and he’s probably still groggy from sleep. It’s fine.
Hesitantly she relaxed, though she remained almost comically wary of disturbing anything in I’onriyi’s kitchen.

She listened attentively enough next the penin spoke, staring at him blatantly, though she could not stop her gaze from shifting between I’onriyi’s face and the bread he was handling, her stomach growling at the sight of food. When he pushed a plate her way, she hesitated only a moment, looking intensely from the slices of bread to the man as if to confirm his intention, before she eagerly seized the food and showed as much of it into her mouth as she possibly could.
Nimbus still was not used to the whole with this hunger and thirst that Male’dai had to contend with, and even now she remained fascinated with how different the experience of eating and drinking was when one did so out of need rather than fancy. The urgency before, the fullness after... it was completely different.
After a moment’s frantic chewing, swallowing and choking, Nimbus paused her meal long enough to reply to her host’s questions.
“I would follow you because you are the best option near here, from what I’ve heard,” she told him, smiling at him earnestly. “And even if there are others here more widely known than you, fame is of no interest to me. I approached you because people speak fondly of you; because you do things that make things better. I want that.”
Her smile faded and her gaze fell as she idly plucked the bread in front of her to tiny pieces. “As for adventuring... Since I came here, I’ve spent nearly every bit of Male’dai’s funds on trying to help people. I’ve fed them, bought them places to spend their nights, bought them clothes... Some wanted alcoholic beverages more than anything, but Male’dai said that wasn’t the kind of need we wanted to help satisfy. I spent most of yesterday and all night tending to refugees, even ruined Male’dai’s dress to improvise bandages...”
She shook her head shamefully. “But I barely made a difference. People are still hungry, homeless, naked and hurt. I want to do more. Like you! So I thought I’d help you, since you’re already helping people. Right?”
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Domhnall, Iridiel and Angora


Kings were there to keep the throne occupied? No, come now, she might be young, but Angora knew that was just naivete and folly to truly believe that the King, the undisputed ruler of Rodoria, was merely a figurehead. True, the Dukes spoiled and ranted and raved when the King had his back turned, but the King was the man in charge, surely. Surely? Now she doubted herself. Perhaps the King was just a figurehead, controlled by puppet masters behind the throne- she stopped herself before she went on. It wasn't the King she hated. No, not at all - it was the very institution of the monarchy. What right did one man have to rule over all others because of his bloodline? Why were the common people always ignored, nay, shoved to the side, when it came to government? Wasn't the government supposed to be taking care of the people? Surely... the people themselves knew what was best for themselves? Well, maybe not.
Angora herself was no politician. Iridiel, on the other hand, she could be a politician if she wanted to be one. A hot-headed firebrand she was, especially when it came to defending people and her own right to freedom. Angora remembered that Iridiel had said that she had been exiled for her own beliefs - or perhaps it was the killing of two officials who believed otherwise. Either way, surely she could understand Angora's point? If she understood it of course, which was not a given when speaking to a foreigner. Iridiel showed no real signs of interest in the conversation for her part. She looked to be simply enjoying snuggling up to her green-skinned friend. Which brought Angora back to the point at hand - the muddied cloak that currently adorned her shoulders.
Angora sat up, and attempted to lift the cloak over her head to present it to Iridiel. "You, er... you should probably have this back now. I'll be fine."
Iridiel shook her head. "I gave it to you."
As Olan was approaching the downed woman (“The fire didn’t do anything, you know? In any case I’m pretty sure it’d be better for you not to kick it. You know?”), Domhnall peered at the vague direction Jaelnec was supposedly in. As the forestfolk had been idly contemplating the firewood in lieu of inadvertently (or intentionally) staring at the above-knee parts of the very naked Angora (somewhat disturbingly, it now occurred to him that her lack of shame could have had at least as much to do with the "getting close to your target" part of her job description than the it she had been stuck with for over half a year), he had missed what exactly the young black-eyes had been up to; he would've assumed he merely jumped to his feet a couple of moments before Angora commenced with her assault on the campfire, but no, the entirety of him had disappeared from immediate sight altogether...
"Sorry... My uh, temper got the better of me," Angora mumbled embarrassedly as she took Olan's hand to help her to her feet. She had noticed the strange antics of the man who initially had been oh so confrontational towards her... he had tried to do a backflip... from a sitting position, over the log that he had been sitting on. Angora's mind tried to work out the logic in that as she rushed over after Olan had helped her up to check on the black-eyed one. Angora knelt beside him, shaking him by the shoulders gently, trying to conceal the broad smile on her face.
"Are you alright?" She fought the urge to follow up with, See anything you like? She wouldn't be that brazen. These were people of honour and morals... She'd already sullied that enough with telling them about the Firm.
Iridiel, for her part, was silent, rolling her eyes and finally detaching herself from Domhnall's warmth... albeit very reluctantly. She would have liked that cloak right about now, but the human likely needed it more, especially given the state of her at the moment. Her outfit, though clean, was still little better than rags. And likely adding to the squire's embarrassment, it didn't leave much to the imagination. She must be freezing still. Hussy.
Domhnall regretted the absence of Iridiel's warm weight resting against his chest even more than the highlander did the reverse; somewhat demonstratively, the forestfolk raised his shoulders and shuddered slightly as a damp gust of wind made sure to immediately remind him of the general ambient temperature. All good things come to an end, he supposed, finally begrudgingly getting back up to his feet to see what manner of fate had befallen their young black-eyed companion. At the very least, moving about should also give some warmth...
Well, the squire had not gotten far, as it turned out. Angora was poking at the poor fellow, who had somehow achieved a prone position face down behind the log he had sitting on. To the best of his knowledge, something like that could happen to a startled housecat, or perhaps a cub not quite in control of its facilities yet, rarely a larger animal, let alone a humanoid. Unless, perhaps, they just spotted a crossbow pointed at them a few trees away. That might have justified such a hasty taking of cover. But alas, the sparse trees around remained bereft of any life but them bigger than a crow. The only serious threat hanging overhead was that of it starting to rain again.
Angora would doubtlessly not enjoy it more than any other of them. Now that she was clean, it became apparent how poorly her clothes were, one patch of pale skin chasing another. Perhaps we should lend a fishnet for her or something - it would probably have fewer holes in it. Wisely, he withheld commenting on it loudly for the time being.
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I'onriyi Stonehand


At being corrected, the penin raised an eyebrow; his mind recounting her introduction, her inclusion of gestures now somewhat more meaningful. A small light came into his eyes as his curiosity was stoked, his thoughts clawing their way up from the grogginess of his mind. Her words now put those prior into a new light, and it was one far more intriguing than he had first thought. Despite this he kept quiet, his expression remained the same as he paid attention to her words and expressions.

He was not disappointed either, for her expressions tickled him, while her words both stirred his pride. His impression of her was shifting, for before she had seemed a mild oddity, worthy of some attention, and some food, but little else. Now however, it appeared that he may have stumbled upon a gem. Though it remained to be seen whether it was a diamond in the rough or something with less potential.

Checking the tea, the penin mage mulled over her words, turning them in his mind as he stirred the water somewhat. It was beginning to bubble slightly, nearly boiling. "Hmm," he said, shooting her a pensive glance as he walked back to the counter and made sure the herbs were prepared. He drew out a kettle and opened the top, preparing it for the water that would soon be ready.

Once done he turned back to her, noticing that she was still standing. His eyes flicked to a chair near her and he gestured to it. "Sit," he said sternly. Once she was settled he found that his thoughts were sufficiently organized for him to give her a proper response, or at least the beginnings of one.

"So to tackle one thing at a time, let me see if I am interpreting this right. You are two people, the body—Male'dai—and the one to whom I now speak: Nimbus." While a question was implied, he gave her no time to respond, unless she decided to nod or shake her head in affirmation. "An apprentice and an archangel, what a strange combination, if I am understanding correctly?" He checked the water again, allowing her a moment to respond as he found that it was finished.

Taking the boiling pot of water in his hands—their bony exoskeleton protecting him from the heat—he brought it over to the kettle and poured some of the water in, before placing the pot someone out of the way to cool. He brushed off his hands, before placing the herbs in the kettle, still in their sieve. Finished he turned back to Nimbus, he supposed, and took a seat across from her.

He took another bite out of his bread before crossing his arms; his gaze on Nimbus. "As to your goal..." he let his words hang a moment, "...I admit I am somewhat impressed." He held up a finger, "However, we have also just met, so I have—I think—understandable reservations about your accompanying me. On one hand you have caught me at, well, something of an advantageous time I suppose, since I am soon to set out on a adventure proper. Of course, I am not sure of my destination nor the exact purpose of this journey, but I must go despite this."

He paused a moment, considering that he was telling her quite a bit. He changed tacts, "As such, to take you along, I think I would need to know you better and, furthermore, understand what you are capable of. After all, I can hardly take someone along with me who I would have to babysit," while it was said with a measure of severity, a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips, a glint showing in his eyes. He was teasing her it seemed. If only mildly.
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The Duchy of Zerul, by a road in the southwest

It was somehow kind of funny, contemplating how a different perspective could make a person reevaluate their plans for their future, and how just a single event could make someone question their own existence. Jaelnec found that lying flat on his stomach with his face buried in gooey mud was educational in and by itself. In the mud the sun did not shine in his eyes, no one expected anything from him and girls did not simply disrobe right in front of him. It was cold, clingy and suffocating, but the mud accepted him unconditionally.
Outside he could hear Angora, asking whether he was “all right”. Both from the question and her tone he surmised that she was not, in fact, angry at him. He could not reply, of course, since his lips were currently squeezed shut by the thicker, harder layer of mud beneath the malleable upper layer... and even if they had not been, it was not as though he could actually draw a breath to form into words. On the other hand, he did not want to remove his face from the mud and show himself to the others. What he wanted was to wiggle further into it, nestle his face in it, burrow into it and disappear underground forever, never having to face this woman again.
But as much as he would have preferred to disappear off the face of Reniam and found a new race of worm-people in the dark underground, he really was suffocating, literally drowning in mud. He contemplated letting it happen for a moment, weighing survival against oblivion, and reluctantly decided that avoiding Angora probably was not worth dying over.

Planting each of his hands into the ground on either side of him, the squire raised himself out of the muck, which released him with a wet, sucking noise. He was positively covered in mud on the front, his otherwise nice, blond hair dripping with the stuff. His hat had fallen off during the maneuver and was lying nearby. His white shirt, the brilliant ghiril cuirass... caked in mud.
He ran his right hand over his face, scraping as much of the stuff off him as possible, exhaled through his nose to clear his nostrils, and opened his eyes. Angora was smiling at him. Yeah. Hilarious.
“I’m fine,” he squeaked, his voice breaking and prompting him to cough and clear his throat. “Turns out mud doesn’t care who you are, either. I...” He faltered. What in the planes could he possibly say that would improve the situation in the slightest?
Rising to his feet, Jaelnec allowed himself a sigh. This was going to be exhausting, he could tell.


Zerul City, I’onriyi’s estate

When I’onriyi prompted Nimbus to sit she made to do so immediately and eagerly, although probably not exactly the way her host would have expected her to. Without even giving the action a single thought she simply reached out for the chair he had indicated and dragged it behind her to sit in... without actually touching it, that is. Male’dai’s hands did not make the slightest movement to manipulate the chair, but Nimbus’ own hand – her invisible divine hand – instinctively went to retrieve the piece of furniture.

“That’s mostly right, yeah,” she replied when I’onriyi seemed to live up to Male’dai’s expectations and figure out their circumstances on his own. “But Male’dai isn’t just the body; she’s in here, too.” She tapped the side of her head with a finger. “She is my host, and I am... I suppose I’m technically possessing her.”
I guess that’s true; “possession” simply means that you are controlling a foreign body. That doesn’t mean that you have to have taken control by force. Still... feels odd to describe our situation like that. I hope he doesn’t get the wrong idea.

She sat through him preparing his herbal solution in silence, eating much more slowly now, and stared at him with wide eyes once he spoke again, explaining his own current plans and what he needed from her. She nodded eagerly at it all, already trying to formulate an explanation for their situation in her mind, with a little help from her host.
“That’s fine. I expected as much,” she told him with a smile. “I don’t know how well I can really explain myself to let you ‘know’ me, but I’ll try to clarify the situation a bit, at least.
It all started when Cahl’nai’sulooth’iel – the city Male’dai is from – came under siege. From what we’ve been told the attackers were a group called something along the lines of ‘True Purity’, a faction of ascended deigan that persecute true deigan even more aggressively than most of their kind do. They outnumbered the defenders and had brought their own mages, so the city was being razed one building at a time. Hundreds died, and it was only really a matter of time before every single citizen there would have been executed.”
Nimbus’ smile had faded by this point, her posture turning more deflated by the second. “In a desperate effort to save the city, the true deigan turned to the Nameless – practitioners of forbidden magic – and begged them for a solution, their idea of which was apparently to sacrifice several people in order to summon an archangel, which the Nameless would then enslave and command to destroy the enemy. Male’dai, being one of the more... expendable survivors, volunteered as one of these sacrifices. But before the Nameless could complete the spell, their tower was breached. Everyone retreated before their escape was cut off to try again elsewhere, but Male’dai stayed behind, working frantically on the summoning despite having no experience with summoning magic in the first place.”
She sighed. “She performed the spell and called me, but... well, obviously it didn’t work as the Nameless had intended. It was a spell that normally took at least several casters, and a few living sacrifices, to allow me to manifest fully in Reniam, body and soul. Alone, all Male’dai could do was to pull my soul here, and with no other suitable vessel nearby the only place I could go was in her.
Good thing I did, too; casting the spell required every morsel of magical energy Male’dai had in her, so her soul was actually already fading away when I found her. I instinctively reached out to help her, to sustain her with my power, and drew her back. Then the attackers broke into the summoning chamber, and I had no choice but to defend myself against them.” She hung her head regretfully. “None of them survived, and Male’dai was badly wounded. I healed her, and then more came. Rinse and repeat, until True Purity had suffered so many losses that they called the retreat.
Once things had settled down a little and Male’dai and I had had some time to adjust to our new circumstances, we used an Orb of Zhakos to leave Cahl’nai’sulooth’iel, which brought us to a cave on the coast. From there we found our way to Zerul City, where we’ve been for seven days.”

“As to what we can do...” Nimbus shrugged. “Male’dai has some knowledge of arcane magic, that is true, but we can’t actually make use of any of that. Arcane magic requires magical energy – that is, mortal energy – and Male’dai drained herself completely to summon me. I can sustain her with my power to keep her from becoming a specter, but due to my being attached to her soul she can’t actually recharge herself.
As for me... Had I had my own body I would have been very powerful, probably more so than any mage in this city, but I don’t. While Male’dai is more tolerant to divine energy than most mortals and makes an acceptable vessel, she’s far from fit to serve as an avatar. I have to continuously use some of my power to sustain her soul, some on healing the damage my own presence inflicts on her body and some on compensating for the fact that we can’t sleep. If I didn’t do those things, we’d die.
That said, I still have much power left over. I can summon my divine hand as normal -” saying this she summoned her invisible hand again, lightly tapping I’onriyi’s left shoulder with an unseen finger, “- and I can heal people, but doing so takes a lot out of me; it strains Male’dai’s body a lot when I use my powers, which means I have to heal her even more. Of course I can also heal Male’dai’s injuries, so there’s that; despite her situation being somewhat precarious, as long as I’m here she’s actually pretty hard to kill.
Finally,” she sighed, “I’m also trained as a warrior. I’m quite skilled with bladed weapons, especially falchions and cutlasses. Male’dai’s body is not very well-suited for fighting, though, and while I can lend her some of my strength, I can’t make her any heavier than she is. I haven’t had the chance to get used to fighting in this body yet, so I can’t guarantee how well I would do, but I do have the necessary skills to do so.”
She smiled at him apologetically. “It’s not much, I realize, but in time we hope that Male’dai’s body will grow accustomed to divine energy and allow me to use more of my power.” Her expression suddenly turned worried. “Please tell me that’s enough! We won’t be in your way, I promise!”
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Domhnall, Iridiel and Angora


After a few seemingly too long moments (one could begin to think the poor fellow had managed to knock himself out on his way down), the probably quite humiliated squire slowly got up. “I’m fine,” he squeaked, before clearing his throat and trying again. “Turns out mud doesn’t care who you are, either. I...” He faltered, then sighed. Mud doesn't care who ... the what now?
"Dinnae know wha' were ya doin', lad, but I s'pose tha'd be one way tae obtain camoflage if ya don' have one given by nature," the forestfolk expressed, absently scratching one black-bearded cheek as the dark brown-green eyes in his brown-and-green splotched face confusedly took in the young black-eyes's newly modified appearance. "One'd figure ya ha' a crossbow aimed a' yer heed, but ain't more than a crow in these trees."

Oh dear. No sooner have I gotten clean than this one decides to take a mud bath. Angora's inner thoughts were a mixture of confusion and humour. This once-stoic defender of peace and morality, reduced to gibbering fits of ... what could only be described as palsy. Well, it was either that or he'd had a slight mental breakdown and probably needed a massage, a good stiff drink and lots of pampering, either one of them.
He was also decidedly less majestic-looking as a result of this misadventure; his once-brilliant white shirt and his breastplate, both of them were now [i]very[i/] brown ... as was the majority of his face ... and his hair. Angora bit back a laugh at the irony of his situation - no longer was he the knight in shining armour who pronounced sentence upon the accused! Now, he was in the mud and the blood with the rest of them...
Was he going to succumb to a spirit lurking in his sword too, and then have to have a foreign healer repair his own mind? Mmh. Perhaps not. Don't curse it, Angora.
The squire, for what it was worth, had wiped away the majority of the mud before attempting to speak, only for his voice to fail him. He squeaked out a declaration of wellbeing. Angora wasn't convinced. Her smile hadn't faded, for all this - she checked the mud underneath where he had, uh, 'fallen over', for rocks and any stony promonitories. No sharp edges. No blood. Good. Could have been hazardous to his health - even more so than the sight of her nude form. A cut in the mud like that would easily become infected, and though the aforementioned healer was somewhat awake, Angora would rather her abilities weren't immediately tested.
She heard the brown and green splotchy man - Domhnall, she quickly reminded herself - start talking in his coarse, rough speech. A crossbow aimed at the head? Crows? Oh, right. He had assumed that the squire had dived for cover from an unknown assailant! Perhaps not exactly false, given the circumstances, though the assailant was quite known, and she didn't need a crossbow aimed at his head. Angora shrugged and returned her focus to the squire, seemingly oblivious to his shame and his embarrassment.
"Well, uh ... you take care of yourself, right? That looked painful, and you're kinda lucky that you didn't hit a rock or something. Would have been quite the mess if you had, too." She picked up Jaelnec's hat and offered it to him, though the hat had also fallen victim to the seemingly ever-present earth.
And then, to compound Angora's shivering chilliness ... she felt the first few drops from the sky fall upon her head, trickling down her black hair and into her eyes. She could taste the water as it dripped onto her lips, as a drizzle slowly emerged into a torrent from the menacing clouds above. Rainwater ran in rivulets down Angora's neck, down her back, down her chest, splashing against her bare skin in the rents in her clothing.
"We... should probably get moving." It was increasingly difficult to hear oneself over the noise of the rainwater now pounding down on the leaves and trees around them.
At least the squire wouldn't have to worry about the mud for long.

Well, the very least his well-honed hunter's instincts were not off, Domhnall wryly thought to himself, now beginning to genuinely shiver rather than just briefly shudder from the abrupt change of temperature. It had been but a couple of minutes since he had assessed the threat of impending rainfall as the greatest threat over their heads, and sure enough, here it was.
"I'm won' tae agree with the lass here," the forestfolk agreed, half-speaking loudly, half-shouting over the rain and his own shivering. He'd probably die of hypothermia if he continued to stand there much longer. "So le's pick up our things an' get going, aye?" The things which, incidentally, were all over the place.
With luck, the rain would not be for long - sudden downpours like this seldom were. It was entirely possible it wasn't that expansive, either - the leader of this rag-tag group was probably quite right to take off ahead of them. Might have spared himself and the white-eyes a cold shower, for one.
Without further ado, he motioned Iridiel to come, and took off jogging to where most of their things had been left. The highlander woman, uttering an inventive stream of swearwords in her native tongue, followed after him.
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Jordan Forthey


The city felt almost overwhelmingly massive to the young guy wandering the streets. The houses counted in many thousands. The people, probably hundreds of thousands. To the best of his knowledge, he only knew two of them ... one was behind the walls of the Magic Academy, and the other had explicitly dismissed him to take care of some personal business. Which is to say, his wandering was more than just slightly aimless.

Back at home, it had just been his family, the neighbors, and the occasional trip to the market with the bartering it entailed. After that, since age twelve, he had been the Glades' stable boy, and mostly interacted with the other stable folk, guests and their servants and squires, and the occasional Glade, from the gentle Lady Glade to the indeed quite intimidating Sir Tareon himself. The latter, was, luckily, a rare sight. For the longest time, the head of the hold only seemed to acknowledge his existence if he needed his horse prepared, and Jordan on his part had not managed to fade into the background quickly enough.
The younger Glades had been more common visitors; Lord and Lady Tareon rarely left the premises unannounced and on their own, but their offspring of his age and older had come and gone quite as they pleased. From Sir Jeran, who treated even common servant with respect; to the late Sir Manin, usually jovial but crude; to the noble Lady Eleanor; to the always slightly distracted Elan; to mirthful Alaisi; to Sir Javien, who seemed to actually see him even less than his father; to Gerain, a boy close to his age who always followed him to the stable door and drummed his fingers against the stable wall as he made the preparations; to ... yes, Sir Yanin himself.
It was strange, really. Back when he first agreed to work there for food, bed and a couple of rodlin - during the winter, when there was less to do on his parents' farm, and it was more economically viable to just send him off rather than feed him themselves -, he would not have thought he would one day become Sir Yanin's ... back then simply Yanin's, apprentice. Squire, even. He had seemed to barely care about him more than Sir Javien. He just came, stated what he wanted done, and went.
His future master's reputation - even as a teenager - had preceded him. He had started training when barely in double digits, and defeated an actual knight when he was barely fourteen, had he not? He had seen said knight - Sir Marcus -, who was later the master of another of the Glade siblings. Didn't look like a weakling. More like the old, tough man - although he was about a decade younger than Sir Tareon. Maybe thirty-eight, at most forty, perhaps. Just with hair that was already graying.
Soon after first defeating his master, the Viper of Glades had furthermore proven more proficient than any other who dared openly challenge him (or who accepted his challenge), too. It stood to reason, then, that it was less about his mentor's shortcomings, and more about the Viper himself being extraordinary.
Much later, when Jordan had gotten to know Sir Yanin better, he figured some of those supposed Yanin-(not-yet-Sir)-sided challenges might have been his personal way of defending Sir Marcus's honor. So you thought you were better than him because you did not get beaten up by novice squires? Come then, come prove that you can do what Sir Marcus couldn't, and beat that exact same squire.
It only lasted a couple of years, the Yanin-(not-yet-Sir)-initiated challenges. The novice squire started sounding like a man rather than a boy and soon towered over majority of people. So, the argument lost its validity - the person they'd be fighting now might be the same Yanin, but his body was not what it had been. And people tended to be slightly more reserved in general when the opposition was looking down on you not because of his opinion on you, but simply because you were a head shorter. Especially if that person had garnered a little bit of local reputation for being a superior combatant. As an aside, perhaps Sir Yanin himself had grown up; these days, he mostly tried to convince people not to even try.
Of course, everything about Sir Yanin's earlier years, Jordan had heard second-hand. When Yanin (not yet Sir) was fourteen, Jordan was still small enough to almost stand fully upright under the tall kitchen table at his parents' home. The one mother stood at when she was preparing food, before she brought things over to the dining table. When he first arrived at the Glades' holdings, Yanin (not yet Sir) was already seventeen. Still a youth, but no longer a child. Especially in the eyes of someone who oneself was no older than twelve.
Idly, Jordan had wondered whether even Lord Tareon himself could have stood against his son by that time. Perhaps not. Perhaps it was why he had never tried. It'd be admission of being worse than not his most favorite son. Sir Jeran had practiced with Yanin (not yet Sir) a few times, and he was no match. Little surprise, there. Jeran was narrower, and did not practice half as rigorously. Sir Yanin found time to practice even when on the move. Preferably at least two hours. Regardless of weather.
It had been one of the times Yanin (not yet Sir) had just finished training that he had first asked him a question on his own accord.
"What is that?"
Yanin (not yet Sir) had looked at him. The young Glade did not seem angry, but something in that look made Jordan uncomfortable. It felt like the look of someone who was trying to decide what to do with you. Usually not a good sign.
"The ... weapon. I don't think I've seen something like that before." For some reason he had continued, rather than retreated. You treat them with respect, you hear? Do as they say. Don't make demands. Don't whine. Don't be nosy. He had ignored his mother's advice a little bit with Sir Jeran, Lady Alaisi, and Lady Melone, but they had decided to talk to him first. Yanin (not yet Sir) had ... not.
"The man who sold it called it a headhunting axe." The same voice Yanin (not yet Sir) had normally used to order him around. You will get Prince saddled and ready tomorrow at sunrise. It is a headhunting axe. The exact same intonation. Both were statements.
Jordan's eyes had moved from Yanin (not yet Sir) to the weapon. He had seen battleaxes before. This here did not look much like a battleaxe. It looked like a scythe someone had snapped half the blade off of, and then ground the remainder into a sharp curve again. And there was a spike of sorts at the back. The Glade maintained the look.
Jordan was split between digging an even potentially bigger hole for himself, and just apologizing and hoping for forgiveness. Was it a good thing the Glade answered, or a bad thing he took so long to decide? Back then, the height difference between them was even greater. Yanin (not yet Sir) was, for all intents and purposes, an almost fully grown man, and a large one at that. Jordan was barely pubescent. He sounded like a boy, looked like one, too. His work was physical, but consisted of lifting a spade, not swinging something that, by the sound of it, was designed for detaching people's noggins.
"Uhh... Yeah. It certainly looks like something you could take someone's head off ... with. I mean, I saw what you did to the target. The damage, I mean. Or maybe it's just because it's you. You could probably take off a person's head with a spade, too." Indeed, facing Yanin (not yet Sir) who was armed with just a spade would not have left him with much, nay, any better odds.
For a moment, the young Glade's face remained unchanged, but then his one eyebrow lifted ever so slightly. Still not angry. Still thinking? Surprised? Maybe this moment was the one Yanin (not yet Sir) decided that the nonsense he spouted meant he was too dumb to be worth bothering to punish him for his insolence. A lost cause, so to speak.
"It'd be rather easy to kill with. Handles well. Deals massive damage. But it's more commonly a tool. A lot of those foreign weapons are. Cutting through thickets, carving furniture, doesn't matter, they're meant for utility first. Not quite as restricted to status and combat as most of our swords."
Huh. So perhaps the thoughts about scythes and spades were not that far off... "I see ... thank you."
"Hmh." And without any further sign of acknowledging his existence, Yanin (not yet Sir) had wandered off, leaving Jordan standing where he was for several long minutes before he remembered what he was doing before he stopped to watch the tail end of the Viper of Glades' practice. Not exactly friendly. But he had actually replied to him rather than demonstrate his new toy's ability to pierce actual human skulls. Jordan's, for instance.
Later on - after seeing the same expression on Yanin's (not yet Sir and Sir alike) face numerous times - he had come to figure that specific look was less "what am I to do with you after what you just did" and more "well, I'm listening; what (the heck) do you want of me". Potentially with some amount of actual irritation mixed into the latter, depending on when you bothered him ... he still couldn't tell, after five years of being around him. Maybe it was better not to poke at him too much. He'd seen Sir Yanin truly angry a couple of times. Just not at him. He'd prefer to keep it that way.
In spite of a number of people's apprehensiveness towards Sir Yanin, though, he did not think he was actually a cruel guy. More just a very ... well, irreverent one, on one hand. That's for certain. Very blunt. Abrupt. Confrontational. But never cruel just for the sake of being cruel. Nor was he violent. Again, somewhat contrastingly to his combat prowess. He could be dedicated, though, if he set his mind to something. Occasionally other things but combat, too. For all his irreverence, he did have a sense of duty. Sir Yanin himself insisted you just had to not be stupid about it. Duty, that is. And there were things his master cared about, even if it was sometimes hard to tell what they were.
In any case, it had been easier to ask other questions from Yanin (not yet Sir) after his curiosity had gotten better of him once. He was never not quite sure whether he was annoying the guy or not, but he gave replies, and he was outside more commonly than the other Glades. Probably another thing his mother would not have approved of. Bothering the Glades. But they were the only not-peasants he knew who were around on a consistent basis. Who had more knowledge and experience than the common folk. Who not only knew tales, but had lived them. Who possessed real ancient tomes and real steel weaponry. To a twelve-year-old no one, it was a kind of a big thing.
In the end, he managed to convince his family and the Glades' other servants that he could stay as a stable hand past the winter, and Lady Glade approved. And then the year after that. And another. Once his father and one of his sisters died, he still opted to stay. Shame, the sense that he might have his own life he'd have to yield ... he did not know. He suspected his remaining family were quite bitter at him. They seemed like a part of an entirely different life. And then there was the feeling that if he'd gone back, he'd just be waiting to contract the withering himself, like his sibling and ancestor both had. Whereas out here, he might at least hear something. Or so he told himself.
Eventually, Yanin (not yet Sir) was knighted and and became Sir Yanin. And Jordan, probably with some impression that he was ... well, not Sir Yanin's friend. Definitely not that. But given that the other Glade brothers either had squires or - in case of Elan - did not have time for them, or were too young ... and because Sir Yanin had mentioned he intended to leave his family grounds for a while... Due to something mostly between himself and his father. Sir Yanin never specified in more detail.
In any case, Jordan had inquired about potentially becoming his squire. Or apprentice. Or just coming along and being his servant or something. Sir Yanin had stated he'd think about it. A few days later, Sir Yanin had - for once, approached him for a change. The answer was yes.
And so they took off. Found a place in Seclyr. He was not entirely certain on the specifics of it all, but Sir Yanin was soon in charge of a small number of people. A few properly decked out guards, and a dozen other guys and gals who did not truly seem professional. Since Sir Yanin was now responsible for the guards, Jordan, by proxy, became one of them. Some fields, some houses, a street with a small shop and the occasional unaffiliated seller by the side. And a tiny pub, which was by far the only actually interesting place. There was little in the way of actual guard duty. Mostly just checking that no one was hunting on the grounds without permission, or taking off with baskets full of someone else's drakehorn fruits, or initiate a fight in the pub.
"Why this place?" he had inquired.
"It's quiet. And away from Lord Tareon."
"But it isn't all, is it?"
"No."
"What more is there, then?"
"You need practice, for one."
He ... guessed there was really no arguing with that. Sir Yanin was ... well, he probably held back. And held back a lot. But he did not let Jordan win, either. Worse, he always made defeating him seem easy. Even when the weapons they were fighting with were not equal. Practice lasted however long Sir Yanin seemed to see fit ... probably until either Jordan got too tired to keep up with even his own meager baseline. Or until Sir Yanin got too annoyed with, or bored of trying to teach him something. His master never outright stated either of the latter, but felt like it. To add insult to injury, training usually took place before Sir Yanin's own regime.
He had asked Sir Yanin why he usually told off people who attempted to challenge him for a duel, these days.
"What for? You could probably count the humans in Rodoria who could defeat me in a fair swordfight on your fingers," his master had replied. "But these worth fighting won't fight fair. They won't use the same weapons as you. They won't stick to metal and wood. They won't wait in a queue. And they might not even be human." There had been a pause. "You can't change what you are, only practice. And pick how you fight, when, and with who. And use everything in your disposal, fair be damned."
"That doesn't seem very knightly."
"Honor is for duels. Consider it one of the few lessons my dear father truly taught me. How do you think he became known as having tactical skill? Or how did anyone? It was not by fighting fair, I can tell you that much. History is not made with fair. It just swipes the unfair under the rug."
"The history is always written by the winners. Right." He had heard the phrase. It was sobering to hear it asserted like that, he supposed.
Sir Yanin shrugged. "By whoever is currently in charge."
For himself, his master had been quite talkative that day.
Over a year as a guard had passed quite quickly. Surprisingly so. There were a couple of incidents of note. He had managed to befriend a couple of the villages and guards. Sir Yanin was, as always, more reclusive, unless he meant business. It wasn't until he pointed out that these people might not be quite as kind to his Lady Alaisi as either of them when that Jordan began to realize why his master might have more than usual reservations towards the locals. Maybe most of them wouldn't give them out ... out of respect for Sir Yanin, if nothing else. The others probably would, the bigoted lot.
Recently, though, something had been bothering Sir Yanin. It was hard to tell what exactly, but something had. His habits changed. And one day, he had handed his duties off to to his second in command, and well, here they now were. In Zerul City. Visiting Sir Yanin's sister and taking care of some other, unspecified business.

The horses and their things had been taken care of, and so he had been dismissed. Staying in the room didn't seem of too much interest. The bars and inns were many. And a whole lot bigger than the one in Brow's Rest. He did not feel hungry just yet, though, and stepping into one without the intention of ordering either a drink or food seemed inappropriate, somehow. The eight rodlin he carried weighed down on his pocket. Giving one of those away to acquire nourishment he did not need felt like a waste. Chances were the room Sir Yanin had ordered already came with food included.
He'd found a market ... quite the garden-variety sort. Just a lot bigger than the one he had been used to. And with some wares he was quite unfamiliar with. He had inquired about a few of those, but without him displaying an intent of buying, the merchants tended to quickly become impatient. He had also found a couple of standalone shops with magical wares, whose owners or workers kept a close eye on him. And one shop which sold jewelry. He had felt even more out of place there than in most other places of the massive, sprawling city. As if he had no business being there, and was thought of as a potential thief rather than a potential client.
There was also something obviously wrong ... as if the withering was not enough, the city was also full of, well, he supposed refugees was the most apt term for them. And quite a lot of the higher ups were off to a wedding of the future duchess ... who would have otherwise become the future duchess? ... Jordan did not know what exactly his matter with the topic was, but for some reason Sir Yanin seemed almost irate when he mentioned the fact. Perhaps it interfered with his plans, whatever they were, somehow. Maybe it meant some of the people he had been looking for were not there.
He had lingered by the gate for a while. Tried to get a few accounts out of the later refugees. Nemhim's capital was ... destroyed? By what? Something in his chest felt cold. They might not have lived in the city, and they might have been bitter towards him, but his remaining family were in that duchy. Were they safe? One man with blood-soaked bandages around his limply hanging left arm whose packages he had offered to carry claimed he had seen the ... beast. And the corpses. Their chests ripped open. The beast was something four-legged, and dark. Not black. More murky reddish-brown. It chased after people.
To top it all off, the Anaxim Forest was gone. The thing must have been millenia old, and now it was gone, razed and burned to ground... All that, it seemed, within a span of a few days. Had Sir Yanin somehow been aware that any of this was going to happen? Was any of those things why they were here now? Was this the beginning of one of those adventures he had only heard of? If so, the reality was quite depressing already...
After aiding the man, he had wandered off in deep thought, heavy brown boots hitting the cobbled street in a monotonous, lulling rhythm. Gray pants, brown belt, sword and dagger by his hips. His woolen coat was draped over his shoulders, rather than bound closely, baring some of his white, cotton shirt. Most of the way, his eyes were downcast, blond-brown hair curtaining his face.
It was mostly the quieting down of his surroundings that finally had him raise his head. Somehow, this street was almost empty. The light-colored stone houses stood tall. Probably quite rich region, comprised predominantly of residences. No shops. No pubs. No interest for anyone, unless they lived here, or were just passing through.
He had only a vague idea where exactly he was, but seeing he had not been walking for much more than a dozen minutes, it could not have been too far. He can always just backtrack. Should be easier than backtracking in a forest - forests did not have streets, after all. And he had not made too many turns. The sun had been positioned towards the opposite side of the city, and it shouldn't have moved much, so if he leaves it behind his back, and starts walking, he should get back close to the gates ... maybe a few streets off, but no worries.
He looked up towards the sky to determine where the sun was - even with clouds, there was usually a lighter splotch -, but as he did so, something else caught his eye. Something which seemed to get a raise out of the remnants of his time spent as a guard. There was ... definitely something on one of the decorative cornicles attached to one of the houses. It was hard to tell what exactly it was, but it was quite long and evidently at least partially made out of cloth. If he had not incidentally backed against the side of the opposite building in his search of any indication of the stellar body overhead, he'd not seen it.
What was that? Had wind carried it up there? Had it been thrown out of one of the windows? With no overly obvious access, he doubted the house's inhabitants had knowingly stowed it there. Was it ... a person? Could it be? If so, was it a homeless person who had figured he had found a particularly safe spot away from thieves and horses' hooves, or perhaps a watchpost of some sort? Maybe an eavesdropper?
Somewhat restlessly, his hand wanted to move to his sword, but he reconsidered.
"Hey!?" he shouted at the ... whatever it was. Part of him felt dumb, should it turn out to be some wind-driven cloth up there. Another part of him warned that, should it indeed be a person, it might mean trouble.
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To say Morgan was exhausted was a severe understatement. Upon leaving the Drunken Dove, in which his newly formed party had consequentially trashed during their encounter with the demonspawned sisters, Morgan found the nearest, quietest alleyway a city such as Zerul had to offer. Lazily climbing to natural ledge provided by meeting buildings, the vampire found himself in a fitful sleep. With the beast fully spent, the cold calculating sniffer emerged from his psyche.

What had the emotional monster gotten into now, Morgan finding himself in a place of circumstance and apparently bad luck. All he had wanted was to keep a low profile, to hide among the city's vast population. But now this Thrainsson found himself between men of legend and monsters of myth, only things that he had heard around the soldiers' campfires or offhandedly whispered by his handler and company. The question that he found himself asking as he woke, each time only with a few hours of uninterrupted sleep was a simple, but important one, 'What are you doing, Morgan?'

Morning came, of course, sooner that Morgan had hoped. Much to his annoyance, he found himself pointed in the direction of the rising sun - a mistake he had committed before and one that he cursed himself for yet again. Luckily, his gear was protecting his delicate skin. The vampire had struggled to hide in any shade provided, but hour by hour, this task was proving to be impossible. Eyes turned to slits, Morgan cursed the rising orb of death, 'May that cursed ball of light darken forever.' The vampire began to unfurl his curled figure, a soft moan accompanying his stretching limbs, 'Perhaps I can find a darker corner of the universe to slee--'

Morgan froze at the sound of a confused, questioning voice, loudly ringing in the alley: "Hey?!"

Cautiously moving with the patience of an experienced fugitive, Morgan was barely able to make out the form of a young woman--no man, looking upward in the general direction of his perch. But from behind the ragged folds of his robes, Morgan was unable to tell for sure if it was the vampire the young man was hailing, or someone above his elevated perch. 'Best not to move...' But even as the sniffer thought this, he knew he would have to if he were to see his potential problem fully - his mask, his face's protection against the sun's growing beams was preventing him from seeing anything beyond the slitted vision it provided.

'He's just a boy - he's just a boy.'

The beast was beginning to crawl back. The night's previous events, the stress of the hateful light that was threatening to swallow his form whole - 'It's worth it. It's...' The robed formed shifted uncomfortably. Morgan was making a decision based on little known facts. Was his quarry truly a boy? Was there someone else with him? The sniffer couldn't tell, and his patience was wearing thin. The hunger - the ever constant hunger was threatening him, even this early in his day.

Morgan uncurled from his crouched position, head poking from his inconspicuous form of hanging cloth, revealing himself to the boy below.
Hidden 6 yrs ago 6 yrs ago Post by Shienvien
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Jordan Forthey


It had most definitely moved, and it was not by wind (there had been no wind, for starters). Right before Jordan hailed ... whoever it was. Upon hearing his voice, the mysterious figure stilled. They might have slightly inched forward, but it was difficult to tell, from down here.
So ... it was a person. That much was clear. A person who, for whatever reason, had tried to stay out of the way, and was perhaps not overly eager over being bothered. There, granted, were multiple reasons for wanting not to be bothered, or wanting to stay out of sight...
If the individual simply did not want to, or have the money to pay for an inn, staying up there would have avoided thieves and horses' hooves alike. Which might or might not have explained the reluctant reaction - the city might not have had the best opinion on vagrants, and neither would've the house's owner, chances were. No matter to Jordan, though - he happened to be neither.
Another option was that the ... person had been up there with more serious, or perhaps even sinister intentions than just slumbering. Eavesdropping, for one. Or surveillance. Or making plans to thieve. In that case, being spotted probably meant that whoever did the spotting was a threat. Which might set him in danger. If the mysterious form was half as skilled as Sir Yanin, that'd be bad. Then again, in the middle of city, during the day ... even empty street would be too much risk, right? Anyone could show up, at any moment, not unlike he had. Maybe there were even people right behind the wall he was leaning against.
Once again, Jordan felt the urge to reach for his sword's hilt, but refrained. That refurbished piece of "still decently well-balanced" metal was somehow very dear to him, now. But he should not preemptively threaten strangers, either, now should he...
The unknown individual must have decided to show oneself, and stood, still maintaining their high ground. It was impossible to tell whether it was a man or a woman - whichever they were, they sported loose robes, cloak, hood ... mask. Covered head to toe. Completely. Even the eyes. You tell how someone was built under that all, and the figure was yet to make a pip. At best, Jordan could tell the other was slightly shorter than him ... maybe. Always be wary of people who cover their faces when it's not in a snowstorm. It's too damn restrictive to do it just because. They desperately want to be not remembered. Or have something to hide. Or have prepared to fight. Maybe all three.
So ... more likely "trouble", than "vagrant"?
Jordan was becoming more and more acutely aware of being stared at. In silence. He had obviously called for the figure's attention. For the lack of anything better, the young squire imagined the face behind the mask bore his master's usual "Well, I'm listening; what (the heck) do you want of me?"-mien.
Truth to be told, he had not planned too far ahead ... just seen something unusual, and decided to investigate. The stranger was waiting. Probably. Now, what had he been doing before he ended up here... Trying to investigate what was going on. Right. Well, might be better than outright asking who in the planes the strange individual was, and what was he doing up there.
"There are strange things going on around these parts," he began, he hoped confidently enough. "I was hoping you could shed some light on the happenings."
On the flipside, maybe this was obtrusive, too. Maybe he should have simply said that he had mistaken the figure for someone else entirely... (How was the figure to know he did not have friends who slept on building walls?) The excuse should still work, if he were to insist he was looking for another concealed figure somewhere around here upon hearing any protests. Say ... a true deigan assassin. Who knew things. From ... being shady and doing assassin-things. Having contacts and stuff. Yeah. That'd probably work.
Hidden 6 yrs ago 6 yrs ago Post by Rhaevnn Xeno
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Morgan's masked eyes now confirmed what he had assumed - a boy, indefinitely. A strapping young man, probably large for someone his age. 'Small amounts of armor and--' Morgan watched as his questioning quarry twitched for what Morgan could only assume as a sword, if you could could compare the splinter of metal hanging at the boy's side to that of a real blade. 'He isn't aggressive, not yet at least.' Morgan was not trained in the art of anticipating combative movement, but his keen senses easily told the vampire that the boy was not expecting his presence, let alone to come out of the unusual camouflage Morgan's clothing naturally offered in urban areas. 'No, he's merely instinctively reacting to...'

Morgan's thoughts trailed off as he heard it - the thumping of the boy's heart. In the moments when Jordan was struggling to decide what to say, the vampire's masked eyes looked down, the urge to jump and feast becoming stronger and stronger. 'It's worth it. It's--' Morgan looked beyond the boy, ever so slightly. What were the odds that this boy was alone? To be wandering in the quiet back streets of Zerul alone?

However, this questioning was interrupted by the unnamed in front of Morgan, "There are strange things going on around these parts. I was hoping you could shed some light on the happenings."

The sniffer stiffened. Why was this boy asking him of these things? Did he know? Was he a patron of the Drunk Dove last night and was he just playing, stringing Morgan along for more information, any information about what had been said between his newfound party and The Sisters? 'He asks with some authority, or is that a shake in his voice I hear?' Rising from his sitting position, propping his weight between his studded staff and the building's crevice, Morgan answered with the voice of one who is just waking up, coughing once before his low voice reached Jordan's ears, "Who--hack!--wants to know?"

The vampire turned his hood from the sun (the cursed burning tingling the outside of his clothing) and lifted his mask just enough to spit a gob of the spittle that had been building in his mouth.
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Jordan Forthey


The stranger stilled for a moment at his words - what was it, surprise, confusion, could the mysterious figure really know something of note? -, then stood fully, leaning on a manner of staff for support.
Alright, what can he tell from the stranger's weapon? It was a polearm of sorts, and a fairly heavy one. Studded, so quite obviously intended as a weapon, but not bladed. So, in combat the stranger would have reach advantage, and blocking of any kind would be very ill advised - it'd be a good way to break a wrist or something of the sorts. All in all, a staff like that would be a bit less difficult to counter than a spear, but not ideal when all you had was a sword...
Furthermore, the stranger might also have magic - for instance, Art of the Warden. If that's what was in that one's disposal, it'd make a fight a lot more difficult. The figure did not have the Fokon wardens' outfit, though ... just some robes that reminded Jordan of those of a monk. Well, and then there was the staff. Very monkly choice. The stranger being a conventional mage felt a bit unlikely - they did usually not look like they were prepared to engage in physical combat, unless they were runesword-wielders, and there was no hiding such a cumbersome lump of metal. Smaller trinkets, though? Feasible.
- The young squire was not really preparing to fight; he was simply practicing. Putting his teachings to use to analyze a real person, for once. Perhaps somewhat counter-intuitively, doing so also calmed him - by giving him something specific to focus on rather than leaving his mind to run rampant and get worked up further. Indeed, the effect was twofold: ensuring that he was focused rather than nervous, and giving him some idea what he had gotten into.
Jordan knew his master also did something much like that ... just, in Sir Yanin's case, it was done in half a blink of an eye, and instinctively, not consciously. And Sir Yanin definitely did not need any calming; from what he understood, his master did not really think of anything else while he was in combat. Perhaps it was some kind of trancelike state for him, void of random, mundane distractions.
"Who --hack!-- wants to know?" Male voice. Still somewhat groggy - so he had, indeed, been sleeping in such a peculiar spot.
So ... that was not a denial (though, too abrupt denial usually meant people had something they wanted to stay hidden, too). Neither did the stranger demand to know what did he expect him to know ... meaning there was probably a very specific thing the stranger expected him to want to know. Interesting. Probably even more dangerous now that he had gotten confirmation that there was something potentially shady going on with the guy, but interesting, nevertheless.
Questions beckoned answers, though ... this one, he would simply answer honestly, without any hesitation.
"This is Forthey, apprentice of the Viper."
Not only had he gotten his master involved - it would certainly add authority to his otherwise not too impressive person -, but for some reason he had opted to invoke him by the nickname he had heard Sir Jeran (himself the Falcon) use for his younger brother. On a snap decision, it had seemed appropriate; shady names for shady dealings, correct? What he said was completely true - he was (Jordan) Forthey, and Sir Janin was the Viper of the Glades ... but it would be much harder to track them back to their origins this way. The Viper both was his master, and wasn't, too.
Depending on how much trouble he managed to get himself into, he might yet need Sir Yanin's help in getting out ... by blade or by influence he could do it, Jordan was quite certain (as long as he managed to hold on his own until then). What his master would do with him afterwards was a different matter.
Jordan had no idea, and it concerned him slightly. So, he hoped it would not get too messy.
Hidden 6 yrs ago 6 yrs ago Post by yoshua171
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I'onriyi Stonehand


Though he only caught her seating herself from the corner of his eye—leading him to if he had seen things properly—the enchanter made sure to pay special mind to his guest from that moment on. When she set about answering his questions, clearly eager to please, all he could do to hide his growing amusement was to use his bread to mask his mouth. Periodically he took bites from it, watching her as he ate, absorbing what she was telling him and sorting it mentally. He had never met an angel before, let alone an archangel, so this was truly a novel encounter, and that thought combined with the reminder of the associates he had made the day prior finally brought him to a breaking point.

So it was that as she finished her explanation he burst out, laughing for a brief moment. It would be the most cheer she had seen from him yet, something of a treat given his normal demeanor, and to think he wasn't even drinking! After a moment or two to recover his wits, I'on shook his head, a smile upon his lips as he spoke. "Oh my, I'm sorry. I'm not laughing at you, it's just," he chuckled lightly and shook his head again, grinning, "Well, I came across a number of...let's call them interesting folk last night and now, this morning, an archangel possessing a deigan girl stumbles through my doorstep." Letting out an uncharacteristic chortle, the mage turned to gaze into the fire, a wistful look coming into his eyes as he pondered his current circumstances.

A long minute passed before, rather abruptly, he rose to his feet and stepped over to the steeping tea. As he checked it—and found it ready—he continued their conversation. "It is very possible that the other two that I may consider traveling with are...of the more unsavory variety. I mean to meet with them later today because they owe me an explanation or two." He cast a sidelong glance her way as he finished removing the sieve, turning his gaze away as he went about locating some cups.

"Though I have a small measure of prior dealings with the aforementioned two, their explanation will let me make a decision as to their trustworthiness. I expect that whatever they tell me will be...insufficient to garner that trust. Of course, regardless I think I would like to have you along. Perhaps I might find a way to allow young Male'dai to sleep and so restore some of her reserves." He set the tea pot, and then the two thick cups on the table and poured each of them some tea before walking over to get some sugar. Without asking her preference, he put two cubes of the stuff in her cup, before letting one fall into his own.

Sitting down he met her gaze once more. Taking a deep breath, he focused his energies and his will. Bringing a hand over his tea, palm downwards, fingers relaxed the penin's features took on a look of concentration.

After a brief moment, he intoned, "Thoph dregoth. Harteor thoph dregoth menrirl." His fingers moved in tiny delicate patterns as he said the words in the arcane language, an incredibly small amount of magical energy passing from his fingertips invisibly. The invisible wisps made threads, traveling into his tea, suffusing it briefly, before steam rose from the cup and then in a gentle wind dispersed outwards with a gentle puff of air. The process had taken about seven or so seconds. That done, the penin lowered his hand, took up his cup and took a sip of tea.

He winced slightly, it was still a bit hotter than he'd like, but no matter. Acting as if he hadn't just used magic for the most mundane of tasks—cooling tea—the penin mage turned his attention back to her.

"All that business aside. Male'dai is an arcanist. While she can't use her magic now, I wouldn't mind knowing the extent of her abilities," he smiled at 'them' and took another sip of his tea. He didn't wince this time.
Hidden 6 yrs ago 6 yrs ago Post by Rhaevnn Xeno
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"This is Forthey, apprentice of the Viper."

'An apprentice?' Morgan was slightly taken aback by this, allowing silence to fill a pause in the conversation. The beast was hungry, but this was not boy was not to be breakfast. 'He'll be missed. Too connected, too inconspicuous, too...' Morgan's mask looked down at the boy looking up at him, 'Too full of potential.' A thoughtful frown pulled across the sniffer's face. 'An apprentice...'

'...Of "The Viper." Whoever the blazes that was.

Whoever it was, it sounded official, authoritative, and most of all dangerous. Morgan gave off a small groan as he did a quick squat before gracefully leaping from his perch, hitting the stonework below lightly, the practiced motion giving off little more than a quiet click against the street. This boy, even if he was someone's boy, was already asking too many questions. "Forthey" was being inquisitive, investigative, annoyingly nosy. Even if he was a boy, all it would take is to ask the right question. With a trained twirl, the masked man's staff spun once before planting its butt onto the stone with a sharp tack!, "Then no, Forthey, errand boy of 'The Viper,' I do not know anything on the supposed happenings of Zerul, whateverintheplanesthatis." Morgan's voice would drop to an eventual mumble, his voice's tone stiff and chilly as he made to move past the boy and away from the rising rays of the sun...

If Jordan made no attempt to stop the vagrant from brushing past his leather suited form, he would see Morgan make his way down the quiet street, and into a new, narrow passage between two large buildings, away from the warm rays of light that grew with each passing moment...

If Jordan made to grab a hold of the mysterious beggar before him, either physically or even verbally, Morgan would whirl about, snarling in almost a completely different, an animal-like growl replacing the collected, cold voice that the boy had only heard moments ago. "I don't know anything, boy!" A tight hand that grasped at the loose cloth around Jordan's neck (assuming his cloak) would immediately loosen, the gloved hand retracting into its owner's own cloak as Morgan pulled away, desperating collecting himself continuing down the alley more swiftly, "Hack! I-I know nothing, as I said..."

'It isn't worth it, it isn't worth it...'
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Jordan Forthey


The stranger made a slight annoyed sound, then leaped from his position not unlike some wild animal, a cat or some such. It was at least three meters, was it not? The guy was not large, but he wasn't that much slighter than Jordan himself, either. It should have been rather impactful landing, no? He had been right. This was by no means some regular vagrant. The stranger was, at minimum, very well-trained. And more likely to be a combatant than some errant circus performer. Very likely to be somehow magically enhanced. Small feats like these looked easy. Jordan knew full well they weren't.
"Then no, Forthey, errand boy of 'The Viper,' I do not know anything on the supposed happenings of Zerul, whateverintheplanesthatis."
Did the stranger take him for a fool? He knew he was lying, even when he did not know what he was lying about. Another part of Jordan quickly noted: right time, right place, wrong name. The stranger had been waiting for someone, had he not? More than likely, someone whose face he had not seen, but whose name - or whose master's name - he knew... The stranger had been willing to talk until he said a name he was not expecting, had he not? Damn it!
The year and a half he had spent as a guard - this guy was obviously up to something shady! - and his earlier thirst of adventure ... and his his own personal curiosity stated he should intervene. His self-preservation instincts disagreed. Both from natural intuition and what training Sir Yanin had managed to get through to him, he knew this man was extremely dangerous, involved in something shady, and no doubt more skilled than him, as well as rather annoyed by someone unanticipated bothering him. But, he had some kind of duty as a squire, even if he wasn't currently on duty as a guard, right?
Some part of him was also annoyed in turn. Errand boy? No, not at all ... that was something he had decided to do on his own accord. Apprentices could do more than just fulfill whatever tasks their masters desired of them. Especially when said masters had wandered off to do something they appeared unwilling to reveal, too.
For a couple of moments he stood still, watching the stranger rush past him and head towards some more secluded street. No ... if he was to talk to the stranger, then a less public place would hardly do.
"Hey!" he started after the stranger, who immediately whirled around and grabbed hold of the fabric covering his chest.
"I don't know anything, boy!" Cold, annoyed voice was gone. Now the guy sounded like an animal.
Jordan's heart was suddenly beating too hard and fast again, his breath was momentarily caught in his throat, and this time, his hand actually did close around the grip of his sword ... though the dagger would probably have been more useful in an encounter this close. Dumb mistake.
Luckily, the stranger let go almost as quickly as he had grabbed hold of him, and seemed more intent on rushing off than continuing to confront him. "Hack! I-I know nothing, as I said..." Perhaps somewhat unluckily, Jordan was also riled up enough to argue, rather than let go of the matter and shamefully drag himself before his master and admit that he had found something suspicious he could not figure out on his own. Could still go either way ... could end with a rather irritated Viper of Glades, or one who was actually impressed. Granted, he was as of yet unsure whether Sir Yanin even did "impressed". More disconcertingly, it was also possible he had followed him, and was already making judgments...
"I know you're lying," he stated at the stranger's back. "And I know you're meeting up with someone today, and that he was not supposed to be me. I don't know whether you'd prefer to speak to my master rather than I, but we might be able to help you, and you us."
What was he getting himself into?
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Dark Jack The Jack of Darkness

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The Duchy of Zerul, by a road in the southwest

“Thanks,” Jaelnec issued a blanket-statement for everything Angora did and said just then as he accepted the hat she was trying to hand him. Rocks in the mud? What a hilariously practical concern, given the absurdity of the situation... but of course, simply getting dressed immediately rather than isolating oneself first was also the practical decision, and evidence in his mind that the practical approach was not always the best one.
He had not even finished brushing the dirt off his hat before it started raining, and the squire closed his eyes, heaving yet another sigh as he wondered whether it was too late to decide to drown in the mud.
“Yeah, let’s go.”

Spirits, what happened to you? How did you get this bad without even drawing your sword?
Surprised, Jaelnec quickly looked down and realized that his left hand had seized the opportunity to grab the hilt of his sword while he had been distracted, and that his thumb was once more caressing the pommel.
It’s nothing, he thought, turning his face skyward and closing his eyes to let the rain wash away as much mud as possible and cool his still-hot face. I didn’t mean to let you in.
I’m sorry, but... are you sure you don’t need me? Last time it was this much of a mess in here was back while you were still traveling with Annabelle. I can barely even make sense of your feelings right now, only... they’re directed at the girl with the sword? Angora.
I’m fine. He clenched his jaw angrily, contemplating simply letting go of his sword and cutting the connection to Roct instantly.
So confusing... You’re angry with her, but also don’t care about her... and... oh! You want to mate with –
His hand abruptly jolted away from the handle of his sword as he made a grimace, suddenly more desperate to remove Roct from his thoughts than ever before.


Zerul City, I’onriyi’s estate

It was an immense relief to Nimbus and Male’dai when Ion’riyi seemed to change the subject rather than dismiss them over their limited abilities, less because of their desire to join him on his – apparently impending – next adventure, and more because neither of them wanted Nimbus to offer the last real ace in her sleeve as an option. The angel did not like keeping secrets from good people and would probably mention it eventually, but she just did not want the penin to base her value or his plans on an ability that she desperately wanted to avoid overusing but technically remained intact even without her own body.
It was fortunate that Ion’riyi was not more familiar with the lore on archangels than he was, or he might have realized that they all possessed the ability to seize a second soul... to absorb magical energy around them and reuse it for themselves. That and her divine hand had been the primary means by which she had been able to hold off True Purity for as long as she had, but she also knew that each time she used that power, there was a chance that she would expend Male’dai – her feeble mote of a soul – as well. That was how she was sustaining her, after all: by keeping her soul inside herself. It was a bizarre situation, really; Male’dai’s body outside Nimbus’ soul, Nimbus’ soul outside Male’dai’s soul. Layers of identity and vulnerability.

She did not know what to comment on his mention of the two “unsavory” characters Ion’riyi was apparently considering the companionship of, but she was sure that if he was willing to accept them, she would have no reason to object. The prospect of allowing Male’dai to sleep, however, was one that brought an expression of concern to the deigan’s face.
“Sleeping isn’t Male’dai’s issue,” Nimbus told him gravely, hesitantly accepting the cup of tea he had just prepared for her. “She knows of at least several sedatives that could probably force her body to fall asleep if I simply refrained from negating them, none of which would be too difficult to obtain the ingredients for. The problem is that even if she slept, immortals can’t enter your Spirit Realm... in other words, she can only enter the Spirit Realm if I release her, and if I release her she will dissipate and become a specter. Even if she, against all odds, managed to find her way to the Spirit Realm, there would be no way of guaranteeing that she would be able to find her way back. She could die or...” She paused, trying to remember what Male’dai had theorized.
The deigan reminded her, and Nimbus nodded grimly. “Or worse, end up trapped in a perpetual nightmare.”

Nimbus did not drink her tea immediately – something she supposed was a wise decision, given how even the comparatively durable penin winced from drinking his magically cooled cupful – but simply held it in her hands for the time being, relishing the warmth of the brew seeping into her hands and enjoyed the fragrance. After a moment she noticed that the cubes of sugar had not completely dissolved yet and casually stuck a finger from her divine hand into the tea and started stirring it. It would be a rather odd sight for Ion’riyi – as Male’dai pointed out – not only that the tea started stirring itself, but that there formed a finger-shaped hole into the liquid where the invisible extremity displaced the tea.
I swear, I’ll never get used to that third hand of yours... it feels really weird.

“Male’dai’s abilities?” Nimbus mused, taking a moment to filter through her host’s thoughts before actually attempting to answer the question. She smiled warmly, her expression speaking of a kindness of such purity that it seemed to contrast with her red eyes and black feathers. “She describes herself as ‘barely adequate’, but she has studied and practiced magic for nearly twenty years, so I suspect that she’s being modest. She could reliably memorize over a dozen spells at once, depending on the complexity of the spells, and had a remarkably steady hand. Her magical reserves were great enough that she could single-handedly summon a greater immortal, which in itself is fairly impressive, I think, even if doing so would have drained her completely. She also has some practice with alchemy and had just started studying enchanting, but she regards both of those fields as little more than pastimes.”
She shrugged. “I suppose that her knowledge and pronunciation of the arcane language was also passable, mostly, though it’s hard for me to judge that fairly given that I’m fluent in it.”
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