POOHEAD189

Tyrants of Illiac Bay

On closer inspection, they had found a few more signs of habitation. Sizeable bones were left in a small pile behind a mound of earth, and inside the tonsil of the mine, skulls hung on threads of thick hair, swaying gently in the wind. Beside each of the three pillars holding up the entrance, human skulls were placed on sharp stakes shoved into the ground. The Breton girl had been right, however. A carving of Zenithar was well etched into the left support beam. Amal was surprised it had not been defaced or covered in excrement. That would have ruled out goblins or wayward orcs, if it hadn't been for the putrid smell that wafted out of the mines themselves. Delphine knelt down, picking a small assortment of somnalius and monkshood flowers, stuffing them into her pack.

"Well, looks like I'll be going in first." Amal said, drawing his saber. A curved dagger appeared in his offhand as if plucked out of thin air. He could see her face, and shook his head. "We'll go in together," he placated her, using a tone as if they had been in this argument for decades rather than having just met. "But we each have different strengths, yes? You got us the cart, I'll get us inside the real mine."

He gave her a wink, and ducked into the shadows as if he were born to them.

Amal had borrowed the map, checking it frequently on the short ride into the wilderness. He had a fair memory and good sense of direction, it wouldn't be too hard to find his way down there once they entered. Of course, they would need to be just as cautious about triggering a cave-in as they would getting jumped. Luckily, the mine still appeared to be sturdy. Every careful step was met with naught but silence, and as his eyes adjusted to the dark, he was happy to say he found no traps yet either. The mine sloped gently downwards, the support beams dilapidated but steady. The only light he could perceive was very faint, but that suited him just fine. Soon he found a small archway to the left, and knelt beside it, just out of view.

He heard scrabbling, and heavy breathing. Even to someone like him, it was unsettling for a brief moment. He waited a few moments, trying to notice patterns in the sounds or accompanying footsteps, but he heard nothing else of note. Gradually he peeked out, to see a larger area of the mineshaft crisscrossed with further support beams, and gutted stone to the left, showing signs of miners favoring that side during their time here. In the center of the room was a creature, inhuman and not of the mer. Its dusky green skin looked slimely, and its small screeches of indolent displeasure exposed itself as a goblin as much as the back of its head did. It seemed to be eating something off a large bone. Squinting, Amal's eyes went right. In the corner was a pile of tattered garments and a broken skeleton, picked clean of meat.

Well, so much for the missing warriors. This had to be one of them, but Amal wasn't sure which. Either way, it didn't change Amal's goals.

The Goblin was dead before his next heartbeat.

Amal caught the bone and helped the body fall gently, before pulling it into the entrance tunnel. He then stalked through the larger chamber, and found a cracked, dirt caked urn with a few shiny coins in it. He glanced behind him as if Delphine was there watching, and reached his long arm into it, scraping the coins out and slipping them into his pocket. Once his greed was momentarily satisfied, he skulked into the next tunnel, traversing twelve meters of darkness before he found the source of the distant light. There was a firepit at the center of what appeared to be the main chamber. To the right, the ground sloped up. At the corner was a chest, and above the firepit, further down the rise, walked a goblin shaman. He could tell because it was adorned in feathers and carrying a staff that crackled gently. Three more goblins moved about the area, two dragging carcasses, one a man, the other a large rat. A third squatted in the corner, and Amal left before he observed what had to be a fascinating bowel movement. As he doubled back, he noted he saw three different exists to the chamber, something corroborated in the map.

Let's go tell my partner the news, he thought.

Tyrants of Illiac Bay

Amal had made enemies in two provinces, he would rather not get someone imprisoned on a third. At least not on his first day without travel. He did not wish to admit that, though, nor that he partially did it because she was pretty. Instead he shrugged. "He wanted the pie back so badly, I felt a bit guilty." He joked, taking her hand in his and shaking it. "But you're welcome." The redguard had immensely strong hands. It was easy to feel, even if he did not grip her own tightly.

"Amal of Rihad, I am... well, let's say I have need of money and wish to use my blade to get it." He said, not even pretending to be deceptive in his tone when he spoke of himself. He added: "For the most part."

"Now, if you've been good, Wayshrines of Dibella may bless you so you can grow up big and beautiful," a mother Breton told her little girl, wagging her finger to the troublemaking little one. Amal glanced to the right, seeing the girl pout, but she relented with a nod and they walked away. The noise of chatter and laughter grew more prominent as others strode by.

"No, you fool. Nobody goes into the mountains but hunters and thieves on the lam. Food and shelter is hard to come by." A local workman said, speaking louder than he believed, to a traveler asking questions of the region.

"I take it you're not simply here to talk pastries." Amal leaned forward conspiratorially, before he placed his forearm against his mouth to stifle a small burp. "-As good as they are. If you're wanting the reward, you'll either have to join me or race me for it. Usually I am accommodating to ladies, but I am in need of money, and I do not know your skills..." He took the opportunity to study her more closely, though before a moment passed, he frowned lightly. Did he recognize her? She looked familiar, he thought. Oh well, no matter.

At that, he pulled back and gave a wide smile. "So, would you like to go somewhere more private and discuss, or will we be rivals on the road?"

He wondered what magic she wielded. Redguards did not trust illusion magic. They did not like the idea of someone manipulating someone else's thoughts. Though Amal was not a typical redguard, one might say.

---

Outside of Keogria, on the hilltop overlooking the bay, Maurice drove his cart up the best. Loud as ever, he was confident no one would follow him. He had been a merchant here since before the gates opened. Children had grown up around him, and the townsfolk asked him for news and advice everytime he returned. The sun was slightly past its zenith, the perfect time to make himself scarce as the bretons and foreigners mingled and ate and supped in their midday break. On the road, he drove by the old Martinne Guimard statue, now overgrown with foliage. She had once been beautiful, the statue. Now it was chipped and weathered, a far-cry from the fabled enchanting countess the lady had once been. Martinne was remembered as the leader of a consortium of coin-barons that purchased the Systres archipelago from the Colovian kings, supposedly shrewd and cunning in all matters she put her mind to. He hoped she would feel this work was necessary.

He drove his cart over the last rise, and the horse pulled them to the great oak tree that dominated the small hill, almost leaning over the cliff face as if to peek down at the waters below. Maurice goaded his horse to a stop, and hopped out to grab his pitchfork from the back of the cart. He took the implement in his hands, but nearly jumped out of his trousers when he saw the figure of Glen striding from the tree. What on Nirn was he doing here? Had he been napping by the oak like a lout?

"Maurice?" Glen asked. He was a breton about Maurice's age, though his hair had gone white prematurely. He was a friend; a nice man, always quick to smile and ready to talk. Maurice had no time to talk, at the moment.

"Glen! How are you?" The merchant asked, trying to appear unfazed.

"Oh, just came up to see the view. Wanted to..." Glen trailed off, failing to not appear thoughtful. Maurice sighed, knowing his reasons. Glen had told him the story of his father before, how the sailor had left when Glen was a small boy, had promised to come home. Even though he had a family now, Maurice could understand. Still, at lunch time? "Anyway, what are you doing up here?"

"Glen, it's dangerous to leave the town alone. I got my horse, but you can't be wandering out here." Maurice cautioned, trying to hide his apprehension.

"I know, I know... I just... I haven't been here for years. Wanted to come up and think awhile." He explained, shaking his head. Glen glanced back at the tree, a sense of concern passing over his face, before he pulled himself back to the present. "I was just going, anyway. But you got some work up here? I could help you out, we can ride back together." He remarked jovially.

Maurice froze for a brief moment, before he smiled sadly, and he shook his head. "Sorry, Glen. I truly am." He remarked.

"Oh, it's-" Glen began, unable to finish his sentence before Maurice shoved the sharpened pitchfork into his chest. Glen's lips mouthed 'okay' to finish his thought, before the blood began to seep out in a small trickle. Maurice drove the iron in deeper, pain on his face just as Glen's twisted in pain, and a few moments later, he let Glen fall to the dirt. The act wasn't pretty, especially under a cloudless sky. He'd felt the iron hit bone, but he knew he found his friend's heart too.

"Aw Glen," Maurice lamented. "I was hoping to save you and the family, at least. You'd been through enough. But you had to be all nosey."

Tyrants of Illiac Bay

The apartments and businesses were almost all two storied, roofs thatched and the walls made of local timber. They were jettied, where timber-frame buildings are built in the manner which an upper floor projects beyond the dimensions of the floor below. This has the advantage of increasing the available space in the building without obstructing the street, and also discourages would-be thieves and squirrels from climbing to the roof. They were little obstacles to Amal; in fact he found these buildings particularly easy to climb. Support beams, plenty of windows, no nets to halt progress. As the redguard shoved the last of his third piece of stolen vanilla custard pie into his mouth, he felt he could get used to Highrock. A land so quaint felt quite comfortable.

The town wasn't very large for a port town, but in all fairness, Amal was inclined to stick closer to more populated cities in Hammerfell and Cyrodiil for unscrupulous reasons. Even so, by his trained eye, he could tell only half of the people walking the streets were locals. Keogria had not entirely escaped the crisis and the plague. Immigrants like Amal had filled up some of the gaps, but this town could hold a few thousand more people if it had the occasion.

He had taken a stroll around town, visited the docks for a short peek, moving past the central fountain in the square and jogging down the overgrown grass in the empty lot next to 'Southhill Seams' and 'Gorlan's Flagon.' The tavern was nearly barren save for a few regulars, but barmaids went back and forth cleaning tables and gathering more chairs for the stream of attendees likely to pour in once the lunchbell rang. Amal had kept to himself mostly. He was so used to being chased, he wasn't about to start off in Highrock poorly. Except when he began to get peckish, and realized he had precious few coins on which to purchase. Hoonding advised the Yokudans of old to overcome and persevere, and he would not need to worry about his reputation here as long as he did not get caught, right?

He watched from behind the awning of a window atop the tallest apartment he could find, spectating the town coming alive. The low trickle of bretons and imperials became a torrent of both local and foreign faces. A gaggle of khajit skulked together to set up shop near the square, looking around as if expecting someone to stop them. An orc and a nord carried barrels of mead from the docks to Gorlan's Flagon, nearly crushing a bosmer fellow who had been scampering across the cobblestones for some unknown task. Squinting, Amal spied with his keen eyes a board at the back of the square, with various pieces of used parchment nailed to its breadth. Bounties, he thought. Perhaps that could lead to some work.

"You! Did you take my pie!?" Amal heard distantly. He popped his head up and whirled, pushing off the sloped roof to silently traverse himself to the opposite side. Below a hanging clothesline, he saw the plump Dunmer baker, and Amal never knew an elf could be plump! The one he had stolen from, both the tips and the pie. His crimson eyes blazed with suspicion as Amal watched him accost a pretty young Breton, though on second look, he realized she was armed for travel. The dunmer clenched his jaw, advancing on her, a carving knife in his hand. The girl bit her lip nervously.

"I'm sure your pies are delicious, but I only just got here." The woman protested, but as the Dunmer approached, taller than her, she seemed to shrink in defeat. "_{I can take out a loan?}"

Before the Dunmer could speak, the second half of his missing pie fell atop him from a three story fall. The Breton woman blanched at the last moment, jumping back to keep herself clean. For a brief moment, her eyes met Amal's, but the thief ducked back as the wet slap of pie hit the baker, and the Breton woman scurried away while the dark elf exploded in rage, obviously just as confused as mortified. Amal chuckled to himself, hurriedly sliding down the opposite side of the building to land nimbly into an alleyway, wiping off what little crumbs might have stayed on him. Beyond the shadows at the outside bistro, he heard two voices, one very familiar.

"Have you heard of the High Elves?" an elderly gentlemen asked.

"Erm, I'm actually one of them, so yes."

It seemed Aenarion was having a fruitful experience in town. Amal would speak to him, but instead he slipped into a different road, approaching the bustling crowd and cries of bread and cheese from a different direction to dispel suspicion. He sucked in his breath and strode with confidence, having the air of a hired sword as he approached the bounty board. A poor sellsword perhaps, with no armor or companions, but the way one carried themselves counted for a lot. He slipped past an Imperial playing the lute, trying to earn coin from sailors and locals with a mediocre tune, though his voice carried well, Amal had to give him credit. He clutched his purse when a nord passed by, a bit too near his person, and stepped over a passing Argonian woman's tail to check the bounty board. Odd, he thought. Most of these were simply announcements from the local baron. News that carried from distant baronies and duchies. One creased writ said Daggerfall had recently celebrated the marriage of their son Camaron to Lady Kelmena, the daughter of Duke Senhyn of Camlorn, suggesting a possible unified kingdom along the western coast of Tamriel. Well, he wasn't interested in geopolitics. There was another spelling out the various businesses in town, and a letter to the people by the Knights of Faraven, responding to their pleas for help in their mines.

It spoke of an uprising of goblins in the east, giving the town their humblest apologies. Another pamphlet spoke of three warriors having gone missing in the mines. He found it all more than intriguing, and lo and behind, below that was a writ on bounties, and a clearance of the Koeglin Mine!

"Four hundred septims?" Amal breathed, whistling suggestively. "And more for each bandit ear brought to the Alderman..."

He glanced around, wondering if anyone was taking notice. It was his usual paranoia playing tricks on him, he thought. Until the pretty girl he had seen not minutes ago caught his eye again, approaching from across the square. Thinking she meant to speak to him about the pie, he grinned.

Tyrants of Illiac Bay

In time, the name Molag Bal will be forgotten! In time, all of Tamriel will bow down before me! Soon, the God of Schemes will have a new name: Mannimarco!

-The King of Worms

---

---

They say in Highrock, the common people pray for rain, healthy children, and a summer that never ends. The kings may play their game of thrones, their knights are stalwart, the very best in Tamriel, but it is not violence that wins the day. The province is a realm of merchants and diplomats, inclined to learning and negotiation. The pen is mightier than the sword, many Bretons say.

These illusions burned, as all else did, when the Oblivion gates opened.

Clad in black plate, Dremora and worse things streamed forth from the Deadlands at the bidding of Mehrunes Dagon's will. Once peaceful villages were reduced to ash, the farmlands of Wayrest and Westmark were scorched to nothing. Entire woodlands had disappeared overnight, and the verdant fields and quaint villages where children pretended their sticks were swords of steel, were assailed by the very legions of what the old Alessian order called hell. The Knightly Orders were summoned forth to defend the realm as peasant levies were assembled for the first time in centuries. The Hands of Balfiera were slaughtered to a knight, holding the Dremora and their imp servants off at Helmahlod Stepp. Daggerfall's Knights of the Dragon checked the horde at Chesterwark, Knight-Captain Gabriel d'Angeac gaining a feifdom after the crisis for daring and courage. The remnants of Alcaire's Knights of the Flame ran down a makeshift army of bandits that had marched of Baelorcroft Manor. The Knights of Pelin took heavy losses, but managed to route an army of daedric beasts near Forsdakar. All the while the common bretons defended their homes, and marched when they could be spared. What imperial legions had been stationed in Highrock acquitted themselves honorably, but many non-Bretons deserted, returning home to protect their own families.

When the gates were closed, and the flames were put out, the Frostfall plague swept in. Some whispered it was of daedric origin, a final gift from the prince of destruction. Others believed it was created by unseen, jealous hands; an evil craft made to topple what little civilization was left. It was likely just from the cold and lack of food.

Still, Highrock had not suffered as hard as many provinces. Say what you will about the fuedal system, but it does well in a crisis of arms. Without a central chain of command, the kings, dukes, and barons sent their knights where they saw fit, and could operate independently without the crutch of a central bureaucracy. The hills and mountains that swathed the land were ideal chokepoints, and the once cordoned off kingdom, ideal for aristocratic feuds, was evidently purpose built to hold off invasions from every direction. It was Highrock's fractitious politics and geography that saved the day, but the province had been set back decades, if not centuries in terms of infrastructure. Only now, nine years after the last gate was closed, has the provincial imperial governor, Tidus Alonius, returned to find Highrock limping along, licking its wounds...

"Alright, we get it!" Amal snapped, blinking his eyes in the sun. The cart lurched from a hole in the road, the horses knickering as they cantered through the idyllic spring landscape. He realized the incessant banging in his dreams had been the crashing wheels of the wagon, which meant the thrum that had lengthened his headache must have been this fool!

"Oh, was I speaking aloud again? Apologies, it helps me write." The high elf said, having the decency to be mildly sheepish in countenance. They had been on the road together since Amal had landed at Steelheart Bay. Truth be told, he liked Aenarion, but the altmer did not know when to stop talking. Two years ago he might have simply slit his throat and be done with it. He might do it now. The mer had known Amal was hungover, and still he was trying to write the Pocket Guide to the Empire, V4. Aenarion gave a soft smile to him. "Well, at least you're finally awake. We should be there in a matter of minutes. The driver said as much."

The redguard pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a few moments to clear his senses before he massaged his forehead. Groaning gently, he sat up fully as the rickety wheels bounced beneath him. The straw had been itchy, but not a bad bed compared to the stone and dirt he was used to. All in all, they had been lucky. Two weeks on the road, and the worst they had come across was a sign of banditry Amal had recognized, cautioning them to take a different road, and a minotaur the driver, Maurice, had managed to outrun. It had helped the Breton was returning home, his cargo-laden wagon having been replaced with a small coin pouch. He had been happy to bring Amal along, one look at his callused hands and the iron saber he kept at his belt swathed about his slim waist had seen to that. The elf, he said, was welcome in case they ran into any magical problems. Aenarion had professed later he had very little training in arcane matters, but he was not going to announce that small fact.

"Ah, you can smell Edeth's mulberry pies!" Maurice exclaimed, breathing in deeply. Amal's nose twitched. Now that the driver had mentioned it, he could too. It did smell nice.

With the greenery enclosing the road and the sun high in the sky, and the most life-threatening beast in a week having been deer bounding across the road, this was hardly the hellscape Aenarion had called it. Hells, even if they found their destination was cooking people rather than pies, Amal would still find it a leg up from where he was in Hammerfell. Only in northern Hammerfell were there songbirds. Here? They sang a tune that seemed to infect the land with peace day by day. He half expect an arrow to fly out of the treeline, but none did. Instead, they rolled out of the Aned Thicket, right into Koegria. When the landscape opened up, the first they saw was a slim light house overlooking the bay, drawing their eyes to a handful of tradeships docked for the night. Their elevation was somewhat lofty, a few meter above sea level, they could not see the entirety of the town. The road winded past a motley assortment of townhouses and moss covered tors, flecked with healthy trees that stood vigilant over the trodden streets. As they rolled under the welcome sign, they passed a large statue of Dibella with various offerings beneath her feet.

"The lady watches over us." Maurice joked, chuckling privately.

Amal grinned, elbowing Aenarion. "I believe I will like it here. They worship the goddess of tits and love."

For his part, the elf seemed too preoccupied with the emblems and the heraldry displayed on the doors and shops. Crossing their path, a man in plate armor Amal only assumed was a knight rode passed. He looked purposeful and ornate, good on the battlefield but lousy in the woods, off his steed. He gave Amal a look of disgust before corralling his horse away, and Amal only smirked. Past a seamstress shop and the local weaponsmith, Maurice pulled the cart over. He sighed from a trip safely traveled, but groaned getting out of his seat. "Alright you two louts, hop out. Enjoy Koegria, but keep out of trouble. There's been enough chaos in these parts to last an age..."

Scum and Villainy - Plentiful Bounty

Quintis appeared from the ship, assigned to take stock of the prisoner. The gun-for-hire approached with Cho-Tyrek a pace in front of him. He pushed the figure forward with a shove every few meters to keep the pace, letting Arlox take a good look at the bounty head before Molly went over and did what she did best. The paramilitary groaned softly, and knelt down to lift Molly up, draping her over his broad shoulder like he was carrying a rolled up rug.

"Swing me around, I want to see the ship!" Molly called, and Quintus did as she bid, turning just so, in order for her to see the distant figure of The Wages of Sin. He kept one arm wrapped around her legs while the other stayed firmly on Cho's shoulder.

"God, it's sexy..." Molly breathed from behind him, awe in her voice.

"You wouldn't have called us if you had doubts." Quintus said to Arlox, ignoring the pilot draped over him. "He wasn't too hard to track down." Quintus kept the ur-bot on the ship, in accordance with his end of the deal. Cho had been as meek as a lamb ever since he made the promise. Quintus had fucked people over before, but it wouldn't serve any purpose here. "I take it we'll be paid shortly?"

hello !!

@shellbelle Welcome! Glad to have you!

The Shmoopiest of Duders

@Shmoopsydude Wow, thanks! I hope your stay is great, here :)

Poohead's Potential Plots

Hi, I'm POOHEAD189. I am a guy in his early 30's, an advanced roleplayer, and looking for someone to share in a roleplay with!

I expect multiple paragraphs, a juxtaposition of colorful and grim dialogue, pulpy plots, and OOC communication! Please DM me only, and I do have the right to outright say no, we don't mesh. Though I hope we do :)

---

Military Trooper RP

FOR THE EMPEROR!

In this roleplay, we both play privates in a military sci fi, fighting for an uncaring bureaucratic state far far away. Thrown into the meat grinder, we're given the bare necessities of equipment and sent to the front lines. Likely in the 40k verse, but could be anywhere!

Smuggler's Run

It is the Jedi Civil War, where the Sith Empire and the Republic are clashing for supremacy of the galaxy. Billions die as people and planets are laid to waste...

But we don't care about any of that bantha-poodoo! We're a small team of smugglers working for whoever will hire us to get the job done during this time of calamity. It's credits, credits, pazaak, drinking, blasters, and credits.

Muddy Boots & Bloody Blades in Iliac Bay

It is the aftermath of the Oblivion Crisis, and a power vacuum has been left in the Iliac bay. There is a gathering of undead in the woods and back paths, without a reasonable source to the cause. It has sent the goblin tribes into a frenzy, a prelude to the greater thread, and Lady Brisienna, the emperor's emmissary, it seeking blades and magic to clear the paths and let trade continue. Who will answer the call?

The Shmoopiest of Duders

@Shmoopsydude welcome to the site

The Enemy Beyond: Warhammer 40,000 Inquisitor RP

"I suppose the vague epitath of 'the great enemy' does not suffice." I muttered, allowing myself a brief moment of frustration to take hold before I returned to my steely resolve. It was entirely selfish, petulant even, but I could not help but feel vexed at the reality my vacation and nominal honeymoon was being interrupted by this. Throne help me, I felt it. However, it gave me a cold anger that granted me clarity and resolve, and I thanked the Emperor he could turn my provincial flaws into a weapon to be harnessed. Emmaline was right, however. It was imperative we needed to find out who was conducting this terror operation I looked around at the assortment of frightened and bemused faces. The assault on the Zephyr had been calculated, and though I could rightly assume it was targeted at Emmaline and more specifically myself, I did begin to consider other possibilities.

Aristocrats, select politicians, industrialists, lobbyists, many of which were likely involved in the Ghorrask Union, a partnership of capitalist interests that sought to overtake the rights of Ghorr mining worlds in system. It had always been a battleground of trade, but after the twelfth black crusade and the subsequent economic and political fallout, the hereditary governors had fallen out of favor or had lost enough revenue to cause a power vacuum. This attack could have been one of three dozen different factions or subfactions trying to incapacitate the competition, as it were. If they were smart, they would have hired a paramilitary group using a non-traceable intermediary. However, that would be the most optimal outcome. Even with my musings, I could not help but believe, and by pragmatism assume, it was an attack on myself.

I removed my jacket, rose from my seat and draped it snugly around Emmaline's shoulders. She gave me a radiant smile, temporarily dispelling the anxiety that permeated between us. "Let's not let it ruin our good time." I joked dryly, and she gave a small chuckle.

"Quite right. Business as usual," she remarked.

"There are only two possibilities." I began, my voice soft so as not to be overheard. "Either they had come after someone else, in which case this is a domestic or local dispute, and in all likelihood it shall cease. Or they attacked because of me, something we must assume, and in which case, we now have a slight advantage." Emmaline tilted her head inquisitively as I continued. "I propose we spring a trap. They are clearly well informed, but let's not allow them to find us in the dark. I say we make a show of ourselves, draw them in, and then capture a handful of them to interrogate."

"Any details as to how, my love?" She responded. As I opened my mouth, I noticed a couple approaching. Lord Varkon and his paramour, the lady Varkon having tragically lost her life in the ensuing explosion. Beyond them, I spied Lord Gaspard nursing an Old-Foiz, and he saluted me with his drink, evidently having changed his opinion of me after the firefight. Admittedly it was mutual. Despite his bluster, he kept his cool and had steady aim under pressure.

"Admiral Deckard," Varkon interjected, adopting a congenial smile to mask his worry. "My compliments to your gallantry, and it does my heart well to see your fiance safe."

"Thank you, my lord. My heart weeps for your wife." I said, with only a hint of sardonicism. A part of me was still unsure on if there had been agents of the shadowy web on the train, and that he had made certain the Lady Varkon had been present during the detonation. His paramour was young, not yet having to rely on rejuvenants to maintain her blossoming charms. She seemed positively out of her element, but placating her patron with a flutter of her lashes.

"That means much coming from a man of your honor. I merely come to inquire, what is your next destination?"

I hid a snort, sharing a glance with Emmaline. He wished to be protected, ironically being out of the loop that my presence was likely the most dangerous part of the trip. However, I did answer honestly.

"Why, Idalium, my lord. Just as everyone else."