Apex Sunburn

Avalia

Time: Morning
Location: Campsite outside Roshmi
Interactions: Mari @princess; Thraash @funnyguy; FIVE @shiningsector
Mentions:
Equipment:

Hider

His travelling clothes - Dark, earthy shirt and coat, with trousers tucked into boots
A hooded, oilskin cloak
His bow, unstrung
A musket
Two pistols
Two hatchets
His travelling pack

Scathael frowned as he listened to the Dragonborn’s suggestion, and that frown only deepened as the rest put their own ideas forward. There were really only two answers to his question; that much had been clear to him even when his question was still formulating in his mind. Vallana had to either go with them, or she had to stay somewhere else for as long as it took for them to take care of a manticore. What other options were there? Still, Scathael had asked the group in hopes – vain ones, as it turned out – of finding another solution that had perhaps eluded him.

That, unfortunately, wasn’t the case, and he was left with two equally terrible options. The first was…Well, it was obvious why bringing a child to a manticore-hunt was a bad idea. Vallana couldn’t fight, she couldn’t run fast if it came to a speedy escape, and she could barely look over some of the shrubs that surrounded their campsite. The young foxgirl would be worse than a millstone; she would be a danger to both herself and whoever – most likely Scathael himself, he noted grimly – was tasked with looking after her.

The Warforged had voiced the second possibility, that they could simply leave Vallana somewhere. On the surface, that wasn’t a bad idea, but Scathael had his own, unshakeable qualms about it. But before the elf could say anything about it, Vallana herself piped up.

“T-There’s no one,” she said in a small voice, peeking from behind Scathael as she tried to keep her eyes on FIVE. Her little hands gripped his cloak so tightly that it seemed as if she would tear it. Clearly, she was still unused to some of their current travelling companions. She looked at the ground. “F-Father came from somewhere far, m-mother said. Very, very far. A-And I don’t know…I don’t…” Her voice warbled, and she sniffed as she rubbed her eyes with the backs of her wrists. “I-I’m all alone–”

Scathael quickly cut in. “We don’t know and we can’t know, and even if we knew, it’s not realistic to expect us to find them,” he said definitively, placing a firm hand on Vallana’s shoulder. The time and effort he had spent on calming the child enough to stop her constant crying had been substantial, and he wasn’t about to allow her to talk herself back into such a state again. “And I wouldn’t trust a bunkhouse or tavern or any place that would ward children with Vallana. The ones that would take good care of her, we probably can’t afford since we’ll be away for an unspecified period. The ones that we can are–”

He caught himself and looked down at Vallana. She looked back at him with wide, innocent eyes. Scathael swallowed whatever phrase he was going to use and started again. “The ones that we can aren’t the best places. A starving dragon would probably do a better job.” He glanced at Thraash. “No offence intended.”

That left them with only one option, as Mari so confidently declared.

"She'll be safe with me, rest assured. I'm the most talented woman you'll ever meet."

Scathael looked at the Light Elf, eyes impassive and gaze hard. On the surface, she didn’t seem like much of a fighter, but then again, he had lived long enough to not allow appearances to mislead him. From what he had seen back at Roshmi, she was more than capable of taking care of herself. His only question was whether she could take care of a child as well, and to do so whilst in combat. The dark elf couldn’t help but scoff at her proclamation. Not so much out of derisive mockery, but rather as almost a reflex. “Words easy to say, harder to prove. You’re not the first–”

“Come on, Scath, you can trust me! There’s no better mapper than yours truly!”

It was her voice which echoed through his head. Although lasting for barely a moment, it was still as clear and as bright as on the day when Scathael first heard those words from her lips. He could even catch the teasing giggles with which she typically ended her sentences, and the flicker of mischief in her eyes, as if daring him to walk away from whatever plan she had concocted. A small lump formed in Scathael's throat, but he swallowed it with practised ease and shook his head. She was dead, and had been dead for a long time. He couldn’t keep carrying her in his mind. And he couldn’t carry her now, especially, when he had far more urgent things to worry about.

“Sorry,” he said and cleared his throat. “You’re right. But I’ll be with you.” He patted the wheellock leaning against the trunk he sat on, then gestured to the unstrung bow still in its leather sheath. “I’m better fighting at a distance. If we have to be quiet, then I can use the bow. Otherwise, I’d rather use the musket. It sends bullets through everything up to forged iron plate. Even steel ones, if they’re close enough.”

Vallana shrunk away as Mari approached. “Come on,” Scathael said, trying to keep the exasperation from showing in his tone. With a gentle push, he urged Vallana to approach the Light Elf. The foxgirl looked up at, uncertainty in her eyes. “I can understand if you fear a Dragonborn or a Warforged,” Scathael said and glanced at both Thraash and FIVE. “No offence, again,” he added quickly before turning his attention back to Vallana. “But the Light Elf and the Demi-human? You have to get used to them, at least.”

Still, Vallana clung to him and refused to move. “I-I want to stay here…” She mumbled.

Scathael sighed. He couldn’t entirely blame her. Sad as it was, his face was probably the only familiar one she knew, and considering what she had gone through, he could see why she would be reluctant to go off with a stranger. Even one who seemed as friendly as Mari. “Fine, fine,” he said, his efforts to not sound too grumpy clearly failing. Thankfully, Vallana didn’t seem to pick up on that. Scathael gave Mari a glance that was almost apologetic before saying, “I’ll go with you. Is that better? You can spend time with her, and I’ll just be around. Okay?”

Vallana looked between him and Mari for a moment, then nodded slowly. “O-Okay,” she said, then hopped to her feet, Scathael’s cloak still wrapped around her small frame. She slowly approached Mari, and with a clumsy curtsy, introduced herself. “Hello. I-I’m Vallana.”

Behind her, Scathael let out yet another sigh. This was going to be a long day, he could already tell.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Featuring: Wasun Sjan-dehk

Time: Evening
Location: The Tough Tavern
Interactions: Thea @Tae; Anastasia @Princess
Mentions:
Attire:

Hider

Plain roughspun shirt (white) and trousers (brown)
Patched, green, knee-length coat
Shoulder- and waist-belts
Old leather boots

Despite what Cynwaer had said earlier that day, he hadn’t come to the tavern with the intention of causing or even seeking trouble. He wasn’t an unreasonable man, after all; trouble could wait until his second day in the city, at the very least. Unfortunately for him, trouble had other plans. What had been supposed to be a quiet evening of getting himself acquainted with the city’s happenings turned into him breaking up a fight and disciplining his unruly crew. Suffice to say, that wasn’t at all Cynwaer’s idea of a good time. To say that he had been displeased would have been quite the understatement.

Fortunately, however, trouble had it in its heart to show him some mercy. Through his misfortune, he found out more about the foreign ship – and her Captain – that had piqued his interest earlier when he first saw it through his spyglass. True, all he got were their names, but it was a start. Besides, this Sjan-dehk seemed to be – arms and armour – a decent enough person. Surely, Cynwaer could wrangle more information out of him through a simple chat.

Unfortunately, again, the two Captains were rudely interrupted by two young women before they could talk about anything substantial. Cynwaer didn’t drink when they did. Judging by the look of abject confusion on Sjan-dehk’s face, the foreigner was also at a complete loss as to what to do.

Well, Cynwaer did have something he needed to do. It had nothing to do with the girls, but nevertheless, it was something that had to be done. “Oi, lad in ta’ brown ‘at!” He twisted around in his seat and shouted at the man who had been accosting the girl in the green dress. As expected, the man in question turned and looked at everyone and everything, as if Cynwaer hadn’t noticed him trying to approach the girl even after she had left him. “Stop tryin’ ta’ pretend yer nae did a thing, lad. Yer only makin’ yersel’ look e’en more like a proper feckin’ idiot.”

The man finally got the hint. Turning towards Cynwaer, he pointed at himself. “M-Me, Captain?”

“Who ta’ feck else?” Cynwaer snapped. “Yer nae a bright one, are yer? Yer just saw three o’ yer mates get feckin’ tanner like ‘ides on a rack fer gettin’ tae ‘andsy, and yer decide yer want ta’ try yer luck. Yer saw ta’ big’un ‘at fecked yer mates?” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Sjan-dehk. “This madman lookin’ like ‘e’s gae’n ta feckin’ assault ta’ castle by himsel’ is ‘is cap’n. What dae yer think ‘e’ll dae tae yer?”

An amused grin came over Sjan-dehk’s face. He sipped from his mug. “Your crew. Your problem.”

Cynwaer clicked his tongue. “Well, yer nae wrong,” he groused, then addressed the man again. “Look, lad, I’ll make it easy fae yer. I’m in nae mood ta’ deal wi’ any mer o’ this feckin’ nonsense. If yer cannae control yer ane ‘ands, get yersel’ back aboard Recompense befer’ yer dae anythin’ ta’ get yersel’ tanned till yer a pair o’ boots and gloves.”

The man gulped and nodded so quickly it was as if he would snap his own neck. “Y-Yes, Captain!” He said a little too loudly. “Sorry, Captain. I-I wasn’t myself. I’ll leave right away.”

He made a quick exit.

Cynwaer turned to the girl in green. “Dae’n look tae feckin’ thankful, lass,” he snapped. “I did’nae dae it ta’ save yer arse. ‘Twas just a good chance ta’ remind ta’ lads ta’ stay in feckin’ line an’ no gae and get feckin’ arrested fae somethin’ stupid.” He looked her up and down, not even bothering to hide his gaze. She was young, pretty, and utterly out of place. Not just here, in this specific tavern, but in this entire quarter of the city. She was far too clean, for one, something easily noticeable when just about everyone else was heavy with the scent and grime of labour. And her dress, although of a common enough cut, was clearly made of fabric that a regular person wouldn’t waste on clothes meant for daily use.

But if Green looked as if she came from a different part of the city, her friend – Pink, to Cynwaer – seemed to be of another world entirely. He couldn’t help but smirk as he turned his gaze to her. “Look, I dae’n know what ta’ two o’ yer are tryin’ ta dae, but word o’ advice, long gowns an’ ta’ slums dae’n mix. Yer look like a feckin’ clown, aye.” He shook his head and returned to his drink. These two were more likely than not just nobles looking to have some fun by spending an evening pretending to be a commoner. It was either that, or they were just stupid. Either way, Cynwaer wanted nothing to do with them, and so he ignored Green’s question entirely.

The sound of an empty mug hitting the countertop reminded everyone that there was still another person present. Cynwaer turned his head and saw Sjan-dehk wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “This drink, it taste like seawater that is boiled,” the foreign Captain remarked plainly. Cynwaer wasn’t sure if it was meant as a compliment or a very mild complaint. “It is supposed to be that way?”

“Aye,” Cynwaer replied slowly. “Yer nae supposed ta’ drink it like feckin’ water. Gods above an’ below, are yer aw’righ’?”

Sjan-dehk nodded and shrugged. “Rice wine is stronger. This, more gentle.”

“Aw’righ’ nae need ta’ boast.”

Pushing the mug away, Sjan-dehk turned to face the two women. A brief look of recognition flashed across his face, but it was quickly replaced by the nonchalance of unfamiliarity. “Cynric is right,” he said to the one in pink. “Your clothes, it is not…Good? Not practical, yes, not practical for here.” He paused for a moment, then nodded to both women in turn. “I am Captain Wasun Sjan-dehk. Of Sada Kurau.”

Cynwaer groaned. “Yer lucky our pal ‘ere’s polite,” he grumbled. True, he could simply just walk away and find a quiet corner of his own, but then he would be giving up a perfect chance to find out more about this foreign Captain, his ship, and more importantly, where he fit in the grand scheme of things as far as Sorian and Caesonia was concerned. And so, with great reluctance, he introduced himself. “An’ I’m Cap’n Cynric Fletcher. Recompense’s my ship. Now dae us a favour and feck off.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Featuring: Cynwaer Fiachin Cynric Fletcher

Time: Early Evening
Location: Outside the Tough Tavern >> Inside the Tough Tavern
Interactions:
Mentions:
Attire:

Hider

(Placeholder until I get a better reference image)
Roughspun, blue trousers
A shoulder belt and waist belt carrying his equipment
Two swords and two pistols, one on either side
A woven, conical hat wide enough to shade his entire face (in his hands)

“Night’s barely started and you’ve already had this much fun? I’m honestly impressed.”

The man sitting on the mud-streaked ground was barely sensate, his eyes half-lidded and mouth open like a fish. His shoulders rose and fell with shallow breaths. Even with a passing glance, it was clear to anyone that this man had just been in a vicious brawl. Spittle, bloody and stringy, hung from lips that were swelling where they had been split. A line of angry red welts traced his left cheekbone, and would surely turn into a painful bruise by the following morning. Mud and street grime caked his black hair and dishevelled clothes.

With great effort, he tried to say something. Most of it came out as slurred and garbled gibberish, save for a weak, “There was this girl, Captain.”

Standing over him, Sjan-dehk sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. To be quite honest, he wasn’t as annoyed as he knew he likely appeared. True, he had been expecting far worse when the panicked runner had burst into his quarters whilst he was in the midst of writing his report for Lady Adiyan, and an ordinary tavern brawl was hardly the sort of thing that required his presence, but any excuse to get away from desk work was good in his books. If he felt any true annoyance, it was directed at the runner. The boy’s rushed and scant description of the incident had made Sjan-dehk believe that he was walking into a fight, and he had thus prepared accordingly.

Pistols and swords clattered against lamellar plates as Sjan-dehk squatted. Pushing the brim of his hat up, he looked at the man – one of his crew – in the eyes. “Really? Fighting over a woman?” There was a faint hint of a rebuke hidden beneath Sjan-dehk’s jocular tone. He sighed. “Thought Sada Kurau taught us all to be better than that, Yehn-tai.” He looked across the injured man at the adolescent boy kneeling by his side and asked nonchalantly, “What’s the damage, Sazarin?”

Sazarin was one of Dai-sehk’s subordinates. At just shy of sixteen, the dark-skinned youth was considered to be amongst the better Surgeon’s Assistants aboard both Sada Kurau and Sudah. He was, however, not as skilled as to have his absence felt too severely by Sada Kurau. That made him a perfect addition to the impromptu shore party Sjan-dehk had put together. After all, Sjan-dehk had expected a proper fight. To not bring along a physician – even one in training – would have been folly.

The youth placed two fingers on Yehn-tai’s neck. Then, he waved a hand in front of the man’s eyes. “Quick pulse, slow reactions,” Sazarin muttered to himself before clearing his throat. He looked at his Captain and bowed his head slightly in a simple salute. “The wounds we see are mostly superficial. Just the usual cuts and bruises, but I’ll know for sure once we’re back aboard Sada Kurau, Captain. The rest of his symptoms aren’t anything to worry over. Speech impairment, dilated pupils, general slowness in mind and body, they all point towards alcohol intoxication, Captain. A night of bedrest would be enough as a start.”

Sjan-dehk nodded slowly. “Glad to know you’ve been studying properly, Sazarin,” he replied with a chuckle and looked at the boy with a knowing grin. “Would’ve been a lot simpler if you just told me that he’s drunk out of his mind and he got his arse kicked, though. I know Master Dai-sehk makes you memorise all those textbooks and scrolls, but you don’t have to sound like you’ve eaten them for lunch.”

“Yes, Captain. Understood, Captain.” Sazarin said quickly and averted his gaze, a light flush creeping over his cheeks. “Sorry, Captain. I’ll keep your words in mind.”

“Don’t worry about it. Master Dai-sehk was like you when he first started. Couldn’t understand anything he was saying. Took years for him to get better.” Sjan-dehk gave the youth a reassuring smile before turning his attention back to Yehn-tai. With yet another sigh, he placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “And as for you, our impetuous Sharpshooter,” Sjan-dehk began. “You heard what Sazarin said. Once you’ve returned to Sada Kurau, you’ll have your injuries seen to, after which you’re to get the bedrest you need. We’ll deal with the consequences of your actions tomorrow. Though I think Master Mursi will likely want to talk to you as soon as possible once he knows what’s happened to one of his Sharpshooters.”

Yehn-tai started to protest. “But Captain, I–”

“I’ll stay here and investigate further. If your actions were justified, I’ll find out,” Sjan-dehk assured him, but then went on to say, “I’m not going to lie to you, Yehn-tai. There’s going to be consequences of some sort you’ll have to face eventually. We did warn all of you that brawling’s not going to be–”

“Yer ta’ Cap’n o’ the big’un that fecked my lads?”

Sjan-dehk understood less than half of what he heard, which was quite impressive, considering the brevity of the sentence. Still, he gathered enough to know that it was he whom the voice’s owner was looking for, and so he stood up and turned to face whoever had called for him.

“Cap’n Cynric Fletcher, o’ ta’ Recompense,” a red-haired, rugged-looking man greeted. The smell of brine hung about him like a heavy coat, almost as heavy as the over-patched, bark-brown, knee-length frock he wore over an off-white shirt and a pair of mossy green trousers. Sweat and the earlier rain matted strands of frayed and fiery hair to his cheeks and forehead. He tilted his chin towards Yehn-tai. “I was told yer man o’er there tanned ta’ ‘ides o’ three o’ mine well an’ proper-like.” Cyrinc rested his hands on his hips, directly above the two pistols and single cutlass hanging from his waistbelt. The slightly furrowed brows and scowl didn’t speak of anger, however, merely of slight frustration.

“Captain Wasun Sjan-dehk. Of Sada Kurau,” Sjan-dehk replied cautiously, his eyes surreptitiously tracking every move of Cynric’s hands, and his own hovering by his weapons. At the same time, he wasn’t certain if Cynric had actually introduced himself, or if he had said something that had gotten utterly lost within his thick accent. “Yes. Our men, they fight. I apologise for Yehn-tai. He cannot speak now. He is very drunk.”

Cynric waved his hand dismissively. “Nae bother, Cap’n. I got ta’ ‘ole story frae my lads. Yer man was’nae wrong ta’ gee’s ‘em a beatin’. I’d ‘ave tanned their ‘ides mysel’ if I’d been there, aye.” Sjan-dehk looked at him with confusion all about his face, and Cynric took that as a sign to continue with an explanation. “They ‘ad a bit too much drink, an’ got a wee bit too friendly wi’ a servin’ lass. She did’nae like that, yer man o’er there did’nae like that, an’ one thing led tae another. I think yer can fill in ta’ blanks yersel’, Cap’n.”

Sjan-dehk nodded slowly. He felt he had a rough idea as to what had happened. “Thank you, Captain. It is fortunate that your crew is so honest.”

Cynric laughed and shook his head. “They’d bet’er feckin’ be, if they know what’s good fae ‘em.” Then, he jerked his head towards the tavern’s doors. “Anyway, ‘tis aw’ just a misunderstandin’, but what say yer an’ I ‘ave a drink? My lads started e’rythin’, sae I’ll treat yer, then we can say we settled things proper-like.”

Now that, Sjan-dehk could understand even with the accent. He nodded. There wasn’t any reason for him to turn down Cynric’s goodwill and besides, a drink at the end of a confusing day was more than welcome, and it was all that better that Sjan-dehk didn’t have to pay for it.

“Captain?” Sazarin cut in before he could say anything to Cynric. “Do you have orders?”

“Excuse me a while,” Sjan-dehk said to Cynric, who responded with a simple shrug. Turning to the young Surgeon’s Assistant and the rest of the shore party, Sjan-dehk quickly issued his instructions. “We’re done here, so the lot of you can take Yehn-tai home. Sazarin, he’s your responsibility. Tend to his wounds, then make sure he gets the rest he needs. If Master Mursi comes looking for him, tell him that whatever he has can wait until tomorrow.” He started to dismiss them, but then remembered something. “Oh, and someone check on Master Dai-sehk. Haven’t seen the mad bastard since the afternoon. At least make sure that we still have a surgeon and that I don’t have to arrange a funeral.”

The shore party nodded their acknowledgements and snapped to a quick salute. Two of them, with the aid of Sazarin, hauled an unsteady Yehn-tai to his feet. Sjan-dehk watched just long enough to make sure that everything was fine before gesturing for Cynric to lead the way. “Right this way, Cap’n,” the redhead said with a grin.

As he stepped through the tavern’s doors, Sjan-dehk pushed his hat further up and back until it rested on his back, hanging by its chinstraps looped around his neck. Immediately, the sour stench of cheap alcohol and sweat assaulted his nose. Such smells weren’t new to him, but they were still unpleasant. The tavern was dimly-lit, and furnished with tables and chairs that had likely seen better days several years ago. Dark corners played host to the tavern’s few patrons; mostly tough-looking people nursing drinks and regarding Sjan-dehk and Cynric with suspicious gazes. If Cynric cared, or even noticed, he didn’t show it at all as he led Sjan-dehk to the bar.

“Oi, barkeep, gee’s us couple o’ ales, aye?” Cynric called out to the man behind the bar as he sat down on a stool. “An’ none o’ that shite that’ll make us feckin’ shite oursels aw’ night!”

“Shut your gob,” came the cantankerous response from the barkeep. He was an imposing man, wearing a short-sleeved shirt that placed his muscular arms on display. “We’ve only got the one drink. If you’re after something else, you can leave!”

Sjan-dehk took his seat beside Cynric. “So, you are Captain also?”

“Aye, of the Recompense,” Cynric replied. “Just pulled intae Sorian ta’day, in fact. And uh, Captain Wasun, is it? Yer ship’s called Sada Kurau? Which one’s that? The big fecker in ‘arbour or the wee’un at ta’ docks?”

“Captain Sjan-dehk,” Sjan-dehk corrected. “And yes. Sada Kurau is smaller. Big one is Sudah.”

Cynric chuckled and shook his head. “I’ll nae e’en try ta’ pronounce yer name, Cap’n,” he said. “But ‘tis a beautiful ship yer command, Cap’n. From ‘er looks, she’s a quick ane, aye?”

Sjan-dehk grinned and nodded. That Cynric could identify his Sada Kurau’s greatest boon from just a look meant that he had to be a capable seafarer. And that was enough for Sjan-dehk to decide that he couldn’t be too wrong of a person to know. “You are correct. Sada Kurau is fast. Very fast.”

“Recompense’s probably nae e’en half as fast, but I’d bet that she’s tougher.” Cynric returned the grin, and Sjan-dehk looked at him with raised brows. “Just sayin’, Cap’n. Nae ship can ‘ave e’erythin’. I’ll be ta’ first tae admit that Recompense moves slow, but she gets where she needs ta’ be.”

“Every ship has gifts,” Sjan-dehk said and nodded.

“I’ll drink ta’ that,” Cynric replied, and as if on cue, the barkeep arrived with two heavy, misshapen mugs of pungent ale. He placed them on the counter, and folded his arms, glaring at Cynric until he produced two coins from his coat pocket and placed them on the bar. The barkeep took the coins and walked away. “An’ it’s just on time,” Cynric said and picked up a mug. He raised it. “Sae, Cap’n. Tae good ships an' peaceful night?”

Sjan-dehk nodded, picking up the other mug and raising it to meet Cynric’s. “To ships and peace.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Sada Kurau: The Surgeon

Boring, it was all so, very boring.

Well, perhaps that wasn’t the right word to use. It wasn’t as if there was a shortage of wounds that needed a surgeon’s touch aboard Sada Kurau. But the scrapes, scratches, splinters, and miscellaneous diseases that were typical of a ship’s crew were humdrum to Dai-sehk. They kept him busy, but only physically – his mind could hardly be stimulated by procedures and diagnoses he could carry out in his sleep. He carried them out all the same, nevertheless. His oaths to the Commonwealth and Jafin Navies, and the loyalty he owed his Captain, demanded at least that much from him.

However, oaths and duties were one thing. This pervasive boredom was another.

And it was that very boredom which made him decide to spend some time ashore this morning. Perhaps, the bespectacled surgeon had thought, he simply needed a change in scenery. He was wrong. He was still bored; the only difference being that he was now bored on dry land instead of bored aboard Sada Kurau.

His visage was as cold and stoney as the cobbles he trudged upon as he made his way through Sorian. A plethora of unfamiliar sights and sounds – of buildings of novel designs, of peoples in odd attires speaking languages strange to his ears, of a city begging to be explored – surrounded him. Dai-sehk was more than certain that such things would excite most of his fellow shipmates. But him? He felt nothing. There wasn’t anything wrong with the city or its people, however. Dai-sehk could still acknowledge and appreciate what charms it had. He just couldn’t bring himself to feel much of anything towards…Anything, really. Emotions simply never were things that came easily to Dai-sehk. If they came at all.

Yes, perhaps ‘boredom’ wasn’t the right word to describe the flat dispassion that constantly filled him. One which coloured everything in shades of calm grey. ‘Apathy’, maybe? Or just plain ennui? Or was it – as he had considered before – a sort of rare malaise?

Well, none of that really mattered. This was how he had always been. And besides, he had better things to do with his time than to spend it on thought exercises that were – albeit somewhat interesting – ultimately of little use.

Dai-sehk scrutinised every storefront he passed. He looked at the signs, peered through windows, and he even stopped to ask passers-by about those which left little hints as to their trade. None proved to be what he sought, something which made little sense to him. Surely, this city had to have at least one herbalist or apothecary who dealt in raw herbs? Granted, he did walk past a few pharmacies, but he wasn’t confident enough in his Caesonian to purchase prepared medicines. Neither was he too keen on the notion of doing all the necessary tests to determine what an unknown solution did. Far better – and easier – for him to just synthesise his own concoctions from herbs he could identify through shape, touch, or smell. Assuming, of course, that there were herbs that grew in this part of the world that were identical or similar to the ones he was accustomed to in Viserjanta.

But he would cross that bridge when he came to it. There wasn’t any point in worrying over that issue now, not when he had yet to even find the shops he needed.

“I need a doctor! Is there a doctor here?”

That worried – almost frantic – shout cut through the din of the crowd to Dai-sehk’s ears. Without so much as a thought, he immediately changed course and marched towards its source. Not that there was a need for him to think in the first place. Someone needed a physician, that was his profession, and he didn’t have any reason not to respond. And so logically, he had to respond. Simple. He tugged on the roughspun strap of his haversack as he pushed through the crowd. “Away,” he said brusquely to those in his path. Several people gave him dirty looks as he passed, but he didn’t pay them any heed. Why would he need to? They did exactly as they were told, and stepped aside as he approached. There was no reason for Dai-sehk to bother with them.

As he reached the edge of the gathered press of nosy onlookers, and his eyes caught sight of a man, pale and panting, sitting on the ground beneath the shade of a canvas awning, and with his head placed snugly between his knees, Dai-sehk felt a familiar thrill rise within him. There was something about the moments just before examining a patient – the possibility of a mystery, the hope for a challenge – that he so greatly relished. The corners of his lips subtly twitched in a burgeoning smile, but as always, that smile never fully materialised. His face remained as impassive as ever.

“Who’re you?” Dai-sehk hadn’t noticed the other man standing over the prospective patient, and wouldn’t have noticed him at all had the thick-set man not addressed him with suspicion. Sheened in sweat, with a dark layer of grime mottling his hands and arms, and his clothes frayed and well-worn, Dai-sehk guessed that he was a manual labourer. And seeing as how he appeared to be an acquaintance of the prospective patient, Dai-sehk assumed the latter to be in a similar line of work.

“I am doctor.” Dai-sehk kept his words short and patted himself on the chest. The man continued to regard him with a wary gaze and stood protectively in front of his friend. Dai-sehk didn’t fault him for that – it was a perfectly reasonable act, all things considered. Wearing a tunic of Jafin cut, speaking with an accent that was most likely unrecognisable by the man, and bearing a face that was clearly foreign, Dai-sehk probably didn’t sound or look or even feel like how a Caesonian doctor should. The man was right to be suspicious, and it was up to Dai-sehk to convince him otherwise.

He patted his haversack, and flipped open the flap to show the man its contents. A small, bulky satchel sat between tied-up bamboo scrolls and well-thumbed notebooks. Laying over them was a stethoscope which had clearly seen far better days. “I am doctor,” Dai-sehk repeated, keeping his tone level, and his eyes on the man’s face. “Can help.”

The man held Dai-sehk’s gaze for the barest of moments before stepping aside to let him pass. “I-I never saw what happened. We were just unloading crates. Usual work, you know? And then Halsford over there suddenly says he feels like shite. Said he was dizzy and light-headed or something. So I told him to have a short break.” The words spilled from the man’s mouth in a rapid torrent. Dai-sehk listened to every word; there was no telling what might turn out to be vital. “I looked away for a moment and the next thing I know, the colour’s gone from Hal’s face and he’s a breeze away from collapsing.”

Dai-sehk knelt in front of Halsford and examined the infirm man with sharp eyes. Oddly enough, although his clothes were dark and soaked with sweat, and his beach-sand blonde hair matted to his forehead, his skin itself appeared to be merely damp. “Hal…Halsford.” The name rolled awkwardly off Dai-sehk’s tongue and didn’t sound right. As expected, the infirm man didn’t respond. “Halsford,” Dai-sehk repeated, this time with a more forceful tone. “Stop this. Look up. Look at me.”

Halsford groaned, but slowly complied. It was clear to Dai-sehk that just the simple act of straightening his neck took the man no small amount of effort, and even after he succeeded, his head swayed every which way unsteadily, as if the muscles in his neck couldn’t support its weight. His mouth hung open, making him appear like a fish washed ashore, and his breaths came in shallow, heaving wheezes. Dai-sehk placed his hands on either side of Halsford’s neck, just under the man’s jaw. The skin was warm and dry to the touch, and right away, Dai-sehk felt his initial thrill fade. “Breathe slow,” he said flatly.

“Wha–?” Halsford words came out in mumbled gibberish. His eyes – dull as they were – could still at least focus on Dai-sehk’s face. For the surgeon, that was both good and bad news. On the one hand, it meant that Halsford wasn’t that far gone yet. On the other, it also meant that there was no intricate mystery here for Dai-sehk to solve. Two questions were all he needed to figure everything out.

“You work…How long you work?”

Halsford blinked slowly, as if he hadn’t quite understood the question. For a moment, Dai-sehk wondered if his condition was actually worse than what he imagined. But just as he was about to re-examine Halsford, the man began to speak. “Since…We’ve been at it–working since this…Early morning.” His voice was little more than a mumble, and his words slurred into each other. “Moving–Lots of things to–to move. This place always–It always orders a lot–”

“No need to know,” Dai-sehk interrupted abruptly. “From early morning. So you work for hours.” He looked over his shoulder at Halsford’s friend, who nodded in confirmation. Dai-sehk’s pressed his already thin lips into an even thinner line and turned back to Halsford. “Water. When you drink last?”

“I uh–I drank some–I drank before working, Halsford replied and drew in a deep, ragged breath. “We–we do that all the…It’s usual. Then I wasn’t–I didn’t feel thirsty, so I–”

Dai-sehk cut him off with a click of his tongue. “Stupid,” he said, that single word as pointed as a dagger.

“Wha–I don’t–”

“Not thirsty not mean no need water.” There wasn’t any need, anymore, for Dai-sehk to listen to whatever else Halsford had to say. And so, he didn’t. He pushed his eyeglasses further up his nose and rummaged through his haversack for two small vials; one of plain salt, and the other of white sugar. Then, he turned to Halsford’s friend. “You. Find cup, water, spoon. Bring here quick.”

The friend furrowed his brow. “I don’t see what–”

“Cup. Water. Spoon,” Dai-sehk repeated, his growing impatience clear in his words. “Now!”

That was enough to convince the friend to stop arguing and scamper off.

“W-What’s wrong with–” Halsford started to ask.

“You work. In sun. For long time. And no water. You are sick from heat,” Dai-sehk replied tersely. Halford’s high body temperature; his suspicious lack of sweat; his dizziness, all could be explained by a simple case of heat exhaustion. A simple diagnosis, and one which had lost its charm on Dai-sehk years ago. He could feel the boredom – or whatever it was – edge its way back into his mind. Suddenly, everything seemed so dull to him. Halsford, his ailment, his friend, the crowd that refused to disperse, they were all so incredibly uninteresting to Dai-sehk. He wanted nothing more than to leave.

Thankfully, the friend soon returned, the items Dai-sehk requested in hand. With practised ease, he mixed measured spoonfuls of salt and sugar into the cup of water. “Three parts salt. One part sugar. In water and mix,” he droned, glancing at the man as he vigorously stirred the makeshift draught. “You listen. Make this and give. He must drink. Until he is good. Or you find medicine.”

“The thing you’re making…” The friend scratched his chin. “It’s not medicine?”

Dai-sehk looked at him and blinked once. “Salt. Sugar. Only…Temporary.” He turned back to Halsford and pushed the cup towards him. The ailing man took it with shaking hands and emptied its contents in a long, single gulp. “He get better, good,” Dai-sehk said and threw the vials back into his haversack. With a grunt, he stood up and slung it over his shoulder. “He drink, will be better. He still bad, then find other doctor.”

“Thank–” the friend began, and as was becoming typical, Dai-sehk didn’t let him finish.

“Stop that,” the surgeon said tersely, a vague hint of a scowl on his face. This was the part of his job which he most disliked. Undeserved praise and gratitude grated against him like Hai-shuun’s sandpaper. All this, everything he had done so far, was nothing to him. He wouldn’t congratulate himself for the same reason he wouldn’t congratulate a person for simply breathing successfully. It was pointless, anyway; no amount of adulation made him feel anything. The only satisfaction he ever felt came from solving a proper mystery, and this incident was far from being such a thing.

Dai-sehk left hurriedly before Halsford or his friend could say anything more. He didn’t have time to bother with inane, useless babble, anyway. There were better, more important things for him to do. He melted into the dissipating crowd. A quiet, imperceptible sigh blew through his lips.

If only everything wasn’t so, very boring.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: Late Morning
Location: The sea >> Sorian Harbour
Interactions:
Mentions:
Attire:

Hider

Plain roughspun shirt (white) and trousers (brown)
Patched knee-length coat
Shoulder- and waist-belts
Old leather boots

'Beautiful, resplendent, and a wonder of the world, the city of Sorian is truly the capital which a Kingdom as grand as Caesonia deserves. From here, His Majesty King Edin Danrose, first of his name, rules his lands with both a just hand and wisdom worthy of a sage. Is it thus any wonder that Sorian attracts peoples from across the known world, and of every stock and every creed? Indeed, there exists such a vast selection of cultures within the city that it is often said that a saunter through Sorian’s welcoming streets would suffice as a cure for even the most itching wanderlust.

As befits the seat of power of a family blessed by the Gods, Sorian is nestled close to the end of a narrow, long fjord. Her gleaming spires and glittering buildings…'

“‘Er gleamin’ spires an’ glitterin’ buildings?” Cynwaer repeated, his tone dripping with mocking amusement and voice laced with a failed attempt to suppress a guffaw. He couldn’t quite believe what he was reading, partially because none of it sounded like the Sorian he knew, and mostly because he could scarcely think of anyone who could write such tripe and still expect to be taken seriously. A childish snicker played on his lips as he turned the page. He had to admit, when he had pilfered this ‘Nobleman’s Guide to Sorian’ from a careless patron at a coffeehouse, he had expected to flick through perhaps a dozen or so pages before tossing the thing into the ocean. Sorian was, put kindly, a city Cynwaer wouldn’t even piss on if it were on fire, after all.

But as it turned out, this book proved to be far too entertaining – even if unintentionally so – to be so easily discarded. And it was for that reason that, even as the Remembrance approached the city not-too-far off in the distance, Cynwaer continued to thumb through the guide’s pages. He stood near the beak of his ship, leaning over the gunwale and loosely cradling the book over the rolling surf far below.

He laughed derisively as he read another page. “Listen ta’ this, Neirynn,” he called out. “‘Truly, Sorian is a city ‘at deserves all ta’ awe it inspires in e’ry creature ‘at passes through its gates’.” He snapped the guide shut and looked to his left. Waving the book at Neirynn, he said, “Can yer feckin’ believe some fecker got paid ta’ write this shite? Even yer could dae a bet’er job than this feckin’ idiot.”

A pair of beady eyes looked back at Cynwaer. Neirynn froze in the midst of pulling the last scraps of meat from the skeleton of her latest prey, an unfortunate seabird of some sort. Fresh blood, bright and crimson, stained the earthen-brown feathers of her slender face. Stringy slivers of flesh swayed from her dark beak as she tilted her head. For a moment, she merely regarded her owner with silence. Then, she squawked.

“Aye, yer right. Comparin’ yer ta’ this shite-scribbler’s an insult ta’ yer. Sorry.” Cynwaer chuckled, reaching over to scratch her head. The swamp harrier let out another, quieter squawk and pushed her head into his hand. Sharp talons dug into the wooden guardrail, and she half-spread her wings to balance herself.

Cynwaer smiled as he watched her. For a bird-of-prey and a predator, she was surprisingly docile. But he supposed that rescuing her when she had just been a fledgling chick may have gone a long way in making her friendly towards him and his crew. “Aw’righ’,” he said and pulled his hand back. “Finish up yer brekkie, lunch, whate’er yer want ta’ call it, then yer can go ‘ave yersel’ some rest. Gae’n ta’ be a busy time fer yer an’ I both, aye.”

She tilted her head, squawked once more, then went back to eating.

Cynwaer looked away from her and towards the city. Honestly, he wasn’t sure what the writer of the guide was talking about. He saw no glittering spires, no glimmering buildings that inspired awe. Well, that wasn’t quite true; he did see a number of mansions, estates, and other expensive-looking structures that shone in brilliant hues of white, gold, and silver under the light of the late morning sun. But he didn’t feel any sense of wonderment looking at them. Rather, he felt nothing but disgust. Each and every last one of them were emblematic of the problems he had with Sorian and Caesonia as a whole.

“Captain, we’re passing the breakwaters,” a dour voice called from behind him.

“Aye, I’ve eyes ta’ see that,” Cynwaer replied. “Anythin’ that catches yer eye?”

“There’s a few Alidashti ships in harbour, Captain.”

Cynwaer shrugged. “Nae bother, ‘tis the partyin’ season fae nobles. I’m nae surprised they’re here.”

“And there are ships none of us recognise, Captain.”

That got Cynwaer’s attention. He immediately dropped whatever levity he had, pulled out a spyglass from his coat pocket, and scanned the harbour. “Which ones?” He asked, but found his answer almost as soon as those words left his mouth. The first was almost impossible to miss; it was a behemoth of a ship, easily twice the size of the largest Caesonian freighter. Her flat – almost vertical – sides, and snub-nose told him that she hadn’t been built for speed. Even with six masts of fully-battened sails, Cynwaer doubted that she was capable of anything beyond a gentle cruise. Essentially walking pace for a ship. “That one’s probably no trouble,” he muttered, then shifted to the other unknown vessel.

This other ship was lashed to its moorings, and the angle made it difficult for Cynwaer to pick out anything aside from the obvious. “That’s a fightin’ ship, aw’righ’,” he murmured. There weren’t many uses for a ship with a hull that narrow; it was definitely not useful as a transport. And the blackened muzzles peeking from her sides were almost certainly cannons, and she carried plenty of them. Far more than what an average vessel needed for self-defence. Cynwaer looked up, and saw flags which he didn’t recognise.

He collapsed the spyglass. “Well, if they’re nae Caesonian, nae Alidahsti, an’ nae Varian, then we I dae’n think we’ve ta’ worry about them fae now. We’re nae ‘ere ta’ start a fight, at least nae fer now. Still, I’ll ‘ave the lads keep an ear out fae news about ‘em. Cheers fae lettin’ me know.”

“It’s my duty, Captain.” There was a pause. “Captain, some of the–”

“I know,” Cynwaer interrupted with a sigh. “Yer can gae tell ta’ magebloods ta’ get below, an’ tell ‘em ta’ be feckin’ quiet than a feckin’ graveyard if they’re nay wantin’ ta’ be put in one. ‘Tis nae’ our first time’ dae’n somethin’ like this. We’ll be grand.”

Another pause, then a begrudging, “Aye, Captain.”

Cynwaer grimaced. He didn’t like it when his quartermaster was upset, because that was usually a sign of greater discontent on his ship. But it couldn’t be helped. Transporting magebloods was risky business, and to transport them here, to the capital of Caesonia? That was just insane. Cynwaer, however, was confident that insanity was exactly what they needed. No sane person would imagine that a fugitive mage would be smuggled into Sorian. Furthermore, one could get anywhere from Sorian. Both of those factors made the city the perfect place for a fugitive mage to go to ground for a time.

Similarly, Cynwaer was confident that Remembrance would be able to slip into Sorian harbour with almost no trouble. For one, she wasn’t Remembrance anymore, at least not on paper and on her hull. A snow of two-and-a-half masts, Remembrance was, for a ship, incredibly plain and common. Almost every privateer or merchantman, and even some Caesonian navy vessels, were close to identical to her. And so, a quick re-painting of her hull and an even quicker renaming was all it took to transform Remembrance, a wanted corsair, into Recompense, an innocent privateer. There simply wasn’t a harbourmaster alive who had the time and patience to scrutinise each and every one of the hundreds of ships that passed their eye to such a degree that they could see through a disguise that wasn’t done half-heartedly.

Cynwaer’s crew had done this many, many times before, but their – not his – nervousness was something that never truly went away.

And as usual, it was a nervousness that proved to be unnecessary. Remembrance – or Recompense, as it was now known to the authorities – pulled into her berth not long after passing the breakwaters. Soon, she would also have a letter of marque bearing her assumed identity, courtesy of Cynwaer and his ways with a harbour official known for having flexible morals. But that would have to wait. For now, Cynwaer had other things to do.

He stepped off the gangplank and onto the pier, his first taste of Sorian land in years. It tasted as bad as he thought it would. “Aw’right’,” he muttered to no one but himself. “Time fae trouble.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: Morning
Location: The Church >> Royal Curd
Interactions:
Mentions: @Princess Charlotte
Attire:

Hider

(Placeholder until I get a better reference image)
Roughspun, blue trousers
A shoulder belt and waist belt carrying his equipment
Two swords and two pistols, one on either side
A woven, conical hat wide enough to shade his entire face (in his hands)

“Hey King! We’re here for the cheese!”

Sjan-dehk didn’t know what this ‘cheese’ was, and he didn’t understand why anyone would be seeking it in a temple, but he did have a very, very good feeling that the tone of those words wasn’t the sort one should be using with a King. Or anyone of any rank, for that matter. Formality wasn’t something Sjan-dehk held in high regard – he disliked it, to be perfectly honest – but even so, he thought that whoever had spoken had been somewhat rude.

And from what Sjan-dehk knew, to be rude to a vain man – let alone a King – was to be in danger.

He snapped his gaze over to the King, the latter seated high upon his throne. Iyen squeezed closer as the jostling crowd filled the temple, and he was forced to look away when the two of them helped an aged lady to a seat. Well, Iyen did most of the actual assisting; Sjan-dehk merely looked fierce to clear the way. The grey-haired woman thanked both of them. Iyen listened, and despite not understanding a word, responded with a smile. Sjan-dehk mirrored her. And then, he looked back at the King, and his smile vanished.

As much as he understood that gestures could have many meanings, Sjan-dehk couldn’t for the life of him think of an interpretation for a hand drawn across a neck that wasn’t bloody. Was this King seriously going to have someone imprisoned or killed for impertinence? Of course, rudeness in such a setting deserved a punishment of some sort, but either of those options seemed rather extreme. Sjan-dehk would have been satisfied with a fine or a literal slap-on-the-wrist. He clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes. Perhaps this was just another misunderstanding, and he was simply being an idiot, but a not-so-quiet part of him didn’t put such unfair and drastic measures past the King.

He surreptitiously dropped a hand to the grip of one of his swords.

But despite his best efforts at stealth, his little action didn’t escape Iyen’s notice. She quickly wrapped her slender fingers tightly around his arm and fixed him with an alarmed glare. “What’re you doing?” Her voice was a quiet hiss, and held as much reproach as her disapproving frown. She glanced at her own arms, at her waist. “Without me?”

Sjan-dehk could have chuckled, had he any idea as to what he intended to do. Did he really want to start a fight here? Presumably against the King’s guards? Or did he hope to simply send a strong message? And for what purpose? To stop the King from meting out his justice in his own lands? That didn’t seem right, as wrong as it felt in this case. Sjan-dehk swallowed and chewed on his lip. Maybe this was why Lady Adiyan wanted him to be here. To learn and to get used to how the Caesonians did things.

Or maybe, as it turned out, Sjan-dehk was simply being an idiot. The gesture had been nothing more than the King ordering his guards to shut the temple’s doors. Red-faced and feeling as if he had just turned his ship against the wind, Sjan-dehk let go of his sword. “Nothing,” he replied to Iyen. “I’m not doing…Well, I’m not planning on doing anything. Just thinking that you might be right. My mind is sea-addled.”

Iyen said nothing. Instead, she touched Sjan-dehk’s neck with the back of her hand. Sjan-dehk glanced at her, amused. “Guess it’s my turn to ask. What’re you doing?”

“Flushed cheeks and agreeing that I’m right?” Iyen placed her other hand on her forehead. “I’m checking if you’ve a fever.”

This time, Sjan-dehk chuckled and gently pulled her hand away from him. Iyen gave him a smile, and they returned their attention to the ceremony. Not that there was much left for them to observe; aside from what Sjan-dehk could only assume to be a mishap with the King’s painting – as far as he could tell, there wasn’t anything wrong with it, but everyone else had reacted as if it were otherwise – the rest of it passed as little more than a blur. Before long, Sjan-dehk and Iyen were back out on the street with everyone else, golden ticket in hand and destination unknown. With no better idea, they simply followed the crowd.

“That was…Quick,” Iyen remarked.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Sjan-dehk said. “Thought you disliked these things, too. Don’t tell me all we’ve been through together was nothing more than a lie.”

Iyen rolled her eyes. “Oh, Sjan-dehk, you caught me in my elaborate plot to get closer to your sister–”

“Stop it,” Sjan-dehk interrupted quickly. “But I see your point. Feels like they rushed things at the end.”

“Think the painting had anything to do with it?” Iyen asked. She sidestepped to avoid a child, and in doing so ended up pressing herself against Sjan-dehk’s side. A wide, cheeky grin spread across his face, and he looked down at her.

“Sure it’s my sister you’re interested in?” He teased. Iyen looked at him with mock disgust and took a step away from him. He quickly returned to the topic of their conversation with a shrug. “Don’t know. Maybe, I’d say. Not sure what was wrong with it, though. The finishing touches looked a little rough, but I wouldn’t get upset over that.” A frown flashed across his face as he considered the possibilities. Maybe the style was a touch too progressive for the crowd? “Did you see the King, though? He looked fucking pissed.”

“He handled it well, though,” Iyen pointed out. “That, and the interruption that you were about to turn into a full fucking fight. I’ve to congratulate you for restraining yourself, by the way.”

The memory of that moment brought another flush to Sjan-dehk’s face. “How was I supposed to know that that gesture didn’t mean that he was ordering a beheading?” He protested, then cleared his throat. “You’re right, though. The King showed some temperance. Maybe he’s not as bad as we thought.”

“Maybe he’s just acting,” Iyen suggested. “Y’know, he’s so vain that he wants to look good for the crowd.”

Sjan-dehk nodded slowly. That was indeed a possibility; he didn’t put it past the King – or any ruler, for that matter – to put on an act for the sake of placating the populace. He wouldn’t be the first, that much was for certain. And the more Sjan-dehk thought about it, the more likely that possibility seemed. For one, a truly benevolent King wouldn’t have slammed the temple’s doors shut on the crowd when there was still space for standing inside. Sjan-dehk was still thinking of a second reason when he entered – or more accurately, was guided by the throng of people – into the building. On instinct, he took off his hat and tucked it under his arm.

The first – and really, only – thing he noticed was just how yellow everything was. The walls; the floor; the ceiling; the furnishings; the water, even the very clothes of the cheery lady who took his and Iyen’s tickets, all were in a shade of yellow or other. It felt almost excessive, and considering that yellow was one of the Commonwealth’s colours, that was saying something, coming from Sjan-dehk. The place felt strange, like it was a…

“Is this ‘cheese’ thing a cult?” Iyen asked, giving voice to Sjan-dehk’s thoughts. “Because right now, it feels like one. That woman talked about ‘cheese’ too, right?”

“I don’t think so,” Sjan-dehk said as he caught the familiar whiff of cooking in the air. “Think this is a sort of restaurant? Food’s involved in some way, that’s my guess.”

“So it’s a cult to food,” Iyen drolled. Sjan-dehk tapped her on the shoulder to shush her and led the way to a large room on the left. It was where everyone else was going, anyway. A thousand thoughts rushed into his head, but he pushed them all aside. There would be time later for him to carefully sift through whatever he observed. For now, he just wanted to find a quiet seat away from everyone else. He did, however, give the pale girl from the other day – her name escaped him – a wave and a smile as he passed her table. As usual, Iyen took note of that quick, minute action.

“She’s cute,” she quipped as she took her seat, a wide grin on her face. “The girl you waved to, I mean.”

Sjan-dehk let out a sigh and sat down. “Oh, don’t you start.”

“What? I’m just saying she’s cute,” Iyen replied, her grin turning into a smirk.

“Your words say that you’re just saying that,” Sjan-dehk said. “Your smile tells me that you’re going to ask me about getting to know her better. I can’t help with that, I’m afraid. I’ve only spoken to her once, and that was days ago.”

“You’re no fun,” Iyen said and pouted. Folding her arms, she continued, “But you know me. It’s your sis–”

Once again, Sjan-dehk interrupted before she could finish. “Stop it,” he said curtly, then turned in his seat to look over the room. "We're here to work, so take note of anything interesting, or anything worth knowing." The room was quickly filling with people, few of whom he could recognise. In fact, apart from the pale girl, he couldn’t say he knew anyone. Not that mattered. He wasn’t here to mingle; he was here to simply observe and learn.

Avalia

Time: Morning
Location: Campsite outside Roshmi
Interactions: Mari @princess; FIVE @shiningsector; Thraash @funnyguy
Mentions:
Equipment:

Hider

His travelling clothes - Dark, earthy shirt and coat, with trousers tucked into boots
A hooded, oilskin cloak
His bow, unstrung
A musket
Two pistols
Two hatchets
His travelling pack

Scathael accepted the Warforged’s gift with some hesitation. Not out of any sort of suspicion, however; the Dark Elf had a strong feeling that if the mago-mechanical being truly wanted him dead, such a roundabout method of killing him wouldn’t be their first choice of action. The handful of Warforgeds Scathael had dealt with weren’t the easiest individuals to handle – he had to admit that much – but neither were they prone to irrationality like creatures of flesh-and-blood. Logic guided their actions; logic that could be discerned with a bit of thought on Scathael’s part.

And based on his brief observations, this particular Warforged wasn’t the sort for subterfuge. Anyone who chose to storm a bar in Roshmi’s slums – by great force, Scathael would add – for a mere two individuals was unlikely to consider poison as a first resort.

If anything, Scathael had every confidence that the Warforged’s concoction would do exactly as he said, to the letter. His hesitation came from just how well it would do so. The differences between an elf such as he and a beastkin such as Vallana were vast, nevermind that she was a mere child, and he was well over the halfway mark to his third century. Even if he adjusted the dosage, or diluted the mixture, or made it weaker in some other way, what would put him to sleep might very well bring Vallana to an eternal slumber.

But that was unlikely the Warforged’s intention. There was no reason for them to harm a child.

“Thank you,” Scathael said and chucked the satchel into his bag. He would examine its contents in closer detail later. Perhaps he might even make a visit to a chemist’s shop to borrow their tools. Either way, there was no way he was going to feed any of it to Vallana before he made certain it was adequately safe. “Your arm,” he continued and nodded to the Warforged’s shoulder. “How is it? You should have the same range of movement as before. I don’t think the patching plates are interfering with anything.” He cast a glance at the Dragonborn. “And I don’t think he damaged your magical circuits either. Not that I can fix it, not without a proper, actual forge and magework equipment.”

The Dark Elf turned his attention back to the block of wood in his hands, shaving off a few more layers and carving out the start of a long, elegant curve along its length. “It wasn’t home,” he said in response to Mari, almost reflexively. That was the truth, wasn’t it? He hadn’t even been there for that long. It didn't make any sense for him to form any sort of connection with the place. Not a deep one, at least.

He chewed on his lip, then looked at Vallana. “Not mine, at least,” he added. The girl was beginning to stir, but she wasn’t quite awake yet. Soon, Scathael knew, he would have to rouse her, and that was easily the worst part of his day. In her dreams, Vallana was still living a peaceful life. She still had her family, she still had her home, she still had her life. In her dreams, she was safe. She was happy. But here, in this waking nightmare? There was nought but sadness and pain for her. Just the sting of sweet memories turning into painful recollections of a lost past. Scathael knew exactly what it was like. He had lived it before.

“Anyway,” he muttered with a quick shake of his head. He nodded to Vallana. “What are we doing with her, if we’re going after a manticore?” He asked pointedly and looked at Mari. “Bringing a child with us to deal with something like that is bloody insane.” It had crossed his mind that he had the option of simply waiting for them at camp – it wasn’t as if the manticore was his problem. But the more he thought about it, the less it sounded like a good idea. For one, he was likely stuck with this group for a good long while, and helping them now might get him into their good graces. And secondly, a manticore’s hide was too good of a prize to let slip.

As if on cue, Vallana’s eyes slowly fluttered open. A quiet yawn left his mouth, and she looked at Scathael with a dazed smile on her face. It didn’t last, however, and quickly turned into a dejected smile as she was reminded of the reality of her situation. “G…Good morning,” she squeaked and sat up. Her eyes went from the Warforged, to the Dragonborn, then the Rabbit Girl, before at least settling on the Light Elf. “Did…Did I oversleep? I’m sorry…” She pressed herself close to Scathael, as if she were trying to hide behind him.

"No, you didn't," Scathael quickly replied, and went on with his work. "You woke up just in time, I think," he added and gave everyone else a quick glance.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: Morning
Location: The Church
Interactions:
Mentions:
Attire:

Hider

(Placeholder until I get a better reference image)
Roughspun, blue trousers
A shoulder belt and waist belt carrying his equipment
Two swords and two pistols, one on either side
A woven, conical hat wide enough to shade his entire face (in his hands)

Sjan-dehk wasn’t sure what exactly he had expected, but he felt quite certain it wasn’t this. And judging by how Iyen alternated between nervous giggling and quiet grumbles, she felt the same.

Neither of them were strangers to grandiose displays of piety. The Inner Viserjantan Provinces – and a few Outer ones – practically made a sport out of creating needlessly extravagant religious rites and rituals. He still remembered the ordeal that was accepting the Sejati and Vasenyan surrenders in the aftermath of the Siege of Mersawas. Signing the documents itself had taken mere minutes. It took, however, the better part of half-a-day to reach that point. In a show of mercy, the High Queen had afforded both capitulating parties the courtesy of an honourable surrender, and granted them the right to carry out all necessary rites. By the time all was over, Sjan-dehk had been just about ready to tear his hair out.

But even so, he could at least understand that the Sejatis and Vasenyans on that day had deserved every last minute and every last second of their ceremonies. They had, after all, held onto the Capital island for the better part of a year, fighting a valiant – albeit futile – defence even after their fellow rebels elsewhere had given up. Only when it became clear that further resistance would only lead to senseless deaths and suffering did they finally accept the High Queen’s terms. To Sjan-dehk, they had earned the right to march out with their colours high and pride intact, and the right to subject him to hours of boredom.

Here, however, he wasn’t quite sure.

Paying respects to the local Gods was one thing. Iyen and he had willingly played along, intoning after the priest and echoing – to the best of their abilities – the words of the crowd. After that, however, things got a little more uncomfortable for the both of them. Sjan-dehk had understood enough of the song to gather the general idea of it. Initially, he had scolded himself for being quick to cast judgement. Caesonian ways were new to him, after all. Forming an opinion – a strong one, no less – of the King through a mere song simply wasn’t the right thing to do.

But the moment the doors were thrown open, and the procession came through, Sjan-dehk had little doubt that his initial judgement was correct.

“The King…He’s uh, he’s quite proud of himself, isn’t he?” Iyen whispered.

“Self-aggrandising,” Sjan-dehk replied, his lips pressed into a thin line. “That’s the word you’re looking for.”

Everything about this little parade spoke of arrogance. And not just that, Sjan-dehk was quite certain that it was undeserved arrogance. It didn’t seem like the King had done anything great, such as winning a daring victory or bringing prosperity to his people. The entire city should be in a celebratory mood if that were the case, but it wasn’t, from what little Sjan-dehk had seen. Neither had the few traders and longshoremen his crew and he had spoken to shared anything regarding the King’s merits. If anything, they were a touch too eager to rant about the opposite.

“At least the dancing looks good,” Iyen remarked, but her discomfort was clear in her tone.

“Yes, and the armour of those guards look exceptionally polished,” Sjan-dehk added drily. “Haven’t seen a ritual so damn elaborate since…Since the Som Dran incident. And we only saw what? Less than a fifth of the whole thing?”

Iyen clicked her tongue. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“I defended your honour. Be grateful.” He glanced sideways at her with a grin.

Shaking her head, Iyen chuckled and said in a voice dripping with sarcasm, “Oh, my hero. Whatever shall I do without this sea-addled, provincial Captain by my side?” She turned her attention back to the parade, her face pensive. “But when you’re right, you’re right. This is awfully extravagant for just honouring a King, even if he is a God-King.” She paused and looked around. “Sjan-dehk, I think they’re definitely sacrificing him. Doesn’t this seem like a send-off to you? They’ve even got his funeral portrait hung up and ready!”

“First of all, you’re just as provincial as I am,” Sjan-dehk began. “Secondly, be careful. You’re showing your Sudhrayarn instincts again. I don’t think there’ll be a sacrifice, but if there is…” He looked at her and gave a non-commital shrug. “We’ll just stay out of it. Though we should also find their Crown Prince so we’ve at least got someone to negotiate with. Not unless they decide that he needs to ascend as well to keep their King company.”

Iyen giggled. “My, are those your provincial instincts that are showing?” She placed her hands on her hips and looked back at the aisle. “Well, at least they’ve got good music, and the performers are decen–Oh, by the Shadowed Green, Sjan-dehk, look at that!”

Sjan-dehk snapped his head around, following her gaze, and saw an ornate throne being carried down the aisle. The men shouldering – quite literally – its weight were themselves dressed in lavishly-designed and extravagant clothes. But even they paled in comparison to the man seated on the throne itself. Every part of his attire – from the crown that almost looked comedic in its complexity, to the cape that seemed closer to a carpet rolled down a corridor – was clearly made to impress. Attendants scurried like rats behind the litter, their hands clutching onto the tail of the cape. “That’s the King,” Sjan-dehk muttered to Iyen, pointing to the man on the throne.

“I guessed,” Iyen whispered back.

It didn’t escape Sjan-dehk’s notice that the King never once glanced at his people as he was carried down the aisle. Was this simply a Caesonian custom, or did he think of himself as too good to even deign to look at those who so worshipped him? It left a bad taste in Sjan-dehk’s mouth, either way. Amidst the nobility of Viserjanta, it was common to compare the Commonwealth itself to a ship traversing the waves. The rulers and nobles would be its captain, and the people, the sea. When both captain and sea were in harmony, all would be well. The captain had to respect the sea, and in return, the sea would never turn against them. If a captain were to think of themselves as too good to show the proper respects, however, then the waves would surely overcome them, and make them no captain at all.

Sjan-dehk folded his arms as the King reached the end of the aisle, and was set down. The applause that erupted from the crowd as he turned and raised his hands almost made Sjan-dehk burst out laughing, not out of any maliciousness, but out of instinct. Any Viserjantan noble who did such a display without properly earning the right would be laughed out of any court, and Sjan-dehk felt quite certain that this King hadn’t done anything that warranted such adulation. Could he be wrong? Perhaps, and he would offer the proper apologies should that be the case. But for now, he couldn’t say that he liked this King very much.

“I wish this was actually a cult, now,” Sjan-dehk remarked. “At least they have some purpose. This just feels like bloody vanity.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

The previous day (The 23rd)

The Calm

The wagon squeaked and groaned as it trundled along the forested road. Its spoked wooden wheels, fitted onto an axle of solid iron, buffered by solid metal springs, and rolling over rough, uneven dirt, ensured that every slight bump and every little dip were felt in full by passengers and cargo alike. Annoyingly bright and far too intense, the light of the late-morning sun filtered through gaps in the overhanging, sparse canopies of leafy branches. And with it, came an oppressive and sweltering heat; a heat made so much worse by a dampness heavy in the utterly still air.

Suffice to say, Morris was not having a good time.

Perched on a narrow plank at the front of the wagon, and seated hip-to-hip with a curmudgeon of a driver who seemed to swear more than he breathed, Morris – one of the King’s tax collectors – fought a tenuous battle against a throbbing headache that threatened to crack open his skull, and a grumbling stomach that threatened to eject his breakfast. It was a losing fight on both fronts, though not out of any lack of effort on his part. A thin sheen of sweat clung to Morris like a second skin. His jaw was cleaned so tightly that it felt as if his teeth would soon shatter under the force. A ghostly pallor coloured his grizzled face, tinged with a decidedly sickly shade of green.

In hindsight, Morris shouldn’t have taken so much drink the previous night. But what was a man to do in a village that had – quite literally – absolutely nothing going for it? Sure, it was sizable for a rural settlement, and with that sort of population came both wealth and a natural bustle in the air, but it was still ultimately a farming community. Not the sort of place that appealed to a city-dweller like Morris.

A sudden lurch almost threw him off the wagon. Bile rose in his throat.

“Claedo’s cock, are you driving us into every hole you see?” Morris bellowed as he righted himself. He had a hand pressed over his stomach, and the other gripping the seat with such strength that its knuckles were white. An acrid belch burned its way from his stomach to his mouth, until he could taste the revolting, sour taste on the back of his tongue. His face scrunched up, and he swallowed hard. It felt just as terrible going back down.

“Oh, shut up,” the driver grumbled. He took a hand off the reins to fix his askew hat. “This was all your idea in the first fucking place, taxman.”

Morris scowled, but didn’t reply. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t. Not when the driver was absolutely right – coming down this path had been his suggestion. But it was the right thing to do. More importantly, it was the safe thing to do. If the rumours he had heard from the bard singing in the village tavern yesterday night had any credence to them, then the Sorian-Felipina highway was currently rife with road gangs lying in wait for a good target. He had no way of verifying such claims, of course, but Morris didn’t want to leave anything to chance. Not when he had the village’s monthly tax revenue sitting pretty in the wagon’s bed.

A shiver ran down Morris’ spine as he recalled stories of what the King did to tax collectors who had been too careless with His revenue. Such terrible and sordid fates were ones he would rather avoid. And so, he had directed the driver to take this quieter, more isolated path. Better to suffer some temporary discomfort than the King’s wrath, Morris reasoned.

He twisted around in his seat and looked at the precious cargo with a wary gaze. The three chests – within each enough coin to give a small family a comfortable decade – were still where he had left them: packed so tightly into the bed that not even this rough journey could shift them an inch. All the same, he regarded each of them with suspicion in his eyes, as if he expected one to suddenly sprout limbs and run away.

Beside him, the driver chuckled and shook his head. “Gods above, you’re a jumpy one,” he said, smirking as he cast a sidelong glance at Morris. “You’re worrying yourself stupid over nothing, taxman. Your chests aren’t going anywhere. They’re trussed up tighter than Amora’s divine arse, I tell you what.” Morris saw no humour in such blasphemous talk, but the driver either didn’t notice or didn’t care, as he took a moment to snigger at his own words. “Gods below, so are we, for that matter. Take a look around, taxman. We’re safe as safe can be.”

Morris grimaced. “I suppose we are,” he said, though he didn’t sound entirely convinced.

Drawing in a deep breath, he turned back around and tried to get comfortable – or as comfortable as such austere conditions would allow – in his seat. Once again, the driver had a point. They were making this trip in very good company. A full patrol of fifteen soldiers form Sorian’s garrison, to be exact. Well-trained and experienced, such troops would make short work of the riff-raff making up the typical road gang. And even if they – unlikely as it may be – should be overwhelmed, the four horses pulling the wagon were more than enough to get Morris and the coin out of trouble in a hurry. These were stout, powerful creatures, with tight muscles rippling beneath lustrous hides.

Morris leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Instead of worrying about their safety, perhaps he would be better served worrying over this headache. Even through his eyelids, the scintillating sunlight didn’t just sting his eyes, but felt like it was stabbing directly into his skull. His brow throbbed with a dull pain, and his temples felt like they were close to bursting.

“Gods above,” he groaned. “Free me from this fucking torture.”

The driver guffawed. To Morris, it was like an assault on his eardrums. “You should be giving thanks to the Gods that all you’ve got is a headache, taxman.” The old man’s smug grin was evident in his tone. It vexed Morris greatly, even if he didn’t see it. “That you’re still here and not knocking on Obitius’ front door after all that ale you knocked back last night is a fucking Gods-given miracle. That village brew’s no joke, I tell you what. Nothing like the city swill you’re used to finding in Sorian. A couple good mugs of that stuff would put anyone on their arse, and you were drinking it like it was fucking water!”

Then, he nudged Morris with an elbow. In a lower voice – but still with a smirk – he added, “Though I can’t say I blame you. There’s no fucking man alive with a functioning cock who could’ve resisted a drink from a wench with a body like that. Not one, I tell you.”

“Bard,” Morris corrected, his eyes still shut. A small smile came over his face, and whatever annoyance he felt towards the driver melted away. The pleasant sight of the comely lady with whom he had shared many drinks last night was still fresh in his mind. Unfortunately, that was all he could recall of her; whatever else she – or they – did remained a mystery to him. He had the ale to thank for that, but considering the effects it was still having on him, he supposed he should be grateful for the few surviving memories he had of the bard and her songs. “She’s a bard,” Morris repeated.

“Sure she is, taxman,” the driver said with a laugh. “And I’m the King’s fucking old man!”

If Morris’ eyes were open, he would have rolled them. The lady had introduced herself as a bard, and that was what Morris chose to believe. She certainly had the voice for it. Although the lyrics to her songs were now little more than vague murmurs in his mind, her sultry tones and dulcet melodies were still as clear as when he first heard them. Neither was anything he would forget anytime soon. And so too did the sight of her dancing; of the seductive sway of her hips; of the alluring flutter of her lashes as she sang, linger in his memories. Then, as the night went on, she had come closer until she could warm his ears with whispered breaths and imprint echoes of her slender, womanly frame onto his hands. Just the mere thought of it sent shivers down Morris’ back, and forced a quavering breath past his lips.

His eyes shot open. The driver looked sideways at him with a smug, knowing smirk. “Careful, taxman. We can’t have you making a mess in your drawers while we’re this far from Sorian.” He laughed and shook his head. “See what I mean? Only a wench’s able to make a man feel Amora’s touch with just a dream.”

Morris scowled. “Keep your eyes on the damn road,” he snapped. The driver was wrong; the bard’s beauty wasn’t the reason why Morris remembered her with such fondness. Well, it wasn’t the main reason, at any rate. But saying such to the driver would likely invite even more mockery and jokes, and so Morris decided against telling him that it was thanks to that very same bard that he knew of the dangers plaguing the main highway. Even this very detour they were taking was something revealed to him by her.

If there was one good thing about that entire village, it would be that bard. It was thus a shame that Morris failed to get her name. Or learn anything about her beyond her claimed profession, for that matter.

The wagon creaked softly as it entered a gentle turn. Here, its wheels found better ground, and the bumps and dips which had tormented Morris thus far gradually faded away until they disappeared entirely. A yawn left his mouth, and he dipped his head. With his stomach somewhat settling, and even his head throbbing a little less, he felt the most comfortable he had since the start of this trip. Rustling leaves, snorting horses, and the occasional snapping of a branch or twig made for a surprisingly good lullaby. Morris shifted slightly in his seat, resting his arms over his chest, and his breathing slowed. For now, Sorian could wait.

---

Time: Later morning of the 23rd
Location: A forest road between Felipina and Sorian
Interactions:
Mentions:
Attire:

Hider

Plain roughspun shirt (white) and trousers (brown)
Patched knee-length coat
Shoulder- and waist-belts
Old leather boots

The Storm

Waiting. Cynwaer hated all this waiting.

Especially when he had to wait here, lying flat on the damp undergrowth of a forest so far from the nearest shore, and staring at an empty, secluded stretch of road. The heat, stifling and suffocating, pressed on him like a flatiron. Coupled with the moisture in the air, Cynwaer felt as if he were really being steamed alive. It did little to lift his spirits, to say the least. Sweat collected on his brow and – after soaking his coarse linens through – pooled within his clothes. Miserable didn’t even begin to describe these diabolic conditions.

But a debt owed was a debt that had to be paid, and Cynwaer would be damned if he didn’t pay it all back when he could. He might have the reputation of a ruthless corsair, but he was still a man of his word. And besides, it wasn’t as if Songbird and Renegade would ever let him forget it had he tried to talk his way out of doing them this favour. The pair always did have long memories for such things, but Cynwaer supposed he wasn’t one to talk. He was exactly the same whenever they owed him something.

In any case, Cynwaer didn’t particularly mind lending them a hand. Not when doing so usually gave him a chance to give Caesonia a hard time, like right now. There was nothing quite like taking a nice, long piss in the king’s breakfast to make Cynwaer’s day. And in a way, ambushing and taking a royal tax wagon would be more-or-less the same thing. If nothing else, returning the spoils to the villagers from whom it had been stolen made for a good, hard slap in the tyrant’s face.

But for now, Cynwaer had to wait. And wait. And wait some more.

The man – more of a boy, really – directly beside him fidgeted uncomfortably. “Come on,” he said through gritted teeth and a clenched jaw. His brows were so furrowed that they seemed to merge into one. He held a musket in his hands, gripped with such force that Cynwaer wondered if he were trying to crack the thing in half. “What’s taking so long?”

Cynwaer reached over to pat him on the shoulder. “Easy, mate,” he said in a hushed voice and glanced at him from the corners of his eyes. “Keep yer ‘ead on straight an’ yersel’ calm. Should’nae be too long more ta’ go. Dae’n go dae’in anythin’ silly, aye?” The boy gulped and nodded. Cynwaer gave him another pat on the back before looking up and down the loose lines of men to his left and right.

“Same goes fae the rest o’ yers,” he called out in a quiet shout. “Songbird’s ne’er let us down before. Keep yer ‘eads right and yersel’s ready fae a fight, an’ we aw’ go ‘ame nice an ‘appy, aye?” A scattered series of murmurs and mumbled acknowledgements were all the responses he got.

A quiet sigh left Cynwaer’s lips. If only he could believe his own words. According to Songbird – and it was they who masterminded this entire scheme – the tax wagon should have appeared ages ago. They should have at least heard it by now. But there was nothing. Just the quiet rustle of leaves and the occasional call of a bird. A not-so-small part of him wondered if it would actually come. He could think of many reasons as to why it wouldn’t.

Well, it really was just one very, very big reason. This entire hare-brained plan, from start to finish, was just gambles built upon gambles. And Cynwaer might be a gambling man, but these odds were much too long, even for him.

For Songbird’s plan to work, they would first have to convince a tax collector – likely to be on their highest guard outside of Sorian – that the Felipina-Sorian highway was unsafe. That wasn’t just a bold-faced lie, it was an audacious one that essentially demanded the collector to disbelieve their own eyes. In order to get to the village they needed to tax, they would have had to travel down that exact same highway. But even if Songbird was successful with that part of the plan, they would then have to, again, convince the collector of this isolated forest path – the one Cynwaer had been, and still was, staring at – as a viable detour. The collector would have to be a profound idiot to not feel suspicious about Songbird’s intentions.

And should the collector turn out to indeed be a profound idiot, and everything Songbird had to do went off without a hitch, there was no guarantee that the collector would actually take this exact route. There were a myriad of ways for one to reach Sorian; it wasn’t the capital for nothing. Even something as simple as a wrong turn would bring the collector away from Cynwaer and Renegade, and ruin the entire plan.

A crop of quiet grumbles stole Cynwaer’s attention away from his internal tirade. He shot a withering glare in the direction of the loudest one, but he couldn’t help but worry. These men lying in wait with him weren’t just random people plucked from the streets; they were members of his crew. Every last one of them was an experienced sailor in their own right, familiar with the rigours and stresses of sailing as an outlaw upon hostile waters. That they were beginning to feel the strain was a bad sign. Cynwaer couldn’t even imagine how Renegade and his group of hastily-trained villagers were faring on the other side of the road.

More time passed. It could have been hours, or it could have been mere minutes. There wasn’t any way of knowing. But regardless, Cynwaer could feel himself approaching his limit. His body ached to move, to get out of this terribly uncomfortable position. With each passing second, Cynwaer felt more and more inclined to grant that request. His fingers tapped a frenetic beat on the wet earth, and he chewed hard on his lip.

Right as his resolve was about to break, a whisper rippled down the line. “Taxman’s coming!”

And just like that, all thoughts of abandoning the plan disappeared from Cynwaer’s mind. He even offered a silent apology to Songbird. Clearly, he had severely underestimated their skills. He looked up and down the line once more. “Right lads,” he began and nodded to them. “All ‘o us know what we’re about, an’ all o’ us know ‘ow ta’ give a Caesonian fecker a proper tannin’. So I’ll nae bore yer wi’ a speech, an’ just remind aw’ yers why we’re out here in this shite.” He paused, and craned his neck to look at each and every one of his men. “We aw’ know what’s gae’n on in Sorian. They’re ‘avin’ one grand crack, an’ guess who ‘as ta’ foot the feckin’ bill? Aye, wee villagers like what yer and me were. If yer ask me, ‘tis nae fair ta’ pay fae a crack where yer cannae even get a mug o’ ale in return. So I say feck the king, feck Sorian, and ‘tis about feckin’ time we take frae them what’s not theirs, and gee’s it back ta’ the rightful owners.”

Someone started to cheer, but was quickly cut short by harsh, hushed words from his fellows. Instead, the rest of the crew simply nodded to their Captain. Then, they made their preparations. Firelocks clicked into position. Pouches rustled as spherical bombs were taken out and gently laid on the grass. Metal scraped against leather as bayonets and swords were pulled from their sheaths. “Remember ta’ cover yersel’s aw’ proper-like, lads,” Cynwaer called out and reluctantly pulled a heavy, green cloak over his body, leaving a gap just big enough to keep a watchful eye on the road.

In his hand, he rolled a thin rope between his thumb and index finger. It would be the trigger for Cynwaer’s main contribution to Songbird’s plan – a fiery surprise he had concocted specially for the taxman and their minions. So special was the occasion that Cynwaer decided against using his usual ingredient for one that promised to be much, much more spectacular.

“They’re here!” The quiet, urgent warning came down the line. Cynwaer pressed himself flatter against the ground and wrapped the rope around his palm. His breathing suddenly seemed much louder than usual.

Falling hooves thudded against the hard, sun-dried earth, one-by one. Cynwaer closed his eyes, focusing his mind on the sound. The languid rumble of a wagon followed the hoofbeats soon after. The taxman was travelling slowly. Walking pace, if Cynwaer were to hazard a guess. Either way, their speed was constant, and that was all Cynwaer needed to know. He risked a peek at his targets. The three soldiers leading the way were in gleaming cuirasses and majestic helmets. A carbine rested over each of their laps, but none of them seemed to be on alert. Behind them was the tax wagon. The driver didn’t seem too worried, either, and the passenger – the tax collector, Cynwaer assumed – seemed to be fast asleep.

“Rest while yer still can, fecker,” Cynwear muttered as a cruel smirk spread across his face. As the wagon passed, he pressed himself flat against the ground once more. There wasn’t a need for him to look, in any case. He simply had to time them, and by his estimate, the three leading soldiers weren’t far from where he needed them to be. “Just a wee bit more, just a wee bit more…”

Then, he pulled hard on the rope.

And nothing happened.

Panic surged through Cynwaer, and he immediately pulled on the rope again. Still nothing. Sweat dripped from his furrowed brow. His heart raced. Had he done something wrong? There wasn’t any time for him to figure it out – the wagon was still rolling along. “Come on, come on, yer wee shite,” he muttered frantically as he kept tugging on the rope. Each time, he received the same result. Nothing. Time was running out. If he couldn’t fix whatever was wrong, then Renegade would be forced to act. Either that, or they would have to let the wagon slip through their fingers.

With a guttural growl, Cynwaer pulled the rope with all his strength.

The explosion was deafening, massive, and much louder and far larger than what Cynwaer had expected, or even planned for. A hail of shrapnel slammed into the trees around him, and scythed through the air just mere inches above his head. Debris rained down on him, his ears rang, and a thick cloud of dust still hung heavy in the air. Even so, Cynwaer threw off his cloak and stood up with pistol in hand. “Dae’n just feckin’ lie there, lads! Gee’s ‘em fire!” A vague figure, quite obviously wounded and crawling on the ground, came through the dust. Cynwaer didn’t hesitate. He took aim and pulled the trigger. The resounding crack of his pistol’s report, rising high above the cacophony, was all the motivation his crew needed. With shouts and yells, they revealed themselves, stood up, and unleashed a devastating volley of musket fire.

“Keep pourin’ it in!” Cynwaer urged his crew on as he reloaded his weapon. The ringing in his ears slowly faded, replaced by the din of battle. One after another, firelocks snapped and muskets blared. Screams of terror and cries of pain erupted alongside the blasts of bombs. It was clear to anyone that the Caesonians had been taken by complete surprise, and were now deep in the throes of confusion. But Cynwaer was all too aware that their condition was only temporary. These were still trained soldiers; given time, they would surely reorganise and stiffen their resistance. That couldn't be allowed to happen.

And so, Cynwaer drew his cutlass. “Let’s feckin’ stick ‘em, lads! Follow me!”

With his crew behind him, he burst onto the road like a tidal surge breaking an embankment. His blood ran hot with anticipation and exhilaration; his head pounded with the thumping of his heart. But almost as soon as the soles of his boots touched the dirt of the road, he realised he needn’t have bothered. Not one of the surviving soldiers was willing to continue fighting. Rather, they were dropping their and raising their hands over their heads in surrender. Pleas for mercy babbled from their mouths like a waterfall. Cynwaer’s crew were as confused as he, and for a while, they did nothing.

Cynwaer drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He couldn’t lie; the disappointment was palpable. But at the same time, he supposed he should be happy that the fight ended with a victory. “Take ‘em prisoner, lads, an’ keep yer eyes on ‘em. They’re Renegade’s problem ta’ deal wi’, nae ours.” He left his crew to go about their work. Then, he turned around.

And right away, he understood why the soldiers had so easily given up the fight.

The wagon – or what remained of it – rested within a blackened crater that had once been its front half. Its occupants, and the horses that pulled it, were nowhere to be seen. Overhead, strips of red hung like sickly vines from broken branches. Blood, crimson and treacly, still dripped from some of them. The soldiers who had been flanking the wagon fared no better. By the looks of things, they had died in the initial blast. Some of their bodies even bore proof of the sheer destructive power of Cynwaer’s work. A few had their armour torn off by the explosive force. Another, laying heaped on the grass, was found with a wooden beam – part of the wagon, Cynwaer assumed – skewering him back-to-front, through his steel cuirass. Confronted with such brutal carnage, he doubted that even the stoniest hearts would be able to resist wavering.

“Gods above and below, Seahawk,” an amused voice, one lilting and ambiguous, called out to him. “When we told you to stop the wagon, we didn’t think this was what you had in mind.”

“It was’nae,” Cynwaer replied and placed his hands on his hips. “Last time I feckin’ use blastin’ powder fae anythin’, I feckin’ swear.”

He turned in the direction of the voice, and saw two others approaching him. One was…Well, he never did know what they were, and so he wasn’t about to try, now. They had a slender face and fine features which were much like a woman’s, and yet the boyishness in their cheeks and jaw were unmistakable. Their style of dress, however, was wholly feminine. The knee-length skirt, which parted at the front to reveal the tight trousers they wore underneath, and the bodice cinching their blouse tight around their waist, was exactly what Cynwaer would expect from a lady spending a day on the road. Coupled with a head of long, ashen blonde hair – tied into a messy tail – they certainly made for an attractive woman.

And they were also the one who made all of this possible. Most knew them only as Songbird, but Cynwaer also knew them as Sioridann Morcant.

“Blasting powder?” They repeated, bringing their fingers to their lips. Even their voice was hard to place as either a woman’s or a man’s. “You…Seahawk, you do know what that’s for, right?”

Cynwaer thought about it for a moment, then shrugged.

“It’s for mining.” It was the other person – a man – who spoke. Dark skinned, dark haired, and with a slight accent to his words, Renegade – or Myaatyun Kidelaut, to those who knew him better than most – was not a native of these lands. But it was also clear that he wasn’t a stranger to it. Cynwaer could hear the diction of Caesonian high society lacing his words, and the battered armour he wore over his clothes didn’t seem like anything from his native Kimoon. Not that Cynwaer knew what Kimoonese armour was like, but he just knew that Renegade’s armour was very much akin to that of a Caesonian knight. Such a combination was strange, to say the least, but Cynwaer wasn’t the sort to pry, so he never did.

“Miners use it when they face anything in which their pickaxes cannot find purchase,” Renegade continued and looked at the destruction around him. “So it’s usually used to destroy rocks like granite, ironstone, and sometimes even bedrock.”

“Well, thank feck I did’nae use it fae a feckin’ cannon,” Cynwaer said with a shake of his head. “We found barrels ‘o the stuff on a ship days back. I did’nae ‘ave a clue what ta’ dae wi’ it, and sae I figured I’d gee’s usin’ it ta’ make a mine, a try. I s’pose it worked a wee bit too well, aye?”

Renegade let out a long breath. “Yes, I suppose it did. I had hoped that we could capture the tax collector alive and have him face the people’s justice, but…” He trailed off and tilted his chin towards a collection of bloody ribbons dangling from a branch stripped of its leaves. One of them looked like it had been torn from a shirt, and the rest, like things Cynwaer would rather not know. “But I suppose he, in a way, still hangs for his many crimes against the common folk. I can take that as a small victory.”

“Aye, that ‘tis,” Cynwaer agreed. “I’ll get yer a nice taxman ta’ ‘ang next time, Renny. Dae’n worry yer ‘ead about it. Maybe even a whole feckin’ officer, aye? Those feckers always swing ta’ best, if yer ask me.”

Renegade chuckled. “I shall hold you to that, Seahawk.” Then, he gestured to Songbird. “Anyway, Si–” He caught himself just in time. “Pardon me, I mean, Songbird here has something I believe would be of some interest to you.”

Cynwaer arched his brow and looked at Songbird. “Oh, aye? ‘Tis nae gonna be another on o’ yer ideas ta’ get me ta’ dae more shite fae yer, is it?”

Songbird looked at him with an inscrutable smile on their face. “It amazes me, Seahawk, how you can say so much, and yet make yourself absolutely incomprehensible to most.”

Cynwaer fixed them with a blank stare. In a complete monotone, he said, “My sincerest apologies. Do you find this better, perchance? Or is it still far too rough for your delicate, ladylike ears?” Putting on the voice physically hurt his throat, and it wasn’t one he used often. But it was one that proved to be quite useful for someone like him, who more often than not needed to hide his identity. Or for situations like this, when he just wanted to mess around at Songbird’s expense.

A strange expression warped Songbird’s visage. “My apologies. I brought that shit upon myself, and I ask that you never, ever, do it again.” They shook their head, as if trying to shake the memory from their mind, before continuing. “Anyway, I discovered something yesternight, while I was whispering into the taxman’s ear. The two of you are welcome for that, by the way. I don’t need my feet kissed, but I wouldn’t–”

Renegade patted them on the shoulder before they could get too far. “We can discuss that later, I believe.”

Songbird looked at him with a mischievous grin. “I’ll hold the two of you to that,” they said before turning to face Cynwaer once more. “As I was saying, I didn’t just tell the taxman what we needed him to do, I asked about Sorian as well. Just to keep myself updated, you know? Well, he tells me a whole bunch of stuff that we don’t really need to know, like rumours and such. Have you heard the things they say about this…Lady Vikena, I think? It’s awfully juicy stuff–” Another pat from Renegade cut them short. “Anyway, there’s been a spate of disappearances in Sorian, and from what he tells me, most people think it’s got something to do with the slavery business. Seems like we weren’t thorough enough back then.”

Cynwaer swore beneath his breath. It wasn’t a secret that the Caesonian underworld was involved in such dark and sordid trades. Money was money, and there were plenty of outlaws who would do anything to get as much coin as they could. In Cynwaer’s eyes, they were no better than the nobles he fought, and so he hunted and destroyed them as he would any other Caesonian vessel. Years ago, he – along with Songbird and Renegade – had waged a personal war against these traders of flesh, and had forced them to submit to their demands to stop their actions. Clearly, they needed to go on the warpath once more.

“Dae’n s’pose yer know if they’re the same ones as before?” Cynwaer asked.

Songbird shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. This sort of thing makes enough money that you’ve got plenty of outlaws giving it a shot every year.” Their face fell for the barest of moments, but they recovered in just as short a time. “Anyway, it’s all just rumours from one taxman. For all I know, he was just bullshitting to make it sound like he’s got an interesting life. But it’s still something worth looking into, I think. It doesn’t feel right to say that we’re fighting for the common folk if we ignore this, wouldn’t the two of you agree?”

Renegade’s response was instant. “Yes. Even if it turns out to be nothing, it is still imperative that we carry out due diligence to be sure. And if there is indeed something so terrible going on…” He trailed off, patting the sword sheathed at his side. “Then we must extirpate those involved with great haste and violence.” He turned to Cynwaer and bowed his head slightly. “My apologies, but I must ask you a favour. Songbird and I still have unfinished business that remains beyond Sorian. If it would not prove to be much trouble, I would appreciate it greatly if you could go to the Capital first, and do some groundwork.”

Cynwaer sighed and chewed on his lip. He really wasn’t too keen on doing anything related to Sorian, but neither could he simply ignore this matter now that he has heard of it. Songbird’s words stuck with him – if he did nothing about this, and went about as if all was well, then what was the point of his mission? “Well, I s’pose a holiday in Sorian would’nae be too bad,” he said with some reluctance in his voice. “But the twos o’ yer had better not take too long, otherwise I might feckin’ firebomb the king by the time yer get there.”

Songbird chuckled. “We’ll make you a damn hero if you did that, Seahawk,” they said. “But thanks. You’re doing us a great favour. Once we’re done, we’ll make our way to Sorian as quickly as the winds and roads can take us, you have my word on that. It shouldn’t take us more than two weeks. Might even be half that, if everything goes according to plan.”

Cynwaer didn’t bother asking what that plan was, lest they drag him into that as well.

“Anyway,” Songbird said and walked past him. “We’ve got a lot of coin here, and not enough time to bring it all back if we stand around talking. Especially not since you blew the wagon to pieces. You’d better enjoy long walks in the forest, Seahawk, because you’re not getting out of this one.”

It took Cynwaer a moment to understand what Songbird meant. And when he did, he looked at them with an incredulous look on his face. Then, he turned to Renegade, who merely shrugged with a knowing smile across his face. Cynwaer drew in a deep breath, then released it as a long sigh. “Ah, feck.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Minor characters dump

Iyen

Rasehnyas Iyen Jodhesi • 24 • Female

Adiyan's Shadow, Blade of the Shadowed Green, and Emergent of Sudhrayar

Appearance

Height: 1.65 meters / 5'4
Weight: 52 kg / 114 lbs
Eye Color: Dark brown
Hair Length & Texture: Long / Smooth
Hair Color: Black
Skin Color: Earth-brown
Facial details: No features of particular note
Distinguishing features:

• She always seems to be smirking, as if she knows something you don’t.
• She has a few healed and faded scars on the insides of her arms
• Rope burns on her limbs, particularly after a fight

Clothing Preferences:
According to traditional Sudhrayarn beliefs, one shouldn’t hide too much of themselves from the natural world and its gifts. Iyen takes that to heart, and tends to wear clothes that could be considered risque and scandalous in certain parts of Viserjanta. She prefers loose fitting items that allow her maximum freedom of motion, and thin fabrics that allow her skin to breathe.

When on official duty, or when she knows a battle is due, Iyen would wear the typical uniform of the Commonwealth military, but with her own personal modifications to suit her style of fighting, as well as to give it a more Sudhrayarn flair.

Likes:

• Nature; specifically flora
• Exploring new sights and learning new things
• A good laugh and/or a practical joke
• Causing harmless mischief
• Music, dance, and theatre

Dislikes:

• Close-minded people
• Serious and formal situations
• Malicious mischief
• Boredom

Sexuality: She's not particular, but leans towards women

Hobbies:

• Singing, particularly Sudhrayarn and Jafin folk songs
• Dancing, particularly Sudhrayarn dances
• Reading and/or watching theatrical performances
• Daydreaming

Life Goals / Dreams:
She doesn’t have any at the moment. Not ones she considers seriously, at least. As things stand, she’s perfectly content with going anywhere so long as she’s with Lady Adiyan and Sjan-dehk. With those two around, she’s confident she wouldn’t find herself anywhere too strange.

Personality Summary: Free-spirited || Easy-going || Aimless || Playful || Impulsive || Tactless

Background

Current occupation: Lady Adiyan's bodyguard

Past occupations: N/A

Relatives:

• Rasehnyas Jodharsa Gajan; Father
• Rasehnyas Mahyon Jodhesi; Mother (Deceased)
• Rasehnyas Shoyojah Jodhesi; Older sister
• Rasehnyas Daman Gajan; Younger brother (Deceased)
• Rasehnyas Sejar Gajan; Younger brother (Deceased)
• Rasehnyas Sayan Jodhesi; Younger sister (Deceased)

Skills:

• Fighting, particularly single combat
• Marksmanship; pistols and bows
• Stealth and subterfuge
• Tracking and hunting
• Information gathering
• Dancing
• Singing

History Summary

Iyen never intended to be a warrior. Or have anything to do with arms, in fact. The performing arts had always been her greater – and in many ways, only – interest. Songs, dances, traditional theatre, such things were what a young Iyen had seen in her future. Unfortunately, the civil war that tore the Commonwealth asunder put a quick end to those plans. Sudharyar was one of the first provinces to declare themselves for the High Queen, and as such was also the first province to be invaded and occupied by the Imperial Restorationists. Most Sudhrayarns chose to stay and resist their occupiers in a guerrilla war. Iyen and her family were amongst those who decided to flee westwards.

It was a perilous journey, one made all the worse as province after province in East and Central Viserjanta either fell to, or declared themselves for the Restorationists. At Weksah, the Sudhrayarn refugees faced their worst day when almost half of their fleet – and the people they carried – were either sunk or captured in battle. Amongst the former were Iyen’s mother and younger siblings. By the time she and the survivors found refuge on Jafin shores, only a third of those who originally left Sudhrayar still remained.

Deep in mourning, angry, and thirsty for revenge, Iyen did what most of her people did, and joined the Sudhrayarn military-in-exile. She proved to be an excellent fighter, but a poor soldier. Although her skills in various weapons couldn’t be disputed, her personal discipline and ability to fight as part of a larger unit left plenty to be desired. That would have been the end of Iyen’s military adventure, had the High Queen’s Representative in the East – Lady Adiyan – not requested for a personal bodyguard. Iyen was given the task, as it was thought that her personal prowess in combat, and the expectation that a bodyguard would not be expected to fight in the line of battle, would make her a good fit for the job.

For the rest of the war, Iyen followed Lady Adiyan wherever the latter went. Most of the time, these travels also involved the Fourth Lesser Marquis of Jafi, a certain Wasun Sjan-dehk. Whenever Iyen had to go ashore for her tasks, it was usually in the company or with the support of the Jafin noble. Together, they wreaked havoc on Restorationist forces in Viserjanta’s western territories. And once they were done with the west, the three of them followed Commonwealth forces eastwards, until they liberated Sudhrayar from Restorationist control. Unlike her family, Iyen chose not to stay, and instead continued to accompany Lady Adiyan and Sjan-dehk as they spent the last year of the war tying up loose ends.

By war’s end, Iyen had forged a close friendship with both Sjan-dehk and Lady Adiyan. Moreso with the former; for close to five years, they had eaten, slept, fought, laughed, cried, and celebrated alongside one another on a near-daily basis. To Iyen, Sjan-dehk was akin to a brother, and Lady Adiyan, their motherly and concerned aunt. It thus came as no surprise to anyone that Iyen volunteered to follow them to seas and lands unknown, even when she was given the option of staying behind.

It wasn’t a difficult decision for her to make. Exploring the wider world, and with those closest to her outside of her family, no less? That was a dream. Iyen would have never forgiven herself had she allowed that opportunity to slip past her fingers.

Kidelaut

Myaatyun Kidelaut • 28 • Male

The Traitor of Hartworth, Renegade, and Knight of the Masses

Appearance

Height: 1.75 metres / 5’9
Weight: 65 kilograms / 143 lbs
Eye Color: Black
Hair Length & Texture: Short / Wiry
Hair Color: Black
Skin Color: Almond
Facial details: Stubble on his chin and jaw
Distinguishing features:

• Healed scars on the outside of both arms
• Rough callouses on fingertips
• Chemical scarring on the back of his right hand

Clothing Preferences:
As someone living outside of Caesonian law, whilst operating within Caesonia, Kidelaut wears whatever that will help in blend in with the crowd the most. That usually means clothes in flat shades, hoods, cloaks, and anything that would hide or obscure his outline. His equipment are supported by waist- and shoulder-belts, much like a regular musketeer.

In a fight, he wears a stripped-down version of the panoply he used in Caesonian service, consisting of a lightened breastplate, a pauldron on his right shoulder, and shortened tassets. All Caesonian insignia are either removed or defaced. When he needs to hide his identity, he wraps a simply, plain orange cloth around his face, or wears a white theatre mask that covers his entire face.

Likes:

• Views of the Caesonian countryside
• Calm, melodic music, particularly instrumentals
• Aiding the weak, the sick, and the forgotten
• Meting out justice

Dislikes:

• Injustice of any stripe, in any place
• The Caesonian upper classes, and profiteering merchants
• Exploitation of the weak and powerless
• Greed and avarice

Sexuality: Mostly straight

Hobbies:

• Sketching Caesonian scenery, particularly that of the countryside
• Scribbling his thoughts in a journal
• Peaceful meditation, especially at the end of a long day
• Exercising and keeping himself fit for task

Life Goals / Dreams:
A fair and just world, one where the common person's life is worth as much as that of a nobleman. Or the extinguishing of the nobility as a whole, as well as a thorough scouring of the merchant class to address injustices caused by their greed and avarice.

Personality Summary: Well-mannered || Forward-looking || Self-hating || Repentant || Regretful || Tenacious

Background

Current occupation: Sellsword / Insurgent

Past occupations:

• Apprentice blacksmith
• Apprentice leatherworker
• Apprentice carpenter
• Apprentice fletcher
• Apprentice gunsmith
• Apprentice chemist
• Squire
• Knight

Relatives:

• Myaatyun Satsuut; Father
• Myaatyun Kiisu; Mother
• Myaatyun Yatkyaki; First older brother
• Myaatyun Ratsaada; Second older brother
• Naangse Daiyat; Older sister

Skills:

• Melee fighting, particularly with heavy weapons
• Musketry; long arms
• Small-scale unit tactics
• Tactical planning
• Blacksmithing and leatherworking
• Basic chemistry
• Basic art, specifically sketching

History Summary

Maybe he should never have touched that hat.

Maybe he should have left it where he had found it; forgotten on a muddy road, and soaked by the falling autumn rain. Maybe he should have pretended that he hadn’t seen it drift from one of the woman’s over-laden baskets. In hindsight, it would have certainly saved him plenty of trouble, and a world’s worth of heartache. But Kidelaut, honourable and dutiful knight of Caesonia that he had been, simply couldn’t leave it alone. He just had to pick the damnable thing up. He just had to run over to the woman to return it. And then, he just had to help her carry her finished hats over to the millinery’s warehouse.

Still, that could have been the end of it. There had been no need for him to seek her out in the following days; no need for him to come up with silly excuses as to why he kept running into her, and there had surely been no need for him to – after a few ‘chance’ encounters – join her for dinner and drinks after her shifts at the millinery. But Kidelaut did all of that. Then, he did more. He grew to love her, and she grew to love him. And for a few sweet months, that was all that mattered to Kidelaut.

But as with all sweet things, the bitterness that followed cut deep.

Kidelaut never gave much thought to the intricacies of hat-making. Who did? A hat was only ever a thing to be bought, to be worn, and to ultimately be left collecting dust in a closet. But the woman – Kidelaut’s dear lover – taught him many things. One of which was how raw fur was separated from hides and matted together to form felt. It was a simple process, really, and one with a strange name – carroting. Anyone could be taught to do it, and so everyone who worked at the millinery was expected to work the carroting station – ‘fingering the felt’, as the workers called it – at least once a day.

Turning matted furs into smooth felt, however, involved the use of a chemical. The orange stuff, as it was colloquially known. What comprised it, how it worked, and what exactly it did, Kidelaut never found out. He did know, however, that it contained a poison. A dangerous one; one that accumulated in the body over many, many periods of exposure. It was a slow, insidious, and cruel killer. It had no cure. And it was that which afflicted Kidelaut’s lover.

Naturally, Kidelaut ignored common medical knowledge, and went about seeking a cure. Although his efforts were in vain, he did uncover an alternative to the orange stuff. It wasn’t completely safe, but it was at least a lot less likely to poison an unsuspecting worker through regular use. And it wasn’t even anything new; it was already in use in millineries outside of Caesonia.

Kidelaut took his findings to the merchant who owned the millinery. The merchant listened attentively to his words, took them all in, and disregarded them with a flippant explanation. This alternative chemical wasn’t unknown to the merchant, but it was simply too expensive to bring in the quantities needed to replace the existing stocks of orange stuff. Kidelaut, naturally, pointed out that the millinery could afford it in exchange for just a year of reduced profit. Their doors would still be open, Kidelaut argued. The merchant simply had to live with a year of less money. And naturally, he was shown the door.

So, Kidelaut went to the lord he served. Surely, the man who had, so many years ago, given a young Kidelaut – back then a mere youth of sixteen earning his keep by working odd jobs and fighting in tournaments – a chance would be more reasonable. Once again, Kidelaut presented his argument. And once again, he was told, albeit in a nicer manner this time, that his suggestion wasn’t feasible. The lord couldn’t order the merchant to make the changes because the merchant would simply up and leave for another holding, and the millinery alone hired most of the locals. Its disappearance would be disastrous.

And that, really, was all the answer Kidelaut needed. What use was a lord who couldn’t even corral a single merchant? And what worth was a merchant whose greed blinded them to decency? His mind made up, Kidelaut began to make his plans.

He stayed with his lover throughout her final years. He watched as the poison took her health, her mind, her body, and when she had nothing left, her life. The very same night she drew her last breath, Kidelaut prayed for her soul, asked for her forgiveness, and – as per her request – cremated her and scattered her ashes in a nearby meadow.

The next day, Kidelaut returned to the merchant and cremated him as well. Sadly, he failed to properly kill the man before setting him alight. Kidelaut then left for the wilderness, where he killed every guard, every mercenary, and every bounty hunter his former lord sent after him. When the merchant’s son took over the millinery, Kidelaut sent him a message containing the exact same things he had told his father. And when the son chose to ignore it like his predecessor, Kidelaut returned to finish things once and for all.

He roused the workers – already upset about the hazards of their work – into action, and together they stormed the millinery and torched the place to the ground. The lord’s guards arrived and, naturally, slew a number of the workers, but the survivors fled with Kidelaut back into the Caesonian countryside. Most decided to leave for greener pastures, but those that stayed became the core of Kidelaut’s loose group of part-time mercenaries, and full-time rebels. They wouldn’t stay together for long, of course – it made it too easy for the King’s men to catch them all at once – but when needed, they would come together to raise more havoc for the powers that be.

Maybe Kidelaut should never have touched that hat. But he never regretted doing what he did. For he had been blind before he met his lover, oblivious to the evils of the land, and she had helped him see.

And now, Kidelaut would make sure the rest of Caesonia saw what he saw as well.

Sioridann

Sioridann Morcant • 25 • ???

The Whispering Death, Songbird, and Melody of the People

Appearance

Height: 1.70 metres / 5’6
Weight: 54 kilograms / 119 lbs
Eye Color: Pale blue
Hair Length & Texture: Medium-long / Smooth
Hair Color: Ash blonde
Skin Color: Rosey ivory
Facial details: They have prominent dimples when they smile
Distinguishing features:

• Healed whipping scars on their back
• Healed point burns on arms and abdomen
• Burn scar on right hip

Clothing Preferences:
As a performer by trade, Sioridann tends to wear brighter, more elaborate clothes to attract more attention. A keen enthusiast of fashion, they would also often wear accessories to further accentuate their appearance. Although this can sometimes make it hard for them to do their other activities, it works out when they are working with others – namely Renegade and Seahawk – as Sioridann's usually the only person anyone can remember.

When on the road, Sioridann prefers to be more subdued. Heavy, utilitarian cloaks and roughspun traveling clothes would be their preference, along with tough boots for long treks over rough, country roads.

Likes:

• Making someone smile, especially with their performances
• Anything cute, adorable, or just endearing
• Sweet desserts
• Striking fear into Magehunters
• Mingling with a tavern crowd

Dislikes:

• Magehunters and those who enable them
• Caesonian authorities
• The flesh trade
• Discrimination against magic users

Sexuality: ???

Hobbies:

• Knitting, sewing, textile crafts in general
• Songwriting
• Singing, particularly folk songs and original pieces

Life Goals / Dreams:
The end of Caesonian persecution of magic and its users. A world that embraces both the common and the magical. Bringing those who would hunt mages, and those who allow such hunting, to justice. A purge of the Caesonian underworld and the vices it permits.

Personality Summary: Sociable || Flirtatious || Vengeful || Optimistic || Haunted || Compassionate

Background

Current occupation: Travelling bard / Insurgent

Past occupations:

• Apprentice tailor
• Mage's assistant / apprentice
• Streetwalker
• Tavern waitress

Relatives: None they find worth mentioning

Skills:

• Performing Arts: Singing, Dancing, Acting
• Manipulation, both magical and normal
• Seduction
• Tailoring
• Rumour-mongering
• Planning, particularly for long-term tasks
• Make-up and disguise

History Summary

Sioridann never was an agreeable person.

Or they assumed they never were; they couldn’t think of any other reason as to why their mother would so readily sell them to a trader of illicit goods so soon after their father’s death. And as if to rub salt into the wound, they were chosen out of seven other siblings. At least the money was good – or at least, that’s what Sioridann often drily hopes – otherwise the suffering they would go through for years would be all for naught. And it was indeed a terrible few years, the time they spent with the trader. Sioridann witnessed just about every possible depravity one could imagine, and had the same inflicted upon their person.

But in hindsight, and in an ironically twisted way, it was during that time that Sioridann picked up most of the skills that would prove most useful in destroying the very system and people that tormented them.

Sioridann’s time with this dark aspect of the Caesonian underworld came to an end when an adventurer attacked the trader’s encampment. This was also Sioridann’s first encounter with magic, and at first, it absolutely terrified them. To see someone manipulated forces unknown and infernal to crush, maim, and utterly destroy people – even ones as vile as the trader – was enough to put the fear of the Gods in their heart, and Sioridann hadn’t believed in them for years by that point. And yet at the same time, they felt a strange sense of kinship with the adventurer.

And so, after all was done, and the trader and his fellows were no more, Sioridann followed the adventurer as a mere assistant at first, and when their own abilities began to manifest, as an apprentice. This period of their life remains one which they remember fondly. Their days were spent either practising, studying, or helping the adventurer with his daily tasks. An older man, who seemed to carry the weight of the world upon his shoulders, he was simultaneously a father figure and a mentor to Sioridann. Through him, they learned the tricks of living outside of Caesonian law, and the ways of a hedge mage.

But where there’s magic, there’s the King’s men.

Sioridann wasn’t there when the adventurer was finally taken by Magehunters – she was busy gathering firewood – but they did witness the gruesome aftermath. And when they finally arrived at the town where the adventurer was receiving his sentence, they witnessed the end of the man who, for a good few years, had been their only friend and companion. And just like that, Sioridann was alone in the world, once again.

For a while, they did everything and anything to survive. But soon, that wasn’t enough. They wanted vengeance. Who were these Magehunters, these people of status who saw it fit to murder a man who had done nothing wrong? Who had, in fact, been the one to dispense justice to those who received none? The righteous indignation burned within Sioridann until one day, they decided to act upon it. Sioridann was no fighter – they were perhaps the farthest thing from it – but that didn’t stop them. With their abilities, it took only a mere rumour, whispered into the right ear, for a Magehunter to be bludgeoned to death in a dark alley behind a tavern.

Another whisper, and a Magehunter was killed in a drunken brawl.

A few whispers, and a group of them were stabbed to death by an angry mob.

And this was how Sioridann wandered from village to village, town to town, and city to city. Each time, they would first see if there were any Magehunters around. If there were, they would then take the time to ingratiate themselves with the local tavern crowd. Not a difficult task for someone as skilled in the art of seduction as Sioridann. Every night, they would sow a new whisper of strife and doubt. Every night, they would nurture it, until the time was right. Then, they need only give things one simple push, and things would take care of themselves. By the time the dust settled, they would have returned to the road.

Sioridann never was an agreeable person. And Caesonia was about to see how disagreeable they could be.