Corone War: The Refugees

[Silence Sei]

Tinerad Orlouge held the hand of his mute son through the streets of Radasanth. It was odd at this time for anyone o Mystic heritage to travel so far out of their domain, but the large man was desperate. Many onlookers took notice of the over seven foot man as he gripped the hand of his orange haired son firmly. Mystics were a rarity, and the powerful warrior would have not been surprised should someone attempt to snatch the child up should the Mystic release his hold.

The wind blew hard that day, stinging the face of the child as he did his best to stay at his father's pace. Vibrations in the sand from the footsteps coming from the larger parent made the five-year-old shiver. His dad was one of the most feared and powerful men in either of the Mystic towns, and it seemed that Tinerad Orlouge still carried that weight in Radasanth.

The child was too busy taking in all the different shaped buildings and cultures (this was his first trip to the Corone capital) to notice the structure of the building that his dad had brought him in. He did remember the darkness of the room they were in, however, and the warm air that wafted through the place was a welcome addition to the young one. This child could not see anything, but he could recognize the stairs that his father guided him down, taking careful precaution to make sure the boy did not fall down.

The stairs seemed to spiral down for a good ten minutes before they arrived at the end. The child's eyes had to readjust once they arrived, as the torches that lined the hallway at the bottom of the staircase seemed to illuminate before them as if they had walked back outside. The hallway had in itself lead to a dead end, gray stone laid perfectly upon gray stone.

The duo quickly made their way over to the wall at the end of the hallway, the larger Mystic looking down at his son with a smile. His child never once questioned why he was being brought here, or why they had traveled so far away from their home in order to take them to an empty hallway. He was proud that his son would follow orders so well without question; it reminded Tinerad of himself as a kid, and was the makings of a good soldier.

"Sei," Tinerad spoke softer than usual, his deep gruffly voice hushed into a soft whisper, "Do you notice anything odd about this room?" The question had come after a long journey of silence between the family members, so the little Sei was shocked that his father had decided to talk in such a small tone now. The youth looked around the room, pointing to the ground first. The floor had been kept pristine and shiny, the linoleum seeming so clean that one could see their reflection if they so choose.

The mute Mystic then approached the wall, looking to his father and showing him several hand gestures. Tinerad nodded, his smile, like his pride in his youngest child, growing to new heights. The orange haired child then looked at the wall up and down, making sure to take in every little detail before something caught his eye. One of the bricks laid out was just a slightly darker shade of gray than the others. It was something one would not notice from a distance, and was hardly apparent when just a few inches from the wall. Tinerad began to let out a loud and hearty laugh, before realizing where he was and allowing only a few soft chuckles.

"Good," Tinerad whispered, "The floor is kept clean when, if this place was desolated, it would be dirty. There's a breeze coming from down here when we're so far down that there should not be, and you notice the secret entrance." The large man approached his child and placed a large hand upon his orange hair, ruffling it up. He used his free hand to press down on the discolored brick, which caused it to slide ever so slightly into the wall. The two stood there in wait for roughly ten minutes, with only the slight sound of the wind blowing through their clothes being the only noise between them.

The wall eventually rose, revealing three robed figures standing before the Mystic duo. Sei had never encountered these odd forms before (not that he could really tell), but his father placed his hand on the child's shoulder, and gently guided him towards the three.

"So, this is the one you told us about Tinerad?" The first of the robed figures spoke as he pulled the hood of his black robes down. His black hair seemed to show a few signs of turning white, and Sei took note of a few spots that seemed to have less hair than others. His voice seemed to carry a tone of nobility, that tone that made one sound better than everyone else. Yet, his green eyes were soft, and showed a glimmering concern for the boy as he kneeled down to Sei and greeted him with a slight smile. "Hello child, my name is Sivien. We're going to help you."

"He has a name, you know," the second robed figure said as he removed his own hood. His face showed that this man had experienced more war than he ever would have liked to see. It seemed as though those constant fights and wars had drove this shorter man's eyes to turn into a hard gray, and also seemed to be the culprit behind all of his hair being gone. "You should call him by it. If this child becomes even half as powerful as his father, you can be sure that he'll be able to make you regret not referring to him by his name. Sei....correct? I am Emien Harthworth, but may call me Mr. Harthworth."

Tinerad smiled as Sei nodded to the two of them as his greeting. The kid seemed to be taking to these two strangers. They both seemed to have their faults, but Siviens words seemed genuine, and Mr. Harthworth reminded the orange haired youth of his father. The last member of the strangely dressed trio finally took off his own hood and revealed his features to the child.

"I am called Athenry, Sei," the man spoke, his body hunched over slightly as if he had to hold the weight of the world on his shoulders. His brown eyes seemed gentle, and his brown hair seemed to take away the physical disability of this man, as well as the fact that his hunch made him seem even shorter than Mr. Harthworth. The mute nodded to this new person as well, and even extended a hand in greeting to him. The man took the child’s hand and shook it. "Sei has exquisite manners, Tinerad. I can see why you did not fear him hurting our pride."

"Yeah, well," Tinerad stuck his hands into his torn up Mystic jeans, his voice almost a grumble, "you tend to have respect for people who can talk when you can't. Mutes tend to not take for granted the gifts other people do."

"Yes," Athenry said as he shifted his brown eyes towards Sei's father, "but is that not the reason we are here? To make sure that Sei won't be teased by being called 'Silence' his whole life? Do not worry Tinerad, between the four of us; we will make sure that Sei will be able to talk by the time his next birthday comes around..."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Twenty years after this first meeting with the men who would become the only remaining Viceroys left in Radasanth, Sei was back to this secret meeting place. The three men had forfeited their disguises at this point, knowing that the armed forces they possessed (as well as being in a room with Sei Orlouge) would keep them safe at least long enough for them to make their escape. This meeting was not about sending Sei into war; however, it was about having him find people who would fight in his stead.

"I'm glad you decided to take us up on our invitation," Athenry spoke to Sei first, a slight gruff to his voice as if he were ill, "I was afraid that the propaganda had scared even you away from us, Lord Orlouge."

"Don't be ridiculous," Sei said, waving off Athenry's word with a dismissal of sorts, "I am who I am today because of the three of you. I would gladly lay down my life in order to help any of you, and please Lord Athenry, call me Sei."

"Glad to hear that," Mr. Harthworth spoke before his fellow viceroy could do so again, "I'll get right to the point, Sei. It seems as though there are quite a few elves living in a small rural area of Concordia. They're refugees left over from their own war. We're not as callous as to make the 'Hero of Radasanth' pick a side in our own civil war, but you are the biggest figurehead we have outside of ourselves. We'd like to ask you to go and request the aid of the refugee elves in exchange for helping them take Raiaera back once this whole thing is over."

"With all due respect, Lord Harthworth," Sei spoke with the same softness he always addressed the man (who had not seemed to age aside from more wrinkles since the mute was five) with the same 'tone' of respect that he always carried in his presence, "I do not think that I am the one most suitable for such a task. I -am- part of the reason that the elves of Raiaera are refugees."

"Of course we remember you’re siding with Alerar during their war with Raiaera," Sivien spoke up, "You use the 'Avatar of Alerar' as one of your aliases, after all. We've prepared for that. We have prepared a group you may find will help smooth things over should your own silver tongue fail. One of these people is actually within the ranks of the Ixian Knights. Miss Ruby, I believe her name was."

Sei's eyes widened with shock at this revelation. He had told his army of his intention to help the Empire during the Corone Civil War in any non-violent way that he could. He also made it perfectly clear that his stance was not that of the Ixian Knights and that his people were free to choose which side they wanted to side with during the war. All three of the viceroys could see the look of shock in the Mystic's face. Athenry quickly spoke up before anyone else decided to.

"This team that we have assigned to you is specifically designed for any situation that may arise during your quest. Miss Ruby was asked to be waiting with her husband at Ixian Castle. The rest you will find on this list...” Athenry showed Sei a piece of yellow paper, which the mute looked over a few times before looking back to his commanding officers. The mute had never heard of any other person on the list, but the perfectly written text provided by Athenry made sure that Sei could identify them from their descriptions. It seemed as though the three viceroys had taken in every contingency that may arise. With no other argument to speak of, Sei simply nodded to three of the men he had respected all of his life, and left the secret room.

As the wall slid down behind the mute, Athenry looked to Emien Harthworth, a great concern in his eyes.

"I don't like this. He's one of the few big name people who still side with us, and we're potentially sending him on a suicide mission." Athenry had been vocalizing his concern for the Mystic since the three of them had come up with the idea of Sei leading this adventure.

"It leaves a bad taste in my mouth too," Harthworth replied before shifting his gaze to the ceiling, "I do believe, however, that if anyone can pull this off, it is Sei Orlouge."

"You worry too much, Athenry," Sivien spoke again, his tone carrying the same 'better than you' tone, "This is the son of Tinerad Orlouge. The son of the man we used as a last resort that -always- helped us win any battles we needed him to. Even if the elves attack him, the son of 'The Unstoppable Mystic' will be able to find some sort of peaceful solution."

"I hope your right," Athenry said with a sigh, "Or we may have just as well damned Corone...."

[Ruby]

Ruby Winchester did not like waiting. Ruby Winchester did not like the cold even more, so the two together made for an uncomfortable stay at Sei Orlougnes’ grand abode, and an even more uncomfortable time for Leopold Winchester. Punching bag was perhaps a little too strong a metaphor to describe their current state of affairs, but he took her barbed blows and rocked back and forth in her dance of complaints all the same, silent and reserved and nodding politely in agreement whenever she opened her mouth. He nodded quite frequently for most of the afternoon.

He still did not quite trust Ruby’s enthusiasm for their assignment. Opportunity was something they had both come to keep an eye out for in the harsh times on Scara Brae, but this was something far beyond anything they’d previously taken advantage of. When the Redden shortage had struck last summer, they had personally paid for cargo vessels to fetch new crop from the orchards of Dheathain to feed the populous’ craving for the juicy, sweet red fruit; it’s crunch an asset in the long heat, it’s tart desert texture excellent in pies. They had done their home a service, even if such a service had lined Leopold’s pockets for six months of self-indulgence and business expansion. This opportunity seemed more like a punishment than a chance to rectify the coffers.

“I thought you said this Sei Orlougne was a Hero?” His dry sardonic tone bounced down the length of the gallery table, rattling between the silver candle sticks and cut glass vases full of half wilted flours. Whoever looked after the Castle and the Mystics who lived there appeared to have as much trouble maintaining the sheer number of rooms as Leopold did his collection of jackets. Far too many places to cry for one man he had mused as they had been escorted in through the grand gates and asked to wait until ‘master’ returned.

“He is a Hero, of Radasanth mind,” Ruby replied tartly, more occupied with her glass of wine and modest bowl of stew that had been laid on for the guests. It was a thick, gloopy broth, gravy more than a meal laden with corn, black beans and rough chunks of lamb. She thanked the cook for the lavish aroma of garlic, mint and black peppercorns which covered the stale scent of the meat. “He is not beholden to Scara Brae’s ideals, so I guess his motivations for helping the viceroys are his own, strange communions with the wider world.”

“I’d like to think so, truly I would, but we are playing a dangerous game so it’s wise to be informed of all the angles to a man’s whims.” He craned his neck to look up into the rafters of the great hall, and started to pick out cobwebs and cracks in the great wooden beams bound in iron cages and wrought steel décor. As far as impact went, this truly was a Hero’s home, a place fit for a mighty man to look down at the world from on high. “Why did he ask to meet here?” He glanced sideways at his wife, his legs outwards and elbows leant against the table, hers inwards and elbows firmly on the rough veneer of the mahogany top. When she shrugged in silence, he rolled his eyes and craned his neck upwards again.

He guessed it really didn’t matter in the end; they only had to feign interest in the man’s reasons. For the time being at least, they could forget the real purpose of their visit, and indulge the man in his flights of fancy. In his silent reflections, Leopold walked through an imaginary crowd of bedraggled faces with a glum expression, half shaded from existence by the wide brim of his top hat. He saw dirtied cheeks and scrubbed knees, matted hair and worn skin. The elderly, the infirm, the infinitesimally young all crowded him, murmuring their quiet discontent and poverty into his ears, into the very recesses of his mind. The mud beneath his heavy clogs seemed to slow his pace down to an amble, and desperate hands, ghostly and pale lashed out at his silver buttons and silk lapels.

“They will be so desperate for a chance, Ruby…” he mumbled, half whispering his thoughts and half praying. His breath turned to wisps of vapour before they rose up into the distant roof. “Can we really give them false hope?”

Ruby nodded absent minded, as ever she did when she was trying desperately to not show how much she really cared. Her hair was tied back into a utilitarian pony tail and her simple brown dress, strapped down with leather bracers to keep it contained beneath the elegance of her mithril armour shone with a crimson aura. Her husband’s shiver did not go unnoticed as she too started to feel the cold through her heavy garments. Even the gravy could not settle hearth in her stomach for long.

“We can give them something to live for, Leopold, which is not a wrong thing to do. Even if they do not ever get to see their home again, they fought and found freedom once more before they died or end up retiring and settling in Corone for good.” She dredged the recesses of her tired mind for images of her visitation to Beinost, and wondered if there would be a Raiaera for them to return to by the time the war was over to begin with. The thought of a whole country simply vanishing from the face of the world unnerved her, scared her, scraped claws down her spine over and over. “Our issue is not with the elves, remember that well, it is with the Empire and whatever games they are playing to twist Valeena around their little finger.”

“True enough,” he said with reservation.

“That almost sounded like doubt, Leopold.”

He smiled, and turned on the spot with a heavy grunt to lift his legs over the bench. With subtle movements he slid closer to Ruby and leant in to take a long draft of her food. He smacked his lips together, drew a breath and leant forwards to take hold of the oak ladle which sticks out from the heavy cast iron pot to pour him a portion. It glopped into the terracotta bowl with idle enthusiasm, and had to be scraped free with a daring index finger. As he set the ladle back into the pot, he sucked his digit clean with a satisfying relish and picked up his spoon. He waited just long enough for the tension to mount its own metaphorical horse and start to gallop up and down the hall before he turned to Ruby with a salacious grin shining out from his wiry black beard.

“That almost sounded like sarcasm, Ruby,” he popped a full steaming spoon into his mouth and wrapped his tongue around what he hoped was a soft chunk of over boiled carrot.

Leopold knew full well that it was only on the merit of Ruby’s enjoyment of her meal that she did not extend her infamous backhand to his podgy cheek in reply. They had developed a certain level of rapport between them over the long years of their frivolous and awkward marriage that allowed them little flourishes of heated exchange, to their merit, it had kept their relationship alive long enough between the long periods of business isolation or fervent rehearsals for a new dramaturgical wonder to keep them running back to one another for those sparkling moments out on the heath or in the freshly laundered sheets of their master bedroom.

“Will he keep us waiting long?”

“He usually does. That gives me time to remind you about his curious mannerisms.”

Leopold thought hard, furrowing his brow as he balanced a steaming spoon of turnip inches from his hungered lips. She had rattled off so many descriptions about Sei and the Mystics on their journey to his castle he had been saturated by the wealth of knowledge he was expected to remember to ensure their stay was well received. He knew it was more to give Ruby piece of mind, so that he did not, as she put it, ‘embarrass her good name.’ He was not sure if she was referring to the man’s strange and charismatic wings, or his unusual status as a mute; like the Arden fellow Ruby oft appeared with in the evening poker games beneath the streets of Scara Brae’s merchant district.

“You are of course referring to this,” he tapped the side of his temple, “and not his flamboyant style I hope?” He tried to smile, but settled on filling his face with his usual lack of gentlemanly charm. Leopold was not at home now, and he did not feel beholden to Scara Brae’s etiquette or the usual smarm of the noble lifestyle and it’s languishingly slow methods of eating. “You needn’t worry about me revealing our true intentions to his psychic talents; it’s you I’m worried about.”

Ruby sighed, she hated many things in life, but being outwitted and charmed by her husband was the most loathsome of them all. They both ate in silence whilst they deliberated their retorts and counter retorts. The little mouthfuls of lamb were slurped noisily into their pursed lips, taken ransom to the whims of marriage and inconvenience. On that account, Leopold had her dead to rights. Though she was the mistress and indeed the master of deception, of playing a role, Sei’s latent ability to read thoughts, guess notions, see the unseen was going to be a troublesome barrier to their endeavours. Lying with lips was one thing, but you could not lie to the inner mind.

“I have an idea about how to circumvent that particular problem, but it will require a certain amount of effort from the both of us.”

“I didn’t think I’d get away scot free somehow,” Leopold said glumly, chuckling half arsed as he sighed. “Go on, what’s the plan?”

Ruby set her soon into her now empty bowl and smacked her lips once again, the hollow echo of her satisfaction bounced down the table after Leopold’s discontent. The smell of mint and thyme and a strange spice she was not familiar with despite her culinary talents lingered in her nostrils as she took a deep breath and adjusted her diaphragm so the heavy food did not settle with a twist in her stomach. She felt very much like she’d just been filled with concrete, set adrift and drowning in a sea of post consumption lethargy. Her thoughts dragged her eyes upwards into the lofty heights of the castle hall, where they pranced between the ageing beams and called to the whispery creatures that hid in the shadows. Leopold, who was quite used to his wife falling into momentary day dreams adjusted the buttons of his golden waistcoat and set his stomach over the hem of his trousers with a slow and uncomfortable adjustment of his own.

“We shall tell Sei Orlougne that we represent the nobility of Scara Brae, whose backing of Queen Valeena’s military taxation has caused incivility amongst the gentile population of the island. We, as heroes and heroines are lending our support to calm the unrest and to show that the cause is worthy of Scarabrian attention. There is no notion of an enemy in Scara Brae, it does not know who the Empire is, or what it does, or indeed, of the plight of the Rangers and their bid for independence.” Even as she said it, she sublimated her words with the truth in her mind, which made her realise just how difficult it would be to keep the truth and their lie separate.

“Playing on fame is a dangerous game; won’t Sei know Valeena was pressured into action?”

“I do not think so. He has his hands in many sweet jars, to sprinkle fairy dust where his pious notions allow, but Scara Brae is our island – Scara Brae is the troupe’s stomping ground, and we hear no mention of the Hero of Radasanth on the red cobbles and in the deep market avenues.” She cocked her head to smile at Leopold, who smiled back with a knowing glint in his deep, loving eyes. She wanted to kiss him, as ever she did when danger was the topic of their conversation, but no doubt as soon as their meat smothered lips embraced they would be intruded upon.

“That does not stop him reading your thoughts like a cheap novella, I could extend my gift to you but the strain would inhibit my ability to do anything else.”

Ruby thought in silence for a while, thinking back to the first summer after they had eloped. Her discovery that Leopold was psychic, and that he possessed some considerable magical talent was a bewildering prospect to her – until that time, she had only known of warlocks and witches from fairy tales and proverbs, from the books and annuls of her own past. To see someone not bound to The Aria work magic so naturally still awed her.

“If you can, I think it would be wise to do so. If Sei thinks one thing truthfully, we will be free to work the situation to our advantage.”

The sound of distant doors opening and raised voices bouncing down empty, cold and lonely hallways broke through the grand oak bulkheads that separated the hall from the rest of the castle. The couple turned in unison to their left, to look nervously at the large lions which were burnt into the wood with careful application of antique colour, laced with gold leaf and ivory inlays. He rose to stand and patted his front down, straightening his attire before stepping over the bench to leave the comforting embrace of the table. Ruby watched him with admiration for his form, and chuckled as he flailed his arms to put on his long overcoat over his dinner clothes.

“You may feel light-headed for a while, in which case,” he said as he adjusted his top hat, removing it momentarily to ruffle his curly hair which fell over his ears before he set the well-kept head piece back on his brow. “If the gin you secreted into your hip flask hasn’t already pushed you well on the way,” his sardonic words dripped with jest from his lips, which he wiped with his sleeve before turning back to the door. He felt his wife’s eyes burrow holes into his shoulder blades and smiled with satisfaction.

“I had one shot with a slice of lemon when we crossed into the kingdom, I will have you know that is not even a tipple in the knitting circles,” her voice fell flat on its face as she rose to present herself in better and more formal light when the host and his party entered the hall in usual pomp splendour. Her previous visit had not ended well, with Lillith departing with haste for Akashima and her singing quite literally bringing some of the house down on their final dinner party before they returned home, she did not think the rancour cast by her notes would have died just yet. She wondered, as she let her hair down and tossed it loose, if Emma Orlougne would be joining them.

Leopold smiled, held out his left arm in a hook for his wife to nestle into his side and ran his finger around the cold circumference of his wedding ring to steel his senses and to conjure the aura of annulment around his wife’s radiant soul. At that very moment, their minds vanished from Althanas, utterly diminished, crushed and rent. All that remained was a faint whisper of satisfaction over their Spartan meal and the simple minded thoughts of an everyday wife and husband on a visit to the wonderful kingdom of Corone. Ruby swooned for a moment, just as her husband had warned as she felt her mind covered by his. Her own thoughts were still sounding in her head, but they were dull and hallow and without substance.

“Let the game of thrones begin,” she said meekly, furrowing her brow to steel her senses before relaxing into a regal and natural stoop in her husband’s embrace. With the immensity of their task weighing down on her well armoured shoulders, she wondered if she herself would become a refugee, running from the melee and chaos their actions could unleash in their own social circles and the very political fabric of Scara Brae herself.

[ThirdRider]

"The problem I'm having is that I can't get close enough to anybody important."

Wyrmwood hunched forward in the chipped wooden armchair, chain-smoking as he stared across the room. He'd balanced a bowl for the butts on his right thigh, but was having some trouble keeping things steady. The uncomfortable, wobbling seat had already made him spill a dusting of gray-black ashes all over the lap of his dark slacks and the lower half of the loose-fitting blue sweater he was wearing. He wanted to change -- and maybe take a bath, while he was at it -- but the meeting was important, and his visitors had come a very long way just to give him some advice.

Set against the wall directly across from him, he'd leaned a pair of long, cracked mirrors. Their rusted iron frames lay discarded in the corner, gathering dust and rattling slightly every time his chair's short leg thumped against the floorboards. A much smaller and somewhat nicer mirror -- probably some woman's old vanity -- was arranged on a low nightstand between them and reflected in both, so that a rough triangle was formed. Candles were set in a broad circle around its base, lighting up the musty room much better than the bloated, lazy moon outside could.

He stared into the mirrors; his reflection was not there.

"This dossier says that the, uh, Corone Empire is pretty much a 'might-makes-right' kind of scene. Why not do something with that? Just because you're working under limitations doesn't mean that you're untrained or helpless." The man in the left mirror waved a slim bundle of documents limply in the air before tossing the wad onto the crowded metal desk by his side. His look was nothing if not exotic: a pale, foxy face framed by long blonde hair that was interwoven many times over with charms and bangles. A cascade of strange and arcane-looking necklaces hung from his neck like armor plating, dropping down between the open front of his electric red leather jacket.

Nybal Roche, code-name Ulysses.

"That's only a partial truth. Don't think of them like barbarians, because they're not. The system is merit-based as far as I can tell: if you're successful you get rewarded, and if you're a fuckup you have to deal with the consequences. Walking out into the street and opening fire really isn't an option here."

"Nobody's suggesting that you do that," replied the foxy-faced man smoothly, his mouth twisting into a crooked smile, "but you're got to do something. What's the military situation like around you?"

"Stronger than it should be, and more than I'd like. The three surviving leaders are paranoid in the extreme after the assassinations and there's a heavy guard on the capitol. On the one hand, that makes sure that no army is going to march up to the gates and rip them down. On the other hand, though, there's only so much that a defense like that can do against infiltration...and, in my mind, that's their biggest problem."

"More assassins? Or something more like what we do?" asked Roche, his forehead wrinkling slightly.

"The latter. I'm living close to the docks right now, and there's been rioting every night since I got off the boat. I'd say they have people on the inside stirring up trouble, trying to kick the government's legs out from under it. Raise civil unrease, destroy morale, all that shit."

"That's not strictly a bad idea," said the foxy-faced man as he scratched at the back of his head, "but pretty uncouth. They're going to end up doing more harm than good if they're not careful, too. The problem is that when you start a wildfire, you end up burning everybody, not just the ones you want to get at. That kind of strategy's a lot better when you don't care what happens to the place after you're done."

He played with his hair lazily and cocked up an eyebrow at Wyrmwood.

"Do they?"

"Who?"

"Your terrorists. Do they care what happens, or are they just in it to win it?"

The brown-haired agent bit at his lip and shrugged, flicking the ash off the end of his cigarette as he did so.

"I guess? I don't know much more about them than you do. They've got a stronger support base to the southeast, but around here...well, like I already said. I think they'd prefer 'freedom fighters' more than 'terrorists', but it's pretty much the same thing. They want what they want, and they'll do whatever it takes to get it...even if that means attacking the legitimate government."

"What do they want, anyway? Democracy? Freedom? Justice? Peace, love and unity?"

"All of the above, I think," remarked Wyrmwood, grinning sourly.

"Then they're ideologists," said a deep, rough voice from the mirror to the right. The man with the iron arm was sitting in a room that, while certainly more modern, was not that different from Wyrmwood's own. Cracks lined cheap plaster walls, and in the background the glow of a muted television lit up the darkness. He was leaning back against the edge of the bed, shaving away the thick black beard that covered his face. The man was strongly-featured, with a face (and a slightly crooked nose) that looked like it had taken a beating recently. Though he only wore a set of black fatigues, a crumbled white and orange jacket lay at his side; the partially-hidden text "--MS CORPORATION" could just barely be read.

Real name unknown; code-name Lodestone.

"Ideologists," he continued, navigating the sharp razor along his cheek, "are a lot like bullets, if you think about it. They're briefly useful, then you throw them away. Ideologists have no fucking idea how to run a country, or how to make the trains run on time, because all they deal in are thoughts instead of facts. Maybe you should just let them win: the counter-rebellion would be a fucking piece of cake."

"That's very true, and also not at all helpful," remarked Roche, glancing at his brother agent through the smaller vanity.

"I wasn't trying to be helpful when I said it: I was just saying it," replied Lodestone, who had moved on to his chin.

"Anyway," the man with the iron arm continued, "make use of them. You said that there's rioting going on tonight?"

"Not too far from here, yeah," said Wyrmwood, edging his chair closer, "it sounds bad."

Lodestone frowned and looked away from the mirror, down to the bulky metal limb that had replaced his right arm. Reaching over with his other hand, he extracted a flap of bloody skin from between two of the knuckles and tossed it into the corner of the dim room.

"Here's what you do. Put on some clothes that'll make you stand out from the crowd, then go find a bunch of rioters. Some place where the police are getting steamrolled, if you can help it, or people are getting hurt bad. Then you go and you start bashing skulls. Nothing too lethal, but make them spit some fucking bridgework. Make them remember you. Ever hear of Pinkertons, guy?"

Wyrmwood nodded.

"Thought you might have. At the end of the day, you've got the kind of training that nobody in this whole city can match. Sure as shit not some drunk kids singing torch songs about the revolution or some asshole who's wanting something for nothing. You might be new to me, but if you're in Jormungandr, you've still miles above the rest."

The agent felt a small rush of pride at the other man's compliment, but did his best not to let it show. Lodestone -- and his companion, the talented Mr. Roche -- were senior. Very senior.

"Come morning, once they've got the fires out, you'll have the attention you need."

"Desperate times call for useful men," interjected Ulysses, who was toying with the multitude of rings he wore on his fingers.

"Right. So get out there and make yourself useful."

The man with the iron arm waved his namesake at the mirror, causing it to turn black for a moment before returning to a normal reflection. The fey-faced man in the red jacked waved a quick goodbye to Wyrmwood then did the same, leaving the stuffy room feeling a great deal less crowded than it had been a few moments before. He sat in the flickering light of the candles, still smoking, and thought about the conversation.

Outside his shuttered windows, the roar of the mob carried on the wind. He smelled smoke.

"Fuck it," he grunted, grabbing a waist-length red-and-black checkerboard coat from the bed, "there's nothing to lose."


Two Days Later

There was a note tucked under his door when he woke up. The envelope itself wasn't very special -- unmarked white paper; cheap quality -- but what was inside drew a smile across his face.

"Mr. Reeve,

Your services to this country in the recent riots have not gone unnoticed. Meet me at the Sign of the Stag at noon to discuss your future.

Yours respectfully,

Ballast Whitecross."

Next to the signature the seal of the Empire was pressed into the paper with a thick glob of dark blue wax. It could be forgery, he supposed, but detailed fabrication was much more difficult to do with so little in the way of technology...and besides, what would be the point? He'd made enough of a scene to impress the authorities, but he was nowhere near enough of a threat at this point for Ranger hit squads to come for him. Besides, if Whitecross turned out to be a plant, he'd just kill him and be done with it: simple enough.

Throwing on a pair of dark jeans and the same checkered coat he'd worn on the night of the riot, Wyrmwood ate a quick breakfast and left his cheap room, locking the door behind him on the way out. The Sign of the Stag was a coffee house not terribly far from where he was staying: 45 minutes by foot and less than half that by carriage. He opted for the latter and made it there with time to spare, ducking under the low wooden arch that was the entrance to the building's canopy. There wasn't an inside to speak of; just a covered patio where people could sit next to strangers at long tables. Presently there was a lunch crowd, making picking his target all but impossible, so he sat down near the center aisle and got to waiting.

Not long after, a figure entered the enclosure, locking eyes with him almost immediately. He was tall -- six feet and some change -- with smooth, dark skin and a way of walking that put the agent in mind of a bored panther. He was handsome in a strange way -- nothing traditional or common; something foreign that was difficult to articulate. What he wasn't was inconspicuous: he wore an expensive-looking black leather jacket with silver tooling and pants to match, plus a sheathed sword hanging at his side. Smiling at Wyrmwood with a set of almost shockingly white teeth, the stranger sat down across from him and held out a gloved hand in greeting.

"Mr. Reeve, I see you got my note. Such a pleasure. Ballast Whitecross." His voice was rich, cultured and confident, which fit well with the way that he dressed and carried himself.

"Of course," replied Wyrmwood -- currently known within the region as Valor Reeve -- and shook the man's hand. The black man had an impressive grip even by the agent's own standards: he could probably crush crabs if he wanted to.

"It's not often that I'm at a disadvantage with people," said Ballast, grinning in a way that suggested nothing of the sort, "but I can hardly find a single thing about you...and I've been looking. You step off a boat from nowhere a few weeks ago, and suddenly the city's got a...civic-minded riot-buster who fights like he's a trained soldier. What do you have to say about that, Mr. Reeve?"

"I'd say it's lucky for the city. What is it that you want from me, exactly?"

Whitecross leaned back and watched Valor silently for a moment, his eyes cold and calculating. There was a feeling of extreme tension in the air, which broke as the lanky man shrugged.

"To meet you. To see what kind of a man you are. I watched you during the riot, you know. Someone was trying to burn down an office where we keep special records; I noticed you while I was dealing with the problem." The dip in his voice suggested that he'd handled the issue in a way that wouldn't need to happen twice.

"And?"

"And I was impressed enough to want to see more. Maybe I just wanted to see if a thug is what you are...although I don't really mean that as an insult. There's always a place in society for a man who's not afraid to break jaws and crack skulls. The law can only be extended as far as our ability to enforce it."

He looked at Wyrmwood as if seeking some reply, but the agent remained silent.

"Okay. You don't want to dance, and I can appreciate that. The Empire needs men with special talents for special projects. Men who aren't afraid of using force where it's needed. Rebellion -- civil war -- it isn't something for the faint of heart. You're new in town, so the odds of you being a double agent are pretty remote. No job, no friends to speak of, no background here...you're perfect for what I need right now, and a man with your talents shouldn't go to waste."

This was stupid...but it didn't feel stupid. Public meeting discussing private topics, but nothing specific. Whitecross seemed like he might be in intelligence -- maybe secret police? -- and his hiring power backed up that assumption. The man was taking a big leap as far as trust, though: just because he wasn't from the island didn't mean he couldn't be a double agent or a saboteur. There were questions he should be asking that "Valor Reeve" didn't have very good answers for...so where were they? But more than that, this was it: this was what he'd been looking for, that foot in the door.

"We'll cut the shit if you want," said Reeve, "I'm interested. There are things I don't do, but it's a short list. The deal is that I don't offer about my history and you don't pry, and you give me the tools I need to do my job right. I'm a professional, and that's all you need to know about me right now."

"I can live with that," replied the dark man, flashing a lightning-quick grin, "if you can. Are you a man of moral complications, Mr. Reeve?"

"Not particularly."

"Glorious. I'll visit you tonight with more information. Your carriage will be ready by this time tomorrow."

"Alright. What kind of work are we talking?"

"Let's call it...a negotiation."

[Godric]

Sound filled the air with soft, but dreary tones in a mystic, but solemn fashion. Won, bone like fingers strummed masterfully in a continuous pattern, without a hesitation or sign of any pause. Not only did compressed air flow through finely crafted bone pipes, but one would feel that the essence of forsaken and tormented souls escaped through the long pipes of finely tuned cries. The cry wasn't of hope, or happiness, or even fear. It was the sound of many years of torment, many years of sin, and the loss of something dear.

Godric's eyes closed, his gray white hair dangling from his shoulders as his pale complexion seemed to amlost light up in the moon's night sky. Yellow, aged teeth fell into a clench as the tension in his beating heart only grew worse, blacker than any hole in the universe above him. He was damned, forever cursed, and would dwell in his own darkness for eternity. This was his punishment for what he has done, what he has become. Once a chivalrous Paladin, warmed by the hearts of the people, was only a devil, a dark conquer that turned on them, leaving the mask of death upon his kingdom he protected for so many years. His reign was a storm of evil, washing away all of what was called Albion once upon a time.

War. There hasn't been much bloodshed in over a hundred years, maybe three. Godric lost count, or didn't wish or have the urge to document it. The bones churn in the soil, waiting for the day to rise again, retracing the act of war that brought down King Derringer the 7th. The haunting tale was taken over by bards across the regions, leaving the dead man's story across the borders, though not one was truly the same. They were all quite biased, in fact.

Old paintings surrounded the room, clustered with dust from the years of isolation. Most of them were dark, of treachery and war, where some were of fallen angels, a heavy rain upon them. Many crafts have gifted the man in the years of practice, but there would be one thing the artist could ever create, and that was his humanity. But. Soon, soon his spell would be complete...

From outside the Ravanosk Keep, a bird flapped its wings in slow strides, its golden eyes appearing down at the dark stoned building, guarded by Godric's men, or what have may been called a man long ago. One in particular looked up at the astounding bird, or hawk, and his eyes lowered in sadness, guilt swelling up in his forsaken heart. "Eowyn, I can't bare this pain no longer.. I won't support this man's evil. I have sinned our god." The undead man, still having most of his flesh and hair, unsheathed his sword slowly, a tear running down his cheek.

A cry struck out and the clanking of swords crashed like a fierce lightning storm while the bird flew on, taking a landing into the tower window. Its head shook fast, following its feathered body to release the water of the misty weather from its burden. A black beak opened hesitantly as its small eyes witnessed the bringer of darkness and sin before it.

Caraw!

The music came to a dead hault, the pipes releasing their last breath of air as fingers slowly rose from the white stained keys, life stricken eyes opening to look over the corner of its owner's shoulder. Godric Vrowl'Ravanosk's lips were distasteful toward the bird as he glared at it, slowly rising from his bench to approach the letter that remained attached to it's ankle. Immediately he recognized the seal, it was from the Viceroy.

Godric knew the day would one day come, that he would be summoned to pay back his debt to an old friend, or even an enemy. "Tinerad Orlouge." Godric whispered in a low tone. The memories of the two quickly came back to him, causing anger to swell up in his heart and the letter crumbled in his fingers, nearly making the bird panic in fear.

As Godric remained at his window seal, the crumbled letter at his feet, while his double sided doors swung open, a man dropped before him. Two of his undead soldiers didn't say a word, and by seeing who the man was on the floor, Godric didn't need words to describe the details. Gillen.

"I won't stand for this any longer Godric!" the slender man spit with venom, "I will not continue to serve a demon from hell! Kill me, I do not care.. I don't want this life, the dreams that haunt me..."

Collected, the king of the deceased slowly walked forward in even steps, his eyes showing no sign of remorse or refuge as he stopped only a few feet from Gillen, an elf that he had scored a deal with years ago. "We had a deal, did we not, dear Gillen?"

Tears soiled the floor as they fell from the elves slender, beautiful cheeks. His nails dug into the stone flooring, as if hoping to claw his way out of this situation. He felt so powerless to this tyrant. "The..Contract is done.. I return my word.. Now give me death."

The feelings of Godric were not of what Gillen would of expected, but quite the opposite actually. A smile slowly sneered across his pale lips, almost warningly as he leaned down, sliding his fingers across Gillen's cheek, watching the tear evaporate from his finger tip. "My dear Gillen, for all of these years.. You served me well. Now you ask for forgiveness, a light to freedom. Then pray, Gillen. Ask forgiveness of your God, ask that he bless you from this dreadful keep. Do so before you see the kingdom's gate to your heaven..."

Trembling, more tears swelled up as he started to pray, but the prayer was quickly stopped as a heavy plated boot slammed his face down on the floor. "You god damn fool!" Godric growled, his lips twitching in malice, "There is no god! There is no one that can save you from your own contract! I was written in blood, you belong to me, and you deliberately disobeyed my commands.. You have gone against our deal... So now a punishment is at foot. Eowyn-"

"Leave her alone!" The elf roared, using all of his strength to try and push himself up, but it was useless against Godric's hold. Immediately came despair. "Godric, no, please..."

"You knew the consequence, Gillen, now tend to them like a man. Where is your honor that blessed you those three years ago when you protected your dear wife and child from my blade? What happened to the man that gave everything to see that they are safe? You betrayed them, Gillen, now they will suffer because you could not tolerate the its demands."

The elf was outraged, and was allowed to stand, and he immediately balled his fist to attack. Godric assumed that Gillen would try to srike him, it was almost expected of him in fact. Before Gillen had much time to make the attempt, his finger tips grew bone like claws, which were manipulated by the power of Osteomancy and his wrist snapped back, followed by his arms. Like ten thin spears, his fingers dove into the man's torso, not ceasing to stop until the blood stained claws grew, curling themselves around the large pipes of Godric's organ.

Screams of agony sounded the room as blood dripped on the floor while the undead elf was hung against his will to the organ. In gasps and heavy breath, Gillen's eyes fell on the black bird, a look of hope written on his face. "P-please..If you can understand me.. Warn Eowyn to run.."

Godric only watched his own art at work in silence as his eyes started to grow blue with a magical aura, slowly seeping like calm smoke through his orbs. Wanting to hear Gillen's cries no longer, he fussed Gillen's teeth together, thus the agonizing screams became muffled.

"Where is your god now?"

***

Sometime later.

Sorin let out a harsh, powerful breath as Godric patted the Plague Steed on top of the head, giving it one stroke of its mane. "You serve me well, my trusty companion."

"Uhm, sir?" a stable boy questioned, his face lit with more fear than concern. "Technically we're not allowed to have dead horses in here.."

Godric fell silent for a brief moment as he took in the boy's insult, immediately noticing the regret and his nervousness due to Godric's presence. "What do you mean, boy? Feel his chest and you shall feel a beating heart, feel before his mouth and you will feel his hot breath against your hands. Now boy, tell me what is not alive about my horse?"

The boy only shook his head and apologized, looking down to the knight as he approached. "Sorry sir, I didn-"

Godric waved his hand as he passed, ignoring the boy's kind gestures and apologies. They meant nothing to him. Truly nothing did other than the matters that were at hand. He was to attend a meeting, or whatever it was to be called in the finely built housing of a Mr.. Sei Orlouge.

Very impressive it was, as a 'Heroes' home ought to be. Drapes hung from windows with some of the finest silks, and the carpets done by talented hands. Though, Godric found much of his time taking in the details of the astonishing paintings, while in the process of listening to a couple speak in the next room. Godric's fingers came to his slender chin, caressing it passively before he finally turned into the room.

"Ah, innocent love.. How it warms my cold beating heart." The man announced with almost sarcasm as he witnessed to the two seeming to cuddle while truly in act of some kind of spell. Even the keenest of eyes wouldn't be able to trace it, "Apologies on my sudden... Intrusion to your privacy..." Without another word, Godric sat, placing his feet up on the table as his hands met the back of his head. His tower shield and bag of bones at his side.

[Silence Sei]

The doors began to open once more. The group inside would quickly realize that the new party member was someone who made the guards protecting the entry way stand up a bight straighter. Indeed, the trio was greeted by a member of the prestigious Orlouge family. Unfortunately for the three, however, it was not Sei Orlouge.

Two green orbs scanned each of the warriors, a squint of disgust while looking at Godric, and an even more disturbed look when she set her sights upon Leopold. When the teenage girl saw Ruby, however, the graceful way that she had previously been walking left her, replaced with a run akin to lost love being reunited. With each quick step, the girl's two brunette pigtails bounced jovially in the air.

"Ruby!" Emma Orlouge announced, her two arms wrapping around the older woman. The teen had not seen the more majestic lady in quite a while, but her perfume was still one of the sweetest, indescribable things that ever tickled her senses. Ruby would notice that Emma had changed as well, being sparsely sprayed with a concoction that resembled honeysuckle and jasmine that seemed to linger in the air. The Lady of Scara Brae would also notice Ruby squeezing her form a bit tightly, a testament to the rigorous training that Emma had to plead with her father to receive. It was all too obvious that the girl had to negotiate the training out of her father, which also explained why Emma was wearing a gray sweater and blue jeans to hide her toned thighs and slender biceps.

"A friend of yours?" Leopold asked with a sincere curiosity to his wife, causing Emma to turn around and nod. The girl grabbed the nonexistent trims of her nonexistent dressed and tried to fancy a curtsey. She could tell from the closeness of Leopold and Ruby that they were a bit intimate, even without the teen's special ability of advanced hearing.

"Indeed, sir," Emma spoke regaining to feeling to nobility to her previously aloof voice, "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Emma Orlouge, daughter to Sei Orlouge. I guess you could say that Miss La Roux is....well I suppose she's the closest thing I've had to a mother figure. Please excuse my outburst."

"No need to apologize, dear," Ruby spoke out for her friend, "And it's Winchester now, Emma. Ruby Winchester." The words of the more sophisticated lady seemed to deal a blow to the teen, a reply in the form of a quick head jerk back and forth between the Winchesters. Ruby's reply was a nod, followed by a small laugh from her lithe form. It seemed some things never changed, including Emma's easily excitable demeanor.

"Well," Emma finally spoke once more, turning to Leopold with a gentle smile, her slight overbite flashing just the smallest hint of her pristine front teeth, "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I look forward to seeing what Miss....Winchester sees in you." The young girl nodded happily before turning towards the man who had remained quiet during this entire display. From the looks in the eyes of both Ruby and Leopold, he was a stranger to them as well, which concerned the Orlouge girl. "So you are..."

"His name is Godric," a gruff voice came from the still opened doorway. Emma turned to see the large frame of Tinerad Orlouge leaning against the frame, a smile on his features. The once raven black hair of the Mystic had been tinged to a grayish color, but still lead all the way down his mid-back area. His skin seemed to have adopted the tanned color it was known for years, and he would have many more scars than what Godric would remember, not counting the one that the 'demon' had caused, a thin but apparent line placed just above the warrior's upper lip, from one corner of his mouth to the other. "He's done right by me so far. We can trust him."

All of Emma's elegance left once more and she went to hug her grandfather. The older Mystic let out a hefty laugh as he began to walk towards the crowd, the younger Orlouge still embracing him as they walked. Tinerad winked at Ruby in a 'Good to see you' fashion, sent a nod towards Leopold's direction, and placed one of his large hands on Godric's back in a style that comrades would do, causing the smaller man to stumble forward a bit.

"I thought you might not show," Tinerad spoke to Godric, a smile still on his face, "but I thought you might enjoy helping out an old friend, and occasional rival." Tinerad thumped his own chest proudly, the clanking sound of his metal breastplate heard throughout the room. It was rumored that nobody had ever penetrated that armor, a rumor that seemed to have substance judging by the clean glimmer of the breastplate.

"Ah, good. You're all here," The 'voice' of Sei Orlouge caused everyone to instinctively look to the door. The Mystic was looking down at the checkered linoleum tile, debating whether or not he should replace it with something far less plain. Looking up, the orange haired youth smiled towards to group. "I assume you all have been briefed Rangers. Any questions?"

"Yeah, I have one," Tinerad spoke up, deciding to voice the concern of everybody in the room, "Son, weren't -you- the reason that the Raiaera elves are without a home in the first place? I mean, your strategies in Alerar almost single handedly allowed Thoracis to obtain all of his goals."

Sei looked to his father; the smell of bread that the giant man seemed to give off overpowered the scent of Ruby and Emma's perfumes. Judging from his motley crew of liaisons, the mute was unsure if he could even get the party to eat together, much less attain a common goal. The young man looked to his parent with a nod, turning from the crowd.

"It's true. Being Thoracis' Head Strategist during the war does put me in a most unwanted spot in the eyes of Raiaera. However, we have been told to offer out air in liberating the country as a sort of collateral for aiding us. Perhaps they will forgive my sins if I offer to take their country back for them." The mute turned his head back to the crowd, saying one more thing before they were on their way to meet with the last contact at the mouth of Concordia.

"Besides, if there is a fight to be had, none of you look like you would protest..."

[Ruby]

The first to arrive in the hall was not their host, but another man seemingly hired to do the same duty as Ruby and Leopold. They exchanged curtsies and nodded their polite introductions between the last mouthfuls of their meal and fell once more into silence. Whispers in such a grand space could swiftly turn into proclamations, and their plan and motives had to remain entirely between husband and wife if they were to succeed in their attempts without being caught. Though they both knew the only result would be the betrayal of a friend’s trust, it would be a high price to pay for a simple, stupid mistake.

When Emma appeared a few minutes later, the Winchester’s silent vigil ended. The hubbub of conversation and introductions exploded into a menagerie of titles, comments and polite recollections. The duo put down their cutlery hastily and stood back from the table, side by side hand in hand. When the Orlougnes introduced the first man to enter as a trusted confident, Ruby looked positively mortified.

“Do excuse our rudeness, sir. We did not realise you knew the Orlougne family in person, it is so difficult to distinguish between made man and mercenary in this time of war and time of trouble.” She bowed with a curtsy, tucking her knees so that she lowered her ample assets and tilted her head forwards. Leopold rolled his eyes, and wondered why he had to beg to get a bird’s eye view for even the briefest of glimpses.

Before he could protest further, Ruby broke away, giving her husband a warm smile with red cheeks as she prized their clenched fingertips apart and strolled with excitement to Emma’s side. The women instantly entered fevered clucking, the sort of high pitched, erratic conversation women who had not seen one another in more than a day engaged in to compress a year’s worth of gossip and hearsay into the allowed space. Leopold could only stand and admire the tapestries and lofty heights of the hall with an awkward loneliness that came as part of the marital alimony of marriage to such a provincial but caring woman.

“Have you been practising since we returned from Beinost?” Her first question came with a clucking trill of expectation, which was returned full force with a single high pitched note from Emma’s well-formed lips. They had worked together in the ruined but still functional school, side by side in cantoris and high verse and Ruby had seen not only some of herself in the young lady, but something else entirely; musical greatness. “I am so pleased Emma, I really am.” Her rosy cheeks continued to glow in the cold, colourless and drab environment of the meeting hall.

“Father would never have let me come with you if you had not have convinced him, so thank you once again Ruby.” She turned to one side and raised a heel, entering a sort of half seductive half catwalk stance. “I’ve been working out, can you tell?” She giggled.
Ruby nodded and smiled, and at the end of her rainbow smile, she clapped her hands together and nearly started to cry. The men of the Tantalum were so easily trained and whipped into line on the stage they posed no challenge and no reward to the matriarchal needs of Mrs Winchester. Emma, however, was a true protégée, a student worthy of such a venerable and talented teacher. Their reunion, however, was short lived by the intrusion of a familiar voice. It was foreboding enough to have the man’s words enter your head, to rattle about in your skull, but for them to contain such remorse was another sphere of horror altogether.

“Where the devil is he?” She muttered, looking around the hall, skimming over dusty cobweb, unpolished silver and the haggard looking forms of the various military minded Orlougnes she had never bothered to remember the names for. She caught sight of the orange hair through the gaggle of family members and smiled weakly. She did not like to see Sei in such a pensive mood, it did not bode well for the success of their mission or the outcome of the objective they had been hired to complete.

Leopold appeared behind Ruby and they held hands once more, the odd couple of the Scara Brae nobility fitting in splendidly amongst the venerable old battle axes and enigmatic men who had auras thick as oil about their gruff, menacing faces. Neither of them knew anything about the history of the civil war, with exception of their involvement long ago when she had been Celia Burton and Duffy had been Lysander Brandybuck; they had been foolish heroes who had died for the cause then. She had no intention of repeating history.

“Why would we protest, Sei?” Leopold said, “We signed up for a fight,” he smiled, though his portly frame and well to do attire did not reveal any particular talent with a weapon or any particular competency with magic to compliment his enthusiasm. “Tell us where to go, where to swing our blades and we’ll go.”

“Tell us where to sing, where to dance in the fire and brimstone, and we shall sing.” Ruby looked to Emma and the bundle of lithe muscles and youth looked back at her tutor’s eyes. The fiery pupils exchanged the glimmer of energy that they had both found on the ruined shores of Raiaera months ago, and they both smacked their lips at the prospect of putting what they had learnt to practice. Even though Ruby knew that her words could very much kill, shatter bone, cut vein and crush souls, she held no reservation about using her spell singing to obtain her desires. Emma would have to learn about the repercussions of using her voice in her own time.

“Let us be on our way, there is much to talk about and much to discuss concerning your plan, Sei, but standing here over stale bread and stew you could decorate a swamp with will save no lives and levy no army from the remnants of a once proud kingdom.” She practically pulled Leopold behind her as the crowd started to move out of the hall. In no time at all, the lofty heights and rafters were replaced with a knotted canopy of dense trees, jade green diamond leaves hiding away the radiance of the midday sun that shone down across Concordia with indifference of the exasperated people who suffered for nature’s bounty.

Ruby and Leopold exchanged only a few brief words about their purpose in Corone at whatever opportunity they were offered. In between their clandestine meetings, they talked to Sei of his plans and how they might put their own unique talents to use to convince the refugees to fight for their cause. Though Sei carried much weight and charisma about his form, Ruby’s voice and Leopold’s art were encapsulating assets and could enslave as well as entice, and if push came to shove, Ruby was not averse to using her magic to do the darkest of deeds…to kill.

She had taught her pupil many things about blade singing and spell singing, but there were some truths she would have to learn about in a more practical, vocational environment. Emma Orlougne would have to learn about the repercussions of using her voice for war the hard way, because there was something’s you could not teach even the most eager pupil. She only hoped that trudging through rotten leaves and ankle high mud was worth it for all their sakes. The scent of spring air and moss clinging desperately to the trunks of ancient oaks might have been a welcome ambience compared to the stagnant air of Sei’s hideaway, but Ruby was not best dressed for the great and wondrous outdoors.

“Tell me Sei,” she broke the momentary silence in their journey, not caring to check wherever or not the mystic was already talking to one of the many in his political entourage. “Why so pensive? It does not bode well to see the Hero of Radasanth suffer the weight of regret on his haughty shoulders.” Though she meant the question with honesty and kindness, her usual sharp tongue and fiery aggression pushed the words into the realm of insult, and Leopold gave her a firm tap on the shoulder to chide his wife into line. She darted daggers at him before looking back at the almost mirrored image of her own form; red, young, emotional and longing for reason to shine in the eyes of an adoring public.