Leaves Left Behind

[The Sweetest Thing]

This thread is closed. All bunnying is approved.

Smallflies hummed in the thick of the loam either side of the trail. Days like this one, long summery days of strong sunlight, had dried the dead leaves spring's thaw unveiled. The smallflies sang contendtedly, a marching yodel that kept Anastacia Alliendra's slim legs swishing. With each stride she drove herself up the dusty hill, and her cheap cotton dress made a determined noise against the finer weave of her red woolen cloak. The wind surged and covered the sound of insects for a moment as tree limbs ancient and young creaked all around her. Stacia ignored a growing cramp in her right calf and breathed evenly, thrashing the bloody great hill for all she was worth with each step. At long last she crested the hill, sapphire eyes sparkling. The wind lifted her golden hair and fanned it so the cherry streaks rippled, but the young woman's face fell as she looked down at nothing but more path and forest on either side, and on the horizon another steep slope.

"By the Queen's Sceptre, I would have wagered a day's labour against a night's wash this would be the last one!" The cream-skinned woman beat dust from her travelling clothes in frustration, then raised her hood. She'd removed it while climbing the hill, but did not cherish the result of prolonged sunlight on her porcelain features.

"I'd have matched that wager twice over, milady." Kiro Ryochi arrived silently and stood beside her. The broad-shouldered Akashiman placed both callused fists on his spine and arched till a series of pops rewarded his effort. Sighing, the mapmaker - cartographer - Stacia corrected herself, recalling the career Ryochi had recalled proudly over many a cookfire - touched the broad dagger sheathed on his belt briefly, then pulled his heavy vlince cloak to cover it. Stacia felt her eyebrow arc and schooled her face back to disinterested frustration. So many of Ryochi's mannerisms made her think of the warrior Knights of Scara Brae, who she had often watched training in her homeland. And yet the Akashiman claimed he had spent his entire life as a scholar in the Capital, until he'd moved to a small mountaintop village chasing the love of his life.

"Lucky for me I lost my breath two hills ago," Stacia muttered, and Ryochi chortled. Unshouldering the bulky pack that seemed weightless on his back, the Akashiman offered her a waterskin, which she accepted gratefully and sipped, turning her back to the way ahead. The hood shielded her eyes, but still she had to squint to make out the rest of their travelling party.

Six women in rough woollen cloaks trudged up the slope, a boy of no more than nine darting between them, bouncing twigs off their skirts and overturning rocks in search of beetles. The last of the women brought up the rear with one hand on a mule's bridle. The brawny beast kept its burden - a motley little cart that whimpered as it rolled - gliding up the hill at a steady rate. The mule's handler patted its snout idly between urging the others along ahead. Though they were all much younger than her, Matron Silter had a robust stamina that came from being busy fourteen hours a day. Her rounded cheeks glowed red, sunkissed from days of travel. Stacia sniffed and rolled her fine-boned shoulders, passing the waterskin back to Ryochi. "I may require a respite if this morning stretches much longer."

The Akashiman shook his head and spouted a mouthful of water through a rack of pine boughs. "Nay milady, ye can rest yourself in Underwood. Next is the last hill, unless I misremember." Ryochi packed the waterskin and shouldered his pack, making a hasty excuse and hurrying back down the hill to assist the Matron. The way he fawned over her ever since she'd accepted his expressions of everlasting love often amused Stacia, but the prospect of reaching Underwood had paperwings fluttering in her belly.

They had all lived in Pagration, the mountaintop town halfway between Akashima and Radasanth. With the deep snows of winter a platoon of Imperial soldiers had blanketed the town. They'd attempted to tax Matron Silter's brothel - tax a legitimate Corone chapter of the Sisterhood of Scara Brae! The mere memory made Stacia's cheeks match her crimson cloak. Soldiers were always looking for a free lay from a girl who knew how to make him forget he was a lamb stumbling blind-eyed to the slaughter. The officers had done little to curtail the advances of their lewder underlings - indeed, some of the highest ranked soldiers made the worst chauvinists. Using cleverly crafted snowshoes from the travelling shop Ryochi had operated, the small group from the Luxuria Inn had escaped under cover of darkness.

Between them, Silter and Ryochi were wealthy enough, and their gold had bought supplies enough for all, and the mule and shambling cart to carry their meagre belongings.

A life of freedom is better than no life at all. And there can be no living without freedom.

The ludicrous, circular thought had become something of a mantra for Stacia during the weeks of their travel. In Underwood, so stories said, forces of the rebellion gathered to support the Rangers' resistance. Rumours from farm folk east of Concordia claimed some of the best military minds in the country operated out of that forest stronghold. In Underwood Stacia could earn enough to return to Scara Brae, where the Matron and her new husband could settle down and start a family. There would be men aplenty in any military town, and if not gold in their pockets, silver and coppers enough to pay for an hour or two of her company. As sure as war meant men, men wanted Anastacia Alliendra.

Turning so the sun warmed her back, Stacia stared into the horizon until she spotted the smoketrails of chimney fires coming from the forest town. It was true. They had made it. Safe and sound.

[Rayse Valentino]

Sighing a breath of relief, Rayse took another drag on his cigarette as he spotted the smoke trails. Tanaka brings up the rear, carrying a traveling bag with most of Rayse's belongings and a separate bag for his own. They could have put him up with a nice dainty little number, a pretty pinch-able girl to accompany him in his travels, but no. He gets this 40-something balding Akashiman with a tan so deep he might as well be part of the road they were walking on. He wears basic vestments while Rayse prefers to walk around in his white sleeveless t-shirt.

Underwood is a great place for a not-so-legal organization to put down roots. The open borders, the size, the easy way to get lost in the trees just outside the town's proximity. Rayse sees houses slowly moving towards him, along with a man reading a book on a stone just off the path he was on. As he looks up, a gleam of familiarity catches his eye and he stands up.

"Rayse? Is that you?" He says, sticking a scrap of paper into his book and closing it. He is a young, short-haired man as well, but with those overalls his menacing status as an agent of The Company can be put into question.

"Oh, great, first I get to travel with this monk, and now there's a farmhand to greet me? Is this whole operation a joke?"

"Can it before I kill you," he says with a deadpan expression. They both knew that organizations such as theirs value inconspicuousness above all. Rayse stuffed a grin, realizing that for an agent of The Company, possibly an assassin as well, this kind of assignment was humiliating. "I'll take your things to your room. The usual place. Get in the town and make sure nobody follows you."

Rayse chews on his cigarette to conceal his grin, "Relax man, I know the drill." He looks back at Tanaka and motions for him to hand over the goods. He does so, the guy in overalls pays him, and he produces an extended bow before walking past them towards the town. "He never said anything the whole trip. You people need to get some better tour guides."

"He gets paid a lot to keep his mouth shut. Listen, just go straight to the room once you get in, got it? No screwing around."

"Understood," Rayse says with no intention of following that order.

[Macabre]

"Ah!" Ravenok awoke with a gasp of stale inn room air, eyes flashing open to stare at the wooden floor joists above, creaking with the traffic on the upper level. He heaved for breath like a man choking on water, blinking cold sweat out of his eyes, being uncomfortably hot as he always slept in his denim outfit. It was yet another rough morning as was common for a man in Ravenok's condition. He lacked "sustenance".

A warm orange glow seeped in through the curtains on the room's only small window on the opposite side of the bedroom. Although the feeling of revival that came with such natural exuberance never came to the vagabond. Instead, a headache wracked his mind and he couldn't stop trying to remember the vague images that were nailed into the darkest depths of his muddled head from the previous night's dream. Or nightmare, as usually is his luck.

After a quick minute the man sat up in his small economy sized bed abruptly, its old springs whining loudly in protest, and turned to set his bare feet on some solid flooring. As he let out a groan he brought his hands to his face to help hold his head up, catching his bearings. Ravenok had arrived in Underwood less than a tenday past, without direction and without motive. It was really... Just because. It wasn't too long ago that he'd been escaping from Talmhaidh on a small vessel. The Ceann Cath wanted him dead and he wasn't even aware why. Those thoughts were constantly on the fighter's mind. If ever he had any sort of intent, it was to return there at some point. Laying low in Corone, however, was the best course of action for the time being, and Underwood was just the place to start.

"Ugh..." Ravenok exhaled softly as he mopped the sweat from his face with the palms of his hands then brushed his long hair back from obstructing his view. Without looking he reached over to a small night stand beside the bed, fondling around until he came upon his trusty little black vial; his morning brunch. He popped the cap off with his thumb - which stayed connected via a thin string - and immediately raised the opening to a nostril and gave it a single big sniff.

Almost as instantaneously as he'd inhaled the mind dust, he exhaled deeply in relief as he tilted his head upward and closed his eyes. His morning shakes began to slowly subside and he felt his spastic breathing regulate itself. It was then time to finally start his morning he thought to himself, and perhaps look for some way to make enough money for a trip to Radasanth.

After the routine stretches that Ravenok performed every morning he could - although it was such a bitch to do in the small room - he hastily strapped, slid, and latched his armor on. The suit spontaneously dubbed "Pain" put Ravenok at ease each time he donned it. Then, rolling his neck and flexing his gauntleted hands, he finally reached for the door, thinking to himself:

"This... Is going to be such a shitty day."

[The Sweetest Thing]

The ladies truly did take their honey-suckled time, lips and tongues flapping like spring buds on the tallest trees. The ruddy faced Akashiman cartographer must have told them Underwood was near. Otherwise they would not waste their breath so. Stacia smoothed the crimson cloak over her slim hips as the breeze gusted again, then scratched at her wrists. Her pale skin, ordinarily flawless as a porcelain doll's, was worn by weather and wind. The raw red patches itched worse than a score of fireant bites. Well, maybe not quite that badly. Sniffing again and wishing her nose would clear properly, Stacia swiped some damp moss off a nearby boulder and perched on its edge.

Remaining still atop the hill intensified the sun’s heat. With only the freshest growths squirming from reaching branches, the trees did nothing to dampen its power. Again Stacia scrubbed a scowl from her face and used a meditation trick from her companionship training. She imagined the sun’s rays sliding over her like water from a falls, and as the water in her mind grew cooler, sweat stopped beading at the nape of her neck. She exhaled a measure of relief, fixing an enchanting expression on her face. Golden hair framed the cherry lips that smiled like a demon’s fork. She could wear the expression all day and night when necessary. Like an artist adapting a sculpture with hammer and chisel, she adjusted the seductive smile into one of friendly optimism, just as the other ladies trundled into earshot.

“Oi ‘aven’t been in Unnerwood in three years. Not ‘alf so long since an Unnerwood guardsman were in me, though!” The rough commoner dialect belonged to Mary, a Radasanthian woman whose auburn hair fell to her waist and whose clothing barely contained her bodice. A fisherman’s daughter, she had run away from home seeking glamor in Akashima. The other women chortled at the crude joke, except for Callie O’Shaw, who clapped both purple-nailed hands over her little son’s ears and glowered at Mary. The only woman from the Luxuria who had let all her hair turn gray, Callie lived a contradiction. Though she kept her appearance neat and orderly, she refused to let any discussion of her profession reach the boy’s ears. And yet, it was Callie herself who somehow satisfied the most soot-minded beasts that ever visited the brothel. Though Stacia could not say she liked the woman, Callie O’Shaw’s experience had proven useful more than once in recent weeks.

“Put on somethin’ nice when we arrive, lovey,” one of the other Coronian women whispered to Mary, “but with a few tasty rrrips in it. Maybe we can share a bed with an officer tonight mmm?”

Stacia snorted and rose from her seat. She set off down the dusty hill at a swift walk, kicking the skirts of her bloody dress with each step. Not that it was any of her affair to advise Matron Silter’s employees, but she knew no proper Scara Brae chapter of the sisterhood would allow such... callousness in the ranks. The art of seduction, the body sciences, the tools to twirl any powerful man around her little finger, were taught at the national chapter houses as a second religion. Women of the Sisterhood were received well at royal banquets and honored in nobles houses. And yet a short ship ride away in Corone, Silter’s girls acted more like... well, a word she personally found offensive.

“Sodden streetwalkers,” she muttered around a mouthful of rising dust. Her flat-heeled boots beat the dirt road like a dutiful drummer as she climbed the next hill. The last hill, and if Ryochi was wrong about that she’d give him a tongue-lashing, and have a stern conversation with the Matron afterwards, about her betrothed’s unwieldy knack for...

Stacia stopped atop the hill with a quiet gasp. Her mouth dropped open in shock and remained so as she pulled a deep breath, then another.

Underwood was not as she remembered it. When she’d passed through on her way from the ferry landing to Pagration, it had been a sleepy little forest town, barely a border between buildings and the treeline. True that had been two years prior, but...

It appeared as if some giant had torn Underwood from its nest in the middle of Concordia, hurled the town deep into the ocean, and replaced it with a small militarised city bearing the same name. A wall of scored limestone surrounded two thirds of the city, taller than two men and growing. The forest had been cleared in a massive pace radius around the blocky construction, replaced by a sea of tents and sharpened tree trunks set at an angle. With a sickening twist in her stomach Stacia realized those brutal stakes were meant for repelling a cavalry charge. Had the Empire already attacked Underwood? Had they seized control?

No. She breathed a sigh of relief as she spotted the sword-crossed banner of the Rangers, and a smaller Raven-banner marking the famous Ravenheart Academy. Stacia blinked and rubbed her eyes. Had the time played tricks on her, or did most of the buildings in Underwood look newer than before? Had there been this many shale-roofed houses on her last visit?

By the Glory of the Tap, I’ll burn my mind out at this rate. She closed her mouth, swallowed a little grit and corrected her posture. Seeing Underwood in the light of a beautiful spring morn, after the weeks of frigid journeying, had shocked her. That was all. It was after all, none of her affair if half the people of Underwood decided to rebuild their roofs one summer. Should have expected there to be a wall, she chastised herself, wouldn’t make much of a stronghold without one!

She waited 'till the rest of her group caught up and they descended the hill together, the Coronians making lewd estimations of how many men on soldier’s salary could be housed in the city and the tents together. As the path guided there feet to the place where South Road met Underwood, a voice hailed them from the foot of the wall. Despite the presence of a half-dozen carpenters and masons who were busy installing what looked like the supports for a heavy gate, the leader of the Watch patrol guarding South Road managed to sound authoritative but friendly.

“Ho, travelers! State your purpose before being welcomed to Underwood!”

[Rayse Valentino]

As Rayse circles the town's perimeter, he notices a distinct lack of trees that he was promised. They had cleared more of them out since they last time he was here. He joins the busiest hilly path, and trails behind a group of women whose profession he could spot a mile away. He sizes them up, taking special attention to a certain golden-haired lady who appeared to be in a group of her own. It is unfortunate, since she clearly outclassed the whores marching in front of her.

As they all stopped in front of the gate-to-be, Rayse continued walking before getting accosted by another guard.

"Your purpose, traveler?" He says while eying the young man's appearance. "Come this far without any belongings?"

Giving the guard a bewildered look, Rayse shrugs and says, "I just stepped out, and now I'm coming back in." He reaches into a pocket and produces a Merchant Pass for Underwood, which stifles the guard's attempt to ask a question during this process. "If it makes you feel better, you can say I'm with the ladies there. Surely I'm worth a crown or two?"

"Carry on," says the guard reluctantly. There is nothing about a man like Rayse that makes anyone in a position of authority feel comfortable. Compared to the women he passed up however, he certainly did not look out of the ordinary.

Rayse breathes in another lungful of smoke and walks in, although he does not go too far inside before stopping. After saying how he was just inside, it would not make sense for him to ask the girls where they worked. His inclinations are not fixated at the moment, but it would not hurt to have a sense of direction.

[Macabre]

Ravenok found himself simply sitting at the inn's bar, toiling time away while he thought with his head rested on the counter. It was a nice enough place for men and women to shack up for the night, and business seemed to be rolling this time of year. Travelers of motley assortments wandered in and out of the sunlit bar and lounge that made up the inn's entrance. Wanderers and traders sat and chatted around the many round oaken tables that dotted the foyer like buzzing bees as they discussed their daily mornings.

He brought his head up and brushed hair from his face, staring ahead at the copious amounts of liquor that was shelved across the counter in front of him. Ravenok wasn't really one for drinking as he figured he had enough addictions for a lifetime.

Rather, he preferred to sip from the glass of water sitting in front of him as he contemplated how he'd spend his day. It wouldn't be hard to find work in such a place as Underwood which was, suffice it to say, much more militarized than he'd originally anticipated such a place to be. Although he had heard rumors of some civil war going on, which of course did nothing but make the man chuckle in pity. Soldiers that seemed to be all part of some force that called themselves the Corone Rangers paraded about the town/city as if waiting for invasion. Of all the fighting that was inevitable in the world, there was nothing more laughable than when a group of people decided they'd more rather fight between themselves. All usually because some high-ranking man probably decided that he would take his thirst for power to a whole new level. Proved easy work for semi-mercenaries like Ravenok though.

"'Ey!" A sudden voice from behind cut through the incoherent background chatter of the lobby and pried Ravenok's attention from his thoughts. It was recognizable, and at that, he knew the voice was regarding him. Upon the martial artist's first couple of days in town he wound up with a woman, Sara. Turns out this woman who he'd taken a liking to has a brother, Ipsen, who happened to be the leader of a de facto mercenary group that currently stationed themselves in Underwood named the Iron Hawks - of which Sara was a part of herself. In effect, he was not very happy when Ravenok called her a lifeless whore-daughter for trying to sneak out with his mind dust one night.

"'Ey!" Ipsen called out again, with a little more anger this time around in response to Ravenok's quietude. As the martial artist looked forward, he saw three shadows against the liquor shelves from the light of the double doorway that entranced the inn.

The noise in the room was squelched by the scene and Ravenok realized that he and three men were the new spectacle for attention. He lifted an open gauntlet and responded "Let's not do this."

"Go." He heard Ipsen say while both shadows on either side of the center man started to move closer, quickened steps thudding loudly on the wooden floors. Ravenok sighed and just set his drink back on the counter when two pairs of burly arms roughly grabbed him by the shoulders and literally dragged him backwards from his stool. Several other people cried out gasps and promptly moved out of the way while the two mercenaries dragged Ravenok back and all the way out of the inn.

Bright sunlight, unobstructed in a cloudless blue sky, assaulted his eyes and forced him to squint. The two men pulled Ravenok past Ipsen, throwing him off a short deck and down a three step flight of stairs onto a stone paved street that welcomed wayward travelers coming in from the south gate to his right. He landed on his back with a thud, coughing a couple of times from getting the wind knocked out of him. He tilted his head forward to see the Iron Hawk trio, all with chestplates decorated with an insignia of a crude bird, standing up on the deck he'd fallen from. A wooden sign dangling above them swayed to and fro in tandem with a slight breeze, reading 'The Bearded Lady's Inn'.

"Wonderful..." He exhaled sarcastically.

[Jake Narmolanya]

Jacob Narmolanya stopped sniffing the air wistfully and turned his youthful, sun-freckled face toward a voice calling his name. Sharp green eyes noticed the Southgate sentry beckoning with a leather-gauntleted hand. Jake slid the arrow he had been fletching into the quiver on the back of his belt and moved towards the waving guardsman, flowing between the labourers and engineers like a wolf stalking prey. The workers were checking the angle of the gate posts relative to the ground, which seemed to involve an awful lot of standing, examining their work, and making noncommittal speculative noises.

“Looks bloody fine to me lads,” the young half elf mumbled as he turned sideways to squeeze between two heavy-shouldered men in dust-caked burlaps. The shadow of Underwood’s stone wall granted him a respite from the sun, and Jake swept his cloth cap off and raked callused fingers through unruly blond hair. He jammed the cap back on as the sentry led a group of women with a broad-shouldered Akashiman and a young boy into the city proper.

“More refugees,” the guardsman on gate duty whispered as he clasped Jake’s forearm. The half-elf nodded as the guardsman returned to his post. When the Empire had declared martial law in the first large cities, waves of displaced civilians had flooded Underwood, occupying every back room and barn loft. Since then the flood had slowed to a trickle, and the little forest town had expanded to accommodate the new arrivals. And still, every few days a group like this one arrived, travel-worn and hungry and expecting little assistance.

“My gods in stars, is it you the lucky lad who’ll be finding us a place to lay down awhile?” A pleasantly rounded dark-haired woman seized Jake’s elbow as he led the group up South Road toward the Peaceful Promenade where a dozen rooms were reserved as temporary refugee shelter. She had long crimson-painted nails which she used to trace the outline of Jake’s tonfa hilt against his hip. “You look more’n old enough for a proper blade, m’lord.” The bosomy woman with the Radasanthian accent intoned, dropping her voice to sultry whisper. That fingernail played the strong sifan of his green lace-up shirt, encircling the crest over his heart. A sword crossed by a spear beneath a tree’s foliage: the insignia of the Underwood Watch.

“I uh,” Jake cleared his throat and rolled his shoulders, trying to clear his head as well. “I carry the wooden one so I remember I’m not supposed to kill anyone. It works so far.” The red-nailed woman cackled at the remark, as did several of her friends. Even the Akashiman with the heavy bladed dagger on his belt chuckled. Cheeks the same color as the woman’s nails, Jake turned his face away just in time to see two mercenaries fling a third armor-clad man off an inn’s stoop.

No time to yell a warning. Jake reached back and shoved the Akashiman in the chest, hard enough that he stumbled into the slight hooded woman he strolled beside. At the same time Jake swept the red-nailed lady’s legs and pulled her to the ground, just as the armor-clad man would have struck them.

Jake should have politely helped the lady to her feet and ignored the trio of armor-plated mercenaries, but his blood boiled at their carelessness. Technically they held the same rank as him - many similar groups of experienced fighters had taken to lodging in Underwood, receiving soldierly pay for sentry and peacekeeping duties. Jake found himself on his feet, wolfskin boots hammering the wooden patio as he stepped up to within a pace of the three armor clad men. Each was larger and heavier than Jake, and wore steel swords strapped to their left hips, but the teen’s reputation as a duelist and the blurred steps that carried him onto the deck gave them pause.

“Is this how guardsmen treat newcomers, Ipsen?” Jake called the leader of the Iron Hawk mercenaries by name. “You might have paralyzed one of the ladies.” The young swordsman’s hands gripped the hilt of his tonfa and the heavy iron dagger sheathed opposite, knuckles white. A bead of sweat spilled from beneath his cap and vanished into the black silken scarf about his neck. Ipsen was of Salvarian origin, if Jakde judged the dark slanted eyes and long dark hair correctly. He certainly had the compact build and foul demeanor often associated with the Northerners. The mercenary captain cast his eyes over the refugees then turned his head and spat off the deck, barely missing the Akashiman refugee, who did not move, although his cloak fluttered against the wind.

“Wouldn’a stopped ‘em from doin their jobs,” Ipsen drawled, dark eyes taunting, left gauntlet on the brink of his scabbard.

All three mercenaries unsheathed their blades at once, but Jake moved a half beat quicker. He yanked the heavy liviol tonfa straight out of its beltloop, smashing the handle into the face of the mercenary on Ipsen’s right. A windsbreath later Jake’s straight sidekick caught the other goon in the groin. By the time Ipsen had brought his blade about, both of his underlings were writhing on the deck. Blood dripped onto the deck boards from the one’s shattered nose.

Jake found himself frozen in a high block, his blue tonfa barely keeping Ipsen’s blade from his throat. Bracing his shoulders, the youth inflated his lungs and prepared to duck and spin out of the way.

“Lay down your blade, in the name of peace.” A calm, unfamiliar voice said. Controlling his breathing, Jake glanced over his shoulder and saw the Akashiman had drawn his heavy dagger and held it by the blade, poised to throw. His large amber eyes focused intently on Ipsen as he went on. “This lad is seeing us to our shelter. No need for... anymore bloodshed.” The goons stirred, grasping for dropped swords and groaning about kids who overreacted to everything.

“I will remember this insult until it is avenged.” Ipsen hissed as he raised his left hand deferentially and sheathed his sword. He ignored the Akashiman and the whores completely, obsidian Salvic eyes boring into Jake’s green ones.

“You won’t have to wait long for your chance.” Jake responded, so vehemently that saliva sprayed Ipsen’s face. “I’ll meet you in the Dansdel at sundown. To the death, you rat.” Jake slammed the tonfa into its belt loop and snapped an about face, trying to let the sunlight and breeze cleanse the rage from his mind, as his instructor often suggested.

“My apologies,” he said as he returned to the group of refugees, and then found his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. The slim woman’s hood had been knocked down when she stumbled, and as her glowing golden hair with streaks of fire fanned out around that porcelain face, Jake realised she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

[The Sweetest Thing]

Anastacia Alliendra’s slim right eyebrow, so fair it was all but lost against her skin, arched like a swan’s neck.

“Your apologies are forgiven my lord,” she curtsied with the slightest inclination of her head. “Could you grant us the great favour of steering us away from these leering louts?” A chorus of half muttered insults, some of which involved words Stacia did not know the meaning of, echoed from the other ladies. The mercenaries grumbled but re-entered the Bearded Lady's Inn. What a frightful name. “By the blessing of the Tap, say that is not to be our residence.” She indicated the wooden building with a prim nod of her tapered chin.

“Excuse the ladies’ manners sir,” Ryochi interjected. The Akashiman stepped between the youths and clasped Jake’s forearm, adding a slight bow. “They’re used to a certain type of living. It’s been a long, difficult journey.

The blond boy’s green eyes finally scattered the mist that veiled them, and he nodded, gesturing for them to follow. He adjusted his belt and shirt needlessly as the traveling party pursued him. Dipping a short curtsy, Stacia scurried back to where Matron Silter towed the mule and cart. The wind whistled in her ears and combed her hair, nippy despite the sun. Even so, she heard the dirty-haired teen find his tongue and strike up a conversation with Ryochi. The Akashiman introduced himself, as did the rest of the girls, following Jake into the Peaceful Promenade like a swarm of honeybees crowding a pool of nectar.

“Get on inside with the others,” Matron Silter said with a sigh. The rotund woman leaned on one of the sturdy oaken posts that supported a thatched canopy connecting the Promenade to its stables. “I’ll see to this old dear, and our things.” Silter clucked sympathetically as she rubbed the mule’s neck, but her eyes were hard. “Get cleaned up straight away child. There’s more coin sitting idle here than any hamlet we’ve seen these past weeks.” Stacia did not frown, although she wanted to as she glanced about the square. Besides being bordered by another smaller inn and a bakery that tantalised her with delicate aromas, the Promenade was surrounded by busy day to day businesses. She noted painted wooden signs for a haberdasher and cobbler, heard faint pangs of a blacksmith’s hammer amidst the whir of a tanner’s spindles. Around the corner perahps. Underwood was not so different from the forest, with the whispering trees and sociable insects. Only the taste of the sound had changed.

Stacia’s feet had carried her through the tavern section of the inn and up a flight of stairs. She passed Jake’s grinning blushing face, and joined her sisters in a room that was already steaming with the boiling of washwater. Breathing cyclically through her nose, Stacia slid out of her dust-caked clothing and examined herself in one of the tall stand mirrors. A shaft of sunlight shining through a slim window made her skin glow. A man might have lost his bearing at the sight, but Stacia saw only the imperfections where her pack had rubbed, where hair grew uncontrolled, where nature had reddened or pimpled her skin. She took a deep breath and held it, then exhaled through full lips, pursed around the chapping. She needed to prepare.

[Rayse Valentino]

Now this is interesting. As Rayse uncomfortably shakes the empty cigarette carton in his hand, a scene unfolds before his eyes as a man is dragged out of an inn and tossed into the street. It's not an altogether uncommon sight for a drunkard, but the men doing the tossing are mercenaries. Chewing on his nearly-spent cigarette butt, the Contractor watches in interest, expecting a brawl.

His hopes are dashes as someone with slightly-pointy ears (a feature Rayse picks up upon immediately) decides to play hero and save the unfortunate soul. Good old-fashioned righteousness! A smile creeps up Rayse's lips, and after the altercation he walks up to the guy who was saved.

"I don't know about you, buddy," says Rayse. "But my pride would be shattered if I let some filthy half-elf save me."

He spits the cigarette butt out in front of the man and walks after the traveling group, now distinctly suspicious of their origins. A lot of The Company guys like to just lay low and do jobs, but it is an amazing waste of time. Rayse has no patience to hide under a table before a deal, and more often than not the status of his surroundings play a big role in how the deal goes down.

More importantly, he wants to make sure he is not being followed. The problem with this deal is the status of the big buyer, and the fact The Company wants him in on it means that it is risky. The biggest rule of arms smuggling is, after all, make sure you get paid.

Judging by the half-elf's outfit and a hunch, Rayse figures that the girls are not from around here. He follows them to The Peaceful Promenade and strolls in casually, walking up to the bartender in the tavern portion of it and ordering a new carton of cigarettes. Traveling is likely the biggest pain for Rayse in terms of his addiction. He found many ways to extend the life of the few cartons he takes with him, and one of his tactics is to chew on a spent cigarette butt for hours. Just keep something moving in his mouth and he forgets that he is not really smoking. The girls with the half-elf are now out of his sight, but their location is certain. The red-headed girl in particular compellingly kept Rayse's interest.

He asks the bartender, "Do you always have so many pretty ladies in this fine establishment?"

The answer is fairly frank, "Since turning half the place into a refugee camp, what don't we have around here?"

Rayse figures out the subtext: All sorts of people that can cause trouble. Aside from his obvious lust, this is a great place for information.

[Macabre]

Hmph.

Ravenok skillfully and quickly kicked himself up onto his feet after the scene ensued before his ocean blue eyes. A scowl - one that would most likely haunt a child's dreams - decorated his dark face, his disheveled hair slightly obscuring his features. Initially, he felt rather emasculated as a result of being tossed around like a rag doll. Though on that same note, he figured it would do him little good to overreact at the debacle; it wasn't his style after all. He wanted to hit himself, smash the smoking man's face for such an audacious statement, chase after Ipsen and make him eat his own entrails, and even challenge the half-elf; yet all of these impulses only amounted to the martial artist simply lowering his head for a moment, shutting his eyes, and exhaling meditatively while he rolled his shoulders to comfortably straighten out his dusty tunic.

After a moment he forced himself to don an expression of indifference and raised his head to the quiet murmur of townsfolk who had witnessed the act. Ravenok was none too interested in what they had to say about him, really. He could have fought back if he had the will to. However, what did bear on his thoughts as if a massive weight had suddenly pinned him back down to the stone, was the fact that the blond Guardsman - or at least Ravenok had assumed such - actually found it prudent to challenge Ipsen to a fight at the Dansdel. He spit the dusty grit out of his mouth at the notion. As if he couldn't defend himself.

The mid-morning sun, hot on his stationary back, pressured him to go forth with the day, just as the busy life on that southern street did. The crowd moved on, back to their monotonous lives. There was little use standing there with shattered pride and embarrassment. Ravenok's gaze fixed ahead up north, where South Road led to the Peaceful Promenade. He heard about the place, it was one of Underwood's most inviting establishments, yet had been recently reshaped in part as a refugee shelter for the war. Heavy booted steps made his way after them, the wind goading him at his back; fate wanted him to follow.

Passing through the market square that led to the Peaceful Promenade was like wading through swarms of working ants that had nothing else on their minds other than the tasks they had at hand. Stalls displayed various goods, their vendors advertising marvelous deals; errand boys ran to and fro with packages that just had to be on time; Guardsmen huffed here and there and back again on their daily duties; the local smithery even contributed with the clanging of hammer on steel followed by the loud hiss as the piece was dipped into water, providing a casual beat. Underwood didn't seem to harbor the quietude Ravenok had heard it was known for. Though of course he realized that in light of the civil war, things would have to be that way. It had briefly reminded him of the upheaval back in Talmhaidh.

Eventually he made his way into the Promenade, the hollow thud of steel boots on wood announced his entrance into the inn's tavern. The enticing aroma of freshly grilled steak and baked bread teased his senses, and he even stopped to watch as a waitress brought the freshly prepared meal out to a lone warrior-esque character on the far side of the room. Then the same muscular figure that had spoken to him when he'd fallen caught his eye, sitting idly at the bar. He must have followed suit as well.

The martial artist made his way upstairs after falsely claiming association with the blond Guardsman and the female troupe and asking where they'd gone. It wasn't hard to recognize the man, standing guard beside a closed door in the middle of a wide, lantern-lit hallway. The hustle and bustle of the loud prattling going on in the tavern below quieted down to muffled background noise.

"I guess it isn't obvious that I wouldn't normally be classified with the same need as those women you can't help but gawk at," His calm baritone filled the hallway as he heavily strode towards the acting doorman, his accent tinged with an eastern Dheathainan dialect. "It's just still funny to me how you took it upon yourself to do what you did." Ravenok poised himself against the wall opposite the blond fighter and folded his arms, a slightly sarcastic grin marking his insincerity. His eyes curiously aimed toward the door the guard was watching, assuming that the women he'd escorted were residing there.

"Thanks, however... You should have let me defend myself from the Iron Hawk." The martial artist begrudgingly nodded his head after a brief moment, it wasn't his intention to immediately antagonize the fighter.

[Jake Narmolanya]

Jake blinked at the armoured man who addressed him. The nearest window glowed dimly ten paces away, and the dim lighting combined with the man's strangely clipped accent confused him. The young half-elf rested his left hand on the tonfa's crosspiece and dipped his right into a deep hip pocket. When he recognised the guardsman he crossed his arms and tossed his head, unsettling dirty blond locks in an attempt at nonchalance.

"You're not the only one who has a quarrel with the Iron Hawk." Jake's voice dripped scorn, "These mercenary groups think they're special just because they're taking extra wages on the side." Jake's partially pointed ears quivered as the excited chatter of female voices rose from within. Another shake of the oddly youthful head on experienced shoulders, and Jake's green eyes sharpened again. "Besides, beating Ipsen will make fine exercise this evening. I don't think he'll be so bold after a sound drubbing." As if unconsciously he patted the blue-hued combat stick on his hip.

"You don't mean to kill him then?" The armour clad man asked musingly, glaring at the distant window and gnawing at his lip.

"Of course not, we need every sword to defend Underwood and take back Corone. It would make a good lesson though, perhaps you should attend.” Jake kept his face impassive as the guardsman chuckled and cracked his knuckles. The popping of loosened cartilage echoed in the hallway.

“I learned my lessons well enough,” the armor clad man said.
“Aye,” Jake continued overtop, “you look stout enough to guard this door apiece. It’ll earn you a good word with the ladies.” Jake nodded at the door and winked. He gave the taller man a sly pat on shoulder as he slid by, not waiting for a real answer, and took the stairs down to the common room.

A prickly lump had formed between the half-elf’s shoulder blades. For flaming certain the confrontation with Ipsen had made the knot worse, but it had started earlier, with a scent the boy had caught on the wind. He could smell it as he weaved between patrons standing and sitting around and on the Promenade’s wooden benches and tables. Through the hearty roast of fatty meats and perfumy stink of sour wine Jake could smell tobacco, rank and thick. It reminded him of Salvarian pubs where everyone smoked inside due to the sever climate. Many of the Northerners had joked about whether it was harder to navigate the tundra or a tavern on a stormy night.

A pleasingly plump rosy-cheeked young lady who had sipped too much wine too fast flung herself upon Jake, reminiscing covertly about a night they’d spent walking - and laying, a good bit of the time - beneath the stars. Jake pinched her bottom and pecked her cheek, and passed her off to an off-duty guardsman who roared with laughter through a mustache of ale foam. Extracting a strand of the maiden’s flaxen hair from his mouth - how had that gotten there? - Jake spied the source of the tobacco smell through a cloud of steam rising off a freshly served pot pie.

The man looked Salvic despite his Coronian attire - black hair and eyes, a compact muscular frame. Like a bigger, darker version of Jake who stank of cigarettes. The half elf found he was rubbing his index finger and thumb together. A couple of drags is all I’ll need, he thought as the dark Salvic man jammed a cigarette and, after noticing a glare from the bartender, slouched outside to light the smokestick. Then I can finish my shift and prepare for tonight. Calm.

Slipping between a pair of dusty handed laborers returning to the inn for a quick meal, Jake caught up to the smoker just as the familiar flare of sulfur exploded from his match.

“Say, could I have one of those?” He asked, keeping his hands crossed and well away from the tonfa, rocking on the heels of his boots.

[Rayse Valentino]

Salvic hospitality. That is what foreigners call it. Tiny towns strewn about the northern tundra, offering food and lodging to any traveler that happens to pass by the town on a journey to the unknown; usually furhog. All they want in exchange is a story: A daring tale of adventure; a sight that almost escapes description; a beast that defies logic. After the Salvic Civil War it might as well be just like Corone, with scared people thinking that the man at the door might accuse them of being on the wrong side. War turns a kind and naive people into an isolated and paranoid one. Will this country turn out the same? A conclusion with no heroes to sing about; an uncertainty that creeps into daily life. Then again, there isn't some crazy demi-god bitch in charge of one of the sides... to Rayse's best knowledge.

Is was then that he notices the damn half-elf had not only walked over to him, but even asks for one of his precious, precious smokes. Is this a joke? Is Rayse another helpless scamp in need of saving? The thought of such a hero asking him for a cigarette amuses him to no end. Nonetheless, he has only one course of action.

"Sure," he says, pulling out another cigarette and lighting it with the end of his own, then handing it to the half-elf.

Jake takes a drag, sucking in the smoke like it was a guilty pleasure, "Ahh! That's the stuff. Thanks."

Rayse ordered a bottle of Barton, an ale that through sheer coincidence had the same name as his uncle (unless he's lying), since it was the closest to a Salvaran stout. Now that he was so close to Jake, he got a good look at him. Up close, he seemed a lot younger than he thought. He had a child-like jovial expression and the high elven cheekbones that is all the rage with the ladies. Rayse wondered how that even happens. Is he a bastard child? Or maybe this type of thing is normal in Concordia? Those Raiaeran elves love trees, so maybe some of them migrated here a long time ago. Race-mixing was not a common occurrence in Salvar, although some demonic half-breeds have been known to live amongst the people even in the smallest northern villages. He poured the Barton into a glass and drank it with the cigarette still hanging out of the side of his mouth; a technique he perfected years ago.

To Jake, this drink represented the final piece of the puzzle. The looks, the tobacco, and the drink. You can tell a lot from a man by what he puts into his body.

"So, what's a Salvaran doing all the way out here?" he asked.

Rayse nearly dropped the glass he was raising up to his mouth.

"Business," he replied with what started as a sheepish grin, but quickly matured into a confident one. "I moved here a long time ago," he lied. "Never quite got situated, especially with all this russle and tussle. What about you?"

"I used to be pretty carefree, but eventually even I couldn't ignore the conflict anymore, you know? It invades your home, creeps into your bed, and strangles you if you don't fight back. I'm Jake, by the way."

"Vincent," Rayse replied.

[Jake Narmolanya]

"Thanks for the smoke, Vincent," Jake's wispy words were snatched away by a rising draft. The half elf's brain buzzed like a bee on the wind, pulling his face into a goofy grin. He spun the blazing cigarette through his callused fingers and watched the Salvarian alternate between his nation's two favourite vices. "I haven't felt tobacco in my lungs since... well, last time I was in Salvar. It makes a better vacation spot than you might think, what with the famous hospitality." Jake elbowed the other man gently in the ribs and chuckled, then took another drag. His eyes rolled back, followed by his head, and he exhaled a thin plume of dense grey smoke straight toward the sun. It made a vertical line before a stray breeze tore it asunder.

Leaning on a wooden shutter braced to the Promenade's brick exterior, Jake gazed behind the inn. Elves and humans moved about in a lush garden that extended to the town wall. They crouched intermittently, either pulling weeds or working subtle magics, watering the vegetables and herbs, many of which were in full bloom. And I'll wager the bloody Imperials are tightening their belts in Radasanth, Jake thought smugly as he drew on the cigarette again. How good could something feel? The toxins in his lungs felt almost ass good as the sun on his face, the wind in his hair. The teen rolled his shoulders, feeling the knot of tension there loosening. The gardeners were laughing amongst themselves. They look so happy. Well, I guess not everyone can be responsible for nothing but growing food. Jake squeezed the ember out of his cigarette and ground it beneath his heel, pocketing the butt.

"Thanks again, Vincent." He said, "If you like watching a fool taking a beating, be in the Dansdel around sundown." With an oddly cheery nod and a wink Jake spun and marched back into the Promenade, leaving the Salvic man to his bottle and smoke.

[The Sweetest Thing]

Condensation clouded the mirror, but Stacia could still make out her satisfied smile and wavy golden hair with the cherry streaks. She had scrubbed every spot of soot and soil till her skin shone red, then numbed it back to porcelain white with a cool compress. Draped in a short scarlet summer dress and a long beige scarf, she looked purer than snow. The satisfied smile became an ironic smirk, pruned eyebrows barely visible but angled inward over long-lashed sapphire eyes. Stacia made the smirk seductive with a flare of her berry painted lips, then opened her mouth slightly, and her eyes as wide as they went. The plaintive, innocent look had felled more men, and earned her more coin than any other single trick in her teaching, and that was a fact.

Stacia turned, hair fanning, dress blossoming, and examined her sisters. They had prepared themselves similarly by playing to their strengths. Mary's auburn hair was braided and nestled in the generous cleavage displayed by her fine cotton blouse, which matched her skirt in cool blue tones. Callie O'Shaw had donned her black bodysuit with occasional shapes cut out to display patches of toned flesh. With her son safely put to bed in the care of a group of nuns on mission, the eldest of the ladies had let her gray hair down, and a sensual film coated her wise eyes. The other ladies had found unique ways to bring out their best qualities, or else dyed their hair red in pursuit of a fashion fling initiated by the previous Marshal of Corone, Letho Ravenheart. Stacia herself never deigned to such things of course.

Her doeskin moccasins whispered across the Promenade's hardwood floor. "Well ladies," Stacia said, opening the door, "why don't we thank our young host. Jake we- oh!" She stepped around the door and nearly collided with the armored stranger who she'd first encountered as a projectile.

"Pardon me miss, the lad just er, asked me to watch the door for 'im." The disheveled mercenary wiped a bloodied hand across his running nose, blinking red rimmed eyes. Callie ushered the other ladies into the hall and down the stairs, shooting Stacia a meaningful look. Wearing her demure smile as comfortably as the summer dress, the youngest of the traveling party folded her hands and inclined her head.

"My thanks, kind sir knight." Did they knight men in Corone, as in Scara Brae? She couldn't be certain. But where she came from, any man who wore armor around all day like being called sir. "You seem weary, no doubt from guarding the safety of our walls. Would you care to lay in our rooms and rest until we return?" The man nearly cracked his skull on the hardwood door, trying to shuffle into the still-steamy room while bowing repeatedly and rummaging in his pocket. Shaking her head, Stacia clicked her tongue and locked the door behind him, sliding the brass key into a hidden pocket. A sleeping mercenary guarded a room better than a locked door, on good odds any day. Matron Silter's experience had taught her that.

Soft skin sliding on the polished banister, Stacia made her way down to the common room. Before she arrived the smells of roasting meat and sweating men claimed her, and she was at work, almost one with the night. A woman of the moment, for any man who paid.

[Rayse Valentino]

Rayse cast a long shadow along the road as the setting sun's light hit his back. The streets were narrower, the houses not as tall and the commercial buildings were slowly replaced at his sides with wooden residential houses. They had a darkish brown pattern with white stripes, the foundation of the buildings clearly outlined by the brown parts. The windows of most of the houses protruded outward, giving Underwood that shapely look that matched a more modern city like Radasanth than the sleepy town it used to be. He was walking away from the more lively districts, where business became more local. The kinds of businesses that were here long before the boom in population, and will be here long after. The cobblestone road ended and a dirt road began.

One such business was a bakery. Almost forgettable as it was snuggled between two newer wooden houses, brick and mortar building represented an old Underwood that didn't just chop down every tree around them. This building was meant to last. Rayse knew that he was close when the sweet smell of raisin pecan loaf penetrated his senses. He flicked away his cigarette and walked up to the door. Inside, the aroma of fresh whole wheat and sesame bread instilled a feeling of hunger. From only a moment in the store, he knew that there were generations of craft in this smell. Being so late in the day, the store had few customers left, so most of the leftover bread was left for bulk buyers at a discount. The ovens were along the walls with chopped logs stacked between them, and there were many shelves and tables with bread on them.

"May I help you, sir?" asked a young woman wearing a dress, a white apron, and her hair wrapped up in a white cloth and tied up in a bun behind her head.

"Yes," Rayse said. "I'd like to pick up the order I placed."

"Ah! Right this way, sir."

Of course, The Contractor had not actually ordered any bread, but to any would-be interlopers the conversation was anything but trivial. The trick to a secret meeting place in the back of a business was that the business had to be legitimate. He was lead down a flight of stairs in the back, which lead to a veritable den of villainy. An entire underground bar was here, complete with refreshments and little rooms with bookshelves. It was a lot like an invite-only club, and Rayse's current employers, The Company, were on the VIP list. He found a short-haired man sitting at a table with a half-finished mug of ale, and he could tell that it was the same one who greeted him at the entrance to town. He looked a lot less ridiculous without the overalls, instead preferring a dark blue suit with tie and matching slacks. Way more professional than Rayse.

"I was told that you only arrived at your room less than an hour ago," he began, his forehead protruding in such a way to always give him a bit of an angry look, made worse by the fact that he was actually mad. "I told you not to screw around."

Rayse shrugged, "I had business. I can't just abandon my obligations because you prefer I stay in and knit."

With a scowl, the man got up and said, "What did you say? You think you're on a field trip here, pal?"

"I'm here on time, I wasn't followed, and everything's ready. Stop treating me like your lackey just because your bosses decided to promote you from toilet cleaning duty."

Rayse was not as innocuous as he would've liked to be, however. He was in the uncomfortable position of having someone know more about him than he knew about them, and that person was Jake. Just to be on the safe side, he planned to find some information about the half-elf before leaving town.

"What's the problem here, gentleman?" an old man with glasses asked. He was as well-dressed as short-hair over there, but he had a rather haggard sleepless look a bout him and gray hair that barely covered his skull.

"No problem here, sir," said the man. "We're ready to begin the meeting."

Rayse held back a smile over the apparent sucking up that this guy probably had to do on a daily basis. What was this, his first big assignment?

The old man took off his glasses and produced a small cleaning cloth from a pocket inside his suit, and started scrubbing down his lenses, "What are you talking about? There's still another that hasn't arrived yet."

The short-haired man blinked, "Sir..." He thought that the last member of the meeting had arrived already, but he was only thinking about Rayse. There was one more! Where was he? The bar was cleared out tonight for this important meeting, and he would've noticed the last person coming in since he sat next to the staircase. "I'm sure he'll be along any moment. The Iron Hawks have a proven track record."

Iron Hawks? Where did I hear that before?

"I hope so," sighed the old man. "Ipsen is a bit of a hot-head, but he always gets the job done."

You have got to be shitting me.

[The Sweetest Thing]

The fire crackled and popped merrily in the humble redbrick hearth, casting sparks up the chimney. Stacia lounged on a downy Salvic fowl rug, wearing only her smile and luxuriating in the heat. She had missed the comfort of wealthy clients, and the sick feeling that accompanied that realization was fading fast. The round bellied, bald-topped man in question lay on the feather bed that dominated the spacious bedroom. He had been talking for some time, and Stacia's mind had wandered with her eyes. The soft colored silken drapes and desert-forged stained glass window made a pleasant change from spending one's night in the forest.

"After the Razing, things seemed so uncertain. And did you hear of the attack by the assassin Kron Sha'keth? Of course you must have - a single drow nearly overcame the whole of Underwood that night." Stacia glanced through long, golden lashes at her client. He was stroking the coverlet absentmindedly, talking in a dreamy voice as his eyes drank her in. With the heat on her bare skin becoming unbearable, Stacia turned and stretched her shoulders.

"But he didn't?" She prompted the sweet middle aged man, with his fringe of graying hair and passion for pretty things. He had been talking about budget reports and council appointments, distinctly boring subject matter, up till mention of the Razing. Stacia had in fact caught rumors on the wind of the mysterious attack on Underwood by a lone dark elven assassin who moved like the Wraith of the Scarlet Brigade. A certain familiar name had also been attached to that story, but she wanted to hear it from the source.

"Not quite," Benjamin Aldebrand - Mayor of Underwood - chuckled darkly. "That shadowy son-of-a-bitch killed a half dozen good men of the watch before gutting the captain. Jaliss Evenkeel was a close friend of mine... and half the town watched his insides spill out over the tanner's rooftop." Alebrand pursed his lips and lapsed into a silence, staring past Stacia and into the fire. That would not do at all. Placing both palms on the rug, Stacia arched her back and breathed deeply.

"And how did Underwood survive, with her hero fallen?" She asked in a breathy voice. Alebrand responded promptly.

"New heroes rose up to take his place. Just in time, too. And strangely enough one of them a drow himself. There were some doubts about that on the council of course, but Phyr Sa'resh has given us the safest Underwood we've seen under my tenure. I think it stems from the philosophical basis of Aleraran politics..."

"What about Joshua Cronen?" Stacia demanded, then clicked her teeth shut. The mayor's lollygagging tongue was driving her absolutely crazy. She hadn't meant to show an interest in Cronen, but Aldebrand seemed impressed.

"You've heard of him? Not many have, I suppose he likes it that way. Fought Sha'keth hand to sword and bested him, or so say dozens of citizens. We named him Sheriff in hopes he would stay around. Our wall won't help much against the likes of the shadow-assassin." Aldebrand scratched his considerable stomach and glanced out the stained glass window. "And he did stay, for the most, although I've not seen him these past few days. Cronen's students say he fights for freedom in all corners of Corone." Nodding to himself as if making up his mind about something, Aldebrand clasped the oaken headboard and hauled himself out of bed.

"I do hope you'll excuse me, my lady," He said as he set about donning his trousers. "but speaking of the Sheriff's students, one of my favorites is fighting a duel in the Dansdel tonight and I'd hate to miss it." Aldebrand was attempting to tuck his shirt in around his belly. "You could accompany me of course, have you heard of Jake Narmolanya? Marvelous duelist..."

Stacia stopped listening as her forehead smacked into her palm.

[Rayse Valentino]

Rayse scratched his head. We've got the supply, we've got the demand, what do we need this 'Ipsen' for? He wanted to say those words out loud, but it wasn't very professional to ask questions about the details of illicit dealings. His job here was very concise, and deviating from that would arouse suspicion. Judging by how Ipsen acted, he couldn't have been too important, right? Some sort of middle man, or perhaps a fall guy. Maybe he was the link to the lumberjacks involved in this plan. Either way, this wasn't going to happen without him. Rayse really couldn't rely on anyone but himself.

"I'm going to step out for a smoke while we wait," Rayse announced. "If I see him coming, I'll come back in."

The other two were silent. They didn't like this idea, but having a bakery smell like cigarette smoke didn't strike them as very good either. In any case, they didn't really have any good objections in mind. Rayse walked back upstairs, and exited through the front door, taking care to survey his surroundings for anything out of place.

Don't tell me he's at that goddamn Dansdel. Skipping out on a deal to go get yourself beat up. Yeah, real stealthy buddy. Perfect to just come in as a bloodied husk. Nobody will pay attention to that.

That, or Ipsen thought he could end the fight quickly, and without getting a scratch. It was fair to say that he was built like a rock, and could probably knock out any of Underwood's best in one hit, but you could never be too sure when you're up against an elf, even a half-elf. Rayse didn't know what he could do to stop the fight if it's going badly, but standing here wasn't going to make him think any better. He started walking away from the bakery casually, making sure nobody was watching him, and then broke into a sprint. He had to get to the Dansdel, and fast.

He wasn't lying about having a smoke, either. In his mouth was a freshly-lit cigarette.

[Jake Narmolanya]

"He's been killing soldiers longer than you've been breathing air. Did you consider that?" Phyr Sa'resh asked. Jake did not scowl. His face was a blank slate, a reflection of stillness. His feet beat the hardpack of the Dansdel training grounds, body swaying and rolling as he worked through an Akashiman sword kata.

"When will Josh be back?" Jake asked the Captain of the Watch between measured breaths. His tonfa thrummed the air, sapphire blue in the evening's last light. Phyr shrugged expressively, an action that made the empty, knotted jacket sleeve where his right arm should have been flap hollowly.

"I know not. He said the ocean was calling him. But give you the same advice I am - you're overlooking Ipsen's experience." The tall, silver haired drow's scarred and pockmarked face made him look like a vagrant even in his fine scarlet cloak and brown suit, both embroidered with the Watch's insignia. Jake knew only a little of the horrors the drow had faced, but felt confident there wasn't a better corner man in Underwood. After all, Phyr had been killing soldiers since before Ipsen was born. Finishing the kata in a crouch with one shin to the ground, Jake performed a kneeling sheathe, slipping the wooden weapon through his belt loop without looking, sharp green eyes stabbing at Sa'resh.

"I beat two of the best in his little band," Jake insisted, stretching one arm then the other behind his back. "I watched them at practice, and both were far better than he." A snort of derision escaped the half-elf's lips as he saw a procession of Iron Hawks in full armor enter the training grounds.

"Men like Ipsen seldom show their full skill in practice," the neverending patience in Phyr's tone made Jake want to kick something. "He's a blademaster, but not like Josh or Master Bodorson. That mercenary would sooner keep his secrets to himself, so he can surprise his foes on the battlefield."

"Doens't make much sense t'me," Jake said, his voice muffled as he pulled his shirt off over his head and tossed it onto the bench beside the Captain of the Watch, "His comrades would defend him twice as well in combat if they could fight more like him." Jake drew a breath of warm night air deep into his lungs, rolling his shoulders back so they popped comfortingly. Tanned skin stretched taught across his narrow chest, like deerksin over a drum.

"True enough." Phyr Sa'resh stood and clapped Jake on the shoulder, turning him to face the centre of the ring where Ipsen stood. "But winning duels like this is more important to that man than keeping his underlings alive." Ipsen was fully armoured with longsword drawn, the beak-shaped visor of his helm covering his face. He had one gauntlet raised and was beckoning with steel covered fingers Jake lifted his boot and stepped toward the knight, emptying his mind, at one with the hard earth and the soft wind in the trees, and the icefire in his veins that forced him to make the challenge in the first place. With a sudden wordless roar the combatants raced toward one another, their battlecries muted by a drumming on benches and breastplates and shields set up by nearly a hundred spectators. The crowd made thunder for the lightning of their striking weapons

Post from Stacia coming soon

[The Sweetest Thing]

Even though she told her hands to stay folded in her lap and her lips to stay smiling, Stacia still ended up with eight fingers in her mouth. Dainty thumbs nearly tore her jaw asunder as the bare chested boy and the metal giant drew back their weapons for the first great clash. The drumroll of the spectators seemed like to precede Jake's beheading, but the half elf dropped at the last second, tucking into a ball and smashing Ipsen the Iron Hawk's legs from under him as the longsword cleaved air. Ipsen sprawled in a cantankerous heap as Jake rolled away and sprang to his feet, circling and advancing. The crowd roared its approval, but there were shouts of coward! and fight fair! from the less-witted observers. The Iron Hawks were calling instructions to their commander, who was slow rising. Stacia managed to unsuckle her fingers and pressed both hands to the belly of her dress instead. It seemed the overlying steel of Ipsen's cuisse had bent badly against the poleyn, giving the knight little ability to bend his left knee. He rose just in time to parry a thrust from the wooden weapon, and then the duel erupted.

There was no doubt Ipsen was the stronger man, But Stacia felt suddenly foolish for fearing for Jake. The teen moved like a watersnake stalking prey, never meeting the longsword's power head on. The liviol tonfa turned the steel easily, and Stacia recalled tales she'd heard of the wood which most folk agreed was grown and made of magic. Jake's body shed sweat as he darted and ducked, turning every parry into swift thrust. His face was strangely blissful, green eyes calm and distant. He dodged and downward slash by a needle's breadth and answered with one of his own, twice as swift. It struck true.

Clang!

With a roar Ipsen swung his sword upwards, a cut that would have opened Jake crotch to collarbone if he hadn't cartwheeled sideways, foot catching the hawk shaped helm with another clang!

Stacia heard chuckles from a group of men who all wore swords as the clang of Jake smashing his fighting stick into Ipsen's armor became a regular percussive rhythm. The greater body of the crowd gasped as Jake narrowly deflected a flurry of thrusts from Ipsen's longsword, but as the teen circled past the sword and dented Ipsen's vambrace, she realized the duel was a farce. It was the man who had underestimated the half elf, it seemed, and most of the town along with him. The platemail Ipsen surely thought would protect him from Jake's stick became his downfall, as each blow Jake landed slowed the larger man's arms. A smile crossed Stacia's unmarred features as she understood Jake hadn't wanted to slay the Iron Hawk at all, only put the mercenary captain in his place with a basket of bumps and bruises. Soon his armor will be too damaged for him to move, and he'll have to yield, Stacia thought as Jake's two-handed swing slammed Ipsen backwards with a clang.

There was a moment of stillness as the battered knight and the stick wielding boy faced each other from two paces apart. Then Stacia heard something that should have been the wind, a sound from overhead, like a whispered whistle. She heard a refrain of muffled thuds from behind a row of bleachers occupied by the common folk, and then screams from the crowd, but she could not tear her eyes away from the pair in the center of the ring. A black-fletched arrow seemed to have blossomed from Ipsen's guardbrace, blood seeping form his left shoulder and down into the dirt.

A warhorn sounded outside the walls, and Jake hesitated, distracted. Ipsen slashed heavily at his opponents unprotected hip, and the shouts of the Underwood Watch sounded all around the wooden battlements. The crowd became a mad stampede seeking shelter as another wave of arrows rose and descended. Stacia could not move; she sat rooted to the spot as she watched a creature from her wildest nightmares leap over the wall.

[Rayse Valentino]

With the night sky in the air, the town's activities had dimmed with the remaining light. Rayse was back on the cobblestone streets, running through areas that used to be filled with merchants. Gas lamps hung from nearby poles to give the little light he had, not that he had any problem making his own. The quietness of the streets was only disturbed by the occasional pub and gentleman's club. The Watch had yet to impose a curfew, but it was inevitable. Underwood was accepting so many refugees that Empire sleeper agents were becoming a significant problem. The haphazard, strung-together nature of The Watch made them excellent at guerrilla tactics, and with a few prominent Fateless at their disposal, The Empire was fighting a war that couldn't be won conventionally.

However, the game was changing. Once The Watch acquired some major holdings, their hit-and-run style was no longer applicable. They now had something significant to defend; People were now counting on them for protection. The situation was a loaded powder keg ready to blow.

As Rayse ran, he couldn't help but think about the deal with a bit more scrutiny. He usually did thorough background checks on these kinds of things, but this time he took The Company's word for it. This, in retrospect, was not enough. The client was the one providing the mercenaries here, not The Company, so there was no way for them to know the full picture. With Ipsen missing, this thought gave him an acute headache. Another gust of smoke escaped from his smoke, his frustration growing the longer it took to get to the Dansdel.

At that moment, he heard a scream. A very manly scream, which was not the kind of sound you would hear at night. As Rayse turned the corner into the street from which the noise originated, far down the street he spotted two figures. He couldn't see very well from where he was, but they were both armored. Then, one fell onto the street like a rag doll, an arrow sticking out of his body. Rayse heard a sound, a faint sort of whooshing sound, and looked up. His heart froze in place as arrows fell all around him, their metal arrowheads bouncing off the cobblestone street. A warhorn sounded throughout the town, and the situation became very clear. He looked at the site of the two armored men and noticed that one of them was ushering away all the bystanders. Several more men entered the scene, shoving people into houses and tending to the fallen one. One of them spotted Rayse.

This was not something he wanted to be involved in. He turned around to go another way, going down the street then ducking into an alley for a shortcut.

A goddamn attack! Why today of all days? I still have a chance; All I need is to bring Ipsen back. The whole deal could be canceled, or worse- I could be in the middle of something else.

He was making good time getting to the Dansdel, but it wasn't fast enough. Between having to avoid The Watch and all the people who were injured by the arrows, his plans were unraveling. He wasn't the only one in trouble. All sorts of yells and screams started echoing throughout the city, and finally several bells were being rung everywhere. There were so many of them, all being rung from high places, that the sound was deafening.

He was starting to think this deal already fell through.

[Jake Narmolanya]

Jake mounted the wood-and-iron battlements with Kiro Ryochi and Phyr Sa'resh following so close they shook the staircase beneath his boots. The half-elf had lost his fighting stick in defending Ipsen's final manic cut, and ran for the walls with the duel forgotten. The first blare of the war horn and the hiss from the hail of arrows had expanded the radius of Jake's focus a hundred fold. The sweat on his neck turned cold as he absorbed the scene outside Underwood's great blackstone wall.

"A glass, to me with a glass!" Phyr Sa'resh called. Guardsmen thundered along the ramparts to heed their Captain's call. A fair faced lad slid the brass telescope from its leather case while a short, stocky bearded man offered his shoulder as a stand to help the one armed drow balance the looking glass.

"Would hate for you to lose this," Ryochi breathed, returning the tonfa to Jake's trembling hands. Standing on the northern wall near the eastern corner, the odd quintet found stillness for a moment.

Improvised siege engines and ladders built from trees with bark and branches still attached were being pushed and carried towards Underwood from all sides. Hosts of infantry - each composed of a single rank of halberdiers followed by four rows of archers - preceded the hasty constructions. The volley that had feathered Ipsen's shoulder and the rooftops nearest the wall had been a warning. Imperial banners fluttered everywhere, and sunlight glinted off helms and and breastplates and guardbraces but no bared blades. The points of the pikemen's polearms pinned leaves to the frosted ground. Fists of cavalry atop their steeds with lances saddled sat just out of bowshot on both the North and South roads. A battering ram dragging dirty roots was hefted on the shoulders of twoscore men, who advanced up the North road between the host of cavalry and two men on fine grey stallions. They wore polished armor and fine cloaks with enough stripes on the shoulder to name them lieutenants.

"They must have stolen the full day's march and built those monstrosities just shy of the treeline," Ryochi said, left hand on his dagger while the right stroked his stubbled chin. "Otherwise I'd have seen some sign of them."

"Our scouts should have seen some sign of them," Sa'resh rasped, but there was no poison in his words. The clever drow's mind moved onward, as always. "Two hundred men is no army, but it is not an ant, either. Our patrols..." he trailed off, tsking and shaking his silvery mane. "Jake, is your quill with you?" The drow collapsed the telescope against his chest and handed it to the fair-faced guardsman.

Jake's left hand went to his bare chest, where he usually kept his enchanted eagle quill in a breast pocket. Instinct forced him to slide the liviol tonfa through its belt loop and pat his pants pockets, but he knew they were empty.

"Two hundred?" Ryochi mused, eyes flicking across the Empire's troops and then glancing skyward as he counted. "How can you be certain without seeing what lays on the far side of the city?"

"I assumed a certain symmetry to their assault pattern, I admit." Phyr shrugged, an odd gesture with his empty right sleeve hanging hollowly. "However, two hundred is exactly twice the number of fighters enlisted in the Watch at last full count." The drow let out a long sigh and placed a bony finger at the base of his skull, kneading the pressure point there. "I believe we have a turncloak in our midst. But hush, it appears we will be hailed." Phyr turned and strode along the battlements, scarlet cloak and silver hair trailing in his wake. "Jake, meet me at the North gate. With your quill!" He called over his empty shoulder.

The fair-faced watchman and his bearded companion hastened after their superior. The war horn sounded again, cutting over the worried buzz of the common folk of Underwood. Ryochi gripped Jake's shoulder, and when the half elf did not move, shook him bodily and turned him toward the staircase.

"Let's go lad. Do as the Captain says." They thumped their way to the ground, but Jake could no longer feel the steps shaking beneath his feet. He felt nothing but a tightening, sickening throb in the depths of his gut. "I saw the way you battered that Iron Haw," Ryochi growled. "Don't tell me this is your first bloody battle!"

[Jake Narmolanya]

Once Jake got running he couldn't seem to slow his legs, and he outstripped Ryochi by a dozen places returning to the duelling grounds. Few of the commonfolk remained in the streets, save those in a crazed panic or receiving medical attention. Jake's stomach turned as he saw a man whose ear a descending arrow had torn off, bleeding up against the wall of an infirmary. The arrow had gone into his shoulder vertically, its plume bristling next to the hole in his head. Robed men and women pressed cotton wadding against the opening and spoke soothingly. A pack of watchmen bustled past, escorting a drunk who bellowed that demons had sent the Empire to punish them. Jake marshaled his mind and slid to a halt, boots carving furrows in the soft road. Around the flapping corner of a canvas wood-tent, familiar gold-streaked hair fluttered in the wind.

"Stacia?" He called, starting forward so suddenly he slipped and stutter-stepped to stay on his feet. "I mean, milady? Are you all still out here?" He strode to the group of women, left hand rested on the tonfa's crosspiece, right fitted around his hip. "No, someone's missing." He crossed his arms over pebbled skin, suddenly self-conscious in the wind. "The, sorry I forgot her name. The mother and her boy. Have you lost them?" He wrangled both hands through filthy, tangled blond locks and spun in a circle like a startled cat as Ryochi arrived, panting.

"Kiro, what's happened?" The cream-skinned girl asked her travelling companion. She left the whispering huddle of women and stepped forward, allowing Jake a smile but focusing on the Akashiman. "It's the Viceroys' military, isn't it? Of all the time for them to come!" She stamped her foot, muddying her boots, fists clenched around handfuls of her woollen cloak.

Ryochi rubbed a hand over his mouth, callused palm scratching stubbled cheeks. "Stacia, get the ladies back to the Peaceful Promenade." He said, eyes wandering as if his mind were outside the limestone walls. "The streets will be most unsafe in moments, I think. You should have gone with the crowds instead of hiding here!" He blinked and rubbed his hands down the sides of his leather jacket, checked his dagger and stepped back to the main road. "Jake, heed your captains order!" And with a swirl of his cloak, Ryochi strode off to the east.

"Come on," Jake urged, finally finding some sense. "It's this way, just down the road and turn left at Holkins' Haberdashery." The women moved slowly, never deviating from their cluster. Jake appreciated their fear, having trekked so long to find safety and have it swept away - but he urged them to move faster all the same.

"Milady," he said, drawing Stacia further ahead of the others. He cut off as the sound of dozens of men shouting erupted from the north, but the voices soon quieted. "I wondered if you might do me a service..."

"I don't need to hide back at the inn, I can help!" Stacia snapped, spine straight and nose high.

"Shh, I was asking for your help!" Jake muttered, glancing nervously back at her companions. They seemed only concerned with consoling each other and predicting a quick victory from the battle. "I left an enchanted quill in my room at the inn next to the Promenade," he went on in hushed tones as a group of archers carrying buckets of arrows tromped past toward the wall. "It's called the Last Night's Maiden. The keeper is a tall woman named Elena, speak to her and she'll show you." He touched her elbow and brought them to a stop at the crossroads with the haberdasher on the corner. "Bring me my quill at the North Gate as quick as you can. If anyone gets in your way, say it's the order of Phyr Sa'resh, Captain of the Watch." Trying to pretend he hadn't felt a tangible electric shock from the slightest touch of her skin, Jake turned and sprinted into a side-alley, taking the shortest route to the North Gate. Whatever happened to Ipsen, that back-stabbing bastard? He wondered as he leapt over a pile of old crates.

[Rayse Valentino]

By the time Rayse reached The Dansdel, it was bloody and deserted. Arrows littered the dueling grounds, along with various trivial belongings and food that was likely dropped in the ensuing panic after the attack began. He was out of breath, sweat forming above his brow and rolling down his cheek. He looked around, unsure of what he was looking for. Ipsen was likely long gone. Hell, maybe he went back to the meeting... although that was unlikely.

The Contractor took a few steps into the arena, his eyes investigating the scene like a murder just took place. With all the blood, it wasn't a forlorn conclusion. In the training ring itself, there was only one source of blood, and next to it was a steel helm. That was a piece of Iron Hawks equipment.

That sorry piece of shit was here, all right.

The evidence seemed to suggest that he got his head lopped off, but there would be more blood from that. Upon closer inspection, he saw a bit more blood heading out of the ring. Following it lead him to one of the many alleys that surrounded The Dansdel. It didn't take him long until he found a half-armored man slumped against a wall between houses. Pieces of upper body armor including a guard brace were strewn across the ground. He was holding onto his left shoulder, which had an arrow sticking out of it. He passed a glance at Rayse, and was about to ignore him until he noticed the pointed glare.

He put his hand on his sheath, which was lying on the floor next to him still attached to the belt he removed, "You better keep moving before you become a casualty of war."

Rayse chewed on the butt of his spent cigarette. He had not been getting satisfaction out of it for a while now, but kept it in his mouth due to stubbornness. Finally, he spit it out and walked over to Ipsen, which only made the Iron Hawk tighten his grip on the sheath.

Rayse shook his head, "Fucking with The Watch is one thing, but The Company? That shoulder of yours is the least of your problems."

"Who are you?"

"I'm one of the people you ditched by coming here. To be frank, I haven't decided what I'm going to do with you." Rayse reached into his pocket and pulled out another cigarette from a carton, putting it up to his mouth and lit it with a flame he produced on the thumb of his hand, but making it look like he had a fighter in it. He took a drag, blowing the smoke toward Ipsen.

"Well you saw what happened: The whole damn town is under attack! I got hit and had a hard time making it to the meeting. It's good you came, we need to head over there before they go underground."

"Uh huh," said Rayse. "That little half-elf fuck you up?"

Ipsen blinked, moving his hand up the sheath to the hilt of the sword, "How the f-"

"The lies end now, Ipsen." Rayse stepped on the Iron Hawk leader's hand just as it was about to wrap itself around the sword's hilt. A light blue outline surrounded Rayse, and Ipsen could feel heat radiating from The Contractor. Rayse was on fire, but it didn't burn him. "Unless you've never heard of fire magic, I think you can see where this is going. I have some questions, and the degree of your burns will be determined by how truthful you are. Now, it's obvious that you never intended to attend the meeting. Now unless you want full body sponge baths for the rest of your life, you better tell me why."