Force and Fury

The Hourglass Order

REseRveD :)

The Hourglass Order

Both of these recent NPCs are great and are approved!

O R I F L A M M E

Act Two: Scattered to the Winds____ __ _ _

Chapter Two: Smoke and Fire______ __ _ _

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The Nashorn was both in a foul temper and paradoxically placated. He set the gold–haired woman on a bed of straw in a stable that the Eskandr had claimed. Near to all of the village’s residents were dead, off to either join their strange gods in the afterlife or else beg of the Visitor’s mercy for being non-believers. The Nashorn did not know too much of the Gods and there was little point in trying to decipher the unknowable. What he knew was fighting and gold and, normally, that was enough.

He looked at the small woman for a time, remembering how she had felt slung across his shoulder, thinking of how her voice had sounded. He remembered her words too, however, and her dire warnings. He furrowed his brow, now ensconced firmly beneath his helm once more. Turning and leaving – she was lame and would not go anywhere - he set off to find Ulfhild, who might know what to do or, more appropriately, what to say to the captive.

Ulfhild was tired, truly. Of what? She had not grasped yet. Perhaps the constant purging of Parrench was starting to lose the flair it once had. Or maybe the tides of war were more of a match than a village full of civilians on the verge of senescence. Either way, she found herself sat on a bed of furs and hay thinking of the wounds Eleanor had left as a mercy. There was no treasure anywhere, just useless cutlery and ragged clothes.

The sand began to collect in her eyes, her eyelids slowly tugging shut. For a newly anointed Æresvaktr, this felt somewhat beneath her. Yet the king trusted her, the Nashorn…and Hildr. She wondered how she was faring until the crunch of dirt that could only be from the hulk known as the Nashorn echoed near the small hut. She stood up with a surge of adrenaline wet with fear and exited the hut.

“Ah there you are, find the gold yet?”

The Nashorn simply shook his head. He had not found gold. It angered him. Ulfhild did not know this. Nor could she see that he was scowling deeply beneath his helm. He placed a heavy hand on her shoulder, gripping it at the verge of ungentleness, and motioned with his free hand for her to follow.

A sigh left her lungs, she had expected as much. The Parrench were tedious with how well they hid their gold, something akin to squirrels or other rodents. The weight of his hand tore through her flesh like an axe. Her shoulder gave out immediately as she was not nearly prepared for his ironclad grip. She felt the urgency run across her body with a clear message. Straightening back up, she followed him closely, while massaging her arm. It was kind of strange how everyone kind of just spoke Nashorn’s language despite him being almost completely mute.

The Nashorn said nothing. He could feel Ulfhild flinch. He would try harder to be gentle. Women were small: breakable. He did not want to break them, though… unless they forced him to. Making his way through the remains of the village, it still bothered him how intact it all was, aside from a few ruined walls and roofs. It was supposed to be burnt. That was what you did to villages like this one. It was supposed to inspire fear and make the place unreclaimable. Sweyn had ordered it, though, and Sweyn was a better Æresvaktr than he was. They reached the place and the Nashorn pointed inside where the girl was. Reaching out with the Gift, he could sense that she was not sleeping anymore, though she was pretending to be. He strode over to the bucket of water that he had left her, grabbed it, and threw its contents across her. She bolted upright with a yelp and her eyes fluttered rudely open. He pointed to Ulfhild, he pointed to the girl, and he moved to plant himself in the doorway.

It was strange, but Ulfhild’s sense of smell teetered on the edge of the supernatural. She was confident she could smell the emotions evaporating off the skin. As much as Nashorn could disguise his discontent under helm and armor, she could smell it. That or she was just excellent at fabricating another gift. She would hold her tongue for the time being, keeping a watchful eye. Another instruction led the two into a stable devoid of any horses. What was left was a girl with hair that rivaled the sun in terms of gold, perhaps the treasure was on her scalp instead of a chest. Her eyes’ search was halted by the Nashorn’s deluge of water on the young girl. Still dry as a bone she was just as surprised as the girl.

“Uh..well” she moved over to the girl and knelt down, “What’s your name?”

Adelaide coughed and spat, sweeping sopping wet locks of hair from eyes. “It’s Fuck Off, Eskandr Cunt!” She grinned toothily, seeming to relish the chance to do any sort of harm - even this meagre - to her enemies. She tilted her head and the smile became poisonously sweet. “How about yours?” she chirped.

The smile eroded from her face, leaving nothing but slits for eyes and furrowed brows. A fake laugh left her lips at the cute insult. She unhooked a rabbit pelt she had skinned just earlier in the day that was drying on her belt. “How rude of me, you can dry off with this” tossing the pelt at the girls sopping wet hair. She turned to the Nashorn, silently communicating her wishes for him to do it again. “I’m Ulfhild Ulven. So how about you tell us where the gold is and we can make this as painless as possible.”

It took the Nashorn only a moment to grasp Ulfhild’s meaning. He grinned. It was fun and Fuck You Eskandr Cunt was being difficult, just like everyone else. Besides, it was only water. Using Force, he gathered the water back into the bucket and emptied it on her head once again. Only, this time, the bucket was wrenched free of his loosened grip and hurtled straight for Ulfhild’s head from only a foot or two away. It was easily dealt with.

The patience in her snapped like a skinny twig. Why had she even tried to be diplomatic with these people, they were awful. She reverted back to the pride of Eskand which was somewhat or mostly feral. A backhand flew across the face of the peasant girl. Before she could snap her neck back, Ulfhild was already to her feet picking her up by the neck of her dress. Her hand opened to reveal a flame growing in size. She held it up to her face, “this will warm you up. Now speak or I’ll invite our friend over there to help.”

The girl's eyes went to the fire and then back to Ulfhild and she did something strange: she laughed. It was tinged with the unmistakable notes of madness and, for it, the Nashorn stepped forward once again and punched her in the stomach. “Your true colours!” she coughed, spitting up blood. “How wonderful they are! How much more ‘you’, Eskandr vermin! What are you gonna do? Burn me? Gouge out my eyes? It’s nothing compared to what he will do, and to all of us: Every. Single. One.” she spat.

“Kindness is wasted on you and your people. You rather talk in circles than protect yourself or the others” the girl did however give up one interesting kernel of knowledge that the Nashorn was unable to express to her. “Who is he? Bring us to him and we’ll see who compares to who” almost certain that is where the gold lies.

“There is no protection, you idiot! There is no survival! We were the only thing stopping him. The only thing he might listen to. Oh the poetic justice! In your bloodthirst for elders and children,” she spat, “You’ve called doom down upon us all!” Again, she began with the maddened laughter.

Her patience was gone at this point, the laughter was a grate on her ears. She found a cloth in her satchel and shoved it in the girl’s mouth as a temporary gag. “Whoever *he* is, he's going to listen to you or us as your audience. Now tell us where he is!” She removed the gag waiting for her response.

The prisoner grinned mirthlessly. “You’re a shitty interrogator,” she sneered. “So I’ll have some sympathy. You’ll find him soon enough, or he’ll find you. All that precious gold is up on the mountain, though, in a nice little cave where we hid it!” She giggled, head lolling to one side and her eyes staring almost blankly up at the ceiling.

Finally, she spoke something of worth. The mountain seemed a strange place to safeguard gold against Eskand or other raiders, but perhaps it worked. “Now go be with your gods” Ulfhild commanded, retrieving her sword from her sheathe and quickly passing it across her exposed neck. It was a surprise her blood wasn’t black with the madness that possessed her. Her body fell limp, her blood pooling with the water that doused her earlier. Ulfhild turned to the Nashorn and nodded. “Looks like we’re going up that mountain. We best not daly and find Hildr, there’s gold to be won.”

The Nashorn merely nodded and uncrossed his arms. The gold woman lay there: red, white, and gold now, and the way she lay was beautiful too, in a strange sort of way. Outside, he had felt the energies of people listening in, but it was no matter. He would go and get his gold. If someone got there before him, he would kill them.

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There was a faint difference between the smoke and sky at night. While both were dark, the former had an unpredictable quality to it. Sweyn had burnt five villages now and butchered their people and he felt not a shred of pride or glory. Yet, it was necessity and it was inescapable. His king had ordered it and all others followed the king. So, he too must. What would happen to him were he to turn away? Surely, it would be the end of him. They would send that animal Thorunn after him and she would destroy him and take not only his head but his place as first among the Aeresvaktr. With it would go any semblance of honour or dignity that the storied group had left.

Yet, the lifeless body of a little girl lay on the ground before him, staring blankly at a world that her soul had left. She spat on his notions of honour and made a mockery of them. Sweyn stumbled back and had to avert his eyes for a moment. An innocent child, his conscience cried out. It had been gaining ground as of late. She was no more than nine or ten: in the final throes of girlhood, but he just stared at her tiny body, unnerved in a way that he hadn’t thought possible. You bloody murderer! his inner voice screamed. You ended this child’s life without a thought. She will never grow up. This tiny person who had never hurt you, never even seen you before: the one time that she did, she ran and screamed and died. He thought, then, of his students over the years, how he had loved some of them almost as a father loves his child, how he had watched them grow from these luminous little things into men and women of poise and power and how wondrous it had been. This one, though: she will never laugh or smile again. She will not know the satisfaction of watching herself grow into a woman, of contributing to her village or excelling in a pursuit. She will never experience adventure, loss, or wonder. She will have no late nights under the stars, no tender moments with friends, family, or lovers. This girl will rot in the ground while others born on the same day as her will know all of these things, and it will happen this way because of you, Sweyn. It did not matter that these people were Parrench. It was such an arbitrary distinction of men. Did not they have the same feelings as Eskandr? Did not they sleep and wake under the same sun? Breathe the same air? Hold many of the same hopes and dreams?

Nobody was watching him. He was alone, as he’d insisted on being for reasons that had been, at the time, unclear to him. The Thunderspear called forth some fire and he let the mound of bodies burn and blacken. There were no living people here to see his face, but the girl stared back at him to the very end, until her bones came apart and were indistinguishable from the mass. I’m sorry, he promised. So sorry. Gods, I am!

Nobody was watching him, or so he thought, so they could not see Sweyn Thunderspear, first among the Aeresvaktr, take his face in his hands and weep bitter tears.

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In truth, of course, Sweyn was far from alone. A small but well-armed scouting force, led by the Drudgunzean Arsene, had been approaching for some time, following the trail of burned villages that he’d left. Their goal had been to either discover the main Eskandr force and report its position back to Queen Eleanor’s substantial army or to pounce upon and rout a smaller party of raiders opportunistically. It was, of course, a surprise when they found that they could sense only a single figure by a fire. A cascade of further surprises followed. Firstly, that the figure did not sense them back, secondly, that it did not flee or take some sort of action, and thirdly that, when that figure came into view, it was none other than Sweyn Thunderspear, by his lonesome. Arsene, as leader of the group, found himself faced with a decision: how to approach what was perhaps a major opportunity, perhaps a trap, or perhaps something else entirely.

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For the Parrench force, some ways away, there was a similar figurative darkness to contend with alongside its literal peer. Thankfully, it was joined by a degree of light as well. The efforts of Sirs Maerec and Caelum made the heroic knights heroes yet again. The maiden Camille saved a great many from the fire, though seeming undeniably distraught towards the end of her efforts. Arsene of Avalona, a Drudgunzean passionate in his faith and cause, had given chase to the Eskandr raiders with a scoutiing force of perhaps two dozen men, not giving the enemy any breathing room. Most importantly of all, however, a great majority of the people of Port Morilles had been saved. More than half of the town had proven salvageable as well and, should the Eskandr be defeated and banished from these lands once and for all time, the settlement would almost certainly recover. There were losses, however. Many of the brave knights and frontline defenders of Port Morilles had gone into Aun-Echeran’s cold embrace. Still others had been eagerly captured by the raiders for use as slaves, chattel, or ransom. Among these were many known to members of the Queen’s army, including Dame Camille herself. Still more were left maimed, crippled, or destitute. Truly, the Eskandr scourge knew no limits of normal human empathy or decency. They struck viciously and wantonly, and the scars might take generations to heal.

Yet, sometimes, an imperfect strike from a merciless enemy - one at least partially defended - can serve not to weaken but to strengthen the resolve of the struck. So Parrence remained unbroken, unbowed, and unbent. That same night, in the shadow of the ruined roof of the Cathédrale des Cinq Flammes, the bishop of Port Morilles delivered a sermon under the stars. There had been no golden Pentact or chalice after the raiders had come, so Eleanor de Perpignan, Queen of the Parrench, had led by example, giving up her jewellery so that it might be melted to make new ones. She was joined eagerly by much of the town’s nobility. Great and common alike, they knelt before the Bishop and their gods and received the blessed sacrament of communion with the Pentad. Fervent prayers rang out to Oraphe and Echeran. Roofs were repaired, orders for grain stores made to the capital and dispatched, and healing hands laid upon the wounded.

The moons hung high and low in their colours. By their light, the dead were given proper burials. Work continued on shoring up the cliffs until they were judged stable. Swords were sharpened as the sun rose. A final blessing was provided by the bishop and Queen Eleanor mounted her horse, hair rippling down her shoulders, back and chest, stirring in the brisk coastal wind. “People of Parrence!” she called, cantering before the now fully-gathered army in the morning’s light on her white stallion, Fidèle.

“Yesterday, we suffered a blow at the hands of the Eskandr scourge. Many of you lost homes, friends, and loved ones. I know that the wound is deep and that it may be hard to imagine ever healing from, but I promise that there is a future. I promise that the Gods are ever at our backs.”

“Yesterday, my subjects and my friends, we took back Port Morilles from their vile grasp. We prized the lives of innocent children and elders from them. See how they flew and scattered before us as vermin might before a noble wolf. Were not the flames they had set quelled by our endeavours? Were not the stones of this very cliff secured through our ingenuity and our might?”

“Yesterday should have been a resounding victory for the heathens, yet it was not! So this is why I say to you, today, my friends and allies, that the Gods yet smile upon the people of Green Parrence, and I know, by Chune’s light, that I speak with irrevocable truth!”

She reached across her shoulder and, pulling upon the Gift of Force, grasped the handle of her mighty warhammer. “So let us set forth beneath our banners and our shields and the strength of our faith. Let us sharpen our resolve as we do our swords and senses and, tomorrow, my people, we shall crush the vile invaders who would make a pyre of our houses and fields. We shall cut them down with fire and steel where they stand, and we shall make this land ever safe and green for ourselves and our kin.” With that, Queen Eleanor drew forth her weapon and thrust it into the air. “Vive la Parrence!”

“Vive la Parrence!”

they thundered as one, and then “Vive la Parrence!” three more times. The Grande Armée gathered its might and set off in pursuit of its enemy.

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Afterword

It was near to the end of the day. The late afternoon sun was hovering low in the sky, bathing its surroundings in tarnished golden light, when the small party of Eskandr made it to the top of Mont Errant. Disconcertingly, a ribbon of smoke had started to trickle from the cone of the supposedly dormant volcano. Brambles and tall grasses swayed in the cooling breeze and the hum of cicadas gave way to the first few exploratory chirps of crickets. The half-barren branches of Stresian trees whispered and mud squelched beneath their feet. “Ragnar!” prodded one of the raiders, grabbing hold of a man beside him, “look there! It’s a cave! You were right, you old bastard!” He made to step ahead. “We’ll get there before those Æresvaktr arse kissers.”

Ragnar, senior among the group and wishing for little more than to join his long-departed brothers in Gronhalle, pulled him gently back. “Steady, Ubba. It is indeed a cave. It may be where they have hidden the gold. But it may also be a trap.”

“Then we should go together!” cried Ingrid, the youngest of the four and the only woman. She was always perched on the edge of excitement and anxiety, eager and red-faced. Ragnar shook his head, though. “They could be many.” The lines on his face hardened. “I will go ahead and scout. You spring pups will watch and learn.” He managed a playful wink. Arne, a rangy youth, crossed his arms and snorted. “More like you will pocket some of the gold for yourself, grandpa.”

Rangar merely shrugged “Such are the privileges of age.” His smile faded into an expression of alertness as he slunk past the others in an ever-lowering crouch, and crept up to the mouth of the cave. It was an unusually wide one. In fact, he had seen many caves in his time, but this one gave him an uneasy feeling. From inside, over the rustling of the sparse vegetation, he could hear noises. In more than one place, the ground was blackened as if from fires. Nerves tingling, he drew out his sword. It was a fine instrument for one of common birth, bestowed upon his great–grandfather by Jarl Borg. Ragnar's pulse began to fill his ears. He muffled his steps as he drew closer, deciding that just a peek would be good enough. Then he would know whether to run or to fight. The gold was guarded, for certain, but by how many?

He had just made it to where a wall of stone jutted out, ready to peer round the edge, when a massive gust billowed forth from the cave’s mouth. Instinctively, he looked out to see what it was and he had only a moment to realize that it had been a terrible mistake. The others could see him from their angle, but not what he saw. He was glad they could not. “Run!” he screamed, unwelcome shrillness creeping into his voice.

“But Ragnar-” started Ubba.

“Run!” he commanded, half twisting their way. The hulking black form of a Vulkansk Drage emerged from the depths, its emberlike eyes fixed upon the interloper, its great maw sliding open and fire glowing in the back of its throat. Faintly, Ranar could register the wolf pups running. Faintly, he could see the dragon’s hoard of gold in the cave. He tightened his grip on his sword and charged toward it. “Til Gronhalle!”

That day, his wish was granted and he joined his brothers.

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Action Opportunities

1) Arsene needs to play out how he approaches Sweyn next, and also, what he's found. If he was following the fires, he hasn't found the main Eskandr force.

2) For Ulfhild and Hildr, there is an opportunity to go and investigate the mountain and act upon what you find there, along with the Nashorn. Ragnar and his party will be ahead of you. If you have any questions, please consult me!

3) For Camille, Maerec, and Caelum, free to summarize how the rescue worked out, outline what you're doing in the cleanup and repair of Port Morilles, and how he sermon went down. You'll then be joining the army as it makes its way towards the burning villages, to reconnect with Arsene's small force. Perhaps, that night, in a direction you did not expect, you will see smoke, fire, and the silhouette of something massive in the sky.

The Hourglass Order

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Chapter One: A Stage Broken and Set

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“Well played, Ayla Arslan.” Those were the last words spoken by Huarcan Frannemas as he brushed past her, and they sent a chill up her spine. Nobody would see it on her face, of course. She smiled and managed some perfunctory reply, doubting anybody had overheard the substance of their exchange. Instead, her eyes fell upon the real Jocasta in the near-chaos of preparation for the fight to come, and she pushed herself forward in the wheelchair she’d done quite a decent job with while playing the role.

The two women embraced, exchanging looks of relief. “They saw through us, but it looks like we pulled this off!”, Ayla - the real Ayla - beamed brightly, giggling a little as Jocasta’s hair was ruffled, “Looks like you played your part very well too. Don’t think Augusto could keep his eyes off you; it was certainly not a pity.” She gave Jocasta a wink.

“In truth, it may have been mutual,” she replied, “and there is more to it than you know, but for now…” Jocasta allowed herself to trail off, glancing meaningfully at the wheelchair that Ayla was still occupying.

“Oh, right!” said the Torragonese, blushing slightly. “I guess the ruse is up, hmm?”

“Don’t look so gutted,” the blonde replied, reclaiming both her true hair colour with a little chemical and binding magic, and her wheels. “I imagine we’ll have the chance to trade places again.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Ayla agreed, before turning to the matter at hand, “But, for now, we need to take care of the wyrm… if it heads to Hosta, it could cost us. We would need to direct it towards the Refuge.”

Whatever Jocasta may have said next was interrupted by a rumbling below ground that grew ever louder and more noticeable. She could sense six person-shaped energies approaching and instinctively nearly launched an attack against them. It was a fortunate thing that she did not, for moments later, Ingrid, Trypano, Desmond, Benedetto, and Penny burst out from the floor, followed by Ismette.

She blinked. The six arrivals blinked. They stood there awkwardly, eyes searching their new surroundings. “I suppose this is one way to make an entrance,” announced Penny, chuckling nervously. Desmond struggled to articulate much of anything and, for a couple of minutes, confusion took the reins until the six were brought - more or less - up to speed.

Outside, people and horses scrambled and the refuge became a hive of activity. Nonetheless, as bags were hastily loaded, all-too-brief embraces and well-wishes were exchanged, and weapons and spells prepared, word of the negotiations made its way around San Agustin. The Royal Sand Wyrm - Shai Desierto, to some - was to be a test and, if no longer a desperate one for survival, then for their newly-won future as an independent people.

The town of Hosta may have been geographically close but, for most of the five hundred tethered who resided at the refuge, it could have been on another world entirely… until now. That was where the battle was to be fought and, if they could save it from harm, they might prove their worth to Duke Frannemas and live under the umbrella of his protection while under their own governance.

That proved a double-edged sword, as the Duke decided to hold his army in reserve, with Augusto, Thierry, and a few others playing only minor roles in the conflict. He fate of Hosta and the refuge would be in the hands of the fifty or so trained tethered and a baker’s dozen students from Ersand’Enise:

Zarina Al-Nader
Ayla Arslan
Yalen Castel
Desmond Catulus
Benedetto Corvi
Kaspar Elstrom von Wentoft
Casii’fyret’alan
Penny Pellegrin
Ingrid Pendersen
Jocasta Re
Silas Reiger
Trypano Somia
Ismet’ych’lahiiin’dichora

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Chapter Two: Battle is Joined

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Holding back was no longer an option and so the students gathered all of their most powerful magics and threw everything that they had at the beast. A great golem of wood, bone, and sinew took form, powerful sonic waves cascaded across the sands, and more than one person rose into the sky like some hero from a myth of yore.

It was the half-trained tethered who remained in the refuge that struck first, however, under the guidance of Amanda, Oscar, Luisa, Felix, and others. With the wyrm headed towards the town and away from them, it would soon leave the scope of even their extended range.

Hence, as a small squadron of mostly students from the academy rode out, the tethered combined their energies to deal a massive blow not to the creature but to the desert around it. As sand and stone collapsed around it and the maddened beast found itself flailing helplessly instead of plowing forward, its attention was turned in the direction of San Agustin.

Battle was joined first by the huge deer–shaped golem of Casii’fyret’alan, but her furious arcane attacks and those of her passenger, the mercenary Desmond, failed to faze the great sand wyrm in the slightest. Tunneling forward at a breakneck pace, it began to close in on the nearly three thousand souls in and around the refuge, and further attempts to injure or dissuade it proved fruitless until one of the defenders’ few atomic mages, the trainee Ingrid Penderson, struck it with a ferocious blast that sent it reeling.

The commotion, however, drew the interest of a half dozen froabases that had been roosting on the cliffs about a mile distant. Hungry for an easy meal, they proved a thorn in the posse’s side for some time, before being variously killed or pacified through the actions of Benedetto, Penny, Trypano, Desmond, and supposed ‘observer’ Augusto. It fell to the yasoi pacifist, Ismette, to deal with the final one and, in the heat of battle, it was easy to miss that she had called upon magics strange and dark to pull it into a fathomless black void.

The wyrm, still doggedly plowing forward, engaged the giant deer with a spray of acid from its gut, but this was neutralized through Trypano’s quick thinking and it was punished for its mindless attack by eating much of Desmond’s arsenal. Reeling, it was able to defend what could have been a decisive attack from the golem, but was struck opportunistically by a fireball from Ingrid. Chasing her and Benedetto, it was thwarted through a group effort, before turning its attention to Trypano. Having failed to grab her in its jaws, the animal batted away the attacks of Desmond and Casii, ignoring Benedetto and Ingrid as the two atomic mages worked together. Their powerful blast struck it cleanly and it fell, smoking, to the sands.

However, before anybody could capitalize, the wyrm dived deep under the sands, out of most people’s reach and once again focusing its efforts on reaching the refuge. From the near distance could be heard the screeches of more froabases: a dozen, plus the hulking shape of an alpha froabas, fast approaching.

With matters looking less than ideal, Ismette separated herself from the others, promising to deal with the threat, one way or another. As she reached into the void to draw from its endless power, however, she found herself set upon by a haggard-looking Jocasta and - paradoxically - Trypano, who tackled her to the ground and forced her to abort her actions, screaming that she would doom the world. Simultaneously, a great aberration, some twelve feet tall, appeared nearby in the desert and this drew the further attention of the flock of froabases.

Annihilation from the VOID

In truth, the Jocasta and Trypano that Ismette encountered had traveled from a bleak future. Unwittingly, in her efforts to provide the refuge’s defenders with a powerful ally, the yasoi had called forth not an angel or a demon as she had expected, nor a pentangel or vendemon, as she had hoped, nor even a mighty Grand Demon or Archangel, as she had not dared to dream possible. Instead, Ismette had brought into the mortal plane a dark God: the Hand of Death herself, Ahn-Eshiran. The ancient deity had appeared, a bright red apple in one hand and a wicked scythe in the other. Towering over the desert wastes, she generated not light, but darkness, not heat, but cold. Her hunger relentless, she first commanded and then consumed Ismette before setting herself upon the other defenders, then celebrating their victory against the wyrm.

As she had carved through them with overwhelming - nigh unfathomable - power, brushing aside their great skill, inventiveness, and bravery, Jocasta and Trypano had hatched a desperate plan, others sacrificing themselves for its success. Leveraging the former’s ability to manipulate time, they leapt back, mere moments before a grizzly death, and interrupted Ismette’s summon. Thus, the world was set right and a dangerous future left unfulfilled.

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Chapter Three: The Crisis Deepens

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The aberration borne of their efforts, then, became a second crisis that demanded immediate management and, Trypano, recognizing that she had played a pivotal role in healing Desmond following near mortal injuries that he would soon suffer against the wyrm, made haste towards the increasingly distant monster in a bid not to further disrupt the timestream.

Deep beneath the ground, immune to all attacks but those of the tethered, the Royal Sand Wyrm, frothed and raged, barreling towards its target and the thousands of souls at stake. It fell to the tethered, in defense of their homes and very lives to do something, as the beast outpaced the forward party. Forming barriers of earth and stone in its path, trying to siphon its momentum, and cool its body had only a negligible effect, so vast was the aberration-made beast. It was only when they superheated and fused the earth into great glass and metallic spikes to impale it that it was forced to both slow and ascend into the range of their allies.

It was a fortunate thing indeed, the greatness of the tethered numbers, for Jocasta was soon to call on her brethren. Teleporting back to the refuge, she pulled every body that they could spare, bringing to the desert a second, desperate squad of hopeful heroes to assist her and Ismette:

Ayla Arslan
Yalen Castel
Clemencia
Kaspar Elstrom von Wentoft
Isabella
Thierry de Montblaise
Oscar
Silas Reiger

They quickly found the situation less agreeable than they had thought, as swarms of the screeching, clacking, wagon-sized dragons swooped and swirled at them with fire, tooth and claw. Ably dodging their repeated attacks, the nimble beasts threatened and harried the defenders and their shrinking perimeter and battered away at the magical shields that Ayla and Kaspar had so stalwartly held up for them.

Meanwhile, the larger group contending with the wyrm faced an uphill struggle of their own. Letting out a deafening cry as it emerged from the sands, the enormous reptile shook the ground with great thrashing tremors. While some were able to dodge the initial wave of attacks, they kept on coming, devastating great swathes of the land and rendering much of the group incapacitated as the sands began to consume them.

This acted as a trigger for Benedetto, and the overwhelmingly powerful atomic mage, laughing sadistically, drew up nearly to his full capacity and plowed into the wyrm. He slammed into it with enough force to snap its colossal head back and cause it to crash to the ground, half-conscious, allowing the others to free themselves and Casii’s deer golem to reconstitute its damaged body. Darting forward to seize upon the dragon’s momentary weakness, Zarina drove her shamshir into its eye, spinning like a drill. Letting out a howl of pain, its eye ruined, it dove into the ground to prepare a counterattack, pursued by thick, bloody spiked roots from Casii that tore and scraped at its flesh. Perhaps the tide had finally turned in that fight.

Yet, for all that the party squaring off against one dragon had started to find success, the other remained at a loss and on the defensive, its repeated attacks ineffectual against even the least of the swarm. Even a powerful demon conjured by Ismette failed to have much impact after she ordered it to use only nonlethal methods.

That proved to be the tipping point for Jocasta. Over Ismette’s protests, the blonde tethered girl conjured a rain of human-sized steel, bone, and stone needles, which pounded the flock of froabases, impaling, maiming, and skewering them until only four plus the alpha remained in fighting condition. At the yasoi’s further voicing of displeasure, Jocasta sliced her by targeting and destroying her demonic summon. The two women seethed and shouted, trading barbs, and it was enough to make Ismette walk away from the battle, fuming and unappreciated. Her erstwhile allies were still busy fighting, however, and they changed tactics, focusing on weakening the remaining creatures and empowering their heaviest hitters. Disorienting sonic blasts and the siphoning of both heat and momentum struck at the alpha and it wailed and reeled. Yet, it dove eagerly and desperately for the aberration, closing in with frightening speed.

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Chapter Four: Deliverance

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Enraged, too, was the sand wyrm, visible now in the distance as it neared both the refuge and the other dragons. Writhing in pain and shaking with fury, it emerged from the sands with fire bubbling in its mouth, ready to attack. In a bid to placate it, Zarina attempted a tactic that had previously worked with the froabases, but her subtle chemical influence was brushed away in its anger. It snorted fire from its nostrils as it took aim and Ingrid got dangerously close in hopes of exploiting the fissures on its armor from earlier wounds.

The fire attack proved potent, and though Yalen was able to siphon off much of the first, small blast, and channel the energy into Desmond, Zarina was not so fortunate in her attempt to dodge it with her nimble steed, Riesco. Only the last-second intervention of Marceline, who conjured a barrier of stone, was able to save her, and Ingrid, far too close to the beast in her bid to injure it, would surely have died were it not for the efforts of Benedetto, who used his enormous capacity for the Gift to draw nearly all of its fire and blast it back.

Emerging through the smoke and flames, the sand wyrm, now heavily wounded and mad with pain, vengeance, and aberration energy, belched fire all over Casii, Desmond and the deer golem, and there was no resisting its fury this time. Incinerated in the attack, the golem’s final act was to fling both of its riders free. While the yasoi landed with only minor injuries, her mercenary ally threw caution and his body to the wind to line up a perfect shot with high explosive rounds and the futuristic gun that he had received from the sirrahi. The results were devastating. His rounds exploding in the dragon’s throat proved enough to rip its head off in grisly fashion, and it fell in two pieces within sight of the refuge, but its final burst of fire billowed forth with its dying breath and burnt him. As both bodies fell to the sands, one was clearly dead, and the other maimed and broken, on death’s doorstep. Without the urgent intervention of a skilled binder, Desmond was sure to exit the stage of life.

If one life hung in the balance outside the refuge gates, many more were about to find themselves under threat nearby. After a failed attempt by Ayla, Kaspar, Thierry, and Clemencia combined to neutralize a juvenile alpha and two others, while Jocasta employed a terrifying temporal spell to age the final one beyond death in a matter of seconds.

It fell to Silas to try to sabotage the alpha, which was now closing rapidly in on the aberration, tantalizingly close to consuming it and absorbing its power. For all that he was able to slow it some, there was nothing that he could do about the devastating fire breath that it unleashed. While some of the defenders were able to protect themselves, many were left vulnerable and it fell to Silas, Kaspar, and Jocasta, to save who they could. The Perrench knight Thierry was in particular trouble, only to be rescued at the last moment by Zarina, who’d ridden in at a full gallop on Riesco. Still, as deadly shards of glass and flame began to swirl, it looked like the party was doomed.

Meanwhile, another seemingly doomed individual was met with relief as Trypano arrived, uncharacteristically out of breath, to administer treatment to the gravely wounded Desmond where Casii, Penny, and Yalen had all failed. Thus restored and now sporting something like a bad sunburn, he rose to his feet and was able to celebrate his victory properly, along with his allies.

Victory, however, was the last thing on the minds of those about to perish in the white-hot flames of an enraged alpha froabas. It is a fairly well-established law of science that water can put out fire, however, so when a towering demon made of living water interposed itself between the desperate defenders and the flames, nobody complained, nor did they raise any objection when the new beast that Ismette had summoned from the VOID extinguished the dragon’s ultimate attack. Though she had no words for Jocasta, the yasoi next commanded her demon to grab hold of the aberration, now mere feet from the giant reptile’s grasp, and this it did with ease, denying the alpha froabas a meal which would have both empowered it and driven it to irreversible insanity.

Seizing the initiative, the recently rescued Theirry de Montblaise gathered all of his power and hammered into the dragon as only a leadvein can, sending the beast reeling. However, his allies struggled to capitalize to any great extent, their attacks doing little more than annoying it as it began to recover and pursue Ismette’s aberration. At this point, as Yalen and Isabella decided to go all in on Thierry, filling him with a Blessing of Vigour, the battle appeared to hang in the balance, with the alpha regaining its strength and closing in on the aberration within sight of the refuge.

However, a quick and ferocious attack from Kaspar and long distance siphoning from the untrained tethered of the refuge was able to stall it just long enough to allow a fully invigorated Thierry to come in and pound it into the ground. Where an attempt to chain it by Clemencia failed, Zarina charged in, taking her very life into her hands as she leapt onto the froabas’ back and applied a dangerous new Chemical magic that she had recently learned but did not yet fully understand.

The alpha froabas, which had threatened to turn into a terror on the level of the Sand Wyrm, thrashed and roared, shooting fire into the sky and whipping its tail wildly, nearly throwing off the Virangishwoman more than once. Through her own courage and determination, plus some help from Yalen and especially a last–second save from Kaspar, she was able to persevere. The great reptile’s eyes rolled back into its head and it collapsed into the sand with a whimper, pacified and broken in spirit: hers.

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Chapter Five: Fear and Opportunity

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Arriving mere seconds after came the party that had felled the wyrm and, for a blip in time there was nothing but utter joy and relief. The refuge was saved thrice over, the duke almost certainly impressed with his new vassals, and everyone miraculously alive despite long odds to the contrary.

There were yet further wrinkles however, and while one was joyous, the other filled those forced to face it by fate and choice alike a creeping apprehension. The alpha froabas – a female - had been pregnant and nearly ready to lay eggs, hence it had been drawn to the colossal aberration as the largest source of energy in the area.

That aberration, the defenders of San Agustin realized, was and would remain an existential threat to everything that they had worked so hard to build and now to preserve. With the limited time and resources that they had on hand, they came to an inevitable realization: they would have to absorb it in order to be rid of it.

In the event, it did not come down to drawing lots. It was instead agreed that some would benefit more greatly from the aberration’s gifts and others would prove dangerous to themselves and their peers. If enough drew together, the madness would prove only temporary. Thus, ten stepped up to draw from the chaotic break in reality:

Zarina Al-Nader
Ayla Arslan
Yalen Castel
Kaspar Elstrom von Wentoft
Casii’fyret’alan
Isabella
Marceline
Ingrid Penderson
Silas Reiger
Trypano Somia

And seven stayed behind to deal with what was hoped to be their temporary insanity:

Clemencia Alvarez
Desmond Catulus
Benedetto Corvi
Augusto Frannemas
Thierry de Montblaise
Jocasta Re
Ismet’ych’lahiin’dichora

For about half a minute they made contact with the darkness and let it fill them and, when this time had passed, came twelve seconds of madness. Some laughed and some cried. Some danced and sang, others flailed and shrieked. Violence, venom, and rage made war with lust, love, and gestures of fondness. What happened during those twelve seconds is best left to the memories and perhaps the words of those who took part. When the dust had settled, though, all ten participants emerged with their minds more or less intact and noticeably more power in the Gift swimming through their veins than before.

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Chapter Six: Endings and Beginnings

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The next few hours were a time to take stock, repair damage, and conclude negotiations. The royal sand wyrm had made for a rich prize, along with the dozen froabases that had also been killed, and the eggs of the Alpha froabas. While much of the bounty went to the refuge, and some to the duke, a sizable amount was set aside for the students from Ersand’Enise who had played catalyst to so much of the change. They decided ownership of it by means of a mock auction that played out over the course of two hours and greatly enriched all parties involved. Indeed, ten dragon eggs were prepared for transport back to the school.

He tethered, however, were perhaps the biggest winners. In view of witnesses, an agreement was inked, signed by all senior involved parties, promising the land of the refuge and 1000 acres surrounding it to its inhabitants in perpetuity so long as they kept faith with the senior branch of the House of Frannemas. In return for their service and fealty in matters of politics, economy, and most especially military endeavours, the tethered would receive financial support, guarantees as to their legal position and humane treatment, and a full scholarship for five of the most promising to attend each cohort of Ersand’Enise. It was close enough to the start of the program that Duke Frannemas even allowed for an initial group as a gesture of good faith.

So it was that Marceline, Felix, Luisa, Isabella, and Abdel were welcomed into the academy of thaumaturgy, after some ‘adjustments’ were made to the birthdate of the youngest. The many others who the students had come to know over the course of their week in the desert could not come with them, though.

Tavio Ortega, who had not been a good man, but perhaps not a bad one either, was among that number, for he was also no longer among the living. He was buried in a small plot behind the red tower, and a headstone erected to commemorate his life. His family did not want him, and few attended the service.

Manuel Escarra, named Lord Warden of San Agustin de las Arenas both by Duke Frannemas and popular vote, was among that few, despite the frequent conflict between the two men. Some three hours later, he took a break from his duties overseeing the transfer of prisoners and the hiring and reinstatement of others to retrieve Amanda and come visit with the youths who had impacted him so greatly.

For some twenty minutes, as animals were readied, froabas eggs secured, and goods packed onto hastily-manufactured skids, those staying and those leaving mingled. Laelle hung eagerly around Ayla, anxious of being parted from her, but assured that, next cohort, she would be headed to Ersand’Enise, and that they would write in the meanwhile. Younger children clustered eagerly around her soon, and then Casii, Jocasta, and Vieri, begging them for one more game of this or that. However, one, in particular, stood slightly apart, monopolizing Yalen.

Rita and the blond-headed monk spent their final minutes not far from the pool, which had been temporarily given over to some of the duke’s soldiers so that they might cool themselves. “They took my pool,” she pouted, face scrunching up a bit and arms crossed but, after a moment, the girl thought better of it. “But I guess they need it more than me right now.” She sighed, uncrossing her arms and looking up at him after a moment. “Are you really going?” she begged, “Forever?”

Then there were the five tethered who were going to the school. They spent what time they had left in San Agustin with friends they would likely not see for years or, in some cases, ever again, basking in that warm, cold, nervous glow before an impending and permanent parting. Then, their time ran short and Amanda wished to make a final statement before it was all finished.

“I do not have enough words of thanks,” she said, as Escarra stood respectfully silent close by. It was the students from the academy that she addressed. “Each of you came here for your own reasons, with your own lives, your own concerns and struggles. I’m under no illusions that you didn’t truly know what you had been pulled into.” With the assistance of the Gift, she bowed at the waist. “But you willingly and selflessly gave of yourselves in a world that so often demands the opposite from us.” She looked them, one-by-one, in the eyes. “I was broken, not just in body, but in spirit.”

“And I too,” interjected Jocasta. Amanda flashed her a reassuring smile.

“Gods, you showed me how good us imperfect people can be. You’re no saints, no legendary heroes or exemplars from those stories we hear as children, and I’m so very glad of it. You were just people, who saw others in need and did the right thing, even though I know it must not have been easy.”

She took a moment to swallow. “You have helped us to uplift ourselves. You have made so many lives so much better, and that is more than most can claim in their lives. I beg of you to keep doing it, because it is so needed and you do it so well.” She smiled bravely and blushed. “At the risk of sounding hackneyed, I would call you my heroes. You are, and you are - each of you - whatever else your imperfections, the exact sort of friends I would wish for my Marci.” She sniffed and glanced away momentarily. “Gods, look at me all sappy like some old prune.” Amanda’s eyes met theirs again. “Please, go with my utmost thanks. Look after my daughter. Live good lives.” She looked away to the side, holding back tears, and was finished.

Then, it was Manuel Escarra’s turn, and he was a bit less at length in his words. “I thank you,” he said simply, shaking each of their hands in turn and exchanging some quick personal words. “I have spoken many thanks in my life and most have been lies because they have been demanded or expected of me. Not this one.” He released Ayla’s hand last of all. “All of you will always be welcome in San Agustin. I swear it on Ipte, Shune, Oraff, Eshiran, Dami, and Vashdal.” He stepped back and bowed at the waist. “Thank you for keeping the faith and for treating my Amanda and my Marceline so well. Please continue to take care of her in Ersand’Enise.”

“Abuelo!” Marceline hurried to embrace him, unafraid, in the moment, of appearing childish. “Mi Vida,” he whispered into her hair, stroking it and kissing the top of her head. “I can feel the worry in your shoulders,” he chided. “You don’t think you will be good enough.” He shook his head. “You are already good enough, Marceline.” He let her go to arms’ length, but he looked her in the eyes. “You do not have to worry about making me or your mother proud.” He spared a glance and a smile at Amanda, who rose and floated forward in a manner very much like that of Jocasta. “We could not be prouder of you right now,” she assured her daughter, “or more excited for everything in your future.” In truth, her arms were no longer of any use to her, but she controlled them through the Gift, and wrapped them tightly around her little girl who was now so nearly a grown woman. “I love you, Marci. I love what you are, what you have been to me, and what you will become.”

For a moment, fear overcame the girl. “I will become… like you, Mother,” she mewed, “and might not even see you again!”

Amanda reached up, uncurling her limp fingers and stroking Marceline’s hair. She cupped the side of her daughter’s face in her palm. “And is being like me truly such a bad thing, little one?”

Marci gulped.

“I know I am near the end of my life now, but I have lived a good one, truly. I have known love and laughter. I have comforted and been comforted.” She glanced Jocasta’s way and they exchanged a brief nod. “I have played under Gran Naranja, I have held and been held. I have had a dozen adventures all around the world. How could I ever be disappointed? Most importantly, I have lived to see our people free, to watch this little person -” she pinched Marci’s cheek fondly, “-who I brought into the world grow up into a smart, beautiful, and good young woman.” A couple of tears slid down her cheeks and the youth reached out to wipe them away. “I have lived a good life, my precious one, and the best part was knowing that yours will be even better.”

And then… it appeared: a swirling of reality that resolved itself into the semi-familiar environs of Hugo Hunghorasz’s study. After a few seconds, it stabilized, and it was like when that first group had arrived all over again: hundreds of faces clustered around them and twice as many eyes staring in wonder and longing. The goodbyes, farewells, and exhortations to write flew thick and fast and the first couple of students stepped through. They crescendoed, and bodies darted forward, to be gently restrained by the guards, as four of the five chosen tethered made their way across the threshold. It had been so short a time, in the grand scheme of things, but so much had changed that the time before had felt, for some, like another life altogether. Jocasta sent the great skids through next, and then it was time, and the disappeared: Kaspar, who had found himself and a brother; Zarina, who had lost and found a sister and, perhaps, a new perspective on many things; Ayla, whose kindness and loving nature had saved - saved - so many and so much, and finally Yalen, who had found both strength and doubt and known things that he never would have before. When he disappeared, however, he did not go alone, and nobody had the heart to deny him.

It was just Marceline and Jocasta: two young women in the place of wonders and horrors where they had grown up, some six years apart. The portal flickered for a moment, and the dust and desert sun filled their nostrils. Jocasta closed her eyes and breathed it in. Marci silently gave her mother and grandfather one last hug each. “I’ll… see you on the other side?”

Jocasta smiled. “I’ll be right behind you.”

Marci pivoted on the spot, the motion taking some effort, and her senses took in the refuge of San Agustin de las Arenas one last time. Then, she stepped through.

Jocasta, however, sat there for a moment, as people watched, growing silent. Amanda sat across from her and her mind’s eye sizzled with the mirage of a similar scene some eleven long years ago: a little girl with blonde hair, lost and afraid, and the big warm arms of a young woman who made her feel safe.

That girl was a young woman now, herself, and the one who had held her, soon to die. She set hands to wheels and rolled forward a couple of pushes, drifting to a stop and bumping lightly up against Amanda. “Sister,” she said, grabbing the other’s hands.

“Sister,” Amanda replied. Both leaned forward until they touched foreheads. Warm breath mixed with warm breath and swirled between their faces: life leaving and entering their bodies. “You have saved me,” said Jocasta, her voice a breathy whisper. “For the second time, you have saved me.”

Amanda reached out again, labouring in her movements with the Gift, and placed her hands upon the younger woman’s shoulders. Pushing her out to arms’ length, she squeezed. “Now you can save someone else, Chela, right?”

Jocasta glanced uncomfortably around, the finality of it all smacking her: a chapter in the book of her life surely closing, and an ending that was oh so sweet, but with a final hint of bitterness, inescapably that final hint. She had never expected to come back, but oh how glad she was that she had! “I promise you,” she said, letting her hands fall to her wheels, “on the many years we have known each other, that I will.” Her fingers closed around them and she backed up: one push, then a second. She took a deep breath, smiled for something to do with her mouth, and turned. Then, the smell of dust and the rolling heat were gone.

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Epilogue: The Comedown

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Some days earlier, Leon Solaire and then the rest of the group that had been sent to Feska had returned the same way. They had returned with rewards of their own and some form of victory. That the Paradigm had known of Leon’s ruse was certain, for he was seen to hold it in his hands. What, precisely, had happened to the Lyre of Ipte-Zept after that was somewhat more ambiguous, to none more so than the performer himself.

In any event, there were nearly twenty young people who now stood - or sat - in the great sorcerer’s study, along with goods and animals, and he scowled for a moment at the intrusion, before allowing his expression to soften. “You did well,” he said simply. “By no means perfect, but well.” He nodded slowly, more due to age than any sort of pensiveness, for he seemed quite a decisive sort. “The world is objectively a better place because of your actions,” he stated firmly, “and that is always the goal.” From beneath drooping eyelids, aged eyes peered up at the various treasures that his students had returned with. “And, I know, for some of you, the… personal gain has been substantial as well. Well done in seizing life’s opportunities.”

There was little else to say or, perhaps, little else the legendary wizard was interested in saying. He was, after all, over a century old and not possessed of much energy these days. “I shall call on you again sometime,” he assured the biros, as the door to his impossibly large study opened into the narrow, drafty hallway of the Forked Tower. “Answer should you seek more good for the world and for yourselves.” He shrugged. “Otherwise, do not.”

It would be a lie to say that campus life returned to the mundane following the twenty-five students’ life or death struggles and vast new riches, but a species of normalcy did eventually return. There were readings to be caught up on, papers to write, and friends and masters alike to catch up with. Yet, now, there were dragon eggs to be cared for, business ventures to start up, and valuable goods to be moved for profit. New skills were practiced relentlessly and put to use. Others were studied until they could be practiced. Lives were, for the most part, busy and full, none more so than Manfred’s and Marceline’s once brother and sister were united, but that is a story best told by those it concerns.

In the vein of concerns, there were two weeks remaining before the Student Societies Faire and four before The Trials: a famous or perhaps infamous set of games that pitted apprentice groups against each other for rich reward. If the academy was not quite yet all abuzz about them, then a quiet anticipation had taken hold at the very least. Precisely how any of this would play out was yet to be decided. The future, after all, is what we make of it.

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A R C T W O : F I N .

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Rewards from Deserted

These were split between players per the results of our auction:

200 wyrm scales
200 froabas scales
14 wyrm bones
1 wyrm eye (the other was destroyed)
6 wyrm pearls of varying sizes.
58 wyrm teeth
18 wyrm claws (two were destroyed)
10 froabas eggs (20% chance of an alpha egg)
1 Wyrm acid gland
4 mysterious encrusted items from the wyrm's stomach
assorted organs

Many members of this group also gained in RAS Capacity from co-consuming a large aberration. They will be subject to headaches and irritability for the next day or two, as well as cravings for two weeks. However, the capacity gains will be permanent and as listed below:

1. Ingrid: 179 (will gain from 8.40 RAS to 8.46)
2. Trypano: 164 (will gain from 8.28 to 8.35)
3. Casii: 144 (will gain from 8.12 to 8.20)
4. Zarina: 103 (will gain from 7.62 to 7.73)
5. Kaspar: 88 (will gain from 7.37 to 7.50)
6. Marci: 85 (will gain from 7.33 to 7.48)
7. Ayla: 78 (will gain from 7.23 to 7.43)
8. Isabella: 56 (will gain from 6.75 to 7.01)
9. Silas: 39 (will gain from 6.22 to 6.52)
10. Yalen: 25 (will gain from 5.52 to 6.00)

Magic Rewards

All characters have also each added beginner's competency in one new school that they have used in this arc, as well as up to two new spells.

Rewards from Lorentine Queen

These were split between players per the results of their claims:

1. Two chests of freshly-harvested spratz. It looks like some still have the seeds in them.
2. One finely-bejeweled magician's wand of excellent manufacture quality, storied age, and staggering value, crafted with a dragon pearl.
3. five schluckodil eggs, numbered one to five. Once is secretly the egg of an invasive Harlequin Kite: a rideable and highly poisonous dragon species that likes to lay its eggs in other animals' nests
4. An ancient, leather-bound tome with strange demonic symbols on it. It smells faintly of sulfur.
5. A box full of fine pocketwatches of Kerreman manufacture and one strange device that looks like it has a small black glass window.
6. A strange map rolled up in a waterproof tube. The paper seems waterproof
7. A great big chest of gold bars: payment for something that will never reach market now.

The Hourglass Order

@RezonanceV Evander is accepted. Feel free to post him into the Characters tab, and welcome aboard!

O R I F L A M M E

Act Two: Scattered to the Winds____ __ _ _

Chapter Two: Rough Men_________ __ __ _ _

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It was morning, and a glacier - a great white mountain of ice - drifted past the harbour of Meldheim. It had begun its journey, some months prior, in the lands of everwinter, and now that the water was warming in earnest, the current had carried it here: to the capital city of a people known as the Eskandr. By the Hours of Mother, the first few boats had already approached it, and soon people were crawling all over it like ants over a dead bird. By noon, they were picking away at the great white corpse with picks and hammers. Sheets of ice slid down its faces into the deep, cold waters that surrounded them. At least a dozen boats had hooks and ropes in it now and, with the aid of the Gift, for some had brought wizards and warlocks, they tamed the giant and brought it gradually towards that part of harbour near to the lumber mill. It was the season for ice harvesting, after all, and Meldheim's inns and boarding houses had filled with the rough men of the surrounding countryside who were often in search of seasonal work.

Once ashore, chunks of the behemoth would be coated and combined with sawdust from the mill to make them last through the coming warm months. Carved into blocks, they would reside in cellars, caves, and cold-houses, preserving the foodstuffs of the people who lived here until the cold returned. Of course, the ice was ancient and, once in a while, some treasure or odd thing of the past would be found inside of it. Indeed, some of the water frozen inside was many thousands of years old. Last it had been exposed to the lands of men, there had been no city here, no grand temple where the gods were worshipped, and certainly no fight over what those Gods looked like or what their names were. There had been no such people as the Eskandr, the Parrench, or the Drudgunzeans. Perhaps, the next time that it reached this place, there would also be naught but a memory of those peoples. It was difficult to say.

There was a great deal more happening in the harbour, however, even with the great berg being a subject of idle observation and conversation for much of the day. News of the war in Parrence had begun filtering back. Last night, some longships that it was rumoured had been sent by the king had slipped into port, and they now had guards surrounding them. There were whispers of a great bounty of treasure that had been brought to Hrothgar's reserves and those of the raiders who had won it. Word circled that the underking Kol, ruler of Sturmreef, had led he delegation back and was even now in town, along with the storied ranger Vali, the Twice-Born, and an embassy from Kressia. Indeed, it appeared that rich plunder was to be had from the lands of Green Parrence, and not-inconsiderable was the number of people who began wishing they had joined the expedition.

It was precisely noon when the delegation from the Kongesalan made its way into the Market-on-the-Hill. With hammer and nail, a scribe made known his writing upon the great wooden obelisk in the center of the square. As few could read, however, it was up to the royal crier as he stepped onto the dais surrounding it. For a moment, the bustling activity of the market stilled and faces turned his way. Among these was Trygve, who had lived much of his life in and around the great city. He leaned against a post, arms crossed, waiting to hear what would be said.

"Hear ye, hear ye!" the crier shouted, blessed by Mother with a voice that carried loud and clear. "I bring to you people of Meldheim news of our brave warriors who fight even now against the Parrench encroachers!" Business paused or concluded quickly and the crowd around the obelisk thickened. "This previous night, a delegation from the green lands returned to us, covered in glory and heavy with riches." Voices rose in excited conversation. A couple of burly men hauled a large chest up to the platform and left it there with a thud. The crier reached down and, with some effort, pried open its heavy lid. His hand filled with treasure and he let it spill down like a waterfall as he lifted it. People flocked to get a look, a quartet of guards forming a perimeter in front of the raised area. It was a fool's show, Trygve knew. He had been on the same island as the raiders during that storm and he had seen the sea people. There was no way they wouldn't have taken at least half of what had been left aboard the ships.

The crier was storytelling now, spinning tales of the great heroes and villains - the latter all Parrench or Lindermen, of course. He spoke at length of the epic clashes, the cruelty and craftiness of the enemy, and valiant fighting of the Eskandr. How they had broken out! How they had taken two Parrench for every one of them but how many Parrenchmen there were! There was no mention, of course, of Relouse still standing. Why, even now, five great armies of Eskand were racing across the rich green countryside, looting to their fill, eating, drinking, and merrymaking. It was a place of opportunity, that Parrence. Legends were being made and land was being claimed. The enemy was doughty, though, and fighting back hard, so perhaps the great army could be convinced to let in a second wave of recruits.

Trygve sniffed and pawed at his nose. During his years away, he'd grown more accustomed to the Parrench climate than he'd have liked to admit. The crier was good. He was a performer much blessed by Sister... or Ipte and Chune in equal measure. Sometimes, the old gods still came to the convert, easily to his thoughts and his tongue, but they were false gods - mere stories, even if nice ones - and he had never felt their power like he had that of the Pentad. He shook his head to clear t and pushed off from the wall. "Are you going, greybeard?" asked an eager youth from nearby, and it took Trygve a moment to realize that the boy - for that was what he was, in truth - was talking to him, for he was a man of nine and thirty and not so old in the grand desiin of things. "There is much to be won!" The fool continued. Perhaps he could tell by the scowl on the older man's face, though he was likely misplacing its origin, that he needed more convincing. "You will either end up a rich man or else make it to Gronhalle after all!"

"I am not much of a fighter," Trygve said simply, crossing his arms. His size, musculature, and a handful of noticeable scars easily put the lie to his words, but the young fool did not press any further. "You are missing out!" he called back, winding his way to the front of the crowd. Trygve leaned his head to the side and spat, pushing off from the wall he'd been leaning against. His people were determined to reject the light of the Pentad and so they would suffer in darkness instead. Were he braver - but he was not - perhaps the veteran warrior would've spoken for the true gods then and there. Perhaps he would've challenged the crier on his lies. That would have served nobody well, though, and if he were tortured, his resolve might fail him and his tongue might let slip matters that needed to be kept to utmost secrecy. His portion of their agreed-upon information gathering complete, he began making his way back to the Dragehale Inn.

The others, it had been agreed, were to spread out and begin scouting. Gerard, in the guise of a Kressian pilgrim, was to acquaint himself with the Grontempel, for it was Trygve's understanding that the Parrench wished to plunder it as their own churches had been plundered. Svend was to appear before Queen Astrid in the Kongesalan with an offer to outfit three fine drakkars for the raid, but he was to make demands designed to lure her or at least one of her two older children to Rigevand, where they could be kidnapped and later ransomed. After great effort from Osanna, it had been communicated to the mossy-haired girl, Nettle, that she was to accompany Lazy Eye Jacques and investigate the docks before splitting off to seek out the Parrench captives recently brought ashore. It would not be easy to break them free, but she had been tasked with seeking out the weaknesses of their prison and devising the fundaments of a plan to bring back to the rest. There were rumours that, for some reason, the Gift was unresponsive in that area, and this was also something that she had been asked to look into. The Black Rezaindian, meanwhile, was to stay with Svend in the guise of a servant girl and tutor offered to Astrid. The hope was that her obvious status as an outsider, her skills and apparent guilelessness, and her status as a gift would allow her to work her way into the queen's service. She was to render Astrid and any remaining children unconscious following Svend's reappearance, so that they could also be spirited away. There was more that they had assigned Nettle, as well, but Trygve did not know it, and even Jacques' continued mission was also a mystery to him. A few of the Parrench had talked late into the night in hushed tones and he had made the trek down to their accommodations with Maud, who was simply to remain in the market as a beggar and listen in on what people were saying while sweeping the city for any unusual buildups of energy or mobilization of soldiers. He supposed that they could not be too careful. That was why many of the others were to remain in and around Rigevand, nondescript, out of the way, and playing the role of the usual pirates or plunderers. Such rough and common figures would do little to invite the locals' attentions.

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Konge Kol had told Ulf enough that he had thought it wise to bring back to his mother immediately and, once she had finished with the Kressian ambassador, she had spoken at length with the Sturmish king and Vali. "My son," she had told him, late in the night, "you will go with Vali and thirty of our soldiers to Rigevand tomorrow in the midday to investigate reports of pirates and smugglers."

Ulf knew the reputation of that 'fishing village' well, and he would do much more with his father's soldiers than simply 'investigate' some pirates. It was long overdue that the notorious hive of scum and villainy was brought under the king's justice, and even more urgent that the Quentics who hid out there were dealt with. He had been given Vali: a powerful warrior, and one who was unlikely to use hiis right to override the youth due to his quiet nature. Ulf would be a fool to waste this opportunity and, to that end, his mother did not need to know the extent of his plans. She would forbid him from pursuing such decisive action if she did. Caution and prudence: she always counseled these things and he increasingly found that it grated upon his nerves as he grew older. That was the problem with women, he supposed: they had been made to create life and, even when blessed with great power, were naturally overcautious and far too forgiving. This would be a man's job, and Ulf was nearly a man grown, after all.

Prove himself fully enough, and perhaps he would be allowed to leave with Kol, Vali, and the new Æresvaktr to join his father in Parrence. There was still Snorri back here as the spare heir should Ulf's time to join Gestur in Gronhalle come early. It would not, though. Of that he was certain. The gods had made him strong in the Gift and so it was clear that they had great things in store for Ulf Hrothgarsson. He merely needed to reach out with faith and strength to seize them.

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Inga stood beside her mother in the courtyard, the last of the morning dew disappearing from training dummies, railings, and the ground as the rays of the resurgent sun reached out for it. She knew that, within minutes, Onkel Kol would join them. She knew that he was to evaluate the two new Æresvaktr who'd been chosen by her father and induct them into the legendary group of warriors. In truth, Inga was not much of a fighter, but she had still grown up with the sagas and the Æresvaktr had long played a prominent role in them. She still imagined herself a great huntress, shaman, or shieldmaiden at times. That was folly, of course. Her job was to marry into another kingdom and work to bring it under the sway of her father or, someday, Ulf or Snorri. There were many ways other than brute force to conquer.

For now, she watched the yasoi at his practice. Arne'altan'jaros was his name, and she found it a pleasant mix of her own culture and his. The way that he struck so blindingly fast and how he simply appeared in new places, attacking his targets so differently from humans: truly from three dimensions. She liked it. She thought that he would do well and that Kol would like him too after sparring with him. The process was supposed to be a formality. As one of the Æresvaktr's senior members and a lesser ruler himself, the King of Sturmreef was merely there to add a stamp of approval and lend weight to proceedings and Inga imagined that he knew it. Still, he could technically refuse should circumstances come to absolutely demand so, and the induction of a filthy creature like The Skygge would serve as sore temptation to invoke that right. Why father wanted her - a vile sorceress who experimented on human bodies - for such a noble group was beyond Inga, and she reflected that perhaps even her great father, the king, was not always right in his judgement.

Then, presently, Onkel Kol arrived. Before yesterday, she had not seen him for two years and she always found herself impressed with the size of him. She knew that she was to accompany him on his rounds today, so she hurried up to him, even as the yasoi ceased his training, and both of them bowed. "Good morning, your majesty," she greeted him, to her mother's approval, "the first of your new recruits awaits." She gestured at Arne. The yasoi twirled his weapons and regarded the Sturmish king eagerly.

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Snorri's job, he knew, was to watch and learn for the eventuality that he might one day rule. On his last birthday, mother had confided in him that she thought Ulf a fool, and the younger boy had agreed, after some consideration. Also after some consideration, he had told her that he did not think it wise that such a fool should be given command of thirty soldiers and sent to deal with what Onkel Vali had reported were pirates or smugglers seeking refuge from the laws of the land in Rigevand. She had cryptically replied that sometimes you needed to give a fool the right tools and then you would benefit instead of him.

As he moved another piece on the chessboard, Snorri thought about this too. He was doing his job, the boy reflected. It is your turn, Jarl Sturmfeld, he thought, but he did not say it. This Kressian was ambitious and a little obsequious at times, but he was not stupid. "They say you drank the water of the Grontempel," the prince began. "What was it like?" He tilted his head to one side and could not resist a further question. "Do you feel it was really necessary?" He would not have much time to take further measure of this man and to learn both of him and from him. Truth be told, he was also just curious, as many nine year olds are. In particular, he wished to learn of how the Quentics had spread their faith for, vile as they surely were, they were effective.

Soon, Snorri knew, they would join mother at court as she received supplicants, petitions, and news. He was to be Jarl Sturmfeld's shadow as the Kressian observed her in matters of state and gained a feel for the legal workings of Eskand. Then, they were to sit down for their own negotiations over dinner. The prince knew that he was likely to be sent to bed at that point, though he secretly hoped it would not be so, and mother sometimes allowed him to join the adults when she was pleased with him. Snorri hoped very much to please her but, secretly he also wished his foolish brother success. If he was to win the throne from Ulf somehow, someday, he hoped that it would be a fair contest against a competent rival. Such strength would bode well for the future of his people.

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It was, Maud estimated, some two hours past midday and, since arriving at the market early in the morning, she had overheard little but gossip and speculation from the godless heathens that were supposedly her people. They signed up so eagerly to kill and be killed that she could not help but judge them collectively, culturally insane. They believed so blindly in their gods and in their king that she'd had to work to keep a scowl off of her face more than once.

The youth had found much to scowl about over the past little while, though. Shortly after the sun had peaked, she had sensed a gathering of some thirty-two people leaving the fortified longhouse that sat beside the Kongesalan. Not yet wanting to cause a panic and confirm, in everyone's minds that she was no more than a useless, crippled little girl, she'd held off on raising the alarm. She had instead followed the soldiers' energies as they'd wound their way down from the hill and even as they'd collected briefly in the marketplace. There were many things that they might be doing, she'd told herself, but now they had reached the outskirts of the city and the cold feeling in her gut congealed into certainty. They were headed for Rigevand and those left behind would have to either hide or confront them. The latter course risked everything.

So, she had sent the agreed upon signal to Birger, Osanna, Svend, Gerard, Jacques, and Trygve: two sharp little pinches behind the ears. The first of those allies would know to prepare and the others to head stealthily back. The last of them was to meet her by the inn and carry her. Truly, Maud was grateful for it. The harsh wooden braces and leather straps bit at her legs and the crutches at her armpits as she hurried along, making an awful, awkward racket. It was, she reflected, the opposite of stealth, but it could not be helped. Matters had taken a turn for the worse.

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Action Opportunities

Feel free to take any of the actions listed below, in addition to following those more obvious prompts that are included above for your characters. Please also make sure to read the entire post and pay attention to how others' actions may affect yours.

1) All Parrench-aligned players have a wide scope of opportunity and creative freedom to uncover things as they snoop. Be aware that your allied Eskandr generally do not know of your plans to burn the city. Lazy Eye Jacques, posing as a Drudgunzean mercenary, is looking for suitable pitch and oil to help with the arson for when the time comes.

2) All Eskandr-aligned players are accompanied by one of the royal children: fourteen-year-old Ulf, twelve-year-old Inga, or nine-year-old Snorri. You also have a fairly wide breadth of action and creative freedom to explore your options and advance storylines. Just try to be wary of metagaming in terms of discovering the identity of the Parrench and their true goals.

3) This chapter does not necessarily need to end in an out-and-out conflict. In fact that is likely not to be a desirable outcome for both sides, as the Eskandr are outnumbered in Rigevand (there are about seventy other Parrench there and some sympathetic locals) but the Parrench risk having their entire operation blown open if they fight.

4) I strongly encourage some collaborative discussions and even collaborative storytelling this chapter. When we reach the point of confrontation, I will play the parts of Ulf on the one side and Birger and other NPCs on the other.

5) If Osanna investigates the strange dead spot in Gift use, she will find the stories to be true. With enough luck, skill, and persistence, she may find a strange, carnivorous seal-like creature called a skrigendsæl contained in a large pen beneath an obscure section of the docks near the prison. It is fed the corpses of prisoners who 'expire'.

6) When Kol goes to recruit the Skygge, he will find her in a special prison a little ways out of the city in the shadow of the Eldfjall. She will not want to duel him, thinking it stupid, but she will impress upon him her power nonetheless. She will be rude, aloof, and challenging, but not outright confrontational. This is something Id like to collab on, if possible.

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O R I F L A M M E

Act Two: Scattered to the Winds____ __ _ _

Chapter Two: Folly______ __ _ _

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Humans, in their eagerness to see yasoi as some extension of the forest, to define them by and have them embody it, made a dangerous mistake. They looked upon Loriindton as an ideal, formed of the trees and alive in perfect harmony with nature. In the early morning sun, it emerged from the nighttime mists: an apparition of great golden boughs that groaned softly in the breeze and shining silver bells that gently chimed. For seven thousand years, they had looked upon the changing visage of the city in the trees and decided that it symbolized peace, permanence, and beauty: things to strive for. In truth, this was little more than a reflection of that peculiar human need to place everything in neat little crates so that it could be understood.

It was a need that Talit'yrash'osmax did not understand. She and the others were close now. The undergrowth was growing sparse and the animals fewer. The trees towered to unnatural heights, carefully cultivated over millennia by yasoi hands. Their mighty roots drank endlessly of the Ascel River and choked out those of their smaller brethren. The sun beat down through the gaps in the canopy, parching soil and grasses. The sharp hum of cicadas rose in urgency as the day wore on and smoke from hundreds of chimneys filtered, foul and phantasmal, through the branches. In truth, Loriindton was an unnatural place: a blight upon the sanctity of the eternal land picked at relentlessly by the folly of men. Mud and stone covered the forest floor and leaves, maintained through the use of the Gift, remained year-round on their branches. At this time of year, they were transitioning from yellow to green instead of growing anew.

Then, the new arrivals were passing through Athal'riimas, the vast arch and its hundred dangling chimes stretching over their heads. On the other side lay a hive of activity. Milling crowds moved in all three dimensions: back and forth on foot, up and down ladders, stairs, and trees. Dozens of wagons clustered along the network of roads that branched from Athal'riimas. Loud voices filled the air, competing with a smorgasbord of scents and sights: multicoloured banners, cooking meat, spices, sweat, and shit. It was a sensory bombardment thrilling for a human but almost overwhelming for many yasoi.

"Home, ladies and gentlemen," announced Tali in an ambivalent tone, bringing Pishcar about. The horse had been trained to walk in reverse. "Senses keen, bags clasped shut, hmm?" She motioned for them to follow.

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Everything on the ground floor of the market was cleared by the early afternoon and the decorators came out in earnest. By Ypti herself, they covered the great plaza with more ribbons than Talit had thought existed in the whole of the city. Next came the treasure wagons and the long travelers, and they bargained and bartered in the background as long tables and stages took shape along with the throne for the Grand Mockery. Casks of wine, mead, and spirits were arranged in sculptures and bolted or tied into place. Hundreds of hands combined to build a tiims'archa course that snaked around, up, and down many of the lesser trees, through the fountain, and right to the foot of the throne itself. By the late afternoon, bards and music troupes were drifting in and out of the plaza, claiming the plum spots, and vendors were busy cooking up jumpoi and sharring'oss. For those who hassled them too much, there would inevitably be a few slices of jumpoi'asca.

Lifted into place by the magics of the Festive Guild came the swinging post, and then tetsoi booths and Dare Squares. The Chefs' Guild soon had a roaring fire lit and a spit turning with dozens of chickens, turkeys, pigs, rabbits, and boars. Before long, afternoon gave way to evening. Dancers swirled about to music and torches were lit at ground level and many others above as the sun set. Then came the jesters and acrobats, resplendent in their multicoloured livery. Families wound through the thickening crowds and a dozen individual practice sessions and sing-alongs congealed into one great musical ensemble.

The six Festive Masters leapt up on top of the long tables and pranced about. Every single one of them had drank a substantial amount and all were properly, obnoxiously jolly. Pie Man had both thrown and received pies. Frolicking Fish was squirting people from the fountain and the area around her was already a no man's land except for those young men who saw... boobs first and foremost and were willing to endure the relentless humiliation. The Tickler was busy tormenting a waiter who was holding up one end of a massive roast peacock on a glass platter, close to getting him to drop it. Fat Ferit, meanwhile, was huffing and puffing, stumbling and bumbling all over the place in her frilly robes and liberally helping herself to people's food and drinks with a mixture of obsequious apology and barbed jokes. Baron Pecker was strutting around smugly with his great jaw, feathered hat, tights, and even greater... pecker, winking at all the women, chatting them up with the corniest of jests, sneaking up behind people and... poking them, and demanding duels with 'offended' husbands, while shamelessly bending the rules or running away and claiming victory. Peering out from a small window overlooking the plaza, Talit blushed at the sight of him. Aged twelve, she'd asked her mother wonderingly if it was real.

“No more real than the last time you asked,” teased a curmudgeonly old voice from nearby.

The young woman turned. “Old Nan,” she replied, instinctively bowing.

Leaning heavily on a cane, Merit’entasp’osmax shuffled forward. She stopped in front of her triple-great granddaughter and they stood eye to eye, the elder not having to look up very much. “My dear little Tali.” Old Nan pinched her cheek fondly. “Glad you made it back in one piece this time.”

“It was only men,” Tali replied, hovering close behind as Old Nan took a few steps back and settled gingerly onto her armchair.

“Humans,” grumbled the old crone, “and the two worst sorts: Eskandr and Parrench.”

Talit sighed. “I know you’re not half as opposed to the latter as you like to make it sound.” The floorboards creaked in a familiar way underfoot and the air smelled faintly of chamomile.

“Hmm, maybe,” the former Baroness admitted. “But also not half as favourable as you like to think.”

“Then I shall just have to push harder,” the potential future baroness teased. Yet, it was met not with some witty rejoinder, as usual, but with a tired smile. Merit lifted a steaming mug unsteadily to her lips and took a long sip. She seemed somehow a good deal older than the last time they’d seen each other, towards the end of winter. “Your brother pushes me one way and you the other,” she sighed. “It is altogether too much pushing, I fear. The two of you seem determined to turn me into a prune.”

“Why, but you already are, dear Old Nan. Have you looked in a mirror of late?”

“I try to avoid them,” the old woman grumbled.

“I suppose, at your age, I might as well,” Tali admitted, still pacing, but Old Nan’s eyes found her just the same. She shook her head. “By my age, you’ll have been a goddess for over a century, Yrash. You must accept that you are Vyshta.”

The young woman’s eyes flashed. “I am Talit first; not some mere body for the fallen goddess to inhabit.”

Merit smiled reassuringly, but she seemed old and withered these days, and she lacked the forceful glow that Tali was accustomed to. Perhaps ascending as a goddess was much preferable to old age after all. “Each vessel remains herself within the goddess. You should not worry. There will simply be more to you after you ascend.”

Talit sighed. “And how you will love to tell me “I told you so’.”

“Hmmmm.” Old Nan sipped from her mug, silent. It wasn’t like her to pass up an opportunity to poke fun at her younger kin, but she sat there on her chair, suddenly quite still, eyes staring ahead with no particular sort of focus. “Old Nan?” Tali prodded, “What is so interesting about the wall, hmm?”

Merit blinked. “Oh, yes. Nothing, dear. I was just thinking how glad I was that you’d made it back safely. War is such a horrid business.”

“Yes, Old Nan.”

The former baroness paused. “Have I forgotten something? Were we on another topic?”

“Nothing of consequence,” Tali lied, and the old woman smiled. “Ah yes, it just came to me that there was a jest I had wished to make.”

Smoothly, Talit strode up to the padded chest beside where her Old Nan was and sat on it, setting her crutches to the side. “And what was that?” she inquired softly.

“Oh, just that I was happy you’d come back in one piece this time.” She winked.

Tali forced a smile, but her need to do so came not from an objection to jokes about her missing leg. They had been a part of her life for over a decade and she was well used to them by now. Old Nan was repeating herself. She was forgetting things. There’d been hints over the past few seasons, but she was much worse now. “I am supposedly the goddess of fortune incarnate,” Tali replied, probing once more.

“And perhaps you have come to accept that, yes?”

“It is as I told you just now: I shall be Talit first and foremost, always.”

“Oh, but you will be,” Old Nan assured her. “Each vessel remains herself within the goddess. You should not worry. There will simply be more to you after you ascend.” Word for word, it was the same. Something in the young woman’s chest snapped. “And how you will love to tell me ‘I told you so’,” she repeated. This time, however, the elder noticed something amiss. She scowled and set her mug down unsteadily. “I fear I may not have the opportunity, dear one.”

“Old Nan?”

Merit looked her way, eyes sharp for a moment, as they had always been previously. She reached out with a gnarled hand and enfolded one of Talit’s. “I had a conversation like this with Dyric already.” She furrowed her brow for a moment, looking confused and trying to push through it. “At least… I think I did.”

“Granny Merit,” the young woman squeaked.

“No sounds of weakness, girl,” scolded the former baroness. “Those will not do.” She brought her mug up to her lips again and then stopped and scowled. “It is only water in here,” she growled. “The tea is still steeping. I had forgotten.”

Tali rose and hopped a couple of steps to grab the pot, returning in a heel-toe shimmy with it. “It is… a horrid thing to grow this old,” Old Nan admitted, “to be a shadow of oneself, to know it and yet not know it.” She stared ahead in reverie as Tali poured another mug for her. “Things you used to do with such ease drift out of your grasp and you’ve no choice but to accept it. A bitter pill…” she trailed off.

The young woman went silent and tired old eyes found her. More particularly, they found her stump for a moment. “How indulged I must sound, dear girl.” Merit took a sip of her tea, eyelids flickering as she savoured it, and shook her head. “You know far more about loss at your age than anyone ought to.”

“I know a thing or two about perseverance as well.”

“Oh, I have persevered plenty long,” Merti snorted. “When I was precisely your age, I stood there on a hilltop, just outside the forest with a boy I loved at the time and we watched flames consume Old Avince. That is how very much is inside this old head of mine and how hard it is to organize all.”

“Perhaps the Gift of Essence can help?” Tali ventured.

“I have tried it.” Merit waved dismissively. “Three times, apparently. I have written it on a scrap of parchment so that I do not waste what little time I have trying it again.”

“Old Nan,” pleaded Tali, “you must continue to persevere, please, for one more year and hopefully much longer.” She started to rise, but thought better of it, instead shifting to more fully face the old woman. “I understand that it is my duty to ascend, and I would not be so selfish as to shirk that, but I am frightened. For all of the Gift that I have, I truly am. No vessel of Vyshta has made her twenty-fifth birthday in over a millennium. I… do not think that my chances are very good without -”

“You must persevere,” said Old Nan simply.

“And I shall, with every ounce of my being, but…”

“Talit’yrash, there is something I must tell you,” Merit began. “An admission I must make.”

Tali could feel her heartbeat accelerate. She swallowed. “What is it, Baroness?”

“I will not be among the living this time next year. Twice, in the past month, my bowels have failed me. On some days, I need to be carried down the ladder from my home.” She shook her head. “I have been coughing up blood for a week now. So I have taken -”

A long, low sound - impossibly loud - reverberated through the room. Tali leapt to her foot and grabbed her crutches as a second sound, slightly higher in pitch, cut through the elder’s words. It was the hornmaster. Three more notes sounded, each loud enough to be heard clear across Loriindton. Old Nan was covering her ears, muttering something, and then the last of the notes faded. It was time for the guests of honour to take their places. Sunset had given way to dusk and the former baroness would struggle to see much of anything in so little light. Tali drew upon the Gift to set every candle in the room aglow. “It is time for us to appear, dear Old Nan,” she announced, as the elder pushed herself free of her armchair with some difficulty. “Time for the mockery, but first, what was it that you were saying?”
Absently, Tali’s eyes went back to Baron Pecker and his ridiculous display. “Ah, a-hah, yes!” Merit replied, shuffling up beside the much younger woman. She leaned in and whispered with an impish grin. “It isn’t real, Talit’yrash. No more real than when you were twelve.”

Tali was about to protest and remind her of the serious nature of their conversation, but Old Nan seemed so pleased with herself that she had not the heart and, in any event, the old crone had likely forgotten. They could discuss it later. “As if I haven’t heard that one before,” she replied, rolling her eyes. “Come on now, let’s go. It wouldn’t do for the guest of honour to be late.”

Shuffling ahead of her with tiny, uncertain steps, Merit twisted carefully and gazed back upon Talit with fondness. “My precious Talit’yrash,” she said softly. “I want you to know how very much I love you and how proud of you I am.”

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“So, are we still calling her ‘baroness’ because we wish to honour her or because she’s forgotten that she isn’t anymore and we wish to humour the old bat?” People laughed, most of all Merit. “You’ve lived too long, Baroness. Why, soon, there’ll be no one left to check your wild tales of Avincian days. Why, for all we know, you could claim that Avincians could all fly by means of their flatulence and we would have no choice but to accept your firsthand account!” The former baroness was well-known as a storyteller and, at times, as something of an embellisher. “But, of course, we wish you all the best,” continued the Master of Mockery, “many more years to your long and healthy life… and just as many where we have an easy excuse to hold a mete’stiroi!”

Hoots and hollers. Tali smirked guiltily. Near the other end of the dais, she could see Dyric grin. “Ah, and of course, it isn’t just our grand old lady who’s having a birthday today!” The master spread his arms and stalked up in front of Tali. Reaching out, he took some of her plum wine and downed it. “How could we forget our ‘twins of destiny’!?” He made twinkle fingers as he twisted to take in the crowd, “though, let’s be honest, Talit’s the only one people really remember, isn’t she?” She let out a guilty snort of laughter as Dyric’s smile grew pinched. “And a banner month it has been as well for our resident flamingo. Why, with how many Eskandr she sent to their little green building of the afterlife, perhaps people will finally remember her for something other than having one leg!”

“A girl can dream!” Tali responded from her seat.

“Dreams,” replied the Master of Mockery. “Those are good to have and, let me tell you, young lady, that all of us dream with you.” He shook his head and smiled, somewhat serious for a moment. “One more year,” he announced, “and the most obvious vessel of Vyshta we’ve ever had gets to ascend and all of get a whoooole lot luckier.”

People shouted and clapped.

“Don’t fuck it up, Tali.” He winked. “Seriously. I’ve already picked my lottery tickets for next year’s event. Just… don’t eat anything stupid or fight any more scagbiists or Eskandr. Stay away from sharp objects and… for Exiran’s sake, take the bridges and not the ropes, hmm?”

“I shall expect a healthy cut of your winnings,” she teased, and he made a strange face, twisting dramatically on the spot and regarding the crowd. “You see, this is how you can tell she’s not Shiin.” He shook his head and tapped his temple with a finger. “Not very bright.” He turned back to her. “Missy, it’s my job to mock you, not the other way around.” He paused again, twitching on the spot and taking in the revelers. “So… it’s just occurred to me that it’s been so bloody long since we’ve had a real live Vyshta, that nobody really knows how to use the damned thing!” He skipped up to her and leaned in. “I mean… Tali, what do we do? Are there… magic words?”

She shrugged. "'Please', perhaps? I dunno." He tilted his head. “Do we… rub your head for good luck?”

She glared. “Try it, bub.”

He leaned in conspiratorially. “Bribes?”

“Well, I never!” she gasped in mock horror.

“Ah, yep. It’s bribes,” he announced. “When they get indignant, you know.” He nodded knowingly, looking disappointed, and shook his head. “Typical Vyshta.”

Following his brief skewering of Talit, the Master of Mockery moved on, setting his sights on Dyric: “a proud yasoi nationalist who extols the virtues of all of our traditions… though he’s never actually tried any of them,” and “a politician who won a resounding victory in the last race he ran in: a footrace… against his sister.”

The Master of Mockery was finished before long and it then became open season on whoever sat on one of the three thrones. Many tried their hand at the honoured craft, though there were other pursuits for all different types. The long voyagers continued their trade, music belted out across the plaza, and people leapt and swirled in dance, Tali joining them more than once. Tetsoi were applied liberally, the dare squares saw plenty of use, and a Mez’Qadurat ring played host to some particularly exciting combats. Food and drink flowed liberally. Couples stumbled out to shadowed alcoves and hidden booths, magic shows lit up the sky, and people covered their bodies in exotic glowing paints of the tiims’archa. Tired children bounced and bounded around, hopped up on sugar and excitement, before congregating with a heterogeneous mix of parents, snail enthusiasts, and lifelong gamblers around the racecourse. Tali had sponsored two snails this year - Blue Number 8 and Mondo - though she’d been out of town and not seen them in action. As was customary, she chose two children to release her racers onto the course: a boy named Anthan for the former and a girl named Vaidii for the latter. Tali watched the start, of course, for it was always spectacular with a crowded field of collisions, attack, and jockeying, and both of her snails were still in it when she wandered off. Races could take a good few hours, and she had other things to do.

Setting off, Tali wound her way through the crowds, stopped every few yards by well-wishers, sycophants, or others who simply recognized her and wanted to talk with her. Jaxan: she wanted to find him. She hadn’t had the chances she’d hoped for to spend some time around him, but he was… many things that she liked and those who knew her - and some who didn’t - were always advising her to stop thinking so much of Arcel: a married man and - more importantly - a human. Still, as she walked, a tightness hovered about the top of Tali’s stomach, and she wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was the war, or maybe it was sharing a space, once more, with Dyric, who was family and who she was not on speaking terms with. It could have been the looming threat the Eskandr posed to her people. There would almost certainly be Tar’ithan looking to slip into Loriindton and an army hovered somewhere nebulously nearby, she had been told. Most likely, however, it was Old Nan and the strange conversation they had shared. It was the old woman’s precipitous decline and unusual thoughtfulness.

A stabbing pain shot up Tali’s thigh and she grimaced and hissed, freeing a hand from a crutch handle and reaching down instinctively to rub at the spot. Instead, all that she encountered was the end of her stump. “Stupid thing,” she hissed under her breath, gingerly grabbing it and trying to massage away a feeling in a body part that didn’t exist anymore. She knew this phantom pain for a symptom of stress and worry, so she grit her teeth, took a couple of steadying breaths, and reminded herself that it wasn’t real. After a moment of conspicuous stillness, she decided that her best course of action was to go check in on Old Nan, who’d last been seated on the very comfortable Prime Throne of Mockery, lapping up the abuse.

Shouldering her way through the swirling throngs, Talit came upon her three-times-great grandmother being set upon by Lyen. The young woman had fought alongside the maledict and knew well her occasionally sharp tongue, but Lyen seemed utterly jolly, prancing about, slinging barbed jokes, laying hands on people - including the nearby Dyric and the tall red woman Tali had run into on the road last night - and consuming copious amounts of wine. Tali smiled despite herself and blushed a bit. She was just about to call out for either mocker or mockee's attention, because they seemed engaged in some sort of interaction that she wished to take part in, when Lyen reached out and laid a hand on Merit’s shoulder.

For a moment, there was nothing noteworthy about it, but then Old Nan froze, and a look of sudden and conspicuous pain filled her. Her eyes flashed Dyric’s way, having not yet noticed Tali, and she slumped dramatically to the side, eyes still open, unmoving. “Old Nan!?” Talit shouted, barreling through the crowd. People clustered round or drew back, and voices rose. “She isn’t moving!” one shouted. “She’s… she’s dead!” hollered another. Finally, Dyric: “It was her!” he accused, pointing straight at a shocked-looking Lyen. “That maledict! She touched the baroness and this happened.”

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Action Opportunities

All yasoi player characters as well as NPCs are in the area and would be attending the mete'stiroi. Feel free to engage with the following:

1) Any of the festivities, including: tiims'archa racing, mez'qadurat combat, dare squares, the roasts (mockery), item trading, dancing, lovemaking, receiving new tetsoi, feasting, and drinking.

2) Both Parrench and Eskandr yasoi will be probing public opinion subtly. They will find that Loriindton views the tar'ithan as unwanted troublecausers but also has some deep-seated distrust of the Parrench crown. While some Loriindton'soi who fought in Relouse for the Parrench are true believvers in the cause, many only did so in the hopes of keeping Eskandr and, therefore, the war away from their home. Now that the Eskandr have landed, they favour neutrality. Lady Merit herself came out in favour of neutrality. Dyric did as well, though there are rumblings that he would like to use Parrence's distraction to claim greater sovereignty for Loriindton. Some people are listening to him. A small handful are even listening to the Tar'ithan.

3) Feel free to invent NPCs, storylines, and situations to play out. Here's your chance to advance subplots and secondary characters.

4) How does news of Merit's death reach you? If you would like your character to be complicit in it, message me and there's a fun storyline - very cloak and dagger - that we can play through.

Snail Races

Information Sheet

Code Vein (Closed)

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_{Location: The Crows' Nest // Date: February 25, 2057 // Time: 8:55 // Interactions: Nobody, goddammit.}

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Lysandra hadn't expected to be part of the mission, so being pulled from it at the last possible second irked her more in principle than anything. The commune was flying by the seat of its pants, with little organization or long-term planning: cats herding cats with often tragicomic results. It was as clear as Vincent's need to jump through a priceless stained glass window instead of having the brains to use that revolutionary invention known as a door. It was, apparently, an unfathomably complex apparatus and beyond he capability of his tiny pea-brain to grasp. It was not funny or endearing; it was more work for the people who'd been left behind, because they obviously didn't have their own things to do. To think I'd found you hot. Seated at her desk, Lys shook her head to herself.

She'd made a brief appearance, of course, and said a quick hello to the new weirdo who would either last here or be gone soon, but then she'd ducked back into her workshop. It had started the week in her hands, been cleared to make way for Ionna, been reclaimed, and it now looked likely that Lysandra would be asked to clear it again, because she apparently had nothing better to do. She had already decided that enough was enough. Three times in a week. She would put her foot down and refuse. Someone else would take the hit and bend over backwards for group goals this time instead of it being her.

For the past indeterminate amount of time, Lysandra had been doing what she did best: losing herself in her work. There was, to be fair, an awful lot of it. She'd poked her head out that once and generally taken care of the essentials that had called her name. By and large, however, she'd left others alone and been left alone herself.

Eight more rockets for her drones had taken shape, along with more sticky bombs, another high-yield explosive arrow, and the teardown of the Immortals. If they hadn't quite lived up to their lofty billing, they'd been reliably hers for a few years now. Progress was progress, though, and judging by the level of competence she played witness to these days, Lys would likely be forced into a larger role. She was presently engaged with some soddering on Defiant's weapon systems. Mechanically, Enterprise was finished, as was Discovery. The coils on Voyager's higher-powered motors needed some work, but the lions' share of the build was over, and such things had played panacea for Lysandra's woes many times over. All that substantially remained was programming and payloads.

Alas, her attention had worn thin and she was liable to make mistakes like this. She set her tools down, shifted the drone aside, and unlocked her brakes. Pushing herself back from the desk, Lys stretched and stifled a yawn. Throwing her arms out to the side and rolling her neck, she felt the pop and gentle strain of her muscles, ligaments and tendons. She twisted back and forth on the spot, alleviating some of the pain that always bedeviled her back. Damn, it felt good! Normally, this would be the right time to go for a wheel and stretch her arms a bit, but she was wary of being commandeered for something stupid. Instead, the commune's researcher made a few laps around her room, thinking as she paced, and the stained glass windows spilled multicoloured light over her as she passed under their shadows. For a moment, she came to a stop, light spilling over her legs in a pattern that rendered them three different colours. She found herself miffed, once again, at Vincent for just casually breaking something so irreplaceable. It was further proof that he had left his humanity behind: nothing had value or beauty anymore to him. Nothing had meaning. She shook her head to herself, remembering something, and wheeled back up to her desk, sliding a drawer out. That was not a life she wanted to live. Inside, was an old cellphone: his phone. Setting it upon the desk, she clicked her brakes into place, tossed the lid on her toolkit open, and got to work.

The first thing that the phone needed was a power supply. It wasn't charged and hadn't been for years. Unsurprisingly, the port was degraded beyond use, so Lys bypassed it, but the screen was finished too: a spiderweb of cracks and long-dead electronics. A full salvage operation would've been more work than she was willing to dedicate to this for the time being, so she popped the SIM card loose, fished one of her refurbished phones from a drawer, and slid it into place. She plugged the device into an outlet to charge and, since it took her away from her desk, took a moment to stretch again. Like some sort of overgrown child, Lysandra spent nearly a minute trying to line her legs up with the colours of the stained glass windows so that one would be red and the other blue. At least the black of her leggings was a neutral enough backdrop.

Yet, the distracted endeavour proved harder than it should have been. From its spot near the window, the intrusive glow of the mistle added white to the palette, and the air shimmered with an unusual dustiness. Lys furrowed her brow, remembering something similar in Amelia's room when they'd been running bloodwork. There had been nutritional deficiencies, almost as if her metabolism had become inefficient at turning nutrients into energy, but nothing to completely explain her deteriorating condition. Lysandra set hands to wheels and, casting around, set upon the sample jar where she'd left the swab from that incident. She remembered the strange whitish film that had clung to the sleeping woman's skin.

Lys ended up at her second desk, now: one that had not seen as much use lately as she'd have liked. Switching on the fans, she extracted the swab from its container and ensconced a sample of it in a microscope slide. Her stomach rumbled as she made adjustments and opened her notebook, and it rumbled some more as she sat up as straight as she could, annoyingly not quite tall enough to use her equipment properly. She shook her head and settled back down. It was both hunger and a need to visit the bathroom. The mystery, which had been set aside for long enough, would have to wait a bit longer, but she was thinking about it now. It was on her radar... just like food was.

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The Hourglass Order

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♪

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Out above the sands circled froabases, their clattering and screeching roars carried on the wind. It blew hot and blustery, sweeping dust and sand across dune seas and bleak promontories. For a moment, the beasts seemed to take interest in a particular spot, flapping about in place and blasting it with a few bursts of fire. Then, they were encouraged to move on by rifle fire and magically-propelled projectiles from the army's scouting units. Lingering in the area, the soldiers sniffed around for anything out of place until a couple of them had detached themselves significantly from their peers. "Hey, Antonio," called one to the other in Torragonese, "You sensing any people?"

---

The Duque's people spread out, then, like locusts over a field, swarming the refuge. First came Frannemas' handchosen six and then more: captains, magery, knights. They could not be reasonably denied, nor did they truly force themselves upon the Refuge of San Agustin de las Arenas. It was the most casual invasion ever, assisted, of course by the presence of the twenty-five-hundred-odd armed soldiers who were busy setting up camp on a nearby rocky ridge and fortifying their position. For the student interlopers recently arrived from The Isla d'Amato this proved a gut check moment: flight, fight, or negotiation.

For those inside the Refuge, they suddenly found themselves inundated with requests for refreshments, tours, and stabling. In the last of these cases, Felix and Silas found themselves approached by a stern-looking middle aged woman. As they watched, she dismounted in a single smooth, Gift-aided motion and walked her horse, a beautiful ghost-grey plains charger, towards them. A gust of wind caused her riding cloak and deep crimson dress to billow. "Good morning, gentlemen," she greeted them, eyes scanning her surroundings, though this nuance would have been lost on the powergazer. "I take it you must be a resident here," she addressed Felix, "And you, one of our heroes from Ersand'Enise." She smiled, friendly enough, but it was a gesture of politeness, especially when coupled with her assertive tone. "I am Luz Suarez, a thaumaturge in his grace Huarcan Frannemas' service. Would one of you perhaps be able to look after Ispiritu here?" She brought the animal forward and it snuffled and whinnied. "And the other perhaps direct me to where I might find the rangers' quarters and some refreshments?" After only a brief hesitation, she handed the reins to Silas. "I have been tasked by my lord with ensuring that their aspects of this operation are in order, but I have also been riding for days." She certainly did not appear as if she had, but this was another detail that likely would've been lost on Silas.

If Luz was polite, then others were downright chivalric. Standing in front of the prison, Zarina found herself face to face with a knight, tall and handsome. His matching black armour, polished to mirrorlike perfection, gleamed in the desert sun. Across his back was slung a massive two-handed sword. He stopped in front of Zarina and addressed her with a surprisingly thick Parrench accent. "I am Thierry de Montblaise, a knight in his grace's service. I have been tasked with ensuring the safety and humane treatment of the prisoners. I do hope you'll understand." He bowed low and took hold of the Virangishwoman's hand, kissing it. "And what would be the name of the fair maiden I find myself addressing?" He looked up, utterly earnest.

There were, of course, those who fell at the opposite end of the spectrum. In front of Luisa appeared a tall young man, his skin deeply tanned and his hair kept short in a military style. His gold-plated armour, gaudy with jewels, was near to blinding. He stalked up to the tethered and the yasoi, ivory-white hip cloak fluttering in the breeze. "Conde Radolfo Frannemas addresses you," he announced, holding himself almost impossibly erect. "You are to address him as 'Conde' or 'your lordship.' Now, I imagine that you two have been placed in stewardship of these young ones. Your lord is to inquire after their welfare. You are to offer no outside interference or disciplinary measures will be taken."

Then, finally, came Clemencia. Having had her wheelchair, similar to those in use by the refuge, brought over, she proceeded to... wheel around aimlessly, gawking at this or that, peering around corners, or reaching out and touching walls. Sometimes, she would stop and fold her hands in her lap, seemingly at random, closing her eyes as if in reverie or mediation. At others, she would steal glances at the place's denizens, including Kaspar and Vieri, who were on patrol. After a certain amount of time, however, she began making her way determinedly towards the Red Tower.

---

Nobody was under any illusions, however, about where the most important events were taking place: the ones that would have the potential to shape not only the future of the students, but the tethered and perhaps even the country. These were in the hands of a young woman who had been introduced as Jocasta but who was, in reality Ayla Arslan: scion of a rival family. She presented her case with grace and eloquence and, just perhaps a bit too much of those. Matters seemed to be coming down to one issue in particular: the tethered needed to impress the duke. He had motioned for Escarra to give up the head chair and, after a long look had passed between the two men, the ranger had graciously done so. They sat at the great table in the centre now: six of them.

In the gallery sat other people of supposedly lesser importance or relevance, including another young woman who had been introduced as Ayla Arslan but who was, in reality, Jocasta Re. She had dodged a bullet early in the conference when she'd been required to stand and bow, managing to convincingly puppet her legs, much to the relief of everybody who had figured out the nature of the two girls' reversal.

It was all going swimmingly - perhaps even too good too be true - until the world froze. Jocasta - the true Jocasta - could feel someone else grab the strings of time and she grabbed back. When she looked out over the group, careful to move only her eyes, the tethered could see precisely three other people in motion: the duke's daughter, Avril; the duke's son, Augusto; and the duke himself. "She's not tethered, father," the first chirped. "Her nervous signals and body temperature are all wrong."

"The one who claims to be the Arslan girl is, however," added Augusto.

These were not normal people. How could all three of them know Temporal magic!? Jocasta sat stalk still, heart hammering. Against one, she decided that she could manage. Three people on this level, though? The duke turned, after a moment, and looked directly at her. Jocasta felt... fear, for the first time in years. "It's your heartbeat that gives you away, child." He blinked. There was no wonder or surprise in his voice, though he was, perhaps, intrigued. "You know something of Temporal magic."

Jocasta counseled herself to find her nerve. She was Volto Certosa: Veleno, a hunter and a killer. She was perhaps the most powerful human being alive save Hugo Hunghorasz himself. "I do," she replied as evenly as she could.

"August," said Huarcan Frannemas simply. Then, the duke's son was standing with his hand on her shoulder. Then, they were both in the middle of the high desert. Jocasta rocketed away from him, pulling on all of her Gift. "What in the five hells!?" she shouted, and her counterpart merely smirked. "Come now, Jocasta," he replied. "You didn't think people like us could have any fun back there, did you?"

She set her jaw. "Fun," she growled knowingly. They wanted a demonstration of strength? She'd pound this pretty little boy's face in - and it was very pretty, to be certain. Without delay or pretense, she pulled from the bounty of the sun and the sands and bent light and sound to cover herself. All around her, spots glowed incandescent with energies: decoys to mislead his senses. Straight into his mind she plunged, altering senses, perceptions, and emotions, but then it didn't feel right. He was coming at her from five directions and it was she who was having her chemicals manipulated.

With every bit of kinetic power she could muster, the Djamantese released a massive shockwave in every direction, breaking Augusto's concentration and buying her a precious few seconds to regroup and counter his chemical attack. "Hah!" he called. "You're pretty good."

Jocasta said nothing. She already had the threads of space and time in hand and it was her turn to appear somewhere else. She pulled on light as well and then she was in three places. Three identical arcane lances converged upon Augusto and she pulled more energy from the boundless heat of the desert, pouring it into him.

It didn't work. He drew and drew from her attack. She pumped more into it: on past 8.25, 8.5, and 8.75. How much capacity did this guy have!? For a moment, the notion that she might lose this battle of raw strength crossed her mind. Up past 9.00 she cast and he drew. Heat rolled off in infernal waves and the sand beneath began to congeal into glass. Sweat began to bead on Augusto's forehead, he strained, and she knew that she had him. Then, there was a blip, and a tiny point of the most intense light she'd ever sensed appeared in front of her. Jocasta simply grabbed space and leapt aside in time, even as a tremendous heat began to cook her.

Sweat began to bead on Augusto's forehead and she instinctively threw herself to the side. The tiny blip of blinding light lanced into the ground, melting sand into glass and boring so deeply through the stone that she could not see the bottom. She turned towards him, terrified, uncomprehending, and impressed. "Like that one?" her opponent crowed, "huh?"

"How do you make it so intense?" she wondered.

"Temporal focusing," he said simply. "Something a thaumaturge of your caliber should learn."

"And where would I learn it from?" she inquired, still on guard but too curious not to dialogue with him.

"Well -" He made a 'considering face', "-me, I suppose, or my father or sister. It's kind of a family secret."

"And I don't have to join your family to accept this generous offer?"

He shook his head, but then paused. "Well, in a sense, you do. My father is impressed, but he wasn't impressed enough and wanted me to see what you had." Augusto shrugged. "Long story short, you passed with flying colours and he's probably willing to agree to the Arslan girl's terms pending the takedown of that wyrm."

"That is... well," Jocasta replied. "I pray the alliance will be fruitful."

Augusto nodded. "I believe it will be. His Grace rarely entertains any sort of regime change in his lands unless he's the one perpetuating it. Your friend is... quite talented."

"Thank you, I suppose," Jocasta replied. "Should we return now? Everything back the way it was?"

"Yes," the Torragonese agreed. He shook his head disbelievingly. "But first... you're the strongest one here, right?" There was a hint of jealousy to him. "Just what is your RAS?"

His opponent of a couple minutes earlier grinned. "I'm actually more impressed with yours," she admitted. "I don't know my RAS to the decimal, but it's closing in on 9.5. I've never seen someone keep up with me that far."

"Not far enough, though," he amended. "Nine point five..." He let out a low whistle. "Is anyone else at the refuge close to that?"

She shrugged. "Plenty are strong. None over nine, though."

"Right." Augusto was all business now. "Time for us to head back."

"Indeed," Jocasta agreed. "Should I do the honours, or would you like to?"

He smiled and she smiled back. He was very handsome. "Ladies first!"

---

Nobody who was not a temporal magician would've noticed anything out of the ordinary aside from 'Ayla's' rumpled hair and she and Augusto dabbing at sweat with kerchiefs. For his part, Huarcan's demeanour softened noticeably as the negotiations went on. "Let it never be said that I am an unkind man," he boasted. "Where those who should have taken an interest in the welfare of the Tethered have let them down, I am not only willing, but eager to provide them with an opportunity." Standing, he strode over to the wall where a regional map of the San Agustin refuge and its surroundings hung. "As nobody has yet made extended contact with the wyrm, we shall sally forth tomorrow and force it to battle. I would like two of your Afortunado with each division of my army and another pair with myself and my personal entourage. I think it best if -"

He was interrupted by footsteps rapidly approaching. The door swung open with force and would've slammed into the wall had not Avril caught it in a kinetic grasp. Yalen and Isabella were there. "Your grace," said one, "I apologize for my rude interruption, but the wyrm has been detected.

"To battle, then!" barked Huarcan. "Alert the troops," he told August. "Alert your people," he said to Escarra and 'Jocasta'. He was already moving for the door, brushing past the two youths.

"I... beg your pardon, your Grace," injected one, "but the wyrm crossed through the very edge of our sensing range. It doesn't appear to be headed here."

People glanced around nervously. "Out with it, then!" barked the duke.

"It's headed for Hosta, sir. I'm sorry."

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action opportunities

1) As I will be away this week, feel free to have other members of this group write for NPCs not named Jocasta or Huarcan. Also, write through your character's actions, interactions, and discoveries

2) Generally, the Duke's people are here to probe and take the lay of the land. They want to see if the Tethered are reliable and worth keeping in charge. The negotiations have gone well (Ti appraised me of Ayla's plan), but the happy ending can still be sabotaged. The duke would rather get more for less, of course.

3) The wyrm has been detected. However, it doesn't appear to be headed for the Refuge. Some problem solving will be required in order to stop it.

4) Into this pivotal moment steps Leon Solaire: performer extraordinaire. Will he be able to remedy much of anything? Jumbus, feel free to pick your actions.

5) Locations
Luz: stables (Silas & Felix)
Thierry de Montblaise: prison (Zarina, Marci, Abdel)
Clemencia: floater (Kaspar & Vieri)
Avril: auditorium
Radolfo: Children (Casii & Luisa)
Augusto: Auditorium
Huarcan: Auditorium (Ayla, Jocasta, Manuel, Amanda, Oscar)
Wrym (Yalen & Isabella)

O R I F L A M M E

Act Two: Scattered to the Winds____ __ _ _

Chapter One: Kith & Kin______ __ _ _

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"You speak like Eskandr, you know," said Alian, spitting into the fire. "All rough and sharp." He was a rather stout and scruffy man of Kressia who held little love for humans, his fellow yasoi, or - really - much of anything except his beloved jam'bys. In truth, none of the others had ever seen him without one of the flavourful seeds in his mouth: sucking, chewing, spitting, his teeth stained with its tar. "People 'round here," he continued, "they've let some Parrench into their tongues: big, expressive vowels, those weird 'r' sounds." He tossed another log into the fire. The sun had sunk beneath the horizon and the forest was now starting to experience a second sort of life: a sort that humans, in their instinctive fear of the dark, never got to experience. "You'd best practice," he grunted. "Don't care how, but you'll give yourselves away."

Dinner had been served: rabbit and wild turkey caught on the trail, in a stew with some herbs and root vegetables. Then, there were the tiims'archa - starlight snails. As the final bit of daylight faded, the forest lit up with them: sparkling points of light in a dozen different colours. "Quite q-b-beautiful," remarked Jyluun, "Are-aren't they?" She was small and odd: with long whitish-blonde hair that formed threadbare curtains about her face, and a penchant for random trivia. "Th-they were actually um... brought to to Parrence by Loriindton'soi for... farm-farming and ssuch." She shrugged, taking a quick sip of her herbal tea. "Then they went feral." She sipped again, falling silent, eyes darting between the others. Around them, the light show was just beginning, with thousands of the invasive snails twinkling in the dark with their bioluminescence.

There were other lights too, of course, and the small group of six people wasn't blind and deaf to the presence of other groups of travelers in the night. In this deepest part of the Parrench woods, there were few enough towns and inns, so the safe drinking water, plentiful game, and location about a half-day's ride from Loriindton combined with the ethereal beauty of the tiims'archa's nighttime displays to both give the Île Scintillante its name and make it a popular stopping place for traveling parties.

In the distance, from the trees close to where another fire had been not twenty minutes prior, Calitan, Eliis, Alian, Jyluun, Ashon and Hylani could hear someone whistling a familiar childhood tune: Niico Fayil Luun'ithan (Three Yellow Roses). It was a song and a game. One person would say the first line, placing the three yellow roses in some unusual spot, and the second player would begin the second line by repeating that spot and have to rhyme the ending. Then, they'd make up the first line of the next verse, and the original first player would rhyme.

Then, out of nowhere, Jyluun raised her voice. "N-niico fayil luun'ithan, y-yca duul hax!" she called into the forest. There was a long pause, and the others looked her way with varying expressions. Then, a faint response from up in one of the trees. "Yca duul hax, ela tajuup yax?" It was basic, but the other party was willing to play. "Niico fayil luun'ithan," it called out, taking the lead, "pen juu Escan!"

Ashon rolled his eyes at the irony, but decided to respond. "Pen juu Escan? Senii shoi a'lan!" A couple of his companions snickered. "Niico fayil luun'ithan," Eliis eagerly began, "pen juu Reluuz!"

"Pen juu Reluuz?" came the response, "shoi in'yr duuz!" It looked like they were going to kill off all of the poor little roses tonight and then both groups would seek sleep. "Niico fayil luun'ithan, Senii shoi al'yr!"

"Senii shoi al'yr? aly'goi thiir!" another of the six chimed in, finding the perfect rhyme. For all that they were in a war and on potentially hostile territory, this entire unexpected exchange had been a mirthful moment and a reminder of their shared yasoi kinship. "Niico fayil luun'ithan," added Eliis, not yet wanting it to end, "Hoam'a yrash'osmax."

There was a pause on the other end and, for a moment, they wondered if their mysterious counterparts had given up. "Hoam'a Talit'osmax? Omei! Et ap nax!" Faintly, they could hear the sounds of distant laughter, but the knowledge of who it was coming from robbed it of any pleasantness. The responder could've just been making a joke, but the actual Lady Talit had been present at Relouse and it was not unreasonable to think that she could also be headed to Loriindton - her hometown - at this very moment. Suddenly, the half dozen Eskandr-aligned yasoi found themselves at the crossroads of both great peril and great opportunity. There was, potentially, their greatest enemy, mere shouting distance away. She was, by all accounts, a fifth wheel monster who had cleaned house at Relouse, but their own abilities were not inconsiderable, and perhaps combat was not the only way to approach her. The question now became one of their next course of action: should they remain hidden, fight her, spy, or perhaps take the opportunity to ingratiate themselves with her? However, before they had more than a minute or two to discuss and prepare, the choice was taken from them.

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Eskandr-Aligned Action Opportunities

Feel free to play out any of the following:

1) Meeting with Hrothgar and (if you're part of that organization), Tar'ithan people. Base this on our VC conversations from a could of weeks ago and information in this thread. Basically, he wants more yasoi among the Eskandr. He seems them as a valuable part of his country and people. The Tar'ithan are an ally of convenience. Both they and the Eskandr are using the other with plans to discard them when convenient. The goal here is to undermine support for Parrence and possibly drum up some for Eskand. To that end, it is hoped that the Eskandr yasoi can establish a tar'ithan cell that will either draw the ire of the Parrench crown and demonstrate that humans are not friends or else be effective in subterfuge.
2) What was your journey here like? Were you excited, dreading it? What do you know of Loriindton?
3) Any preparations or actions you took.
4) Got any Niico Tayiil Luun'ithan verses? Time to rhyme in yasoi!
5) You're presented with a choice at the end in terms of how you approach Tali's group. What'll it be?

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Talit had heard that there was an eerie beauty to the nighttime forest: an ethereal quality, if you would. The people who'd said so were humans, though, and she didn't much understand it. Yanii eyes were their strongest sense, but even those were poor: limited in detail, light-hungry, and able to see only false yellow. Their hearing and smell were muted and imprecise at best, and so the dark, which robbed them of their one half-decent sense, inspired only fear.

The yasoi lay there on a branch: right where it was wide and met the tree. One arm dangled over the edge and the bare skin of her foot pressed gently against the rough bark of the trunk. Most of the others were up here with her. She could see their cloaks draped over nearby branches. Some - those who had lived among yanii long enough to pick up their habits - used the Gift to make small lights as they read or looked around. Others slept on the ground, a profoundly vulnerable position, and it then became their task to keep watch over the horses. Animals of the open plains, they were ever skittish and uneasy in the trees. Rolling over, Tali gazed down at the little area where they were kept, picking out Pishcar. He was a dear big beast: sweet-tempered and well-trained, willing to tolerate her copious use of the Gift and the way that she sat slightly skewed in the saddle.

Shifting again, Tali dangled her leg into the empty space below, swinging it idly back and forth. She'd had a bit to drink, inadvisable though it was, but she needed the comfort. Her birthday was in two days and she would arrive home just on time for it. Twenty-four years, she'd been alive, and a tightness invaded her stomach. If she were Oirase, she'd ascend within the next year. Like all good yasoi, she kept the gods, but the thought of giving up herself, of being subsumed by the goddess, was not truly an appealing one. The idea that her memories, her personality, and everything that she was would make up only one tiny part of what she would become... in truth, she would be lost. Yet, Tali was almost certainly not the Bringer of Life. If she was a vessel, as her ability for magic suggested, then she would be Vyshta. If the idea of ascending taunted her with unease, then being the Uncrowned Bringer of Fortune was a fate far worse, for her vessels never lived to twenty-five. They were killed by Damy and Exiran. What have I done to deserve your ire? she asked them silently. Is a destiny beyond my mortal control enough to condemn me? She still had the bottle, and she lifted it to her lips, melancholy. She could not let the others see her like this, of course. They already thought her half a child. Three quarters of one, more like, she thought wryly. Fuck it. She took another sip of the melon wine.

Between the thick canopy and some cloud cover, there were no stars to be seen tonight, but the hundreds of tiny points of light that lived with Tali in the forest became a replacement: tiims'archa - starlight snails. The nearly twenty-four-year-old heaved herself into a seated position, stuffing the cork back into the bottle and scooting along until she could stuff the bottle into her pack. They'd been eating the slimy gastropods earlier, roasting them on the fire until they popped and sizzled. Some burst in showers of glowing colour. Others lit up the party's cheeks and traced brilliant lines down their necks and into their stomachs. Red, orange, gold, and purple stained their fingers and pulsed through their veins in turn. Each lasted only a couple of minutes, and it was best not to mix colours or you'd end up with a smudgy brown. Tali glanced at the others and a handful were still stirring. A few had been sour sports, but most had gamely eaten the horribly bitter novelty food. Maybe the relief of their nearness to Loriindton had helped, but they'd done eating dares: could anyone hold a Green Meanie on their tongue? Would anyone eat a Red Razz or a Thundersludge alive? Lyen had nearly hurled but, by Damy, she'd done it! In retrospect, the dares were probably why Tali had started drinking. She liked to win and always had: almost as much as she liked to be liked, but she wasn't a fan of consequences. She and Lyen had gone through most of a bottle. Otios was big and glowered at anyone who tried to take some of his. Esmiin had passed out and they'd nestled her right in the bole of a tree for safekeeping, where she curled up like a little kitten. Tali had joined Jaxan in drawing... things on her face, but a couple members of their group had actually traced their tetsoi with the tiims'archa juice.

In truth, it had all been a little bit calculated: the probable vessel of Vyshta was under little illusion that things were grim. The Eskandr were running rampant in Parrence and an army was headed even this way, most likely to issue subtle threats, but it was going to be here nonetheless. And then, five days ago, she'd stood beside literal piles of dead, as had Otios and Lyen, Esmiin, Adric, Jaxan, and Selest. It had been an unusually quiet ride in some ways.

Such foolery as tiims'archa and a few good drinks had been sorely needed. Tali wasn't so naive as to believe every aspect of the yarns that Old Nan Merit liked to spin. 'Golden ages' are often golden only through the rose-tinted lens of nostalgia and reminiscence and, even then, only for some people. The young woman grinned. She wet her lips and began to whistle. It had been her third great childhood obsession and so she was unusually talented in that regard. She started with 'Nyra Went to Market' before moving on to 'Three Yellow Roses'. It wasn't her own group that took up the song, however. Instead, there came a faint reply from one of the few bonfires still lit, some hundred or so meters away.

"Niico fayil luun'ithan, yca duul hax!"

Tali realized that she didn't actually have a response prepare, but she managed to bumble something acceptable out. "Yca duul hax, ela tajuup yax?" She snorted in mirthful embarrassment the moment she was done singsonging, but she had a better opener ready for the next verse, and maybe a bit of news with it. "Niico fayil luun'ithan," she called out, "pen juu Escan!"

There was a pause, and her eyes found the distant twinkle of that other group's fire. "Pen juu Escan? Senii shoi a'lan!" She could pick up distant laughter, and a few of her own people perked up. "Niico fayil luun'ithan," said a different voice - a male voice - this time. "pen juu Reluuz!" They had accents that she couldn't quite place.

"Pen juu Reluuz?" called Lyen, "shoi in'yr duuz!" Tali grimaced. Between Eskand and Relouse, it looked like the poor little roses were doomed this time. They wouldn't survive their adventure. It actually made Tali kind of sad, but she'd always been an overemotional drunk. Then, Lyen had more. "Niico fayil luun'ithan, Senii shoi al'yr!"

"Senii shoi al'yr? aly'goi thiir!" another new voice replied, finding the perfect rhyme. For all of the uncertainty that surrounded them because of this yanii war, even coming out in their rhymes, exchanges like this were profoundly reassuring things. Her people remained her people: stubbornly refusing to close themselves off. "Niico fayil luun'ithan." It was one of the earlier voices, and its conclusion made her smile. "Hoam'a yrash'osmax."

"Well, that's all you," remarked Otios from nearby. He'd lived long among the yanii and had clearly been at least somewhat uncomfortable among his fellow yasoi at first, but he had a wit about him that popped up on occasions like this. "Hoam'a Talit'osmax? Tali chirped in reply to their distant friends. "Omei! Et ap nax!"

That drew a few laughs and the 'Lady of Loriindton' bowed at the waist, still seated. She'd be home tomorrow, with much to do and Arcel relying upon her again, but her first day was going to inevitably be given to sleep and her second and third to the mette'stiroi for Old Nan Merit's 172nd birthday and her and Dyric's 24th. "Hey Esmiin!" she called. "You up?"

"How can I not be?" came the reply.

"Adric, Jaxan, Lyen?"

She received a chorus of affirmatives. Talit scooted forward a bit more. Slinging her bag over her shoulders, she swung down until she was dangling from a small nearby branch. She let herself hang, though, for a long moment, allowing hesitation to seize her, but she brushed it aside. This was the very essence of being yasoi: not to live in a little bubble of fear and need, like humans did, but to venture, and to want! "We should go meet with them," she recommended. "I'll see to good beds for everyone in town tomorrow, and we can sleep whatever happens off." Letting go, she dropped the ten or so meters to the forest floor, breaking her fall with some Force magic and landing in a deep crouch on all threes. Placing her hands on a fallen log nearby, Tali drew from it, crafting a new pair of crutches and slipping her forearms into the cuffs when they were done. Around her, she could hear others hitting the ground.

From the direction of the fire came raised whispers. The fifth-wheeler knew that her name preceded her. They were likely now going on about what she'd be like, or else scrambling to come up with a welcome. Feeling a bit impish, Tali took off at a brisk jog, or at least her best approximation of one. All these bipeds always outstripped her unless she leaned into the Gift, but they arrived more or less at once. Around the other fire were another group of mixed age and gender: fellow distance travelers by the look of their clothes and supplies, as opposed to locals out on some errand. "Hello, rhyming partners!" she chirped, pulling a bottle from her bag. "I'm guessing you know who I am." She grinned ruefully. "But my companions are Otios'yyia'thala, Lyen'ivhere'zulc, Adric'miito'calan, and Esmiin'altan'venduul. She paused, smirking and jerkin a thumb in Jaxan's direction. "And this guy who just sorta showed up." He shot her a glare. "Jaxan'orad'anthii," he corrected. "And you?"

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Parrench-Aligned Action Opportunities

Feel free to play out any of the following:

1) What was covered in the conversations with Talit that brought you here? Why are you picking a side and joining instead of opting out of the war after the horror of Relouse?
2) What was your journey here like? Were you excited, dreading it? What do you know of Loriindton?
3) Any preparations or actions you took. Did you eat all the flavours of tiims'archa? Feel free o make up your own!
4) Got any Niico Tayiil Luun'ithan verses? Time to rhyme in yasoi! Or... you can be a spoilsport.
5) You're presented with a choice at the end in terms of how you approach the other group. Do you recogniie that accent? Are you suspicious? Is Tali being a stupid kid? What'll it be?

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