Lore of Leyuna RPG (FRPG)

[C S]

Thus was the juxtaposition of two minds that were of a different sort from each other, both studying the ways in which magic worked with the mind. And in so keeping, when the allure of a different kind of flatcake wore off to a more tepid appreciation of a flatcake, Dahnae's table manners returned. The use of her knife and fork was the full extent of her refinement, though what she lacked in tact was compensated by the fact that she wasn't making a mess of her face as she went through her breakfast. The admiring mewling transitioned into a more baser, rough growling by the end, rolling in her throat. Disconcerting though it was, Dahnae went on to use her napkin to daintily clean herself off, before falling into the more feline habit of running her tongue across her lips and cheeks.

[The Kingpin]

A low rumbling breath voiced the Scholar's awakening; a sound that was as quick to announce that as it was to prompt the waking of those with him. Beshayir stirred from her spot nestled between his arm and Ceridwen's flank, blinking the sleep from her eyes and looking into one large shimmering blue orb, the wide pupil within tugging tight as the light of the day met it through the edge of the tent. The corners of the dragon's reptilian maw tugged upwards into a small smile, and a soft "I'm sorry if I woke you," eased into her tired mind. She shook her head in response, but said nothing.

Her eyes slowly focused as sleep left her, and she took note of their surroundings. The tent had, through no fault of her own, not entirely survived the night. The structural strength of the rope and cloth arrangement wasn't the best, and one corner had dropped in the night as it was weighed down by something; a cat, most likely. She had run out of rope around that point, and hadn't made a very sturdy knot there, which explained the fact it wasn't still standing.

That said, they had not felt the cold, the flanks of two dragons serving as an excellent shield from the otherwise frigid temperatures outside their makeshift shelter. The fact one was covered in dense plumage also helped, and served as the mattress that she had rested on, tucked under a wing with one of the Scholar's own draped over that. Septimus's neck had been tucked under Ceridwen's own, and his head was resting beside the young girl and her surrogate mother.

Despite the cosy setting, the Scholar's rest was far from restful. Laying in the shadow of the blankets that now cast a deep maroon filter on what golden light the slowly rising sun managed to cast into their little square, he was troubled with that uneasiness that he was unable to track down the previous night. It meant he was vigilant for most of the night, sleeping here much as he would in flight; with one eye open and his senses still somewhat alert.

Ceridwen had no such problems. Taking a deep breath as she woke, she was faintly aware of the little squeak Beshayir made as she was rocked from her comfortable position between the dragoness's wing and flank. A long yawn followed, her tongue curling in her beak-like maw, and a brief twitter concluded her waking as her eyes blinked once, twice, and then focused.

[C S]

"Good morning, all of you," came the Daavenian's mage voice, as it was a fair assumption that all in their party were brought before the morn. Whether they were ready for it or weren't ready was something of the ever expanding past.

In the same vein of the ever expanding past, Syria realized by way of an experimental nudge with the top of her head against Septimus' jaw, that the dragon had returned from his walkabout. Dragon. Unlike what had happened in Thimeyra, he had enough time in the night to bring his enormity to bear in the tent and find his place among the group, though encompassing might have been the more applicable term. This was after the elf, dragoness and herself had surrendered to sleep, the elf and dragon satisfied in their exercise of ingenuity that Syria was made an audience to. After speaking with Desrium, she had been barred from offering advice or magical aid in the construction of their blanket shelter.

Syria began to pat Septimus on his snout, closer to his lips, and rolled her head to one side to see the loose corner of the tent. In turn, she pursed her own lips to restrain the comments that came immediately to mind.

[The Kingpin]

Beshayir mumbled a good morning in return, but did not budge just yet, getting comfortable once more as Ceridwen showed no signs of planning to move.

Syria's patting had a much more pronounced reaction.

A slurp.

Her hand, arm, and the side of her face and neck were brushed by the cat-like surface of the Hueilin's tongue.

"Good morning," rumbled the drake, his tone laced with a smugness that she could not see, head turned as it was to shelter against the fresh film of saliva he'd coated half her face with.

[C S]

Eyes scrunched and her lips squinched into an even tighter pucker, Syria continued to pat Septimus with a measure of affection. She proceeded to roll herself over so that she could get onto her knees and drape her upper body over the dragon's snout. In a gesture that was half a hug and half the woman wiping off the excess onto Septimus' scales, Syria brushed herself along the length of Septimus' cheekbone in one drawn out stroke. All the while her muffled voice mumbled her response, and her mind was an equally muddied jumble of thoughts as she sought to deal with her newest predicament, but one she was not unfamiliar with over her relationship with the Scholar.

[The Kingpin]

A low chuckle escaped Septimus as he felt the Mage try and negotiate her little problem, and it was a moment later that he turned his head and set the mage down, not wanting to disturb Ceridwen. "You should have known this was coming the moment you asked me to be more than just a travel companion," he teased.

Beshayir was squirming somewhat where she lay, moving her attention elsewhere as she saw the upcoming fluff that was the couple's typical interactions. Ceridwen, through some unknown means, sensed her discomfort, lifting her wing just a bit to let the girl curl up underneath.

[C S]

"Oh sure, I knew it was coming," Syria freed her voice after lessening the extent of her situation. Leaning onto his face and patting his brow next as she met his gaze, she added, "Being aware of so-called risks doesn't really do much for dealing with those so-called risks when they become reality. One can lay down their plans ahead of time but, since we're dealing with you and not something so habitual as the weather..." Syria shrugged after she trailed off. "At the end of the day I know what I'm dealing with and happily leave myself to his whims, and I accept the consequences as they come." With her peace made, Syria lunged forward and returned the favor of licking Septimus on a spot of his cheek that she hadn't smeared with drool prior.

[The Kingpin]

The Scholar's eyes widened at that, blinking for a moment as he realised what she'd just done. "I'm not quite sure you'd live it down if Willow or Oak saw you do that," he commented half-jokingly.

"At the rate you're going, Beshayir and I won't let you live it down either," reminded Ceridwen bluntly as she craned her neck, looking at the two.

"She would be more popular in Hueilin circles, however. Embracing our ways and all that," retorted Septimus.

Ceridwen's snort seemed to cut that line of thought off on the spot. "You've been away from the elders too long, Septimus. They'd sooner take offence that she's pretending to be one of us."

[C S]

"There's a Thimeyran fable about trying to appease everyone one may come across in their endeavors. The moral of that fable is to not try at all. I didn't think I would ever relate to it as such after I was told the story, but that was months ago and things change greatly in that time," said Syria. "Needless to say I have taken the ancient wisdom of elves who brave the harsh heat to heart. Somewhere close to where I keep all of you, I think."

[The Kingpin]

The Scholar nudged the mage gently at that, a soft rumbling coo escaping him, pleased with her response.

"Maybe that's true, but I'm fairly sure Septimus's family doesn't want any more criticism than it already gets. What with-" retorted Ceridwen, being cut off before she could continue by a harsh snarl from the dragon under whose wing she was resting.

"Ard hueineiri voth selekard, amaniir. Torumord, di toth nok. Tiranord, di toth nok," he warned, the statement lost on the mage and the elf, but one that immediately had Ceridwen bowing her head in silent apology. It had been a harsh reprimanding, that much was clear.

In an effort to placate the Scholar, Ceridwen responded, in a tongue more familiar to the two in their company, "I am sorry, Septimus. I didn't mean to offend."

"Apology accepted. Be mindful of this, however. It may have been acceptable to speak of my family in Drakhunmiir. It may have become common to do so without repercussion... but I will not allow that... habit, to continue," rumbled the drake after a moment's hesitation and a long sigh.

Beshayir was huddled against the dragoness's flank, hidden under her wing in the wake over the sudden shift of mood. It was one more uncomfortable reminder that the Scholar's temper, while rarely ignited, was every bit as fiery as his breath.

[C S]

Syria patted Septimus on the head once more, though she had a more sympathetic mannerism to her action this time around. "If I've learned anything of Hueilin culture by proxy, it's the underlying... understanding of honesty. Too honest, even. Tends to lead to the... explosiveness that you've told me about," she said before smiling softly. "It's the way of the Spirit Dragons to step on each other's... talons."

[The Kingpin]

The Scholar huffed, nodding slowly. "Unfortunately so. But in the past few years it seems to have become socially acceptable to do so about my family in particular without consequence. I cannot say I am pleased about the development."

"It's not the only place that does it, if it makes you feel any better. It happens in Thimeyra too. They're just more polite about it. And discreet. The vilest poison is coated with the sweetest sugar," commented Beshayir, her voice little over a murmur as she poked her head out from under Ceridwen's wing. The dragoness remained silent throughout this, suddenly feeling very small.

[C S]

Filling the void left by the feathered drake, Syria said, "What I find curious is how Hueilin interaction is skewed towards hostility. It may be the case for all the dragon kinds that call this world home, but it's such an unfortunate bother, isn't it? Surely things would be tolerable if dragons were more inclined to compliment one another. They can hurl literal fire from their maws as is; they don't need to coat their words in flames as well!"

[The Kingpin]

"I said I was sorry," responded Ceridwen to that.

"And I said your apology was accepted, amaniir," rumbled Septimus, his tone markedly more agreeable than it had been earlier. Ceridwen briefly flinched at the sound of the larger drake's voice, but seemed to settle after that.

Shifting his attention to Syria, the Son of Storms added, "I can't say I've met very many dragons before. Non-Hueilin, I mean. There was Uriel, who was of a solitary sort of dragon. Chromatus was another one, in a manner of speaking, but he wasn't technically a true dragon, among several other issues. There was Jiier, but he was also a solitary one, being the last of his kind. And the rest of the ones I've spoken to have been Hueilin." It was then that he finally lifted his head up to a more familiar position, his field of vision held high above the ground and giving him a better view of his surroundings. "That said, as I understand it from Buruq, our kind weren't always this hostile. We've concluded that it may have been our cramped living conditions that made us this way. That many Hueilin in such a small place, when we were originally a thinly spread breed that spanned an entire continent as big or bigger than Aster... It was bound to make tempers flare. And in a way, it also kept us from growing unsustainable, as you already know, Syria. You probably think it terrible of me to say it, but the more reasons we have to kill each other, the less fear we have of outgrowing our food supply. We became aggressive in order to sustain ourselves," he rumbled finally.

Ceridwen was taken aback by the analysis. It had never occurred to her. It was how her parents had been, how their parents had been. How her whole generation was. The thought that they could have been any different never crossed her mind until then. "But what about Clan Lords and leadership? Surely there were fights of that sort back then as well!" she chirped.

"Oh, there were definitely fights. But there were also many more stations within our ranks. Clans had several Lords, one for each region of Syravoras. They also had whole groups of dragons filling specific roles, with talented individuals being appointed the station rather than replacing their predecessors. Peacekeeping groups were a common thing, though back then they were simply called 'arad khuraaki', or 'our defenders'. They didn't have specialised runecrafters, though. Only 'Hueiruuvi', or 'soul-speakers', who gave them each their Clan Runes and the additional details of their names. They also acted as healers of wounds, much like human vivamancers and doctors are. Actual runecrafters are a more recent addition. Artificers too."

[C S]

Syria tucked her knees into her chest while Septimus spoke. She only recognized one of the names he listed, and listened with some concern as to the candid way he described Hueilin conflicts while Beshayir was present to hear. Not that she wasn't wise to such matters already. It took a moment or two for her to reply, "Your elders wouldn't appreciate me saying this, but your kind's story is like the story of my people... with some liberties and concessions, of course. Namely in how you've come from sprawling territories to reside in close proximity, and have grown very talented in fighting to maintain individuality. Ah, except instead of one wall surrounding you, the Hueilin have a mountain peak and the walls they keep among themselves... a dysfunctional colony of ants that aren't so tiny as people are..." Syria hummed.

"Well, as far as number of limbs go, the Hueilin have Daavenians beat, so there's that."

[The Kingpin]

"Dysfunctional?!" squawked Ceridwen, offended at the implication.

"I was going to say, the rest of it would probably please them so long as you emphasised their superiority and praise, but the dysfunctional part would probably fray the edges of that lovely tapestry," responded the Scholar with muted amusement.

"But it's true," quipped Beshayir, earning a choked and displeased twitter from the dragoness.

"Just how are we dysfunctional?! We keep our skills honed, our minds sharp, and our senses focused."

"And yet I am fairly sure I could beat any Hueilin my own age in a fight. Well, with the possible exception of some of the other exiles," growled Septimus with a smug smirk, enjoying the dragoness's little explosion.

"We could lay low any human or elf our own age," retorted Ceridwen, trying to divert the argument away from the Scholar's path.

"And I'm fairly sure Urlox would make minced meat out of some of our generation," he added relentlessly.

"I don't even know who that is," admitted Ceridwen.

"Knowledge is the greatest weapon in any arsenal. And that is why we aren't as strong as we may think," rumbled the Scholar firmly, to which Ceridwen puffed up, but did not respond. Clearly, she did not like the argument, but could think of no response this time.

"Now," began the Scholar as he rose to his feet slowly, weaving his way around the group and through the entryway they had made, somehow managing not to dismantle the tent in the process. "... Why don't we go grab something to eat? We have a busy day ahead of us. You did say you wanted to start attending pyromancy lessons again, didn't you, Beshayir? By my count, we're about an hour off from the usual lessons. If we're quick, we'll make it."


The statement had Beshayir's eyes alight with joy, the young Thimeyran mage hopping to her feet in a flash, all but diving into the satchel in the next minute to get ready, though using Ceridwen's flank as a platform to do so, much to the discomfort of the dragoness. A muffled "Sorry!" followed her disappearance into the satchel, before the cover flapped shut over the opening.

[C S]

Syria drew her lips together into a narrow line after hearing the argument. Things had gotten a little clearer in her eyes. "Dragons will talk ill of each other all day long... but will happily accept the accolades of others. With pride stronger than an man-made shield, no wonder they have to resort to battles to resolve their disagreements..."

After getting ready as well, Syria took to adding her newfound insight to her journal. It was a good way to pass the time until they got their breakfast. After eating, they all proceeded into the depths of the city, punctuated by the heights of its buildings.

The elegant scaffolding of stone arches that all but defined the business district of Brodudika was relegated to some nebulous distance inside this humble church. That included its own buttresses outside of its sheer brown exterior, dotted with the tiniest sculptures of guardian whelps. The stained glass up high amidst the rafters and hanging candelabra did not provide much of a view outside. By design, perhaps. The sunlight streamed through them, took on colors of magic itself and the likeness of the serpentine wyrm, and cast itself down on the podium and pews below for the introspection of the worshipers.

The interior layout of the church was circular and dominated by a subdued jade and gold aesthetic. The vestibule was a gently curving passage that led to the main chamber; symbolically the mouth of Greshlynk, with the rest of the divine dragon's body coiled for rest and meditation, represented by the rotunda. The vaulted ceiling was covered by a mural comprised of black and white tiles. The silhouette of the fabled dragon, matching the geometry of the building, presided over the curved benches and altar. Fine detailing in the seats and walls also harkened back to the draconic element.

Before the daily service began, the vergers carried out the simple chores that saw the church able to cater to its patrons, city-born or not. The recent surge in popularity among people used to the rough decks of low-drafted, dragon-headed ships raised a new standard of presentation. Vanity was not something the wise dragon encouraged in his teachings, but in the most human way, the drive to convey a hallmark of respect in others was an inadvertent motivator. The attendants flitted about the round walkways, dusting down statues and tapestries, following up with a polishing cloth wherever was applicable.

Attendant. Just a little bit below Intended in Natalie's book. Which she figured did not count for much at all. With little study into how the religious body of Draxon was organized, her grasp on the importance of rank was loose at best. If they dressed nicely and people went out of their way to be respectful of them, then Natalie had assumed as anyone else would that the endowed figureheads of the church were big names. If they spent their days inside the towering Drakenhallowed, a building as huge and prestigious as any royal palace, then they must have been really big names. But without the unnecessary fluff and ego, they were attendants to the faith of Freyr-Lunge and Draxon as a whole by extension. Attendant. Just a little bit below Intended.

And she intended to pay the candelabra their due diligence. Fish the waste wax from the collection basins around the holders, replace the candles outright if need be. Earlier in the day, Natalie learned that ladders were not kept on hand on a regular, day-to-day basis. She'd always suspected this was the case -- she never pinned the exceptionally faithful as the ones liable for home improvement exercises -- so while it came as some confirmation to what she had reasoned to be the case all along, it did leave a matter of confusion as to how the hanging candle holders came to be, and how anyone was to attend to them.

It was revealed to her in short order that ladders were all around her, hidden in plain sight. The ribbed grooves carved into the bricks behind the pews, cosmetically imitating the gums of the great drake? Hand and footholds that ascended to the wooden and iron supports overhead. Similar details were to be found outside of the church as well. Underneath the stained glass windows were rungs for caretakers and general craftsmen to cling to for simple chores and extensive renovations alike.

As she sidestepped along the discreet walkways that spanned the rotunda, Natalie reflected on the great pains that people have gone through to maintain the conception that a church was any different from any other building in the city. Superficially there was little in common between this church and a tower like Septimus place, but the same principle of arches that allowed the tower and its ilk to stand seven stories or more was what held up this bulk of stone, wood, metal and decoration. This was a place for one to find favor with Greshlynk and to glimpse what their destination at the end of their path may be, but the dragon god certainly made no exception to nature's way with his houses of worship. Gravity was still gravity, dust still collected in the nooks and crannies. Candle melt basins had to be cleaned out, the candles relit or replaced...

The job was as glamorous as anything else, but it was done. Natalie sat down on the beam that was just wider than her resting stance when she stood upright, her canvas bag by her side. She plucked shortened candles from their holders, placed new ones in their place, scooped up settled wax from the basins with a wooden spoon and then returned flame to wax when she was finished with one candelabrum.

There were many candelabra hanging from the rafters. This process took some time. Natalie went with care and duty, out of respect for the institution, and for respect of not falling and having her headstone be held in the church sanctum underground. Perhaps some other time in the future, she would find her way back here, but she would rather not have her new life be eternally entwined with the pews in such a way.

"Greshlynk may forsake me himself, but I will come back to haunt this place, mark my words," Natalie had pledged mentally in passing after she glanced to the floor below as she scooted to her concealed ladder. Down she went, and when her slipper touched down on the firm wooden floor of the bottom level, Natalie breathed a quiet sigh of relief and fulfillment. "Who said being a woman of faith would be boring?" Natalie clenched a fist proudly and held it to her chest. She couldn't recall actually hearing anyone badmouth church workers from the memories she could recall, but she had her rebuff to these hypothetical people nevertheless. There was also the requisite humbling and apology afterwards, for this was the dragon's way.

She was only human, after all.

"You look like someone who has completed a mission," she heard a dry voice say off to her side. Natalie turned to the source and jumped with a start.

"Guard captain Melok--!"

"Just Melok is fine," the plated man preempted tiredly.

Natalie swallowed, tried to hide her embarrassment, and continued, "Of course, Melok." She bowed her head and hoped her cheeks weren't reddening, despite the heat she felt in her face. "How... how are you doing, I suppose is the proper thing to ask at this juncture."

"Proper? Debatable. In any case, I am as fine as I can be under the burden of my duties. My body is strong, my mind is sound and my judgement is true," Melok replied with apt conviction in his authoritative composure.

Natalie nodded along, recovering from her stumble and taken with this heroic side to the guard captain. She'd heard some discoloring rumors about his dealing when she was out on the street, making herself small in the crowds in the hopes that no one would recognize her. This was her first time speaking to the man, and he was what she wished she could be like. Strong and unafraid, even in the face of adversity from his peers. "Rumors are just rumors."

"Allow me to guess at your true puzzlement; you want to know what reason I could have for being here," Melok went on, breaking Natalie's internal narrative.

"Oh, no. Not at all--" she attempted to protest, but Melok was set in his reasoning. He crossed his arms and looked up to the mural.

"I am not here to rectify some infraction of the law, worry not. The church and even yourself are free from my sights," said the guard captain. The way that he emphasized his wording made Natalie recoil on the inside, though she grappled with a steady countenance for the sake of pride alone.

"As much as I disagree with the metal one's means and policies, I see little reason to dwell on the specific results of his decisions wherever they may occur. It would take the greater part of my life to address each one if that were the case. I will simply take it on honor's basis that you climbing about in the reaches above coincide with your..." Melok eyed Natalie up and down. A convict wearing the robes of the devoted... "Your job... and not a personal pursuit."

The indignation stung, but Natalie couldn't find it in herself to speak out against the guard captain through the hurt the veiled accusation imparted. He was the authority figure here... and she was recovering from her shame, given a way out by the good fortune of being useful. "It would be irresponsible of him to trust me fully..." Shaken, Natalie hung her head. "I was tending to the candles, sir," she said with a small voice.

Melok glanced to the bag dangling loosely at her side. "I will also stake my honor on not needing to search you for evidence of tampering."

"No sir," Natalie insisted before biting her lip to keep herself from sobbing.

"I am glad to hear it," Melok replied, oblivious or uncaring to the duress he had sown.

It was all the same to him; if this reformed woman proved a danger in the end, it would be a failure of Desrium's unchecked actions. Precisely the reminder he needed for people to remember that the Blood Omen prowled their streets and sat in their office of government. A killer still remembered in provinces not far from Grymhaven. An affront to the families whose numbers he had cut down before his disappearance. The damnable monster already had the blood of a guardsman on his hands.

Natalie hadn't said a word. Effort and hope went towards keeping the quivering minute, so that Melok wouldn't see her weakness. Her arms were crossed to make herself as compact and protected as she could be while she was so bare, and she hoped her shallow breaths weren't noticed. When she heard Melok say, "That's enough standing around idly for the day by my measure. It is time I seek Greshlynk's guidance, to be his resolute agent of change," Natalie could not have been more relieved.

She did not say anything in response. The verger nodded respectfully and held her place as he began to walk towards the altar. Only when his back was turned to her did Natalie start walking, dazed and distant, eyes glazed. Outwardly, it appeared she was off to complete another of her tasks that morning. Internally, she was heeding the worn string of reason telling her to find a private place to release her sorrows. The sanctum down below, where the other attendants wouldn't hear her.

That was the proper thing to do at this juncture.


Melok kneeled before the pedestal upon which the schorl wyrm rested. Its claws clutched the jade marble base trimmed by golden thread as if it was grappling with a plateau perch, coils wrapped around the height of the column. The tail of the dragon god terminated less than an inch from the bottom of the pedestal, and its alabaster eyes were set on a partially bowed head, peering down at those who brought themselves to pray with a painted on vitreous gaze. It was not long before an underling of his entered the vestibule and made the scheduled meeting. The guard assumed the same stance of piety on one knee.

"What news do you have?" the guard captain asked without looking to the newcomer, his voice low as if in prayer.

"Very little, but it is enough to learn a fair amount about our 'freelancers' and their operation. Their contract with the sorcerers has finally come to fruition."

"Ah ha. I am surprised; I for one had very little faith when we intercepted those dealings. I was more favorable of the initiative to use the wyvern... let me guess. Something has gone awry?"

"As with the 'wyvern initiative', the plan was compromised. Miss Everby discovered the delivery of their findings and brought it to the attention of authorities."

"Not my authority," Melok noted with some bitterness disguised as reverence for the divine. "This does explain why there appears to be an increase of activity in the ranks of the other organizations as of late. A clear measure against us."

"I am one of those assigned to watch over her so that they cannot retaliate. This offers us a window of opportunity where she could be disposed of with little questions asked. We already have suspects with motives," the guard reported.

"At some other time, perhaps. There is little we can do without implicating our branch of security through failure, and we need to hold on to the faith of the people now more than ever. We need to prove that incidents can be insured against by our doing, even if we need to protect a liability to our cause."

"In that case, we can expect attempts to reclaim the material confiscated by the Coats... and potentially occult happenings as well."

Melok grunted. "The dire cost of resorting to practices and disciplines offered by roving bands of sorcerers. They see conflicts and profit by providing enchanted weaponry and trinkets to the combatants, without a care for who the victors are in the skirmishes they kindle. Very few upstart wars have ever gone anywhere past mutual collapses in history; I believe the majority fail by enlisting the magic of these brokers. It could very well be that their own agenda is to see Grymhaven die with Brodudika."

"Then they must be treated as enemies until they prove themselves useful allies," the guard rephrased in brief, which warranted a masked nod of approval from Melok, made to look like a bow to Greshlynk. The guard added afterwards, "There is something else to be aware of. In addition to Moira Everby, the sorcerers may be interested in the companions of the Scholar. His return to Brodudika could be timely for their intentions."

"A dragon the likes of Septimus arriving at a time like this only seems like disaster for these people," Melok replied bluntly.

"But the woman and child that accompany him may prove tempting for their ends through their relationship to him and the smaller female. There is also the dragon that accompanies that one lady who arrived with the offputting giant."

Melok ruminated on this, and then replied, "Such risks to take. But if they were to succeed in acquiring any of these assets..."

"It could mean a divine stroke from Greshlynk that renders both Septimus and Desrium moot."

A smile crept onto Melok's stern face. "If we 'fail' to protect them... well... I can't see why it would matter after the ensuing inevitable came to pass. Assuming the 'freelancers' can be trusted, that is. That means our priority is assuring that their allegiance is with Greshlynk, and him alone."

"And eliminating them if they are not soldiers for the true Draxon."


Within the hour, Evisa and her usual viking comrades reached the church for their morning bout of songs. To them, the scenery was as they had come to expect from their improvised place of merriment and spirit -- that did not involve the indulgence of drink that left most others wanting. The shadow of collusion had followed Melok and his subordinate out after they departed into the city, leaving little to stir tidings of trouble ahead in the crowd from the north.

What little there was did not go unnoticed by the Lady of Light, however. It would have taken a grievous lack of attention on her part for it to.

"How's church-keeping life going?" Evisa asked Natalie when she came up the rounded staircase from the sanctuary.

Natalie's heart skipped a beat and she nearly lost her footing on the steps. The hided warrior was swift as ever though, seamlessly transitioning from a relaxed lean against the arched frame to stepping into the stairwell and grabbing the verger's shoulders to steady her.

She couldn't help but appreciate the solid hold Evisa had. Natalie reckoned that she could have tucked her legs in and the viking would have been just fine holding her over the stairs with a minor adjustment to her footing and grip. Admiration for such strength aside, Natalie thought better of doing that, lest Evisa lost patience with her and decided to let her fall after all. In the spirit of not doing that, Natalie planted her feet level and replied, "I just started, you know that."

"First day jitters?" Evisa wondered. "I didn't mean to spook you."

Dahnae's unflattering nickname sounded off in Natalie's mind, and she shook her head to chase the reminder away. "I didn't expect anyone to be waiting for me up here, is all."

"Is every surprise around this part of the church going to risk you breaking your neck?" Evisa helped Natalie up the last couple of steps and led her out into the main area.

"No... I... it's nothing. I'll be fine."

Evisa put a hand on Natalie's shoulder. Despite the thickness of steel sitting on her head, there was a knowing nature in the way she postured herself, Natalie felt.

Evisa wanted to say something about how Natalie was the only keeper out of sight when she came in, and how the others had mentioned her being down in the sanctuary for quite a while when asked about it.

"Last I saw of her, she was speaking to the captain. I assumed he told her something that she needed to meditate on," Evisa had been told.

That was her other alarm bell. Their meeting in person did little to amend the preconceptions Evisa had of Melok from all the things she heard of him. When she heard that Melok had been speaking to Natalie, Evisa's instincts told her to expect the worst. Now that she was standing in front of the woman, Evisa's elemental sensibilities had her set in her belief that things weren't as they should be. Natalie was too anxious and closed off -- not the person who was optimistic about turning her life around by walking the faithful path.

If only she didn't know what Desrium wished to accomplish. She could have pleaded ignorance if Novarah gave Melok what he had coming, then.


"Alright," Evisa replied after the moment had passed. "But when you feel that you aren't fine, you come look for me." Even if she was certain something was wrong, forcing it out of Natalie wouldn't do any good.

Natalie was wise to the layers in Evisa's words. Her eyes drifted down to one side, baring all of the insecurity she felt. "She knows."

"Only when you're good and ready, though." Evisa lightly tapped her knuckles against Natalie's shoulder. It still hurt.

"Ah... right." Natalie put on a smile. "Thanks."

"Now, come along and listen to some viking songs," Evisa said, putting an arm around the shorter woman while she lamented inwardly how soft she was getting.

"You be a den mother for a bunch of babies, you're a den mother for everyone. I remember when this champion business just meant being tough and gearing to punch someone who might be even tougher! Bah, that's how I got where I am in the first place."

[Hopeflower]

The meandering attempt to clear his head before class was set to start brought Viho out of the school and to Jiier's Corner. If he'd been pressed, he wasn't sure he could have given a reason why. Maybe after everything that had happened recently, something about the unnatural calm around the place drew him. Here, his mind quieted and the restlessness eased. He had yet to figure out exactly why that was - but then, some places just had an energy all their own. Sometimes that was a trap waiting to snap shut on unsuspecting travelers, but it surely wasn't the case here.

Whatever the reason, it was a good place to try and collect himself before he needed to be present for his students. If Viho's mind wandered when he needed to be keeping an eye on a handful of half-trained psychomancers...

Well. He was here to make sure he could control any situation that might potentially come up.

And so he stood, ankle-deep in snow and lost in his thoughts, with his hands clasped behind his back. The casual observer wouldn't have been blamed for thinking him quite out of his mind, given how cold it was.

[The Kingpin]

With the city streets busier now that the sun was up, Septimus had to submit himself to the bindings of his elvish form. Pacing through the avenues of the sprawling city on his way to the academy that bore his name, he carried himself with an aloofness that could have fooled anyone. Beneath the facade, his senses were on alert, watching for any hint of that which troubled him. His extra-sensory senses were no different. Listening for thoughts as well as voices, he made sure to give a figurative ear to the stray ponderings that weren't inclined to remain in the heads of the ponderers. It was a feeble attempt at tracking the source of his worries, he knew, for how many noisy, cluttered minds were there in a city this size? Still, it was a small comfort, to know that, if he happened to encounter a thought out of place among the others, he would be able to track it.

This discomfort unconsciously led him through to Jiier's Corner, and the supernatural peace it afforded the restless. And there, to his surprise, he encountered a familiar silhouette.

"Arsenic?" he started, somewhat surprised. The attire was not what the mute Assassin was known for, and his stance seemed ever so slightly straighter, bearing a confidence that came with experience the Assassin was still too young to have. The hair too, was out of place, too long for the Mute who had only weeks ago had hair that barely reached his shoulders.

But everything else matched him exactly.

[C S]

"I don't think... um..." Syria stammered. The mage squinted her eyes and leaned forwards on her staff, which continued on its controlled heading despite her shifting about as she did. As she grew closer to the elf, the more drastic her staff's angle became, nearing vertical before Syria finally sat back. "He doesn't have the same aura. At least... not that I remember..."