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Near the Black Encampment


The woman was middle aged, ruddy faced, with long hair that was probably once blond now streaked with grey that fell over her shoulder in tangled braids greasy from days living on the land. She kept her hands raised as she was circled by riders bearing the Black banner even while she kept her hands raised. "I bear dhe message for your lady sirs! Ees sealed. Ya see, yeah?" Slowly she produced an envelope, sealed in red wax. "For your Lady Empress Coralie. I to bring eet to her."




To the aspiring Empress Coralie D'Ambois nee Hasikos,

I have served The People's struggle against the Empire with every fiber of my being, and would gladly die a thousand deaths before betraying it, or by inaction, seeing it betrayed.

Our Empress Ariana Hasikos, I truly believe, has the best interests of the people at heart but fear she has fallen under evil counsel. The people we set out to help and protect are ignored and neglected at every turn. Left to wallow in slave pits, worked like dogs in the fields - or worked to death in the quarries and mines. Those that should be our friends are made to be enemies. The Empire that kills, enslaves, and oppresses us is allowed to recover - unchallenged - from the blow we struck them at the cost of so much blood at Rodelkog. It is such fears, and my great loyalty to The Cause, that impel me to write you as I do now. I fear the days ahead will see evil counsel only serve to further weaken the opposition against the Great Enemy.

I cannot in good conscience allow it and, in truth, should the evil council that brought us to these desperate straits prevail in the coming days - I fear the men that provide such council will feel themselves secure and emboldened enough that I fear for the safety of myself and those who've placed their trust in me.

I perceive yourself to be no enemy of the beleaguered peoples of Inburia. Instead, I see a fellow Inburian, weakening our common foe: a potential friend and ally in our Great Cause. I hope to find in you a kindred spirit, with the grace and wisdom to see the mass of desperate Inburians before you, not as enemies to be crushed, but to perceive instead the opportunity that lesser minds miss.

You will likely be aware that most of my force is even now tied up in the occupation of Suen, as the same sage counsel that argued against exploiting our victory against the Empire after Rodelkog saw no profit in re-enforcing us in their race south to link up with your force. I possess with me now only a small force of partisans.

However, what we lack in numbers on the field of battle, we make up for in the eyes and ears of the people of Inburia. Such people know who fights for them. And who does not. It is by their good will that we have endured all hardships. It is they who supply us our strength, and supply us with all that we need, and see and hear. Wheresoever in Inburia there is an Inburian slave, or a serf beholden to their land: we have eyes and ears. Through their bravery, and diligence, we have known some small success and liberated many items, worthless to us, but you might find of value if they could be brought to market. The eyes and ears that inform us, we should gladly share with those who would call us allies.

Many of our number are desperate. You will likely have heard this. But they are dedicated and many would gladly lay down arms and return to the fields if they were allowed, and felt protected enough, to do so as Free Peoples. Such people would gladly and generously, support through their labours those who take up arms in the name of Liberating their fellow countrymen.

As a token of my goodwill you will find included with my letter, such documents detailing what we have been able to gather regarding the troops and dispositions of the Empress Ariana's forces. United as we are in conflict against a common enemy, I provide this information freely from one rebel to another: that we might better collaborate against the common foe.

It is also my counsel that you will find your present problems greatly reduced if you made your policy known to any you might encounter in the coming days who are confused on this point: that you support the cause of Freedom, that you oppose the Great Oppressors, and that regard any former slave, serf, or common person who holds similar views not as enemy combatants to be killed, but as friends over whom you would extend your protection - guaranteeing their freedom - and welcoming any who would take up arms in your service.

I believe you would find such declarations, firmly and repeatedly made, would greatly inhibit the mass of people from any thought of firmly opposing you. I would venture that a True Empress might find the bulk of the common people, having suffered as they have, have no wish of quarrel with anyone except the Great Oppressors whose innumerable crimes are beyond counting. Such people care little for the colour of the Wyvern that fights the Empire: only that they fight.

I hope in the coming days to see such obstacles as now preclude our speaking in person be swiftly removed that we might greet each other as friends and allies ought.

Respectfully,
-S.
Lairëcúma the Bard


The Waystone Inn
Interactions: Back Outside Again
Outfit: Little Indigo Riding Hood



Lairëcúma looked up only to see an enraged man with a bloody hand stumbling forward, like some figure out of a distant nightmare. "Aaah!" she cried out she backpedalled right back out the door and spun out of Ransom's way... and disappeared back into the night.

Thereafter a faint, plaintive "Good bye Wayside Inn!" could scarce be heard beneath Ransom's angry challenge to the Tabaxi.
Lairëcúma the Bard


The Waystone Inn
Interactions: ANYONE IN THE INN
Outfit: Little Indigo Riding Hood



Lairëcúma remained in gracefully reposed immobility while Lathrom dismissed her with a nod. She seemed comfortable in the stillness that followed as snow flakes continued to land in her hair.

Lairëcúma's eyes searched the courtyard passing Edwina and Latrom, who seemed to have some private matter, lingering on Edwina's construct, looking the thing up and down. Lairëcúma smiled at the thing, at some inward thought - her face like one amusing some child before she turned on her heels and stepped into the Wayside Inn




The doors to the Wayside Inn swung emphatically open, and Lairëcúma stepped aside as a Tabaxi that smelled of smoke hastily brushed past her at the threshold. She opened her mouth to say something, but he was already gone - a puff of smoke rising from behind her the moment he was outside.

In stepped an elven womanwearing an indigo hooded cape. She paused at the threshold and dipped her head to brush the snow away from her golden hair.

"Greetings and salutations Wayside Inn..." She declared in a warm, singsong voice, to no one in particular as she looked up to survey what lay before her.
Lairëcúma the Bard


The Waystone Inn
Interactions: Edwina @NoriWasHere Latrom @Cosmic
Outfit: Little Indigo Riding Hood



The elven woman reached with two kidskin gloved hands and slowly eased back her hood to reveal a face whose dimpled lines told a tale of silent and receding laughter. She tilted her head at Latrom's comment, golden curls falling to one side like dancing springs as she stood, her brow arched in momentary concentration upon the young goliath before relaxing as though she had finally come to some determination of whatever thought crossed her mind.

"My, my, aren't you a precious soul? But you're right, maybe I shouldn't take my fun at others in their awkward moments." She paused quite deliberately on this point. "I just think, we all have awkward moments and when life sets us on our asses, we might as well have some fun with it while we can, yes?"

Not waiting for a reply, and hardly taking a breath herself the elf continued.

"Very pleased to meet you both by the by. You can call me Lairëcúma. Everyone else does. 'Bard by trade, disturber of public morals by choice!'" The elven woman chimed quite happily, performing a deep curtsy that seemed at once both a parody of the courtly act while seeming perfectly serviceable as one at the same time. "Let's get better acquainted inside though, shall we? I'm sure we'll become fast friends. I might even be convinced to perform tonight, but just now I could use some company while I recover the feeling in my poor bum."
Lairëcúma the Bard


The Waystone Inn
Interactions: Edwina @NoriWasHere Latrom @Cosmic
Outfit: Little Indigo Riding Hood


Two wagon wheels carved twinned ribbons of darkness in fresh fallen snow, tracing a winding trail off until the paired tracks became lost in one another amidst the distant darkness. The night's air and falling snow were punctuated by the gentle but emphatic Clop! Clop! Clop! and jingle of halter and harness.

The reins of the majestic white-maned stallion hung loosely from the gloved hands of his driver, a figure covered head to toe in a hooded cape of blue fleece. Sat astride the driver's seat of a two-wheeled wagon - its sides adorned with bright coloured sun and flower motifs - it rolled effortlessly past the entrance of the inn.

The driver's face was obscured but the slow craning of the blue hood - silhouetted from the inn's entrance against the distant tower - was clearly fixed upon the scene by the Inn's entrance. Unseen eyes tracked the collapsed form the goliath being kicked by the woman looming over him.
The hooded figure gave an ever-so-slight tug of their wrist on the reins, their voice - her voice - ringing softly through falling snowflakes like whispering bells. "Addring. Ava."

The stallion drew abruptly to a halt, shaking his head while giving Edwina and Latrom aggressive horse side-eye. His driver unfolded from her seat, standing in deliberative stillness before descending to the snow. Her face remained obscured by her hood and the waning light, but was clearly observing the pair as she walked with a patiently measured gait alongside her horse, running her hand along his flank before leaning in and whispering something in the animal's ear that seems to settle the creature further into stillness.

"Marital troubles?" Though her face was still shrouded in shadow, one could almost hear the raised eyebrow on her face in the timber of her voice.


Leofric Aelwinovich


Ardashir smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. "There are," he agreed simply. But though he spoke to Hagen, his gaze did not rest on the knight. Arda was watching another man: a powerful man in plain wool, seated at the bar of the inn. He was scarred of face and limb, and his hand rested on the hilt of a long dagger, and his hard-eyed glare was fixed on Markiel. The man drained his tankard of ale, but that ferocious glare never faltered.

Ardashir cast a warning glance at Aderynel and turned in his seat, moving his legs out from under the table so that he would be able to rise swiftly if necessary. His wide, open green gaze took the stranger in from head to toe. His left hand rested on the long hilt of the scimitar at his side. Like the stranger, he did not grasp his weapon's hilt; but his thumb stroked the pommel - a lion's head of gold, with sapphire eyes - in exactly the same way the stranger stroked his dagger's bindings. A message: I see you.

But with his right hand, Ardashir reached for the bottle of wine he had bought, and poured a fresh cup. This he raised toward the stranger. "If you are going to grace us with your attention, friend," Arda called, "then the least you can do is favor us with your presence as well." The Farseeker raised his dark eyebrows. "Your cup is empty. Will you not drink with us?"

Before the man could answer, a dwarf and yet another Sylph pressed up to the table, between Arda and Aderynel. Literally tugging on Aderynel's sleeve, the dwarf announced that she had overheard the group talking, and the Sylph asked whether anyone had heard of "something said to have been built" up in the Grey Mountains, "long time ago."

"At this rate," Arda remarked drily and to no one in particular, "I'd say that just about all of Ealdormuda seems to have heard of something along those lines." But his gaze did not leave the burly stranger at the bar, and his hands remained where they were: one offering a cup of wine, and the other ready on the hilt of his scimitar.


Neither the crush of new arrivals shovelling themselves into the restive locus people at the center of the tavern even registered in the man's face. Neither sound nor movement drew any hint of distraction from his eyes: his focus was absolute. Even Ardashir, returning the man's attention in kind, drew nothing.

The noble himself was oblivious.

The stranger appeared a man absorbed in some other world. As though he were not staring at Markiel, but through him, gazing off into into some distant realm of dream, or memory but not here.

When Ardashir finally spoke, there was at first no hint of acknowledgement though it was improbable the man did not hear him even over the din of so many speaking at once. As Ardashir moved, offered the drink, his eyes at last - briefly - flicked in Ardashir's direction, then back to Markiel. The first ghost of an emotion on his face to be seen was a flit of irritation at the interruption.

The man's eyes narrowed. His hand slowly coiled about the leather grip of the dagger. His face might've been taken for that of a man intent on cold-blooded murder, but the grip on his dagger was not that of a man drawing steel. It looked more the grasp of a drowning swimmer - white-knuckled and trembling - clinging to the weapon as though the feel of the worn leather was last thread holding him to the world.

Then, some movement of Ardashir's finally attracted his attention and whatever memory or demon had seized the man faded away like the passing of a dark cloud. His eyes cleared. His hand slowly fell away from the dagger's hilt. The tension in his muscled shoulders melted away and his eyes met Ardashir's.

There was recognition there, of what Ardashir must have seen, but no embarrassment, no warmth nor contrition.

The stranger's eyes noted Ardashir's hand on the scimitar as he rose from his seat, a slight sway to the way he unfolded his full physique from rickety bar stool. Nothing in his expression changed but the movement of his hand well away from his dagger appeared a deliberate peace offering. "Drink? Da." The man gave a brief nod. "I drink with you."

The man's Arventian was rough and rumbling and heavily accented in the lilting intonation a knowledgeable man might mark for a northern jugkraian accent. The man looked down at the offered wine Ardashir offered briefly, then craned his head to the barkeeper and pointedly asked the tavern keeper to refill the tankard from the casque: where he could see it. He shovelled an extra coin onto the bar for the trouble. The tavern-keeper set out the refilled mug and the man raised it in Ardashir's direction.

"I am Leofric Aelwinson." There was a slight hesitation to the man's introduction, his tone shifting from the expected Jugkraian form into something more like Ealdamundi, though the words seemed cumbersome and not without effort on Leofric's part.
We've had a slowish launch. Is anyone still wanting to intro a character, otherwise I'll skip us straight to the ruins in the next post.


Late to the party.

At the risk of drawing things out there are a few notes I think offer interesting setups for later that I'm looking to establish early.
Leofric Aelwinovich


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

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

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


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

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


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

Then came the slow turning.

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

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

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

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

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