Lore of Leyuna RPG (FRPG)

[The Kingpin]

"I have doubts that Aviva would take kindly to me coming any closer than I am. I wouldn't want to anger the resident dragon family," responded the Scholar simply. "Though I suppose Syria might be able to do that on our collective behalf, if you'd allow it," he suggested, shifting his gaze to the mage. "And if you'd be willing to do so, of course."

[Hopeflower]

The way Akando turned his head a little to eye the riled dragoness spoke volumes about what he thought Septimus' success in not angering the resident dragon family amounted to. But he nodded and said dryly, "The condition stands. This is more than enough excitement for one visit."

[C S]

"It would be a shame if our promises couldn't be upheld because of a drought of courage on my part," Syria replied with a steady voice despite her outward wariness. "I'll be quick about floating the chest over somewhere safe and then we'll be out of your hair." The thought crossed her mind about Daavenians and the propensity for some to think them insufferable. She wasn't making much of a case against it by association, was she? Then again, she and Septimus were more alike than appearances suggested.

[Hopeflower]

The guildmaster uttered another faintly impatient grunt and stepped to one side, putting himself between their visitors and Aviva's bared teeth. Elvish sounded rougher than usual coming from him, but he spoke a few short phrases that were clearly directed toward the dragoness. Aviva stilled for a moment, recognizing them from the days when nobody was sure if she could be trusted around the village, then backed a few steps closer to the treeline. She settled where she could keep Septimus and Syria in her line of sight and resumed her growling - if a little more quietly.

"Slow as you can without freezing to the ground, until you're inside," Akando advised Syria. He glanced up, checking to make sure they weren't all about to see the business end of another angry dragon's talons. He thought he might have caught a flicker of red somewhere between the clouds, but his eyes weren't quite as good as they were when he was younger.

[The Kingpin]

"We'll wait here," responded Septimus simply as he floated out a chest of gifts, setting it down on the ground beside the mage. He decided not to offer the option to go to Beshayir, irritable as she currently was. On the topic of irritable, he was left wondering where a certain mage was at the moment. "Where is Gregori, by the way? One would think he'd be the first to react to all this," he mused. He was wary of Zar's presence, reaching out to try and find out where he is. That outreach came in the form of a soothing sensation of calm, suggestions that the village was secure and a reassurance that all was well and that there was no danger in the area.

[Hopeflower]

The question got an exchange of glances and shrugs from both Dante and Akando. "Probably keeping warm," the guildmaster replied. "The storms haven't been kind to any of us."

While Septimus' attempts at calming the male Extraxl did reach Zar, they produced no noteworthy change in his agitated flight pattern. He was waiting for an all-clear from his mate. That she hadn't given it was cause for further alarm...and yet there were no sounds of a fight. Nothing to bring him hurtling down with his claws ready to rip into whatever had disturbed their temporary home.

And so he circled.

[C S]

The shallow clinks and taps of chisels working slate into bricks joined the bustling ambiance around city hall. Masons gathered in the court yard with blocks of raw material and impromptu benches made out of spare planks nailed together. Their hammers and flat-headed chippers, ranging from sizes meant to break down rock in broad sections to the tiniest bits dedicated for detailing work, were laid out in organized lines. Smallest to biggest. Or biggest to smallest, depending on the individual artist and their individual preferences. Men and women in their winter hides made the replacement bricks, while more generalized laborers lugged buckets about filled with water and the various powders needed to make the mortar. They had their similar tools all collected in a cart, with the exception of the wheelbarrows filled with aforementioned powders, which were arranged with no particular order around the cart. Their tools of the trade were not as varied as their more technical comrades. Broad headed, triangular applicators smoothed out large patches of mortar after the bricks were laid. Smaller versions were used for the tiny seams between each brick.

This was how the disconnect in their idle chatter began; when one mason began speaking of the intricacies of their art with another, and then someone else pointed out that their art at that time was relegated to making identical bricks to patch up a hole. At that point, there were a slew of counterarguments. "All work is good work, given the time and care required" was one of the rallying points in the subdued clamor of indignation which followed.

Kenneth was privy to snippets of the conversation in previous passes as he made his rounds around Brodudika. There were reports and findings to retrieve for the ongoing investigation, and he and Johnathon were out on their understated marathon to collect them all for further analysis. While he couldn't relate to the layers of effort that went into masonry and general architecture, Kenneth did feel as though Brodudika was a place where no one could catch a break. All the problems of a city and a newly founded nation, among the least of which was having one's work not be appreciated. In the same vein, trekking back and forth between the streets and waiting for cart traffic to clear up had the Green-Coat appreciating the messenger girl's style and results. If only some of the night watch were able to lend their agility and dexterous services during the day for the same effect. "Maybe we could jostle our budget here and there and hire candidates for this job? The time saved would pay for itself!"

That kind of thinking was something Kenneth would reserve for when he happened to catch Byron not overseeing operations to dredge up evidence against the secretive urchins in their midst. Maybe when he was next on the panel to hand out assignments. "All I'm saying is: they're already eager to get some justice done and protect the innocent, yeah? If we put out the call, we can make those who answer proper officers, so they can afford to sleep during the day instead of running themselves ragged for the greater good. Who am I kidding; none of us in law enforcement get any sleep!" The hypothetical conversation got a small chuckle out of Kenneth as he turned a corner. Of course that would be the moment he crossed paths with Brodudika's guard captain.

Luckily, Melok was further down the way and wasn't even looking Kenneth's way. Melok was actually buying some pastry from a vendor. The expression in Kenneth's face drained regardless as he stayed his course with a quick stride. There was still a chance that the two of them could pass one another without a word exchanged between them.

"Greetings, detective," Kenneth heard from behind and he made a conscious effort not to stiffen his back and hike his shoulders up with an utterance of "damn it all". He buried that impulse well underneath much conditioning that came with his profession. Kenneth turned around with a mask of pleasantry on, holding out a hand.

"Oh, excuse me. It appears I've been too preoccupied with work that I overlooked you, there."

Melok raised a hand to dismiss the handshake. "Quite alright. A man in my position is no stranger to thankless work. Not everyone you see will stop to salute."

"Ain't that the truth," Kenneth drawled to remind Melok that they were different departments of the same field with a degree subtlety.

It was overlooked in turn as Melok turned back to the baker to retrieve his small woven basket of sweets. "Would you like one?" He asked Kenneth, to which the detective shook his head.

"I ate not long ago," Kenneth lied.

"That's too bad. I have grown to enjoy these things called 'toroids'."

"They are pretty good," Kenneth said before he realized what he was saying. Betrayed by his own enjoyment of the ring-pastries. "Not you, sweets."

Melok hummed a dry, introspective tone. "Oh well. I thought it would be in good form to offer a token of good will to one without any for me. It does not take much detective work, detective, to find out about the ones spreading news to drum up disfavor against me."

"Hardly anything personal about it," Kenneth lied with proficiency. "It's gotten you and your lot to crack down on things harder. There's been a very noticeable drop in crimes committed without suspects apprehended."

A trend that Kenneth was naturally skeptical of. The timely surge of arrests made by Melok's branch were most likely people falsely pulled off the street to be put through show trials to appease the law under the benefactor, but trials that would just be a waste of time and resources due to lack of evidence to tie suspects to the scene. No one would be punished for a crime they didn't commit on Kenneth's watch. But that same time would be used by Melok's goons to wriggle around the law's edicts to force judgements, solely to claim some sort of effect while the guilty remain out of custody. This was what Kenneth wanted to avoid today, and fortune dropped it right into his lap.

"I suppose. This, and the news of our benefactor undercutting the efforts of the city's guards through his unchecked policies, is grounds to redouble our efforts and regain the confidence of the community. You know, if I were a paranoid fellow, I would suspect the institution of psychomancy teaching precedes the formation of Desrium's personal enforcers. Censorship and mass surveillance of the city's thoughts abound." Melok stuck his chin up and humphed. "Things I plan to oppose vehemently, for the good of this city, if my fears do come to pass."

Kenneth tilted his head to one side. "A bit roundabout for all the trouble it takes to reestablish a city, don't you think? Unless Desrium strikes you as the kind of tyrant that cares whether or not the people his tyranny affects benefit from it."

Melok scoffed. "You would dare suggest subjugation is a benefit?"

"No. But considering Brodudika's redefining of social class and handling of housing, which is unique unto itself on Aster, I would expect the rest of Desrium's plans to improve lives to follow a similar theme. Doesn't really mesh with your notions of a mind-controlled city, does it?" Kenneth retorted.

"A clever ruse, I fear. This image of 'benefactor', used to make people complacent to his whims. When it becomes apparent what has come to pass, he will have numbers in addition to his own insurmountable power to secure his hold over... Brodudika." The man's first impulse was to say Grymhaven instead.

"Again, that kinda insinuates that he's a tyrant that also wants his subjects to have a high quality of life without any tangible personal gain. I mean, I'm pretty sure he doesn't get paid to be a benefactor now..." Kenneth said, scratching the side of his head. "You'll have to pardon me if I seem a little dense on the subject. I only know of sovereigns across the familiar races who hoarded their coffers in ways to make dragons insecure. Never before has there been an all-metal, everlasting king of anything. And there still isn't one, because Brodudika has no king."

Melok sighed. "We've wasted enough time talking about this, when there is work to be done. Just keep my words in mind, detective. Keep them in mind, and pray that your future investigations do not reveal the truth in them."

Melok took his basket and walked away from Kenneth, who was left standing there for several moments more, dumbfounded. Melok had his questionable traits as a leader, but Kenneth had assumed part of the problem was insubordination, bad apples acting out of the chain of command. When the very top of that hierarchy had such a warped understanding of things, though...

"Why the hell hasn't Desrium stripped you of your authority yet?"

As much as he saw the merit in the benefactor's actions, Melok's continued status as guard captain was something Kenneth could not agree with. Nor could he rationalize what looked to be a grave mistake, for all intents and purposes.





Another village under a sunny day and mostly free of snow had known peace for some time. Its people were none the wiser to the clouds that rolled in, in the form of the warrior mage that scowled her way past the guards and gates. The day seemed to slow to a crawl for the denizens in this riverside village after she set foot onto the gravelly path that wound its way to all the major amenities in the community. A mill set on the water had a large wheel turning in the current at a tranquil pace, paddles dripping with droplets that caught the sunlight and split it into its individual, beautiful components. The people packing the grains the wheel ground up stopped what they were doing to look towards a presence they hadn't known before. So striking was the moment, a few of them were still pouring grain from their metal cups into bags that were already full, piling up mounds of feed which inevitably spilled over and collected at the base of the sack. Yet they still poured as their eyes followed the course of the woman in violet. A lumberjack cutting logs not far away stopped mid-swing, his axe held overhead and his brow raised. Storekeepers and workshoppers stared from their windows and recoiled from the shadow that fell upon them. Perhaps that earlier visitor had been a bad omen, after all.

Morrelie honed in on the village's gathering hall. The doors opened preceding her arrival on the threshold, letting a gentle rush of cold air inside. The people inside the hall looked down the length of their long table to the silhouette rising up to the deck and murmured. Magic was the default explanation, and so speculation as to the nature of this wizened practitioner of the bizarre and fancy was abound. Morrelie entered the building and the doors shut behind her. She allowed her self to indulge in a personal moment, grateful for the warmth the gathering hall's hearth provided. Her long journey throughout the days and nights had been bitter in many stretches; the reprieve of her rest would be cherished. It could not be any longer than it strictly needed to be.

Without the glare of the outdoors behind her, those at the closest end of the table took that short time to observe the details of their guest, and in that short time, their spirits faded. Smiles became blank slates on people's faces, and in a few cases, frowns. A hush fell over the lively hall until one bravehearted woman broached, "You look like you have been through a great deal of... er... trouble, there."

The mage's dirty, singed, torn, bloodstained clothing was a canvas that told a harrowing tale. The scarring exposed by the damage was similarly disheartening, and even more disconcerting when the patrons began to wonder how this stranger was even moving as freely as she was. She looked the part of someone who should have been bedridden for the rest of their natural life. She also had the qualities of something wholly unnatural.

Morrelie fixed that woman a stare, then looked to the other faces showing concern and fear. "Yes, I've been through and look like hell. The sooner we all come to accept that, the better." The Millennial Mage held out a hand and a chalice jumped from the table. Without spilling a drop, it landed in Morrelie's waiting grasp and she took a long draw of the drink inside. It was a long one, because she didn't stop until the chalice was emptied, at which point she returned it to the table.

"My name is Morrelie, and I possess the capability to level this entire village and erase all trace that there was ever one to start with. I would rather not have to do so. I require food, drink, clothing and rest and I have no means to pay for these things. They are not worth more than your lives, I will assure you, so I would advise you to oblige and spread my terms: provisions for your continued existence."

Stunned into silence, there was not much anyone could have said in response. No one knew how. That dawn had come as any other had, and into the day, quarter was being demanded of them from a tyrant of unmatched power. So great was the fear, not one person dared to utter anything to their neighbors at the table, for fear of attracting the stranger's aggression. No one wanted to be made an example of what the mage was willing to do. At the far back of the hall, isolated from the table with his carry-on on the floor by his feet, the axeman braced against the wall, resting from his own long and bitter journey that saw him a fugitive in a few holds.

"More pie. Morrelie. So this was the one she was talking about."

[The Kingpin]

"I'm sorry to hear that, Akando," responded the Scholar solemnly. Now that his attention was brought to it, he did notice that snow clung to just about every surface, and the frost fogged the windows and bit into the wood of the various doors and walls of buildings in the village. It was probably only the young age of the stone walls that spared them from the pockmarking of the elements' wrath. He predicted that food may have been rather scarce as well, but if it was, it wasn't easily seen in the faces of the assassins and guards, the former because he had never spoken nor looked at them face to face throughout his relatively rare visits, and the latter because they were unfamiliar. He was comforted, somewhat, by the fact that things were not yet so dire that the children lost their drive to play outside. "Is there anything I can do to help matters?"

It was about the same time that the inn's door swung open, a typically irritable Gregori crossing the threshold. The cloaks and fur that covered him were thick enough that he seemed to be a large, hunch-backed fluffy mound, his head appearing barely perched above it. He had his staff in hand, and was putting a bit more weight on it than usual as he made his way to the counter.

It was an odd turn of events for everyone in the village. It seemed to be the result of whatever the kindly apothecary that visited Gregori had told him, but what, exactly, was said, was a mystery. Nevertheless, the fact stood that Gregori had been at the entrance of the inn every single day since the Solstice, at exactly the same time. It was always after his tea, and always for the same reason; he was having his breakfast. Later than he used to, but perhaps that was also one of the terms of his friend's suggestion.

[Hopeflower]

A grim sort of amusement twisted Dante's scarred features. "Not unless you can command the seasons." He stuck his hands in his pockets to keep the cold from nipping at his fingers even through his gloves.

Akando gave the younger man a somewhat stern look and said more neutrally, "We're getting by. The kids are fed, even if not everyone else is comfortable, and we should make it to spring without anyone getting frostbitten. Gods know we have enough firewood."

[The Kingpin]

"If food is a problem, I could probably arrange a trip to a nearby city and purchase some supplies. I'm certainly capable of making the trip faster than any beast of burden," offered the Scholar, earning a sideways glance from Ceridwen, whose thoughts of 'and become one in doing so?' were loud enough in her head that he heard it.

[Hopeflower]

Akando's shoulders stiffened a little, as though the well-meant offer jabbed at his pride, but his voice remained even. "It's nothing we haven't dealt with before," he said, obviously about to turn Septimus down.

"But," Dante cut in, slanting the guildmaster a narrow-eyed look, "I'm sure people would appreciate the help nonetheless. We're **** out of luck otherwise, at least until we can get the roads cleared again."

[The Kingpin]

The Scholar nodded. "I could clear the roads for you, if that would help. I could do that on my way to Daaven for the supplies, so that you have something to tide you over until the next shipment comes through," suggested the dragon after a few minutes of thought. "Any idea what supplies are most vital? So I know what to focus on?" he inquired, paying the fidgeting dragoness beside him no mind. Ceridwen could learn to live with his charity, or head off if she did not like it.

[Hopeflower]

The assassins exchanged another glance. Dante lifted his shoulders in an unapologetic shrug. "Better than breaking our backs," he pointed out, and Akando relented with a quiet sigh.

"Food is the main concern," said the guildmaster. "Some parents have been skipping meals for the last few days, to make sure their children have enough to eat, but that's not sustainable. And it's hard to hunt effectively when the game has moved deeper into the woods and the snow is up to our hips."

A thoughtful frown creased Dante's brow. "A few extra blankets might help, too," he mused. "We have more than enough firewood now, but if people have to keep fires burning all night to stay warm, that won't last either."

[The Kingpin]

"Noted. It won't take me long. An hour or two at most," stated the Son of Storms after a few moments of thought. It took him as much to map out his route within Daaven, the shops he'd go to, the people he'd speak to. From there, it only took a few minutes for Syria to return from the inn before they were off. The Scholar's wings kicked up powdery snow in all directions but forward, his magic sheltering his friends from the artificial squall as he ascended. That shield was then twisted into a transparent snowplough, digging into the towering mounds that covered the roads and shrugging them aside yard by yard. An inquisitive eye would have noted that the leading edge of the ice-like wedge warbled and rippled as though it was scorching hot, though no hiss of suddenly melted snow or ice was heard.

[Hopeflower]

Dante gave Akando a slightly smug look as the assassins turned to make their way back to their warm homes. The cold was as unforgiving as the snow around them, and not many of those who had outgrown the novelty of building snowmen and creating impressions of angels wanted to be outside for very long. At one point, Dante companionably bumped shoulders with the guildmaster and pulled away, approaching the inn at a careful jog while his friend and superior walked on.

It was just as well. A few seconds later, a stray snowball narrowly missed Akando's shoulder.

Above, Zar warily followed Septimus' progress for a time. When the bigger dragon was far enough away that the nest didn't feel threatened, one wide red wing dipped in the beginning of a turn. He made ready to return to his hunt - but he kept an ear out for Aviva's call all the same.

[The Kingpin]

No more than an hour later, Septimus flew past the gates of Daaven, the dragon's vast wingspan casting a momentary shadow over several houses at once before he finally found a landing spot in one of the sparsely populated streets. Sparsely populated, no doubt, due to the biting cold. Anyone who could afford not to be outside was most likely huddled around a fire. It made landing easier, and shortened his commute, as he was able to position himself just outside a square.

Ceridwen had an even easier time landing, hovering over her chosen spot with pinpoint accuracy and dropping directly onto it, beside a statue of Desrium; a brief reminder of where they were to head at the end of it all.

[C S]

A slow wintry day wasn't necessarily something Daavenians were not used to. A slow wintry day that came about because the air itself had taken on a frigid edge, and not because of some freakish culmination of blizzard conditions or thunderstorm-strength rainstorms complete with hail, was a novelty. A boring novelty, but a novelty. There wasn't even a bit of fog sitting over the city for ambiance. For many, the sunlight streaming through their windows was a taunting deception. Being sequestered to the indoors underneath such a clear blue sky was a damper of any true-born Daavenian, who would have much preferred nature's worst compared to a mild streak of forbidding cold.

Septimus' arrival was a stroke of good luck for those who had to tend to their general stores, like Timothy Porter, who had been bored out of his mind recounting the same data points of his ledger while underneath his fur coat. It was very likely he would have fallen asleep at his counter had it not been for the timely dragon and his hefty shopping list. He was too polite to say anything of it at the time, but he could have sworn that all the food Septimus procured was enough to feed a small village!

As was the Scholar's intention of course, for his own personal humor. The merchant was left with a lasting impression of what a dragon's diet could entail. Ah, but how much of that will be split the smaller one in his company?

Things to ponder while he adjusted his ledger.






"You're a pretty inquisitive lot. Thought about lending a hand just now, didn't you?"

"I might have."

Morrelie hadn't demanded the gathering hall for herself after stating her terms. The villagers were left in uncomfortable silence while she walked leisurely across the polished floors and settled down on her knees before the fireplace, resting on the puffy carpet there. And so she remained in unmoving meditation for tens of minutes, with those seated at the long table looking on. Appeasement clashed with the fear of disturbing her peace. The fear that the tiniest clink of a glass or footsteps on the floor would pull Morrelie back to the waking world, and there would be hell to pay for it. Then there was the happenstance that Morrelie ceased her meditation to find that her terms had not been met, and there would be hell to pay for that as well. At the height of this terror, many breaths were caught in that many throats when the stranger at the far side of the room moved, his boots thumping with amplified volume in the quiet and tension.

All eyes were on him as he strode along, no longer content with playing the waiting game. His carry-on was held over one shoulder and his eyes were on the woman's back as he walked. Rutgers stopped halfway down the length of the table before he turned to the "assembly" of villagers.

"You all can clear out of here in a calm and orderly fashion, I figure. If she wanted to kill, she wouldn't be waiting on petty slights to do so," he told them flatly. He couldn't have said that for sure without his little test, though. He had a hunch, but he knew too well that there wasn't any telling with these types.

The element of shock remained for a little while longer. It took a few more moments for the demonstration to sink in, and for the others to process the stranger's words. It was the most anyone had heard from him in a little while, so that just made everything that much more surreal. The voice of reason from a man who went without a name. When the message was received, a slow movement began at the end of the table, people standing up in a cascade on both sides of the table and making their way to the doors. Murmurings of concern followed them out of the meeting hall. How long was their ominous visitor to be with them? What kind of a cost would her stay have on their lives? Things were strapped as is for the winter.

Rutgers was not deaf to these concerns. He stood in place, listening, watching. Parents fearing for their children. Workers fearing for their livelihoods. The fear was plain on their faces and in their voices, and he looked to Morrelie through his peripheries with a set jaw.

"Someone... else got too close to us. Didn't heed the guards none, split a tree's bark with some kind of magic and spoke in our heads about how she'd kill us all slowly one by one if we didn't stay out her way."

Intimidation was how she forced others out of her way. Intimidation was also how she got her way when she imposed herself on others. Rutgers was careful where his mind went while he was still in Morrelie's vicinity. The sentry had tipped him off to Morrelie's telepathic powers; it would not do for his thoughts to betray his impressions and intentions if she was being perceptive to them, though he was aware the effort would warrant suspicion. Rules learned from the mute.

Rutgers left the hall shortly after the last villager did. His blank expression hardened at its edges, notably around his eyes. Slight wrinkles telling of an otherwise barely perceptible glare. He kept corralling his thoughts until he was among the anxious crowd, counting on their worries to mask the emissions of his inner flame.

"Is this another league of my curse? They're all coming out of the woodwork."

It all began with the red woman. And like the red woman, this inhuman monster was well past any fiend he could fall with his axes. The odds were growing exponentially out of his favor with every steady encounter. The compulsion to reach his goal gnawed at his rationality, forcing control on a situation that was decisively leaving the realm of his control. Rutgers clenched his fists and silenced this barking impulse with his resolve.

"Later. I have a monster to slay."

For not even the red woman was so bold as to reveal her true nature before so many. Morrelie's audacity had to be punished. Rutgers' axes may not be the right tools for this job, but he was a ranger, ex or otherwise. Rangers had their ways, found or devised.

Rutgers knew how to devise many things, so it was little wonder why, even while gripped by his inner monologue, he made a beeline for one of the workshops.

The stranger underneath some uncommon black pelt was one that invited intrigue in his unobtrusive ways. A bystander from the meeting hall watched him go with purpose, dipping in and out of groups of villagers before disappearing from sight entirely. She could not place what it was -- perhaps it was the demeanor of unannounced bravery -- but something about the way he handled himself bred worry on top of the ambient uncertainty that Morrelie had brought to the village. As the chief doctor, trusted with medicine and intrusive surgery alike, the lady in the cream apron had developed these instincts over her years. The feeling that her skills would be needed was a distinct ache in her bones that she couldn't explain, even with her knowledge of herbs and potions.

Little did she know, the stranger would be approaching her for a few select herbs to aid in his preparations.

[The Kingpin]

Septimus thought with increasing pride over his timely return to the village. A half hour in all, from the moment he arrived at Daaven's gates to the moment he landed outside the Assassins' village, markedly more careful and hesitant this time. He did, however, get closer, though he chose to take on his elvish form when he did so. Before he could draw the supplies from his satchels, he would have to find Akando and Dante, to figure out how to distribute it. He wouldn't be the distributor, but how they intended to carry out the action influenced where and in whose charge the supplies were left.

[Hopeflower]

Fortunately for Septimus, shortly after his initial departure, Aviva had calmed enough to return to her children. Her green eyes did glint within the treeline, promising violence if he disturbed her and her nestlings again, but she did little more than lift her head to watch him closely. He might have been able to faintly make out her rasping to her young, soothing them as they huddled close to her.

Dante could be found within the inn, one shoulder braced against the kitchen doorway and his head cocked toward Brionna. He was listening, with ever-mounting amusement, to the tiny temporary innkeeper's ranting.

" - and I had to try and explain to Greg why his breakfast was late today. I swear if I was made of paper, his glare alone would have set me on fire. You can go and tell Septimus that I expect an apology."

Her sharp inhalation made Dante laugh. "Did you breathe at all through that?" he teased.

"No."

Dante didn't lose his grin. "Vix and Rowan taught you well, didn't they?"

Brionna pointed the business end of a kitchen knife at him and declared, "You're damn right they did."

[The Kingpin]

"I am unsure how much I had to do with his delayed breakfast, Brianna, but my apologies regardless."

The Scholar's voice seemed to precede him as the door to the inn swung open a moment later, the Scholarly Elf crossing the threshold and closing the door behind him promptly. The biting chill was no less fierce than any beast beyond the city's walls, nor any less deadly.

"On a more pressing note, where would you prefer these supplies be placed?"