Tesserach

Chronicles of Minadra

Leofric Aelwinovich

Leofric said little during the ascent is search of the first protected place, as had become his custom. Normally the grizzled veteran seemed inclined to his solitude, having little to say unless spoken to preferring the company of his mule Zapas to that of civilized men and women. On the trail he lingered near the back. At camp, he kept to himself, tending his weapon and mule. To Arda's questioning glances he only paused at whatever he was doing; oiling and wiping down his weapon, stitching the holes in his clothing, or going back to staring into the fire or out into the darkness as though his thoughts were far, far away.

So it was unusual that upon reaching a flat promontory, protected to the lee side by a large overhang, that he called from the back of the group. "This place is good to camp." He gestured to the overhang. "The way is narrow. This is protection from the weather. And the troglodytes."

Leofric tied off Zapas to a rock. "Set camp. I shall keep the watch."

Leofric had clearly spent time in such places and wasted none in fashioning himself a position out of snow near the unprotected edge of the promontory, concealed from all sides by snow but with clear sight of the approaches, and the bluffs above them. Settling in, he wrapped his cape around himself, propping his spear and shield across his lap and sat there.

Leofric sat there, unphased by the howling of the mountain wind that whipped its way up over the promontory lip, heedless of the frosty ice that settled into his beard and brows and lashes. He sat there, still as a statue as the snow flakes fell down and gazing off at the passes, and up into the rocky slopes where Síobhra, Aderynel and Tárwen scouted forward for them. It seemed like something he'd done a thousand times before.

In The Black (A Clean-Up Crew RP)

Dr. Soraya Mansour

Soraya Mansour didn't really have downtime, what passed for it was usually spent reviewing case files for specimens and bodies retrieved and held by Acheron and those still out in the field. Part of her work was sifting through photos and documentation of deceased remains to determine which specimens might be interesting for Acheron's purposes, which were safe for examination by local medical authorities and which needed to be prioritized for examination by dedicated personnel with security clearance. It was a lot of accessing and sifting through Acheron databases, consulting with Acheron personnel in the field, or other medical personnel working cases of interest: but it was familiar work.

Then the PA sounded, announcing other matters at hand.

Soraya sat up, rubbing at her temples and adjusted her glasses before securing her workstation. She stood, taking a moment to collect her things, a black leather file folder with a pair of small notebooks she kept inside. She secured her phone, and placed it within the locked panel inside her desk, next to her other phone, and locked them both.

She paused at the threshold to the door, before she shut the light. Examining the office, the thought occurred to her that there was nothing inside to concern herself over. Nothing that might be discovered in her absence that would lead back to her being anything other than she was. Nothing to be worried about, and yet the last check too was a form of a familiar work. So she closed the door and ensured it was locked before heading down the hallway, folder tucked under her arm as she made her way to the briefing room.

Habit forced her to keep alert. She'd spent days after her arrival becoming 'lost' in the facility, mapping her surroundings like a mouse, aware of the entries and exits available to her and others. Where the cameras were placed. Routines.

It was unnecessary, she told herself, but this place still didn't feel safe - not in the way a field medical tent might have surrounded by armed gunmen from paramilitary and terrorist groups whose mental states varied with the weather. At least there she knew where she stood. Here everyone was calm. There were no bodies piling up for her to examine. Not so long ago she'd imagined this as the sort of life she'd have wanted for herself, yet being here stuck in a quiet office only made her feel trapped and useless.

An alarm though promised something different.

She checked her watch and entered the briefing room, pausing just inside the door while she surveyed the scene. "Hello." She smiled at those already inside before taking her seat. There was no hiding her well-polished French-Parisian accent. English had only ever been a secondary pursuit for her, easily the least utilized of the languages on her official resume. At least it had been before this tasking.

Taking her place, waiting for the briefing to begin Soraya was very good at looking like a medical doctor appearing annoyed at being kept waiting by other people - rather than the other way around. It was a sort of annoyed, fidgety energy she'd borrowed from years of observing her own colleagues who were quite certain they could be saving lives right that moment if it weren't for meetings. It was the sort of anxious energy of someone anticipating the sort of rush that would follow whatever an alarm like this was.

Soraya wasn't nervous, or impatient though, but she liked to observe those around her; liked to know the people she was working with. Some of them she'd even quietly arranged through her DSGE and other contacts to see what was known about them.

At the front of the room Graves was standing there, with Norr looking like two professionals who'd rather look anywhere but at each other. It was a habit of the pair, Soraya had noted. Norr seemed like any functionary Soraya had ever known and Graves like every special forces operator that had ever come through one of her medical tents. That the pair had been married was in their file, but she'd have hardly needed a dossier to know there was history there.

Imogene Crestworthy was another member of the Concealment Team, busy texting while waiting for the briefing to begin. Soraya supposed it was the woman's job, but it was still a surreal experience for her after years of secure briefings. Soraya still vividly recalled one of her instructors throwing a lamp across the room after a candidate had brought their phone with them. This had ended with five minute tirade about 'millennials' and the offender in question never being seen or heard from again after being removed by security.

Soraya had to remind herself to keep an open mind. The girl was, by her dossier, fairly good at her work.

Then there was the Tech Giant. Affable. Bringing in unsecured electronics from Walmart. Acheron was certainly different, but then, she supposed the things Acheron dealt with were not the sort of things that engaged in sophisticated intelligence gathering operations.

Soraya looked at the clock on the wall, and frowned.

Then there was the man, Stokes lurking like a dark shadow. He looked like he'd been through ten wars, and the dossier she'd seen threw up more question marks than Graves'. Graves background at least simply disappeared into the infamous Fort Bragg black hole. That was diagnostic of a particular career path. The background of Stephen Stokes, by contrast, had come with hand-written notes from one of her DGSE contacts that his was among the worst false backgrounds he'd ever seen: 100% confidence no professional agency would've signed off on it and no way Acheron hadn't immediately flagged it.

It wasn't out of character for the Americans to choose to employ the man anyway, clearly he had some clout. What was interesting to Soraya was that they hadn't bothered to provide him a proper legend, even though they could have.

Soraya didn't yet trust any of these people, but she was quite certain Stephen Stokes was the one she trusted least.

Smoke and Steel

Skotinodasos: The Battle of Katalani 0300 Hours

The 'command tent' was more of a haphazardly placed lean-to propped on wooden poles faintly lit by torches. Men, and a few women, gathered around the stump upon which rough-hewn planks salvaged from somewhere had been laid into a table. They were motley collection of peoples. Some draped in the worn and ragged vestments of what went for a red uniform, others wore no uniform, some little more than rags and carried no weapons to speak of. Even so they all listened the breathless youth that had spent two days on foot, moving under cover of darkness to reach them with news from the slaves and serfs aligned with their cause.

When he was done the boy was dismissed, escorted away for a cold bucket of water and a meal.

Skotinodasos sorely missed Krasimir's counsel here, obliged to leave him with the bulk of their 'force' in Suen. At least the old man would have a few weeks to actually train some of the mass of mouths they'd collected there while the mass of former mining slaves and quarry workers and former field slaves taught the holdouts in the citadel what free men were capable of.

"The boy reports no contact with our brothers and sisters in the estates and villages to the southeast since four days ago." Captain Elgaphagos noted stroking the stubble that clung to his chin. "The Black cavalry sticks close to their camp."

Skotinodasos scowled, his expression darkening.

"Dhis changes tings, does eet not?" One of the others leaned forward, looking over the locations. "Eet is one 'ting to cut dhe trees, and prepare dhe way, when saying dhat Free Men have no quarrels with dhe Blacks. Iss eet not anodder to turn our backs wit dhe masters near."

"Dhere are no 'masters' here. Only dhe Invaders dhat we drive out." Skotinodasos growled, irritably.

"I do not favour our leaders' plan, brothers and sisters." Elgaphagos shook his head. "Even if the Imperial cavarlry is two days ride away: the Blacks are professionals..."

"Dhey said dhe same before Rodelkog Brotter. And we won! Now we have dhe guns!"

"We won because everyone knew it was death or victory. The Blacks will not kill the Free Men, no will they pursue aggressively. They dare not leave their ships or turn their backs on the Imperials. They're organized, but slow and cautious: they have no friends in this land. Most of them cannot even speak the language. Facing them on open ground like this? It plays to all of our weaknesses and all of their strengths. I advise we stay the course. This was never the Free Men's fight."

All faces turned to Skotinodasos who took a long deep breath. "Send a runner to dhe captain of dhe artillery. Tell dhem, dhey are walking into a trap. Dhat our partisans confirm, dhe imperials are waiting."

"We don't know dhat..."

"Tell dhem anyway!" Skotinodasos roared. "Dhey are Free Men, let dhem decide dheir own fate and may dhe old gods of vengeance see dhem through. We came here wit a plan, and we follow eet, yeah? Elgaphagos, eet iss your plan..."

"I'll be leading our combat team on foot. Skotinodasos will command what horses we have as a reserve. We'll take blocking positions along the road to Suen, concealing ourselves in the tree line well back from the fighting."

"Dhat iss, several miles from dhe rear of our army." Someone observed.

"They'll have to make it at least that far if they want any support. I brought two hundred former Owned Men and people we've trained ourselves who can stand and fight. I need every one of them if we're going to pull off this rearguard action. I got no one to spare. We fight from treelines. We fight behind walls. We fight from ditches, buildings. Or the prepared positions the rest of you and your work teams will finish preparing."

They spent much of the next two hours confirming each of the work detail leaders knew their assignments. Which positions they'd be preparing first - there were fighting positions overlooking the road to be dug and staked out, trench lines to cover. The team with the powder was notified where they'd be setting up to bring down trees to block the road if necessary. Everyone needed to know where they'd be pulling back to, and where the safe houses and villages were along the route if they had to disperse.

The sun was getting ready to rise when the final groups finally started to disperse to their assignments and Skotinodasos mounted up with his fifty or so men - and their spare horses - behind the two hundred or so Elgaphaos would be commanding in his foot company of mostly musketeers.

Elgaphagos and his men took position in a dispersed line along the dense treeline while the light was still poor. Skotinodasos and his riders dismounted and took up their positions a short distance behind them, sending their mounts and spares in a gully a short distance for a quick withdrawal to the next fighting position along a path they'd cleared through the night.

Skotinodasos slipped forward to join Elgaphagos observing the distant preparations as one among their number road past them, along the road, bearing a Red Banner and making for red position where groups were beginning to get themselves into fighting array. Skotinodasos watched the man trailing dust down the road. "I send anotter runner to dhe Lady Hasikos." Skotinodasos declared as the sun began peaking above the horizon. "He tell her dhey walking into a trap. Dhat our partisans see dhe Imperials are waiting. Maybe eet will save some."

"I suppose deception is necessary in war. I just prefer not to lie to my friends." Elgaphagos said simply. "Or do we consider them friends, sir?"

"We wish dhat tings could be different." When Elgaphagos looked at the balding, older man next to him, he imagined he saw the Mad Priest looking - for the first time in Elgaphagos' recollection - like the man was actually conflicted about something. Then it disappeared and he laughed, looked Elgaphagos in the eye and patted him on the shoulder. "But if you can fool your friends... you can fool your enemies, yeah?"

"If you say so sir." Elgaphagos said.

"Brotter Elgaphagos, do not doubt our cause. We were born for dhis! We fight for dhis wit everyting dhat we are. Do we fight for dhe colour red or dhe colour black? No. We fight for freedom, my brotter. Dhe People are our Cause! Dhe people who for two hundred years, dhey cried out for a justice dhat would not come while dhese nobles, dhey hear and do no ting! But we, my brotter, we are our own justice - look!" He pointed into the distance at the assembling army. "Dhey could, right now, join to'getter and crush dhe Imperials! Our victory iss at hand, and dhey... dhey squander eet! Dhey squader eet on dheir little games. Dhey do not care dhat dhe people suffer and dhe people die, dhey only care dhey get dhe power! Dhis iss dhe way of dhe world you see. We never gonna be free, unless we free ourselves!"

"Then why send another runner to warn them?"

To this, Skotinodasos seemed to deflate, his grandstanding fading away. "Sometimes, Brotter Elgaphagos. We wish for a better world dhan dhe one we live in." He scoffed, seemingly at himself then waived his hand dismissively that the conversation was over and turned down the line, offering his blessings to the men ahead of whatever fate was waiting for them at the end of the day.

In The Black (A Clean-Up Crew RP)

Just a Medical Doctor Nothing to See Here

Name: Dr. Soraya Mansour
Age: 41
Appearance: 5'5", Dark hair, Dark eyes, slight but athletic build, tan complexion.
Nationality: French/Lebanese (?)
Branch: Concealment/Research
Role/Occupation: Forensic Pathologist/Intelligence Officer

Skills: Medical Doctor, Forensic Pathology Specialist, Multiple Languages: (Fluent Languages: Arabic, French, English, Farsi, Hebrew), Medical Contacts, Vehicle Proficiency, Tradecraft, Surveillance-Countersurveillance, Deep Cover Management, Intelligence Services Contacts, Small Team Covert Assassination Training, Covert Poisoning.

Weaknesses: Compound PTSD from conflict zone trauma care, hypervigilance/paranoia, inability to sustain relationships, identity fragmentation.

Background/Biography:
Soraya Mansour was 18 when she arrived in France on a Lebanese student visa on an earned scholarship. Graduating from the French system around 25 years old, she did her residency for 2 years, and was fast-tracked for dual-French citizenship before taking on charity conflict zone medicine in Lebanon.

Around this point Soraya was approached by French Intelligence(DGSE) and her life plan became more complicated than it already was, because she was immediately forced to report the contact to her handler in Tel Aviv: fully expecting her next communication to involve arrangements for her extraction, and an ignominious end to her work via a discrete flight back to Tel Aviv.

This was Mossad protocol after all

But Ronit Eitan - her real name - was not just any Mossad, she was a Caesarea agent; Ktzinet Mivtzaim. And the response she received was that too many assets had already been invested into her legend and that anyways: DGSE resources and cover could compliment her work.

Over the next several years Soraya served in medical adjacent roles where her work as a doctor and forensic pathologist put her in contact with several militant groups and Persons of Interest, providing medical treatment as well as investigating suspicious deaths, chemical weapons use, and identifying remains all over troubled regions. By all accounts she was a competent, direct, and respected medical professional: and an excellent DGSE asset.

That all ended about two years ago DGSE got wind that one of their assets may have been engaged as a member of a Mossad Kidon cell tied to several naturally attributed deaths of persons of interest. The deaths were never officially attributed to unnatural causes, but DGSE analysts assessed “High” confidence that Soraya had put at least two flagged cases in the ground herself: though the precise agent or pathogen employed was never identified.

The matter was quietly covered up between Paris and Tel Aviv, but Soraya’s security clearance for further charity work was pulled and she found herself out of a job.

The option to return to Tel Aviv was floated but by this point Ranit had spent almost two decades working and living as Dr. Soraya Mansour. Acheron Recovery Services, however, seemed the perfect ‘retirement’ for a DGSE asset whose cover had been blown and Paris agreed to back putting her out to pasture there with Acheron: who needed someone with expertise to examine… special cases.

Her background to Acheron is just that. A Lebanese born naturalized French medical doctor who'd operated in conflict zones as a DSGE fieldwork asset until her cover was compromised.

Certainly not the profile of anyone involved in wetwork.

In The Black (A Clean-Up Crew RP)

Application

Just a Medical Doctor Nothing to See Here

Name: Dr. Soraya Mansour
Age: 41
Appearance: 5'5", Dark hair, Dark eyes, slight but athletic build, tan complexion.
Nationality: French/Lebanese (?)
Branch: Research
Role/Occupation: Forensic Pathologist

Skills: Medical Doctor, Forensic Pathology Specialist, Multiple Languages: (Fluent Languages: Arabic, French, English, Farsi), Medical Contacts, Vehicle Proficiency, Tradecraft, Surveillance-Countersurveillance, Deep Cover Management, Intelligence Services Contacts, Small Team Covert Assassination Training, Covert Poisoning.

Weaknesses: Compound PTSD from conflict zone trauma care, hypervigilance/paranoia, inability to sustain relationships, identity fragmentation.

Background/Biography:
Soraya Mansour was 18 when she arrived in France on a Lebanese student visa on an earned scholarship. Graduating from the French system around 25 years old, she did her residency for 2 years, and was fast-tracked for dual-French citizenship before taking on charity conflict zone medicine in Lebanon.

Around this point Soraya was approached by French Intelligence(DGSE) and her life plan became more complicated than it already was, because she was immediately forced to report the contact to her handler in Tel Aviv: fully expecting her next communication to involve arrangements for her extraction, and an ignominious end to her work via a discrete flight back to Tel Aviv.

This was Mossad protocol after all

But Ronit Eitan - her real name - was not just any Mossad, she was a Caesarea agent; Ktzinet Mivtzaim. And the response she received was that too many assets had already been invested into her legend and that anyways: DGSE resources and cover could compliment her work.

Over the next several years Soraya served in medical adjacent roles where her work as a doctor and forensic pathologist put her in contact with several militant groups and Persons of Interest, providing medical treatment as well as investigating suspicious deaths, chemical weapons use, and identifying remains all over troubled regions. By all accounts she was a competent, direct, and respected medical professional: and an excellent DGSE asset.

That all ended about two years ago DGSE got wind that one of their assets may have been engaged as a member of a Mossad Kidon cell tied to several naturally attributed deaths of persons of interest. The deaths were never officially attributed to unnatural causes, but DGSE analysts assessed “High” confidence that Soraya had put at least two flagged cases in the ground herself: though the precise agent or pathogen employed was never identified.

The matter was quietly covered up between Paris and Tel Aviv, but Soraya’s security clearance for further charity work was pulled and she found herself out of a job.

The option to return to Tel Aviv was floated but by this point Ranit had spent almost two decades working and living as Dr. Soraya Mansour. Acheron Recovery Services, however, seemed the perfect ‘retirement’ for a DGSE asset whose cover had been blown and Paris agreed to back putting her out to pasture there with Acheron: who needed someone with expertise to examine… special cases.

Her background to Acheron is just that. A Lebanese born naturalized French medical doctor who'd operated in conflict zones as a DSGE fieldwork asset until her cover was compromised.

Certainly not the profile of anyone involved in wetwork.

A Journey Through Space - A DnD story

Lairëcúma the Bard

---

The Waystone Inn - Inside
Interactions: Pretty Much EVERYONE
Outfit: Little Indigo Riding Hood

---

Lairëcúma disappeared in the initial quake, when her barstool went out from under her right as she was sitting down.

She re-appeared belatedly at the entrance to the Inn bracing herself within the doorframe like a sailor on a mast.

Lairëcúma was not a physically imposing woman. She was tall perhaps, for a non-elven woman. Certainly centuries of dance hadn't left her weakened cripple. Yet no one looked at the golden hair bard with thoughts that she would be performing feats of strength, lifting beams off trapped survivors or anything of that sort.

Braced in that doorway, looking out at the sea of chaos that then surrounded her, she reflected on a time and a different version of herself that might've done such things anyway. A brash young elf that thought she'd known things. Thought she knew what helping was and things like what was truly right and what was truly wrong. A young bard that had lived once, some centuries ago, who'd since died a thousand small deaths and hadn't yet realized the purpose of life was to die but once.

Lairëcúma was something of a calm amidst the storm.

In that calm she lifted her hand towards the heavens, her lips moving in the quiet invocation of one spell and then another.

First a 30ft pillar of light erupted upon her, shining like a beacon or a spotlight then came a clap of thunder carried by a spell of prestidigitation.

For her own part, the bard seemed to have no problem projecting her voice into the quieted space that followed.

"Greetings, if I could have your attention would everyone kindly please LISTEN THE FUCK UP!

Anyone working on someone in immediate danger: LET US KNOW IF YOU NEED HELP.
Anyone who is injured but can still move: COME HERE, we will help you here.
Anyone with healing magic: DO NOT, I repeat DO NOT waste your magic on the first injured person you see.
Magical healing is for those who cannot be treated by non-magical means ONLY!
If you are trapped, or injured and cannot get to us but are not in immediate danger: let someone know where you are and stay put. WE WILL GET TO YOU WHEN WE CAN.
I will now direct your attention to THE TIEFLING ON THE ROOF!"

There was a brief pause as Lairëcúma dismissed the minor illusion spell, and recast it again: this time a pillar of light illuminated Cali standing atop the roof of the Waystone Inn.

"Rescuers and healers: when you finish what you are doing: THE TIEFLING WILL DIRECT YOU to the next person in need of immediate rescue or healing.
If anyone finds someone in need of IMMEDIATE healing or rescue: GET THE TIEFLING'S ATTENTION and help direct healers or rescuers to them.
If you find someone trapped or injured, but NOT immediately dying. DO NOT HARASS THE TIEFLING:
Mark their location, come to me and let someone here know where they are.
We will assist them as soon as we are able.
If anyone is uninjured and unsure what they should be doing: COME SEE ME!"

In what followed, Lairëcúma quickly found herself directing people up onto the roof to help Cali, or the rescue workers. She also started recruiting those too old, injured, or inebriated to do rescue work to help her organize the casualty collection point and gathering up any supplies that might be of use. She also set a couple of children to harassing Rosa or anyone else they could find for healing items or barring that, strong spirits, honey or anything else that might help them prepare for what was about to happen.

A Journey Through Space - A DnD story

Lairëcúma the Bard

---

The Waystone Inn - Outside
Interactions: Cali @FernStone, Lucky @DrDistasteful
Outfit: Little Indigo Riding Hood

---

Lairëcúma didn't bother to turn and face the Tabaxi as he spoke, but did smirk a little at his comment about her singing and her expression only brightened at the tiefling woman's comments. "Oh, why thank you for saying so!" The elf turned her head fractionally towards the tabaxi and the knight, he voice carrying an edge of politeness bordering on deliberately saccharine. "I wish I had some trick to share. The truth is being on the road so long you pick up how to do things like..." She paused and seemed to correct herself as she turned and wandered through the door. "... rarely turning down drinks offered in friendship."

Lairëcúma made her second entrance into the Inn, offering a small and hasty "Hey." this time, accompanied by a little waive as she approached the bar.

"Bartender! If you would be so kind, I would like to order one 'Last Round' please." She turned and pointed directly at Cali following behind her. "The tiefling woman will be paying!"

A Journey Through Space - A DnD story

Lairëcúma the Bard

---

The Waystone Inn - Outside
Interactions: Cali @FernStone, Ransom @Atrophy, Lucky @DrDistasteful
Outfit: Little Indigo Riding Hood

---

Ransom turned and faced Lairëcúma just as her lips were poised, as if she had more to sing, and she held there while he addressed her. Her song temporarily paused, her lips drew tight as she shifted to one side. She stood there in polite, glassy-eyed stillness - like a heron waiting out the rain. When he turned away a slight smirk tugged at the edges of her mouth and just as Ransom turned to address Cali, Lairëcúma erupted into life again.

Her voice came on suddenly in high, sharp soprano. With a slight shrug off the inn wall, she gestured to Lucky and then Ransom, Eeoting theatrically in case any present were unclear on who the subjects of her song were.

Now who knows how it started?
Will anyone even care!?
Wilst stepping over bar stools,
While stale beer wafts through the air,
About the battle of some stray cat,
And the knight with his stupid hair?
Oh snow goes red and snow goes white,
Just another winter's night,

It's just another,
Just another...

Her voice began to waver, soften, and slow again towards the end, falling back into more pleasing dulcet notes which no longer felt like nails on chalkboard, until she fell out of song all together. The last words came in her normal speaking voice, gentle and ringing, but wielded like a woman twisting a knife with words. "Stupid. Bar fight."

"Well." Lairëcúma took a deep breath, her shoulders slumped as she clasped her hands in front of herself and resumed the poise of a very proper elven lady. "I believe we have all witnessed quite enough of this evening's theatrics." She glanced around at the others present, excepting Ransom and Lucky whom she turns her back to while angling herself towards the door. "Perhaps we might seek warmer company - and drinks - elsewhere?"

A Journey Through Space - A DnD story

Lairëcúma the Bard

---

The Waystone Inn - Outside
Interactions: Cali @FernStone, Ransom @Atrophy, Lucky @DrDistasteful
Outfit: Little Indigo Riding Hood

---

The elven woman didn't respond to Cali immediately. The pair of men clearly commanded the scene, but something about her expression seemed to hint her attention was deep in some thought, her lips pursed and trembled as though something were just on the tip of her tongue she was struggling to say. Finally she seemed to notice Cali. Hiking the skirts of her long velvet robe from where its hems dragged in the snow, she sidestepped to make room for Cali next to her where she lingered beneath the eaves.

"Sorry." She said at last in a whisper, as if not wanting to disturb the men and still sounding distracted. "No need to worry on my account. Not my first tavern brawl." Something about the disinterested way she said that suggested this was a dramatic understatement.

"If you pay attention though, I've learned to find my muse in the..." Lairëcúma's face scrunched a little in concentration, searching clearly searching for how to articulate something in a particular way. "...absurdly idiotic."

The tension returned as Lairëcúma turned her attention back to whatever puzzle had been occupying her. Whatever it was was clearly far more engaging for her than the prospect of imminent violence about to take place a few feet away.

Finally her features seemed to ease as whatever thought had been rattling around her elven head found resolution, and Lairëcúma's foot began to testingly tap against the fresh fallen snow. Her eyes turned skyward, her eyes wide as she turned her head up, her hand reaching out to the moon like child trying to grasp the thing. Her eyes followed the large white flakes of snow as danced their way earthward caught against the moon as they fell between her outstretched fingers.

Her voice, when it finally came, was a hesitant, halting thing. Like newborn fawn taking its first shaky steps. Quivering, high-strung, and sweetly forlorn - like strings drawn taut, ready to snap. It was quiet, yet haunting in its beauty as Ransom and Lucky faced off with one another on a few steps away.

"Snowfall,
On yet another night
Shimmering with the moon,
Against the silver light."

Where the first stanza was scarcely heard over the blustering of the men, probably only clearly by Cali who stood next to her, the second Lairëcúma gave a fuller voice, rising briefly in force before fading again back into the night on the fading note of disappointment.

Blood red,
On yet another night,
Huddled under snowy eaves,
While assholes square up to fight
Snow goes red and snow goes white...
It's just another night.

It could've been so much more...
Than just another...
Bar fight.

Chronicles of Minadra

Leofric Aelwinovich

Leofric was another, like Síobhra, who seemed to have invited himself with little discussion as to his intent. He had no gift of flight to take him away from the group for hours at a time but shared about as few words. Instead he lingered near the back of the group, following behind and affecting a sentinel-like disposition whenever the group paused to talk.

Which he did now.

His steel blue eyes squinted, and traced their way up the frozen cliffs, then ran along the slopes and distant peaks, and finally up into the sky itself. His brow remained furrowed as though constantly searching for some sign the whole mountainside was about to come down on them.

The man said little, and even less about himself. While it was obscured now beneath thick furs he wore, all present had enough chance over the trip to see the man's battlegear; there could be no question the man had been through several battles. The cloak he wore bore the faded emblems of a Jugkraian holy order that some present might recognize as one that had been defunct for nearly twenty years now amidst the Jugkraian civil wars.

Which made sense. The man seemed at home in the mountains. If anything the furs he wore made him look overdressed for these mountain paths. He'd purchased supplies from his own pocket, more than he needed for himself - unless he'd planned on being snowed in for weeks - upon his mule, the animal he called Zapas which he held by the reins in one hand while leaning against the battle-worn warspear he braced against with his other.

"I would listen to the Sylph." Leofric's voice was a low, deep thing, that seemed at home among the mountains and snow as he seemed to second Síobhra's opinion. "These mountain roads swallow the foolish and hasty first."