The Nomad Process

[Breaker]

Book 3 ~ Shadows of Dawn



"Any word on the Brigade?" Silverton demanded the moment Cronen entered his office. The wheels of his chair creaked faintly as he rolled to the bar, already fixing his guest a drink. He may be a tough boss, but at least he's got great manners. Although the afternoon had grown dim, enough light filtered through the windows to shine off the wispy layer of white hair pasted to Leon's crown. The old man steadied shaking hands as he poured the whisky, placed the twin tumblers on a tray on his lap, and rotated his chair to roll to the centre of the room.

Josh breathed deeply, enforcing calm on his overstressed nervous system. The battle at the Citadel had opened the floodgates to his near endless supply of adrenaline. Accepting the glass, he drank briefly before setting the whisky aside and wiping his mouth.

"Something better, I hope. A pair of agents looking for the boy caught up with me at the club. One was a middle aged man, the other a young woman." Josh scratched his chin, remembering the tone of their skin, the shapes of their faces, and the familiar rapport between them. "I think they were a father-daughter team, if you can believe it." Josh snatched his tumbler and swirled the contents so swiftly they formed a whirlpool straight to the bottom of the dark glass.

The office darkened a shade as clouds gathered and daylight waned, but Silverton's face brightened by contrast, a stack of worry lines evaporating.

"Did you kill them, by any chance?" The old man mused, wheeling himself behind the desk and setting down his drink to free both hands. Like a thief scouring for coins, he searched the papers spread across the oaken surface.

"No, I managed to trick the man into a delay at the Citadel, and gleaned a little more from the daughter." Placing his palms on the corners of the desk, he leaned over and joined Silverton in scanning the documents. "They were definitely professionals, though. She probably wouldn't have let slip word about her employers, even under the knife." Josh rocked back on his heels, remembering the young lady's fervour. "She couldn't resist letting slip that she's a spy, and Akashiman-trained." Josh snapped to attention as Silverton slammed both hands down, scattering several scrolls.

"Are you sure?" The former Brigadier asked, a sudden fire melting the glaze in his old eyes. He pushed back a hand's length from the desk and pulled open a bottom drawer, thumb flitting through rows and rows of files, some yellow with age. "Can you be certain she wasn't just boasting, or throwing you a false trail?" Sighing with exasperation, Silverton heaved a stack of parchment out of the file drawer and began leafing through them carefully, muttering about his own carelessness.

Pacing to the hearth and lighting a pair of wax candles from the well-supplied box there, Josh wedged them into a brass holder and carried the flickering light back to help Silverton make out the words. As the old man licked ink-stained fingers and grumbled, Cronen reflected on each blow and counter of his battle with the woman who'd named herself a spy. Finally he nodded.

"Not only did I believe what she said, her fighting and fashion style reminded me of the best ninja I ever knew, Kyosku Tetsoma." Cronen spoke carefully, but Silverton thrived on the information. Finding the file he wanted, the former Brigadier threw back his head and all but cackled. Josh waited patiently as his friend took a celebratory swig of Yurik's, leaning over the desk once more to scan the triumphantly displayed sheaf of parchment.

"I received notification almost a month ago that some of the Villeneuves were available for hire," Silverton said, once more composed, rubbing his hands together slowly. "I wouldn't have hired them for any of this business - they're loyal only to themselves." Cramming papers back into the emptied drawer, Silverton fished a key out of his inner pocket. Leaning down to unlock the lower drawer on the opposite side of his desk made his voice echo hollowly. "But I'm not surprised the Coalition would hire them, and I may just be able to discover who supplied the gold."

Joshua's heart raced with excitement, and nearly punched through his breastbone when someone knocked on the office door.

"Master Silverton," came the secretary's voice, "my apologies for disturbing you in a meeting, but the patient is awake."

Guys, I'm gonna finish this thread one way or another. If either of you feels like makin a comeback to help me with it, that'd be awesome!

[Breaker]

A single glass-fluted lamp illuminated the bedchamber on the second floor of Silverton's estate. Its flickering shadows embellished the dark patches beneath Ferrin May's eyes, and the flatness of his brown shoulder-length hair. The nightshirt he wore hung slack across hunched shoulders, and the blankets tucked around his hips seemed to cover nothing but bones. The downy pillows he leaned against threatened to swallow his narrow chest. He was awake though, and slurping tepid tea with enough gusto for three men, when Cronen entered the room and closed the door behind him.

"Who's there?" Ferrin called, clutching the clay mug so suddenly it slopped a drop down his front. "Name yourself!" Knuckles white on the earthenware, he looked ready to use it as a weapon.

"Joshua Cronen. I saved your life last night," the martial artist said casually. He sat on a three legged stool next to the bed, letting the lamplight wash his sweat and dust stained face.

Ferrin barked a laugh, a single syllable that may just as well have been a sob. "I had a dozen saviours lay down their lives for mine, and their faces burn in my memory." Ferrin's neck popped as he turned and gazed into the shadows, as if his ghostly comrades looked back from the darkness. "You weren't one of them." He lapsed into silence and sipped his tea.

Cronen counted thirty seconds and then stood. He paced the small room in a slow circle, past the mirror and washstand and marble chamber pot, and stopped directly in the surly youth's line of vision. He swivelled the knob on the fluted lamp's base, and the flame doubled in size, beating the shadows back to the room's well dusted corners.

"You must have been the only one to escape, and only just." Josh's hard hazel eyes bored into May's grey ones. "I found you unconscious, being dragged through back alleys by a pair of horses." He leaned closer, until less than a shin's span separated them. "I risked my own life and my job bringing you here. You're being cared for by one of the Rangers' most secretive and influential allies. He is risking more than his life just letting you stay here." Josh straightened and sighed, paced back to the stool and sat facing Ferrin May. "You're among friends. There should be a hot meal for you soon, and you'll be welcome to stay here as long as you need to recover." The sharp edge appeared in Cronen's voice again as he finished. "But right now, I need to know what you know. Tell me what happened last night."

Ferrin tensed like a cornered animal, but then took a deep breath and relaxed. Between mouthfuls of tea he told of his alliance with the Rangers, the portal that had brought them to Radasanth, and the bloody attack by the mercenaries and Aleraran assassins. Cronen refilled his mug from the teapot which rested on a low bedside table, and listened attentively. Not until Ferrin mentioned the vlince-wrapped cargo the cart had contained did the martial artist pose a question.

"It's a weapon," Ferrin answered, a pink hue rising in his pale cheeks as he turned his face away, ashamed. "I should never have created it, but I was so angry, and it seemed such a sure path to victory." Josh shook his head but said nothing. "It's harmless ordinarily, but when properly cured and burned it produces smoke so volatile a single whiff could paralyse a man." Each word seemed to come from deep within the brilliant young botanist, from a time he'd rather not remember. But he continued. "Prolonged exposure brings certain death. In an enclosed area, a single parcel could kill hundreds. And there were dozens of parcels--" he cut off suddenly, shoulders shaking, throat retching as his stomach heaved. Did he truly never consider the repercussions of such a creation? Ferrin managed to calm himself without vomiting and took another sip of tea. He then set the mug aside and scrubbed a fist across leaking eyes. "We were to deliver the cart to the conduit, a man with the expertise to conceal the parcels throughout the Armed Forces' barracks. I personally cured the plant matter to ensure it was dry as tinder. A single match one night..."

"And the Empire no longer has such vast armies. It was... an elegant idea." Josh reached down and gripped two of the stool's legs, uncertain how to feel about such a drastic - and effective - tactic. Far from a perfect plan, but if it had worked... "What was the conduit's name?" He asked.

Ferrin hesitated only a moment before answering.

"Teod Goshawk."

[Breaker]

Silverton waited until the depths of the mansion swallowed Breaker's footsteps, and then opened the lower left-hand cupboard of his custom-carpentered desk. I would not have hesitated to show this to Joshua, he reflected as he drew out an object covered by a black silken slip. His back popped as he grunted and straightened and set the piece on the desk. A sly smile stole across his face. Even so, an old man likes to have his secrets. Especially this old man.

He drew away the cover and gazed upon his reflection in the ornate mirror, preening his whiskers and pawing at his thinning hair. Precious stones of all colours and shades surrounded the mirror like a clock's numerals. An aged talymer support cradled the mirror, growing seamlessly from the base of swirling obsidian and white marble. Silverton let his tired eyes fall shut as he caressed the jewel-encrusted outer face of the mirror, feeling a familiar tingle mount his fingers and spread across his entire body. He could never use it without recalling the image of his mother, hair shining in the candlelight as she brushed it one hundred times, telling him stories of his father's bravery. Her stories had always ended with a song and a kiss on the brow, and intoned a strong moral; all men and women must be free. A familiar thrill rippled through Silverton's muscles as he touched each gemstone in a sequence long memorized. His mother had used the mirror to covertly assist the development of the Republic whilst his father fought to make the dream possible. All men and women must be free. Following the path forged by his parents, Leon used the mirror to shine light on the Empire's cracks and flaws. The combination complete, he rested a liver-spotted hand on the diamond at the mirror's midnight and rotated it halfway round.

The reflection of an old soldier and his war trophies dissolved into swirling grey mist. Slowly shapes emerged and settled, solidified, becoming a recognizable setting. The mirror showed an old but meticulously maintained divan and a small mahogany table. The twin mirror he looked out of was similarly designed but bordered only by ordinary stones. They chattered noisily to announce the activation of the link, and before long Silverton heard the approach of shuffling footsteps.

"Hope I finds ye' well, Milord. What might I assist you wif' today" The bald old man said, sitting on the sofa and squinting into the enchanted mirror. He could see nothing but a mist on his end, but always gazed respectfully back as if looking at an old friend. "The Missus won't be a moment, just settin' out the 'fings for tea. Join us in a cuppa' Milord?" The old man chuckled, and Silverton joined in. He had done so the first fifty times he'd heard the joke, and felt it would be rude not to continue.

He knew them only as the Mister and the Missus, pet names they called each other. They knew him as a good man who could see to it the coffers they kept with Corone's bankers never emptied. They spoke often of children, but only to assure him their many sons and daughters were healthy and appreciative of the higher education his gold provided. Silverton liked believing their tales, but at the end of the day he paid them for their services, not conversation. They were professional blinds - the middle men of countless clandestine operations. Strictly speaking they did not inform on any of their clients. Under ordinary circumstances they couldn't, since any prudent man would make them the middle link in a chain of six or seven blinds. But Silverton had discovered in the past that it paid to make direct contact.

"Being an old man never feels well," he griped. The Mister flinched at the sudden sound of his voice coming from an empty mirror, but then chuckled again. "But if one old man starts telling another of his aches and pains, they'll both be buried before they hear and end of it." They shared another laugh as a kettle whistled, the sound barely audible in Silverton's office. "I do have need of immediate information however." That sapped the Mister's jocularity. He pursed his lips and nodded, wrinkled hands folded on the knees of his woollen trousers. They never spoke of money or fees, but understood that a matter's urgency would be matched by its weight in gold when dealing with the mysterious Lord in the mirror. Silverton took a deep breath and went on.

"I attempted to contact Esme Villeneuve through his usual handler," he said, stroking his beard and choosing words as carefully as soldiers, "and received word that the spy and one of his daughters were quite suddenly engaged earlier today, for an undetermined amount of time." Silverton paused, a few threads of his wispy beard wrapped round one finger, to gauge his conduit's reaction.

The Mister had not survived to such an age working in clandestine affairs by being rash or unwise. He nodded twice and waited while the whistling of the kettle cut off. When it became apparent an answer was expected, he wet his lips and spoke five words.

"I may have heard that."

"It is a pressing matter that requires the specific skills of the Villeneuves." Silverton said, touching his voice with desperation. "If I might discover who enlisted Esme's assistance - in order to approach them and offer to purchase the contract - my appreciation will know no limit." Removing his spectacles, the former Brigadier breathed a blast of steam across the lenses and polished them swiftly with his shirt.

When he slid the wire frames back across his nose he saw the Mister wiping sweaty palms on the pressed cotton sleeves of his shirt.

"I visited the market for eggs and flour this mornin' Milord. The Missus was 'ere dealin' wif' all those who dropped by." The Mister's legs stirred and he levered himself upright off the arm of the divan. "Might be she knows somefin' could 'elp ye Milord, I won't be two shakes now." He shuffled out of Silverton's line of sight, presumably toward the kitchen.

Leon forced himself to breathe easy, and rested both hands atop the mirrors lavish frame. Feeling its power flow through him helped to slow his heart. He had risked losing the service of his two best informants simply by hailing them and asking for such information. He drummed his fingers on a set of yellow topazes bigger than his arthritic knuckles. He had chosen to test their faith in him, judging that the reward would outweigh the risk. They must give me something. Otherwise we shall be back where we--"

"That's not 'is right to be askin' now then is it?" The shrill voice of the Missus emanated suddenly through the linked mirrors. A few moments of silence while her husband responded, and then, "Oh I know that rightly enough, it's just common decency is all!" More silence and the burble of water pouring from kettle to cup. "Well he is a funny ol' codger isn't he? Still, just like you and all other men. Must have his own way, must have it now! No no, you sit here and enjoy. Let yore missus 'andle this!"

A rotund old woman in a layered woollen dress trounced into sight and flopped onto the divan, somehow not upsetting the steaming mug she carried. "'Ello Milord!" She shrieked, leaning in until he could see the moles beneath her greying hair. "I do 'ope this war hasn't got ye down!" She wiggled herself into a more comfortable position and sipped daintily, pinky extended.

Silverton uncovered his ears and gingerly checked the mirror for cracks. The Missus had never quite managed to shatter it with her screams, but not for lack of trying.

"Delightful to - I said, delightful to hear your voice again!" Silverton said as loudly as he could without shouting. The door is thick, but I can't have my secretary thinking I'm speaking to myself. "I trust you have some information that could be to the benefit of all of us!"

She peered upwards and then to both sides, as if checking for eavesdroppers, and then whispered in what would have been a conversational tone from anyone else.

"T'aint normal I'd know somefing like this Milord. Most days the only folk that brings us messages to pass along is folk we never seen afore or afterward." She took her time in organizing her splitting grey bangs behind both ears and continued. "Only, this mornin' a young groom who used to be sweet on one of our lil' girls stopped by. Looked like he'd been up most of the night, and sayin' 'is master had need of an investigator quick as y'like. I sent 'im off to contact the Villeneuves - they're always ready at short notice."

She told Silverton the name of the lord who had hired the Villeneuves, and after a few shouted pleasantries he closed the connection. The mist in the mirror morphed back into the face of a tired old Brigadier, and he sat and stared at his reflection until the metallic click of the breaker boots sounded down the hall.

[Breaker]

Even with urgent news from Ferrin May to pass along, Josh paused with the study door half-open to smile at Silverton's secretary. She had perhaps the most spectacular hair he'd ever seen, including the upper class elven women who slummed at The Flesh Failures sometimes.

Silverton was straightening up in his chair, most likely putting some of the files that littered his desk away, as Josh closed the heavy door. They had a matching spirit in their posture and spark in their eyes. Josh retrieved his drink from the bar, added more ice chips from the insulated box, and paced a long loop past the warmth of the hearth while Silverton made a show of organizing his papers. Finally they both spoke, almost as one.

"Cornelius Reed."

"Teod Goshawk." Josh didn't recognize the first name, but Silverton snapped to attention at the mention of his fallen comrade.

"Goshawk the conduit? But what could they have been transporting?"

Josh took a deep breath and then powered through a full explanation of his conversation with May. His mind ticked off the facts as he expressed them, and he finished with an overall assessment of Ferrin's condition, which amounted to little more than severely fatigued. Silverton steepled his fingers and stared into the fire, digesting the information, and Cronen lit more candles to combat the gathering darkness pressed against the window.

"Let me see if I have it," Leon said at last, wetting his lips with the drink he'd been nursing for hours. "A group of extremists from our side, including Goshawk and Ferrin May, cooked up a scheme to decimate the Armed Forces." Silverton grimaced and scrubbed the grey stubble on his chin. "May came through a portal last night with an escort, but a group of mercenaries led by dark elves slew them to a man and stole their cart. May alone escapes... and the same night, Teod is assassinated by the Coalition's wraith. And now," the old Brigadier drained his glass and set it down with a snap, "Someone, whom we must assume is Cornelius Reed, possesses May's weapon."

The facts flitted and revolved in Cronen's mind and fit together like a three dimensional puzzle. He took the visitor's chair opposite the large desk and nodded.

"That's as near as I can figure it. Can you think of any reason for Alerar's involvement?" The martial artist asked.

"A promise of priority trade relations over Raiaera would certainly do it, or perhaps a parcel of land near a port city." Leon smiled ghoulishly. "We must be pressing them harder in the field than we thought, if they're looking overseas for reinforcements." He made as if to rub his palms together but froze as if praying, the gleam gone from his eye. "We must retrieve May's weapon, Josh. Tonight."

Cronen nodded.

"I will," he said with simple certainty, chest and shoulders expanding, "what do you know about Cornelius Reed?"

"One moment," Silverton grinned, and wheeled to his filing cabinet.

[Shadar]

“To preparation,” Cornelius Reed toasted to his empty study. A beam of late afternoon light cut through the small window above his desk and made the glass of brandy, held aloft, look like a dark gemstone among the floating dust motes. He downed half of it in one gulp, then leaned back into plushness and gazed smugly into the unlit hearth.

Numerous folders remained open on the desk, spread out like a gambler's winning hand. At the bottom was his file on Teod Goshawk. He had drawn it from its hiding place behind the wall-length bookshelf while the newspaper was still warm from his servant's hand. “Hellcat”; a quaint name, and a childish ruse. But, perhaps that was just because he knew too much.

Other folders had followed, each for a former Brigade member. His records on them were no less dense than those on his current compatriots, for the shift from ally to enemy could take years, even decades, to fester. He almost hit a wall, there. Yet, a small note was all it took to continue.

“We are unable to continue the investigation. Seek the Breaker,” read the skilled penmanship of the elder Villeneuve.

Reed had no files on Joshua “Breaker” Cronen, but anyone who knew Radasanth knew of its sturdiest doorman. In younger days, he might have visited the man personally, taken in some of that night life he heard such debaucherous things about.

He finished the brandy. That was a dream for another day, and perhaps another glass. He poured it with a slight wobble to his grip. Sinful young damsels aside, he had all that he needed. Cronen's name was found only in one veteran's file. Why Leonard Silverton would associate with the boy, he had no idea. Perhaps Adham would decipher that before his return.

Outside the closed study door, footsteps patted softly as one of the mercenaries made his way down the hall. Whether they were guards or guests, Reed couldn't say. They were certainly louder than his servants, and nosey enough to suss out his drink cabinet in the den. He could count two blessings, though. The liquor out there was swill compared to the bottle on his side table, and only five of the men were present to bother him. The others were with the drow. In spite of their insistence on finishing the ambush's work, they had taken an interest in identifying the weapon, even going so far as to take a parcel to a supposed botanist contact of theirs. The escort of six of Adham's men was insurance, but more importantly, an insult. He remembered with some pleasure their dark, offended expressions.

Someday, perhaps not too far off, they would be amusing enemies.

~

As Joshua Cronen left the Silverton estate, he passed a number of groundskeepers, their noses in the trees or bowed to the hedges. One paused just a moment as he passed, world-weary face tight under the brim of a shady hat, then went back about his business. He moved no slower or faster than the others, but seemed to relish each stroke of the shears. It was as if the motion represented something long forgotten. A simpler time. A hard, clean day's work.

Smells of the evening meal's preparation wafted out of the estate's kitchen door as the pruning flock broke upon the manor's facade. The satisfied groundskeeper squared the final corner of the last hedge, nodded, then walked around the darker side of the building. His heels scuffed against the pristine grass, producing a metallic shick-shick from the toes of his shoes.

His bloody business resumed.

[Breaker]

The run northward from Radasanth proper in cool evening air blasted nervous tension from Joshua's mind. He kept to the setting sun's lazily stretching shadows and avoided main roads entirely. He vaulted over fences and scaled stone walls, raced across rooftops and tumbled harmlessly from heights. He was one with the breath and blood that flowed and throbbed with each racing step. Peace claimed his core as he focused on silence and movement and nothing else. His long strides devoured distance at a rate exhausting to most men in minutes. And yet the sun gave a final wolfish wink and sank behind the horizon to this left, and still he breathed easy.

Josh paused as he crested the final hill and crouched in a young cyper thicket bordering the hardpack road. Reed's manor had crept up on him, and he marshaled his surprised as sweat dripped from the point of his chin to muddy the dirt.

It was the end of the road. The same earthen path that serviced several small farmhouses surrounded by acres of crops curled into the lord's gate as if licking his boots. In the semi-dark between sunset and nightfall lanterns signaled life from many windows in the massive servants' quarters, but only two in the main manse. The barn beyond stood dark and was nearly lost against the Jagged Mountains beyond, its outline barely distinguishable in the day's dying aura.

Cronen picked his way through the sparse woodlands surrounding Reed's fenced property, crawling behind rocky abrasions and inching through fields of cracked leaves. He made no more noise than the wind, and soon found himself flattened against Reed's solid back fence. Josh had considered the defensive options as he circled the estate and concluded that he'd want a watcher with a good crossbow in the darkened barn loft. And since Reed had already demonstrated considerable resources and the cunning to purchase an inconspicuous residence despite them, Josh figured he'd have his guards well placed. He breathed as quietly as he could, willing his heart beat to silence, and was rewarded by shuffling footsteps some minutes later.

The sentry wasn't just dragging his feet, he muttered darkly to himself as he went about his rounds.

Bad night to slack off, Josh thought as he stretched to is toes and reached both palms atop the sanded oaken fence. He tracked the guardsman's movement through three long seconds then dipped his knees and sprang upwards, pushing off with both palms and somersaulting smoothly over the barrier.

The guard heard his back graze the vines that laced the fence, and looked up as a shadowy hand seized his collar and heaved him to the ground. But rather than the dull thud of head on dirt, a wet slap emanated as his skull met a broad stone half-buried in the field.

Josh tumbled away, unharmed but inwardly cursing his carelessness. He'd already spilled more blood than he intended that night, and the man's death had changed more than just the span of his life. Cronen could no longer call himself a spy or a bodyguard or a doorman. A single stone set in the wrong spot had changed the very nature of his presence on the estate.

He was an assassin.

[Shadar]

Ferrin woke from medicine-addled sleep with a hand tight around his throat and the point of a blade playing among the unshaven hair on his upper lip. He sucked in a greedy breath, widening his eyes in shock. But, he could only make out the shape of a head blocking the moonlight. Breath tickled his nose, yet he couldn't identify its smell over the lingering aura of sap and fresh-cut flowers.

“You're the last one,” the reaper said dryly.

Ferrin whispered, “Please. I didn't want any of this,” as quietly as he had ever whispered anything in his life. The blade, a sliver of moonlight, seemed to pin his upper lip in place. His words slipped through gritted teeth, slurred with the fog of sleep and calming herbal tea.

“Tell me everything.”

There was no further instruction needed. Ferrin hissed out every word he had shared with his caretaker. Earlier, it had felt like a confession, but the jumping of his heart and the night-sweat blurring his eyes told him that this was the true judge, jury, and executioner. He bared himself before the court; the court took it all in with the impassiveness of a stone.

Only when he finished describing the weapon did he get a response. It began with the lines of a scowl, visible only in the moonlight that crept around the edges of the dark face. “You destroyed all your notes?” said the shadowed lips, just daring him to lie. The blade's tip played just below one nostril.

“Yes. All of them.”

“You are the only one who could recreate it?”

“Yes. Only me.”

Ferrin wheezed sharply as he realized the implications. The knife slipped down toward his lips. “I have a wife and child,” he pleaded. The hand left his throat and seized his face roughly, squeezing his jaw open like a fish. The blade played the hook, straight instead of curved, and traced its tip along the roof of his mouth. Words hid in the back of his throat. His tongue, though fidgeting, tried to lay low from the knife's edge.

Emotion finally crept in the assassin's voice. A bitter, time-worn resentment. “Do you think that makes you special?”

Ferrin breathed harder, arching his head back into the pillow as if he might disappear into it. The blade bit into his palate.

“War makes many widows.”

~

Reed closed the hidden wall safe, sealing in a life's worth of clandestine information. A dangerous amount, he tried to remind himself, though the thought never lasted long. If he had been able to, he would have spread every piece of incriminating paper over his study and rolled on it like a dragon on its treasure horde. He giggled, then reassured himself that the bout of whimsy was not from him, but from the empty bottle on his side table. The fireplace's waning glow danced within the dark glass, giving the illusion that, for only a moment here and there, there was another sip to be had. Reed had fallen for that trick too many times to try again.

Gingerly, she pressed a finger to the edge of the askew bookcase and slide it up and down until he found the perfect place, the weak point in its balance, and the massive piece of gilded redwood slid back on hidden wheels. It pressed itself to the wall with a satisfying thunk.

Reed stepped into the center of the study. One hand encircled his brow. It ached. It begged him for sleep, but he knew he could not sleep yet. The drow and Adham had yet to return, and both would surely bring news that needed his immediate attention.

[Rayleigh]

Thread: The Nomad Process
Participants: Breaker, The International, Shader
Type: No Judgment

Breaker receives:
3400 EXP
210 GP

Shader receives:
1010 EXP
85 GP

The International receives:
320 EXP
40 GP

[Rayleigh]

All EXP and GP have been added!