Lore of Leyuna RPG (FRPG)

[The Kingpin]

The Stormweaver stared at the dark doppelgänger of the Maelgwyn Clan Lord, quickly processing what was happening.

"Elwen!" he called over his shoulder, his eyes never leaving the Magistrate.

The Onokruun dragoness, still huddled against the wall and wary of approaching threats, was fixated on her mate's twisted lookalike. It was this all over again. This one. The one that turned her own willpower against her.

"Elwen!" repeated Arashi, more forcefully this time.

He heard no response, but felt her focus shift. "We need you in this fight. This thing is feeding off your fear. Join us in fighting and we can lay it low!" he boomed, as he backed away from the abomination. "Tanwen, how's your arm?"

"I'm fine. Mother, let's end this," responded the White Flame, flexing the fingers on one paw as she made sure she was battle ready. Her metallic armour was straightening out, overlapping above the wound, reinforcing itself to protect her from further harm. The golden glow of her armour dimmed to a shade of red, indicative of how well protected the shoulder was.

Elwen looked down at herself, bare of any weapons, maskless, and afraid. She looked up at her daughter, who, despite putting on a brave face, was clearly injured. She looked at this magus before her, fighting to defend them even when he seemed outmatched. She looked at the twisted, bastardised mimicry of her mate, the thing that had been used to hold her here.

She had had enough.

"I will fight...But I have no weapons," she responded.

"This place is your domain. Bend it to your will. The curse has largely been destroyed. It needs only for you to shatter its remnants. You have no weapons because you have not given yourself a weapon. Bring them forth, and let us end this," rumbled Arashi, a shell of silver and gold spreading into existence across his sleek hide, his Justicar armour soon encasing him completely. From the spiked battle-crown masking his face to the jagged blades on his tail that glinted menacingly in the unnatural light of Elwen's crumbling prison, he was braced to fight.

Elwen blinked, looking at her bare claws once more, envisioning the tools with which she had once crafted some of the finest tools, instruments and even weapons Drakhunmiir had ever seen. That was so long ago. Even to her timeless memory, she felt as though her recollection of actually doing it was buried in a thick layer of dust, as though she couldn't quite see it in her mind in order to replicate it. Elegant silver talons materialised over her own, those in turn expanding until they formed gauntlets that extended to her elbows. A mask, not unlike the one corrupted by Dyrineyr, the one that now formed the Abomination's head, knit itself across her muzzle, starting at the base of her horns and stretching forward to cover her jagged-fanged maw, light turning to solid metal in moments.

"I will do what I can."

[C S]

The corrupted recollection of Cyndeyrn must have been waiting for this moment. It reared up with an open maw, exposing a set of teeth too numerous for any Hueilin, jutting out of its gums in all directions. The teeth even lined the inside of its mouth and throat. Its clawed hands clenched, and a truly monstrous roar crashed upon the ears of the three dragons beholding it. At the trailing end of the sound, a thunderous boom tore across the way, and Arashi was blasted to the ground and pushed to the other side of the arena.

What struck him was a warping of his own lightning, an arc that was white-hot and radiating the flames of his mate. A culmination of all their powers, and then some. The dark drake turned its attention on Tanwen next, snarling.

[The Kingpin]

Tanwen spared only a moment to see her mate slide past her and into the wall in a trail of smoke, a violent snarl escaping her as she charged, diving off to the side the moment she sensed her mother's magic behind her.

Strands of blue stretched across the gap between Elwen and the Magistrate, arcane harpoons that punched through tarry flesh, armour and whatever bone this thing had, breaking joints and forcing the beast to fall forward. In the next instant, Tanwen had torn through one of its tarry wings, leaving a trail of flames in her wake that ate away at the inky stump that remained. Her body whirled around, fangs plunging into its tail as a brilliant green light shimmered across the arena.

Rising to his feet, the Stormweaver's crackling, golden form rose from the floor, smoke spilling off his glowing armour as arcs of electricity danced in the plumes. With the Magistrate's head low and its back exposed, he brought forth his former bridge for one last service. The groaning of rending metal filled the room as the spike at its centre was torn out of the ground, a spike the length of the abomination's neck shooting forward and into its shoulder, echoing the wound it had inflicted on Tanwen tenfold.

[C S]

The bloody Magistrate, much like the slug it once was, wriggled in a fleshy manner. Its tail lifted Tanwen by the jaws with an impossible strength, and when it broke free of her teeth, mangled as it was, the limb smashed the dragoness back into the floor. Around that time was when malformed digits began to manifest around the wounds of the spears and the spires. Individual claws dug into that which pierced the monster's body, and laboriously, they worked to remove them.

[The Kingpin]

A moment later, Elwen swung her taloned paws apart, spreading her limbs outwards and tugging the abomination's limbs out from under it, the harpoons forcing it to spread open and exposing it. Like puppet strings, they controlled its movements, bending it in such a way that it was left immobile. She knew it wouldn't be long before it broke free, but she would soon learn that it was enough.

The spike Arashi threw forward flew back, ripping apart in a violent spiral of ice and metal, like a horizontal tornado that perforated all it touched, ripping a gaping hole right through the abomination's gut. The friction of the steel dust gave birth to arcs of static electricity; a herald for something far deadlier. Stomping down on the beast's tail to prevent any attempted resistance, Tanwen unleashed a plume of brilliant white flames upon the Magistrate, its back set ablaze. The next moment was punctuated by a series of sickeningly wet sounds, the crunching and squelching of rended flesh and pulverized bone virtually filling the room. The doppelganger found itself impaled in several places, from its mangled wings, to its limbs and all along its torso, brilliant blue lances lined with menacing blades each half a foot thick, were buried in it from all sides. The abomination crumpled to the ground as the old wyrm murmured lowly, the runic patterns across the front of her mask lighting up, the jewel that served as a third ‘eye’ shining brightly as her fists clenched. Almost immediately, the lances began to rotate, the blades widening and stretching outwards, until their edges began to screech and whine, sparks leaping out and igniting the tarry ichor being driven out of the wounds. Elwen, snarling lowly, glanced over to Arashi. “Strike him.”

The next moment was followed by a deafening boom. Blinding light filled the chamber as a bolt of lightning shot forth from Arashi's palm, forking out and striking each of the Artificer’s lances in turn, following them to the Magistrate’s core in a brilliant blast, the electricity tearing through the rods of arcane iron and metallic dust alike, welding it together from the heat to form an enormous metal star.

When the smoke and light faded, the chamber around them had begun to dissolve, blowing away like ash in the wind.

This ash that blinded them all eventually gave way for a brightening, the blackness of slumber and dreams surrendering their dominion to the dark blues and greens of the laboratory. It was a place she could not remember ever being, and as her vision came into focus, she realised she was surrounded by dragons she did not know.

Until she saw Cyndeyrn.

The Maelgwyn Clan Lord was as she remembered him, shimmering white scales gleaming even in this dark light, like a vast pearl given draconic form. He looked towards her when he saw her stir, rising to his feet slowly.

"Cyndeyrn?" growled the Onokruun dragoness. "Rulukhuur?"

The formidable drake's stiff, stern, and perhaps somewhat bitter expression twisted in an instant, eyes going wide as whatever attention to self composure he had left him, all but galloping across the gap between them to meet her, his neck curling around her own. "Elwen! Is it really you? You're back?"

"I am...How long have I been..."

"Over a thousand years," rumbled a familiar voice behind her, causing them to break their embrace briefly. Elwen turned to look at the Stormweaver as he stood, Tanwen beside him. "It took great effort, from everyone here. But you're back. And there is much to catch up on," he growled. There was no hiding the shock in her expression when she heard that. Even as he spoke, the plain disk that was once the Onokruun dragoness's mask floated over, halting before her to be held in hand.

"What is...?" she trailed off, looking down at it.

"Your mask. Jahkiid, one of your Clan, undid the bulk of the curse, the source of its power, by breaking down and reforging the mask as the disk you see there. It will be up to you to reforge it."

"I'm sure it can wait," growled Cyndeyrn firmly, Arashi just about to retort when another voice intervened.

"For once, I must agree with Cyndeyrn on this matter, Arashi. There will be time for it later. A freshly woken mind is best eased into things slowly. We both know this. And besides, the hero of this tale remains unconscious. I think it would be rude to interrupt his rest and recovery now," explained Buruq, his vast head lifting from the ground as he let his gaze scan the group around him.

"What happened?" asked Arashi, noting for a moment that Elwen was dumbstruck by the sight of such a massive dragon.

"He...had his own trial to endure. It apparently involved a woman with a lot of hate, and magic beyond her age."

Arashi blinked, considering what Buruq had said. "How do you know?"

"A tired and troubled mind is not too adept at hiding its worries from a focused one. He may as well have told me about it. I believe the woman in question is known as...Morrelie?"

Oh. Of course it would be her.

"We will discuss the matter in depth later. It is of importance," stated the Stormweaver. He had given the others some time to themselves, glancing over his shoulders as, for the first time in his life, he saw Tanwen, Elwen and Cyndeyrn, all happy. Genuinely happy. Discussions of vengeful mages, demonic cults and corrupt Clan Lords could all wait. Let them have their peace for now.

[C S]

From one underground to another.

Pipes, like brassy, scratched veins, wound their way all throughout the shop. They were the support pillars that held up the walls of sheet metal. They were the rafters that ran across the roof. They were the lanterns that kept the place lit, as they reflected the orange and white of furnaces and troughs of burning coals. The space was wide and vaguely circular in shape. Racks and shelves were stood up in the spaces that the wide pipes left to spare. Hefty work desks, laden with tools and parts and shelves like rungs down their legs, were lined up like cubicles. Each one had a dwarf on station. Each one had some kind of metal work underway. Engravings, polishing, or the tedious grinding of edges into quality bevels.

Fires roared and growled curses when the bellows were stamped down by boots plated with steel. The pipes gleamed with enhanced intensity along with them. The artisans tending to the forge were silhouettes against that mighty contraption that dominated the center of the workshop. While their extremities were as armored as the warriors of which they toiled for, their backs were bare to deal with the heat. Only the straps of their overalls reached past their shoulders.

It was not the place for spectators. Even the likes of Urlox was made to respect the delicate operations underway in the workshop, and he stood on the peripheries of the dwarven activity. The burly soldier was near a shelf, but not so near as to obstruct the flow of tools retrieved and returned to its racks. The man's size meant he was very much out of place, but he did not want to be near the pipes, which radiated a heat that made him reconsider not carrying an alternative to his commando gear, and emanated a chilling hiss. He guessed that the gases being passed through them were anything but chilling. They were probably downright crematory.

Urlox passed the time listening to the clink and crash of tools on raw steel. The sound was a rhythm of anticipation, because somewhere out there, he could envision his sword reborn. Legends never die, they were only retold, Walgruuf had once pointed out. The destruction of the guard captain's sword, then, was not the end of its legend, but the closing of a chapter in its storied life at his side. The process of melding the steel together was promised to be finished by now, thanks to dwarven efficiency. That meant every minute that passed was another closer to reunion.

When that moment finally came, Urlox was not what one would call "prepared". His chin was tucked into his folded arms, and his back was propped up by the edge of the shelf, the man half-asleep from the circulating heat inside the shop and general boredom. This was mildly insulting to the troupe of dwarves that were to present the finished product. It took a couple of them to roll the unusual sword over on a very specialized wagon. One that was designed to carry warhammers and battleaxes, weapons that were otherwise out of scale for a dwarven body.

"Outlander," said one of the dwarves with a voice that may have been spoken through ash and soot trapped in her lungs. It was stern enough to rouse Urlox back to wakefulness, over the other industrial ambience of the workshop. The man opened one eye first, which settled on the dwarves in a scouting manner, then he smiled, pleased at what he saw. Atop the wagon, there was a tarp, and the mound underneath the covers that was most pronounced where he imagined the hilt of his sword to be.

There was something he found odd, though. The blade seemed a lot wider, now. Not to mention shorter. Ah, but that must have been in his head! Urlox pushed off from his support and took a knee. "Excellent! It's finished?"

"Don't do that," the dwarf replied succinctly, which made Urlox incline his head questioningly. "Talk to us while standing. Half-men we may be, but we will be spoken to at all times with the fullest regards."

"Oh. I was just assuming the appointing stance -- ah, but you lot probably 'ave no time for an old man and his 'omeland traditions!" Urlox laughed heartily as he rose back to his feet. "Alright then, let me see this beauty!"

The dwarves obliged. With one fell motion, they pulled the tarp away. Urlox's eyes widened, then he squinted. He stepped closer and leaned over the wagon. He hummed appraisingly. The dwarves looked up at him with gaunt faces, not appreciating this exercise in patience.

"There might be a mistake 'ere," Urlox stated uncertainly. The hilt of the sword was replicated masterfully, with the added inclusion of a long guard that almost reached the same length as the pommel. It was pointed to be a weapon in of itself, a spike affixed to what was a slab of metal. It was indeed wider than it was long, and the sword was straight on up until the tip. There, a broad wedge was given a fearsome edge, and the two edges of this wedge gave each side of the sword an axe-like quality. Two narrow points that could be driven through armor with ease, given the rest of the mass behind them. Impressive as it was, this sword was not his sword.

"It looks nice, but... uh. It doesn't look like the other one. That one also looked nice, and this one is also pretty... but the other one had a sort of... reputation, you know?" the man explained to the thoroughly unamused dwarves, gesticulating with his hands.

"The other one was made with some kind of sorcery to make it function, outlander," another dwarf in the group asserted, and left no room for contention of that so-called fact. "Its proportions defy that of the largest claymore, and other similar two-handed weapons. Of course it was going to be broken as it was. The fact that it lasted so long, as you said, is simply sorcery."

Urlox felt the need to point out that Daavenian craft was exceptional among the denominations of mankind, but that ran the risk of some very far reaching implications as far as a certain Wanderer was concerned. "Aye," agreed the faux mercenary with a damper on his enthusiasm.

"This one will not break unless you are wholly irresponsible or stupid... or both, on a scale unprecedented over the course of history on this land. On this world. Nevertheless, the truth is as such: you will be long dead before this steel is rended again," assured one of the metalworkers with a harsh bluntness. "But this durability comes with a price: can you even lift this bloody thing?"

"That is a good question," Urlox replied. It was the same material as his previous sword, but packed denser into a truly unique weapon. A hybrid of a sword, hammer and axe. The steel looked to be sturdy enough to block blows along its broadside, as well, not just parry! With these possibilities, Urlox found it within himself to overlook the deviation in this legend. It all depended on whether or not he could lift it, and use it with the same proficiency as before...

The red-bearded man reached out and wrapped the fingers of one hand around the handle. Then the next. He took one last breath, and used the moment to remind himself of the long road he'd walked throughout his lifetime. Failures with bows and arrows, warhammers... his first love was the sword. Did it reciprocate this care?

"Don't reject me now, lass, now that you're all gussied up!"

Urlox heaved the sword up and over a shoulder. It was only after he did this dramatic swing that he found it to be completely unnecessary. "Oi. It's just fine!" he reported. He held it out at the ready in front of him. It was tempting to start practicing with its reduced range and the inherent change of stance and style, however, it would have been unwise to injure the dwarves that resurrected his sword. It would also be unwise to damage their equipment. It had costed him a pretty piece to commission this work, and there was a lot to lose if anything went off-kilter now. "I'll take it!"

"You have no choice. We've already assembled its sheathe and mounts. It's either you take it or we sell it."

"Aye!" Urlox said with a twinkle in his eye. He was speedily growing fond of this weight. This sword that can crush.



Contrary to the vented heat of a stone vessel dedicated to creation and transformation, the interior passages of Brodudika's city hall were temperate for the season, comfortably warm. As usual, it was a busy place to be already, and people rearing to get on the road had their bundles of clothing on, though unbuttoned so as to not suffer while indoors. It was already bad enough that most of them were carrying every facet of their travel on their backs or in their hands. The droves of people ready to take their assignments was a normal scene for the gray-clad woman with the pointed hat. What she found noteworthy, peeking over the top of the book she inconspicuously carried around lately, was the few people who were not out to embark, but were returning.

Standing at one of her regular haunts, in this case: a lobby column, Moira got a good look of them once they were through the hall past the building's doors. She couldn't say for certain what made her look up from the text she was reading; they were a discreet bunch that would have gone unnoticed in the din of adventurers. Maybe it was their impressive stature, made more so by the bulky hide coats and backpacks that had bedrolls slung atop them. They were a tall and wide lot because of their gear, and the cold of the outside still followed them. Even though they were polite in asking pardon as they worked their way around the room to avoid the lines, it was enough of an off-key occurrence to draw Moira's eye. Shouldn't they be dressing down and waiting to claim their questing rewards, she wondered. The mysterious lady caught onto the trail of a mystery, and so turned her attention from her book about draconic legends to this minute happening.

The group were making their way to the side passage that led to city hall's archives. Well, that wasn't so mysterious, Moira had to admit as she shadowed the newcomers on light feet and an adherence to a respectable distance. If one of them gave even the slightest hint of a turning motion, she would plaster herself to the near wall nonchalantly and act as though she were always there, reading her book. It was an act she had perfected. Of course, in the way of those carrying out mischief did, one of the strangers did turn to peek past their hood and luggage to make sure they were not being followed. Of course, they saw Moira, her face buried within the pages of her book.

Mischief confirmed. "But is it the kind of mischief that I should be trotting off to prattle to a guard?" A mystery within a mystery, that one was. Another layer of mystery was, what manner of mischief was worth doing after that public fiasco with stalkers that took after a snake? Moira slid along gradually as the shade she was dressed as, a sleuth to give men in green coats a run for their money. If it did turn out that she needed to go to a detective rather than a city guard, she might as well have some leads for the city's crime solvers on loan. Now, how they would react to her knowing what she did as a result of spying, that was something else entirely. Moira did find that notion more than a little funny, though she kept that firmly inside her musings.

The leader of the pack opened the door the library and the others funneled in after him. He took one last cursory look about the hallway and saw the woman engaged in reading her book. He arched a brow. He could have sworn she was farther away, yet for all it appeared to be, she hadn't budged an inch. She was holding her book the same way as he last saw her holding it, her eyes were lazily passing over the page she was on. The man observed Moira for a little while after and he saw her turn to the next page. He was convinced then that she was just a bystander too caught up in her reading. The man stepped into the library and shut the door behind him.

"Aw, nuts."

Moira tiptoed as fast as she could to the door and pressed her ears up to it. She heard footsteps growing softer, so she waited a few moments before opening it up just a crack with the most precise care to being silent. "You're going to have to speak extra-soft if the Storyteller's at his post."

And the mysterious bunch was, for the most part. They couldn't disguise the sounds of their boots on the library floor, though they did a better job of it than the benefactor could ever hope to, so they had that going for them. All the same, Moira opened the door slowly, closed it with the same amount of care, and followed on quiet slippers, one aisle of bookshelves over, using the tomes as cover. They had no idea she was practically right next to them when they finally came to a stop deep within the archive. Moira was crouched down low and kept her ears peeled.

At first she heard the jangle of their travel supplies as they rummaged through their bags. This went on for some time, long enough for the hydromancer to consider that these people were just after a secluded place to indulge herbs or some other sort of frivolity. Lazy though she was at times, as an instructor, Moira did have a respect for books and places where knowledge was kept. If she smelled odd smoke or heard noises best unheard, she would fetch a guard in a heartbeat, this she swore to herself with a certain grimness. So much for her mysterious mystery, if that ended up being the case.

But after the rummaging ended, the strangers started to speak. They spoke of cryptic things. A nondescript forest, which could have been anywhere on Aster. A hidden cabin out in those woods, wherever on Aster those woods were. "Warlocks". "Drakeblood".

"They made a hefty sacrifice. And for what? Their hydra simply disappeared from record. We can do them one better, can't we? Our righteous hearts will birth a true dragon savior. Our tribute to Greshlynk. And like poor Chromatus before it, the farce known as Brodudika will disappear from record. Grymhaven will rise again under the Tribute's wings as it crushes the benefactor within its clawed grasp. When Grymhaven rises, all of Draxon will rise."

That was as coherent as their discussion got. Coherent, in that it framed everything else in a strongly negative light and definitely associated what Moira heard with the previous plot to use a wyvern to burn the city to ashes. The woman would have questioned the wisdom of jumping from capturing a wild drake to trying to make one from scratch with occult warlock magic if it wasn't so staggeringly disturbing as a possibility. It actually happened.

This 'poor Chromatus', the hydra that disappeared?

Whatever it was that the strangers retrieved from their outing, they hid it away in the shelf separating them from the hydromancer. She heard the books being shuffled about to make space for the library's newest, undocumented additions. Moira waited for their footsteps to fade away before sneaking around to the other side, and then began to search the area they would have been standing in front of. Sure enough, she found the small books, if they could be called books at all. Their covers were crude wraps of leather of a scaly sort, dark and pebbly. Moira felt a sense of wrongness when she took one in her free hand. That feeling alone dissuaded her from opening the cipher. Chromatus.

Either the strangers would be back later, or someone was slated to stop by the library soon to peruse some new choice material, Moira deduced. Well, there was a saying about even the best laid plans, and how often they were prone to going awry. "Always account for the Hats," Moira muttered as she retrieved the small, pamphlet sized works and stuck them in the pages of her book.

In the hallway outside of the library, the strangers took note of their book-reader's absence. The most superstitious of them found it very timely.

[The Kingpin]

Much like his Daavenian companion, Matthias was also awaiting a delivery. Unlike Urlox, however, the Wanderer was not receiving a weapon, but clothing. Specifically, a cloak.

The tailor's shop was a small place, lit by arrays of oil lamps lining the walls and hanging from the low ceiling. At least, low, compared to the brute of a man who currently stood in the middle of it. The rest of the room was lined with rolls upon rolls upon rolls of different fabrics.

"It's not often we get asked for a heavy winter cloak. Much less one for a man of your stature," said the seamstress in the back room, her voice slightly muffled.

"Dwarves are often the best ones to go to for durability," responded Matthias as he observed the surroundings, noting the furs on one wall.

"Aye. We're a people who believe in creating a legacy. Our swords? They last lifetimes. Our armour? Likewise. This cloak will outlive you just as easily," said the woman as she came back out of the back room, hefting a large, tightly folded mass of black material almost as tall as she was and tied together by thick twine.

"Well...I'm four hundred years into my lifespan and already earning my greys. I would not doubt it," responded Matthias as he looked at the towering mass of fabric that almost reached his own height when stacked atop the dwarf's head.

"It'll certainly give your children and grandchildren a memento to wear proudly. Help me with this, won'tcha?" she asked coming to a halt before him. "Lift it so I can get me some height."

"Of course," he said, grabbing the material by the twine and feeling something hard underneath the uppermost folds of fabric.

Walking around behind the counter, she retrieved something, the groan and scrape of a stool being heard as she basically kicked it around the counter until it reached a spot behind him, climbing atop it so that she was at his own height. "Pass it over if ya don't mind," she said with a cheer that was uncommon for dwarves. But then, she had earned a rather hefty commission for it, and had acquired it through her brother.

Moments later, she was undoing the twine and holding up the hefty cloak and wrapping it around the larger man's shoulders.

The cape was a long, broad thing, with squared off steel plated shoulders and pale fur around the collar. A steel chain reached across the front once it was clasped in place, a sturdy buckle fastening to an equally sturdy clasp that assured that it did not go anywhere while he was moving. The plating was actual shoulder armour, pauldrons that strapped to his shoulders, with the cloak actually extending around from under them. Dwarven-themed patterns were embossed into the edges of the plates.

Looking at himself in the mirror, the Wanderer smiled. The cape wrapped around to the point its edges met in front of him, and thoroughly concealed what was behind it. He turned to the side and saw that even his gauntlet holsters were hidden

"Impressive," said the Wanderer with a smile as he examined his new acquisition.

"Of course. Finest in Western Aster. The elves can keep their sleeping gowns. This is where the clothes of a survivor are born," said the seamstress proudly. Matthias did not doubt it.

[C S]

Urlox left the foundry feeling like a new man. His sword rested high on his back, just under his shoulder blades. What an odd place for a sword, he thought, the blade within a sheath that might as well have been leather fastened into a hollow paddle and fastened to his body with straps and buckles. At least it did not make going through doors as difficult as it had been for the man when he first gained his position as captain. All in all, the experience was a baptism of dwarven ingenuity in the heat of their metalworking hearths, made complete by the brashness of a rough-cut dwarven wit and ill temper. The verbal abuse was a medal of honor, he felt. It was why he was able to step through the low doors in a half-bent pose with pride, straightening up again when he was on the street of Vonaeghardt. Lantern light shone down on him, each lamp strung along a line of wire held up by poles affixed to the buildings that lined the street. Blessed were the dwarves who had to tend to them, be they users of ladders or those that defied their normal height with stilts.

Urlox pulled in a deep breath as he would on a misty morning in Daaven. His nostrils and lungs were filled with the musty cavern air, made humid by the gushing waterfall that was blocked out by the brick and metal buildings that encompassed the man in the busy heart of the fortress. The air was ripe with industry, though most of the harmful byproducts of industry were channeled away into the walls of the cavern. Whole networks of pipes were fed through carved out tunnels to parts elsewhere, to keep Vonaeghardt free of its waste. Wherever this dump site was surely looked like a brimstone tar pit, constantly spewing fumes over barrens past the crater.

"Wait until the others get a load of this!" Urlox chuckled to himself, then set off into the fortress city, the marvel of civilization and the attractions that drew travelers from the over-world down to the subterranean.



Being able to hide underground would have been appreciated right about now, back in Brodudika.

Moira was back at the start of the side passage. She braced against the wall and peeked into the lobby, only showing a sliver of her face, just enough for her one eye to scan the open for the people in the furs. She couldn't let herself be spotted leaving the library after her bunch of suspicious suspects.

As much as she corralled the internal turmoil she felt so as to keep a level head, there was no shortchanging the pressure she felt bearing down on her. This was dangerous, and a part of Moira Everby liked that. The rational part of her mind told her she was treading on some shoddy ground, and that she was involved in something far bigger than herself. Any misstep could be her last. The side of her that delighted with thrilling fancies loved the sense of the gamble that made each thought and movement she had so much more meaningful. What else could be expected from a patron of water, one that rode on the decks of ships before learning to compel its intrinsic nature? To the certain chagrin of the sea, the most punishing lashes of the waves had not broken her wonder-lust, nor had they instilled in her random banal fears, as was the fate of many sailors.

Those memories were fleeting things at present, though Moira heard snippets of aged conversations passing through her thoughts as she planned ahead.

You can't slip the captain's rum!

That's where you're wrong; I'll not only slip his rum, I'll slip it just for the fact that I can, and nothing more!

Slipped the pamphlets, in this case.

You can't use shore leave as a way to stew mayhem on the port, Everby!

That would normally be the case, but all it takes is me pulling this hood over my face and -- tada! -- the landlubbers don't know what to do about the storm blowing through their markets and knocking them on their backsides!

No hood to pull over her face. Just a pointed hat that oftentimes acted as an identifier for Moira. She could not see the ones who would take grievance with her pilfering in the lobby, but that wasn't any degree of comfort. In the rush of a moment of mischief, even the orderly lines underneath the chandelier seemed like a mob of people that hid the malicious. Moira had to go out on a limb, and act within the confines of the ordinary for now.

Going out on a limb meant strolling out of the passageway with her usual demeanor of laziness, all the while looking out of her peripheries to try to pick out the strangers from the crowd in the room. Moira's heart rate spiked and she breathed shallow, anxious breaths through her nostrils. Her easy pace, in direct contrast, gave her more time to be thorough in her search. Nothing still.

Moira stopped at the door to the conference office and took one last look behind her. The coast was still clear. She stepped into the office and shot a few looks about the room. Moira had hoped Byron and a few other city representatives would have been present. Byron wasn't there, however. Nor was there any other person in the room.

"The one day you all decide not to banter endlessly on this city's issues. Oh, you wouldn't believe the topic I have for debate. We really should increase the budget on defenses against warlock cults and other magical nastiness. Oh, of course. After we deal with injustice and discrimination within our walls first."

Moira stepped out of the conference office and restrained her disappointment well. Another idea came to her, and she ambled about the lobby again, still trying to pick out her strangers and failing. Moira stopped at the desk and leaned to whisper in an associate's ear.

"Is the benefactor at his quarters now?"

"He hasn't returned from his night patrols yet, technically. He might be preoccupied with a matter out in the city. Should I take a message?"

Moira's ruse held up remarkably well despite seething at the irony and untimely absence of everyone who could actually do something about this infiltration and conspiracy. "No, thank you. Just checking in on things." She left the table, apologizing for the interruption as she did. In that same moment, she made her decision. She needed to hand her contraband reading over to secure authority and spearhead the rounding up of the next batch of covert villains to put a target over Brodudika. As far as trends went, this was on the more worrying end of the scale. "Perhaps they were inspired? Imitation is the greatest form of flattery..."

With all the grace of someone without cause to be alarmed, the very much alarmed Moira made her way through the lobby. Once again, her search for her mysterious group was of no avail, and she had to conclude that they had left the building and were enacting another stage of their plan. Her greatest hope then was that her interference would prove too great an obstacle in forwarding their objectives. Moira walked out into the courtyard, adjusting the brim of her hat to shield her eyes from the bright sun that shone this cold morning. She greeted the guards at city hall's gate as she departed, tipping her hat and offering a short bow. All for the sake of maintaining the illusion of normalcy.

Moira went a distance without incident, and was growing more relaxed when it dawned on her that she was already well out of the thicket of things. She was out in broad daylight, surrounded by the usual bustle of the city. There were no less than ten heroes-to-be at any given moment along Moira's path to the precinct. Disregarding the fact that her perpetrators were gone from sight, even if they weren't, there was nothing they could do to her that would not lead to their speedy arrest, injury or death.

"Well played, miss Everby," Moira congratulated herself, feeling the last tantalizing thrill of her mystery. The fun and games were over, and it was about time for a more business oriented head. A proper city official figure and all that.

Not too long after, Moira started to feel a little more crowded than usual. She clutched her book just a little tighter when the claustrophobic sensation became a hunch that something had taken a turn. A sailor would describe it was a bad wind blowing, an ominous sign in the sheet. There weren't any sails around her, but Moira realized fairly quickly that the band of strangers she was so wary about had turned things around and found her. The first impulse was to panic, which she did on the inside. Externally, Moira played to her persona, like water. She gave no indication that she had an issue with being boxed in, one stranger on either side of her, a couple behind her, all in their heavy fur coats.

"This city crowding, am I right?"

A gruff retort to her unspoken words came, low and threatening: "You try anything, and you die here. The magic used will leave no mark. To all those around us, it will seem like another tragic death that found someone far before their time."

"Spoken like a true assassin, I must say," Moira replied without skipping a beat. "I'd imagine these are the words reserved for agents on different sides, though. A bit of a waste speaking them to me."

"You're the closest thing to an enemy agent that we've encountered thus far," said another voice behind her. The one speaking was leaning forward to make sure their words stayed within their group, which presented an image of friends out on a stroll, chatting about inconsequential things.

Moira hummed to cover a quiver in her voice. "I am an agent in the sense that, I represent some interests as an official in this city," she stated. She hoped that alone would put a buffer in their dynamic of the one making threats and the one being threatened. She also hoped that someone would recognize her pointed hat and pull her aside so that her occultists here could be dealt with.

"A lofty position. You'll go missing before too long, but that is more than enough time to deal with you. Whether or not you've acted out of turn with our gospels, your blood will be useful for our ends."

"Jolly good fun. Either you kill me in the street for being stubborn, or you lead me off under coercion to be killed later, on your own terms. You know, under these circumstances, my best bet might just to be a martyr. Hear me out here -- if you use magic for a quick and clean kill, there are some very talented mages who will know foul play was at work immediately. That is to say nothing of the city benefactor, who can -- whoops... a lady should really keep some secrets to herself, hmm?"

It was a desperate ploy wrapped in unflappable confidence. If she could just convince this group that she wasn't fazed by death, their control of the situation would falter with their own uncertainty. It was a longshot, but maybe... just maybe...

Moira felt a jab in the center of her back. The tiny point and lack of lasting unpleasantness assured her that it wasn't a dagger being pressed into her spine, but a wand. Concealed in a sleeve, most likely. "We can cover a lot of ground pretending to carry you to a hospital, you know. Martyr."

"Professionals." Damn. "It seems like I truly am at your mercy. In broad daylight. Surrounded by so many people with swords and bows..."

"You open your mouth to scream and you'll be dead by time the first of the sound escapes it. Adds a certain authenticity to the whole spectacle." The speaker chuckled, and Moira struggled to control the impulse to shudder at the implications that the man had some experience doing this.

A shadow raced over them all thereafter. A flurry of motion in the air overhead. It culminated in a brilliant landing at the head of the group, Dahnae squatting down on her haunches and looking up curiously at the lady in gray.

Moira's heart thumped away in her chest. Her hero was the city's resident letter-flinger. "This will have to do."

"Why, hello there," Moira greeted the young girl. She moved to bow, but a grip on her shoulder that was more than a few degrees too firm dissuaded her from doing so. It made sure she couldn't whisper panicked nothings to the city's fastest messenger. "Maybe I should have drafted up a letter for Desrium, after all."

Dahnae tilted her head. "This is a bad thing," she observed, astute as ever.

"How do you figure?" asked one of the strangers in the fur coat with an innocent sweetness that was entirely lost on the jungle girl.

"Hat-lady smells like fear."

"That must be a fragrance she's wearing!"

"Nuh-uh. I know what being scared smells like. It isn't perfume, where I come from. It means something is about to die, or is about to make something else scarier die. It's not a good thing, no." Dahnae's eyes caught the sun, and her orange irises took on an innately primal aspect when they started to reflect that light.

Before anyone could say anything else to the strange girl, she continued, pointing to her nose. "I haven't gone through all the trouble of keeping this from falling off of my face for it to be wrong. I had a buddy-pal named Pamela." Dahnae's finger moved from her nose to press on her chin, "I haven't seen Weird-Pam in a while. She said that 'often times the scent of blood alludes to danger', but I think the smell of fear is stronger than the scent of blood. Blood sometimes means food when I am in the other body. Sometimes."

"Uh..." The people in furs looked to one another uncertainly.

"Anyway, I should probably go call a guard or something. She's no knife-ear like me, maybe they'll be nice to her--"

"Dahnae! Must you run off like that every day?" A breathless Solaurn came up from the rear and swerved around the others to stand beside the shapeshifter. Dressed in her white uniform, she was fully integrated with the research team underneath the school-tower. Not long before at all, she had come across the jungle girl wandering the city before class. Another bad dream, she concluded just a second or two before Dahnae went racing off.

"Ah, sorry. Are we interrupting something?"

"Not at all," Moira said before any of the furred strangers could say otherwise. "In fact, my little researcher..."

Solaurn frowned a small frown at the phrasing.

"... I have some things we need to discuss."

"Oh? I don't know... I've seen you around the school a few times, and I know you teach hydromancy... I can't imagine what we'd need to discuss personally--"

"Indulge me, as a comrade in magical exploration and application."

"Okay... sure." Solaurn fought the urge to raise a brow. She felt it rude in shared company.

Moira shrugged off the hold on her, which was surrendered begrudgingly, and stepped forward to join the blond dwarf. "I'm not just a teacher, you know. I'm also a city representative. Anywho, I need to make a little detour so walk with me, talk with me. I'll excuse any latenesses you may incur."

"That's... nice of you." Solaurn resigned herself to being an obvious ploy for an end that was not so obvious.

Dahnae glanced between the people in furs. Her nostrils flared subtly as she made a mental note of their scents. A voice inside her told her to be wary of them. They had that same effect as Weirdo Spook, and Dahnae was not interested in being stabbed again. She stood up to join the others when she was done, leaving with one last prolonged look at the dispersing people in coats far larger than her old coat had ever been. "Furry Spooks."

The irony hadn't occurred to Moira then, for being unfamiliar with the shapeshifter, that she didn't need to whisper into Dahnae's ears for the girl to be able to hear her pleas.

[The Kingpin]

The meeting intended by the Guard Captain happened to be in one of the more aesthetically pleasing spots in the dwarven stronghold. At least, Matthias thought so. In the shadow of the verdant elemental's petrified corpse, there was a small garden, cast in the rich aquamarine light of the sky shining through the waterfall. The misty haze could be seen wafting on the wind around the waterfall, and that, combined with the light, allowed pockets of greenery to form in the heart of the earth. The bones of an elemental served as the perfect nutrition for growing plants.

The waterfall at the heart of the underground city was a fair distance away. Not distant enough to be forgotten, but sufficiently so that it did not drench the park in the frothing water and mist. A pool with a decorative half-wall around it was located in the centre of the park, swirling into a hole at its base even as it was replenished by some machination that was beyond the technical knowledge of the Wanderer. Something Leonora would doubtlessly have enjoyed trying to puzzle out. The decorative wall that served as the pool's brim was used as a sitting spot some of the time, and a bannister the rest.

This spot had a downside, however; it was noisy. The swirling water in the basin was, despite its size, an oppressively loud thing, that drowned out everything around it. It was for this reason that Matthias, being of a more conversational mood, chose a less noisy place; a little bench, near the edge of the green and grey park, awaiting his companions.

[C S]

A little while later, and a smidgen past the agreed upon time, Urlox arrived at the park entrance with his head still held high, a youthful spring to be found in his step despite his own awareness of aging. Matthias would be forgiven for his confusion at what the man had on his back, the paddle poking up over the captain's shoulder, with a sword's handle extending past that. The same handle of the broken sword -- a sword that was too long to be carried on anyone's back when it was whole.

"'Ey, Matt!" Urlox called out as he made his way to his old friend across a pathway made of rounded marble tiles. He looked about the park as he went, appreciating the touches of the surface world in what was essentially an irregular dome of earth that contained everything that was Vonaeghardt. The hint of foliage wasn't any Daavenian forest, but plants that could take hold in raw stone were tough, and that was good enough for Urlox.

[The Kingpin]

Matthias sighed, raising a hand in greeting. "And I was actually enjoying the peaceful rumble of rushing water," he joked. His smile seemed to melt as a look of confusion crossed his features as he saw the vast something on his back. "Did you just purchase a road sign?"

[C S]

"This thing?" Urlox gestured over his shoulder, as if there was any need to. He laughed. "No, but keep an eye out when we 'ead back out on the road, then. I might be able to earn us some good coin by planting new signs down with my new sword 'ere." Urlox came to a stop a few feet away from the Wanderer and pulled in a deep breath. This one felt notably cleaner than the one taken in the heart of the city.

[The Kingpin]

"If it's as hefty as it looks like it's going to be, I'd be worried about breaking the signs," responded Matthias bluntly as he stood, allowing the guard captain to see the full extent of his new acquisition.

[C S]

Urlox acknowledged the point, but he did not give himself the chance to show Matthias as much. "Ha!" he barked with no shortage of excitement, which caused some heads to turn his way as he stepped closer to the elf and took in the details of his armored shoulders and the fabric that fell along his contours in a manner similar to the plunging water behind him. A fitting parallel, as far as Urlox was concerned. Matthias had all the power of raging rapids concentrated in his knuckles. "I knew the air around you was different! Uplifting and inspirational, heh."

[The Kingpin]

"Ha. Uplifting and inspirational, eh?" asked Matthias with a raised brow. "Yeah, I bet. A radiant aura of sunshine and rainbows, no doubt," he added a moment later, chuckling as he sat down again, offering a seat to the guard captain, grabbing hold of his satchel and pulling the cover up and off. Within, a number of dark brown buns could be seen heaping out of the top. He grabbed one, offering it to Urlox.

[C S]

The bearded man took the bun and, in demonstration of his previous point, tossed it into the air before he sat down as well. The bun was thrown in such a way so as to make it turn on its axis many times in the split-seconds it was suspended in flight, before it was caught by Urlox's deft hand. If he wasn't making a game of tossing refuse into a barrel, the guard captain was playing with his food.

"You're old enough to know that I take to none of that nonsense," Urlox replied dismissively, a tone quite out of place for a man as absurd as he. "The kind of inspiration to get things done, and break down all that dares to be in the way! Like this!" Urlox chomped into his bun. In that one bite, most of it was gone, stuffed in his cheeks. He laughed a muffled laugh, a few crumbs falling from his beard.

[The Kingpin]

Matthias blinked a few times, taken by surprise by the gesture, before chuckling again despite himself. "That bun does look quite thoroughly destroyed. For the crime of standing in the way of your hungry mug, no doubt."

[C S]

Miraculously, Urlox worked the mouthful down without choking. "For the crime of being delicious!" he corrected his friend. "All in a day's work, I say!" It was then that he noticed the two women coming their way, Chandra and Valeria. Urlox waved them over, and they paused their conversation momentarily to wave back. Walgruuf being missing was no doubt the matter at hand. What was up to contemplate on was whether or not the other rangers knew anything about it.

[The Kingpin]

"Afternoon, ladies," said the Wanderer as he reached for a bun of his own, offering the contents of the rucksack to the two rangers as he asked the question that was probably on all their minds. "Where is Walgruuf?"

[C S]

There was a moment in which the two women looked at the bag blankly. The corner of Valeria's mouth twitched. They were like that for a time, and Urlox munched away at another bun, simply content with waiting as long as he had a snack to tide him along. The buns tasted faintly of honey. Soon enough, the sound of thumping boots superseded their reply, and that in of itself was heavily contested by the rumbling whirlpool on the other side of the half-walls.

Baaz stopped on the other side of Chandra with the widest grin on her face. The lot of them hadn't seen her brimming with such happiness in months. If she wasn't grimly dedicated to their mission, she was being angry or in a neutral lull between bouts of anger. She was smiling now, hugging a rucksack of her own to her chest. Sure enough, it was also filled with the honey buns.

"Can you believe the deal on these things!?" Baaz said, then squeezed her bag a little tighter.

"Yep," Chandra deadpanned. She pointed to Matthias' bag of buns, and Baaz followed her gesture to the corner of her vision. She then stiffened.

"Boy, that's a lot of buns."

"Yep," Chandra deadpanned again. "On the bright side of things: you've finally found something about this place that you don't think is ********."