Quest Allirian Nights Chapter 1: Introductions and Inquiry

[Petrus Ritus Iskandar]

Iskandar Estate: Alliria - Tertiary Dining Hall


In recent weeks Petrus Ritus Iskandar, head of the Allirian merchant house of the same name, had put out quite the call among the Allirian underworld for those interested in "coin and possibility" as the hushed whispers, and scant few official dossiers that had been passed around, detailed it as. Indeed the gathering taking place now, in the third hall of one of Petrus's many estates around Alliria, was far from an official thing. Many unseemly and far from trustworthy contacts had been pried and cajoled with influence to bring an assortment of individuals from all walks of life to the hall this day. The only restricting factors, the only barriers to entry, being an unspoken mixture of influence and aptitude from those who wished to attend. Even hearing of the gathering to take place would require either an excess of one or a respectable amount of both. Like a feedback loop of signals looking for those who could reciprocate in kind.

For those present, from whatever walk of life they may have held, there were quite a few rumors and tidings they could have heard about their host for the evening. The most prevalent and obvious being the inordinate, draconian wealth he possessed. As much spoken of as it was, now, displayed in the lavish offerings of food and drink present in the hall. From cured meats to more spiced fungi it was no exaggeration to say that the sheer amount of food on offer alone would require the lifetime salaries of dozens of peasants. Rudimentary fountains, propelled by gravity and minor enchantments, would flow with dark chocolates and other confections, while a few small, entertaining contests were held for a small selection of a half-dozen personal, Iskandarian vintages of a half-century cinnamon wine. A novelty and exquisite brand all in one.

The room itself, ostentatious and elaborate, bore two dozen sentries clad in the elaborate black and gold coat of arms of House Iskandar. Though perhaps rather telling was the fact that the blades on their hips were not, to one experienced with warfare and weapon maintenance, decorative. Those half-dozen on the upper balconies also made no attempts at hiding the finely-crafted crossbows in their grasp, as it seemed well enough known by all parties involved that every person here today was contacted through means that did not make them exactly.... trustworthy. Even, perhaps, less so than the usual nobility Petrus entertained. A few individuals had been called into the office at the far end already, those who had arrived earliest to the 'festivities' now in full effect.

By now a half-dozen individuals had entered the office, stayed for several long minutes, before exiting the office without a word and returning to the festivities. No one who emerged from the private office gave any indication, if they had one to give, of what had transpired inside. There was a complete halt in the individuals called into the office, before a well-dressed attendant of the house stepped out of the office and cast a casual, scrutinizing gaze over the gathered crowd before announcing loudly enough to make their voice heard over the clamor of lesser conversations. The next person summoned to the office to be....

"The Lord Iskandar requests the presence of the Lady Seretha Ibnat Rezhe, if you please."

The attendant would await the approach of whomever this Lady Rezhe made herself known to be, his demeanor inscrutable, before he bowed politely and opened the door for her with a cordial muttering of...

"Madame."

For those still in the dining hall a small band would begin to fill the hall with gentle woodwind music, background supporting sounds in the form of gentle strings, in a tune meant to invoke feelings of calm and enjoyment.

Spoiler: For Seretha

Inside the surprisingly intimate, small office sat Petrus Iskandar himself. His expression somewhere between contemplative and furrowed as he turned a small object over and over in his hands. He did not stand to greet Lady Rehze, did not even raise his eyes from the object currently captivating his attention, before his voice would speak in a calm tone accustomed to being obeyed.

"Sit. You are the first prospect to bring me any sort of hope in your competence."

When Petrus did raise his eyes to Seretha he did not show any trouble in his expression, at least overtly, though the downward tilt at the corners of his mouth did deepen a bit at the sight of, of all things, an elf. With striking amber eyes did Petrus stare into Seretha's gaze without a bit of hesitation or, if one was to be critical of him, respect. Instead he sat, imperious even in the small office chair, over the elven woman and would slowly lean forward as he stared into her eyes. Extending the object across the table, whether intentional or not, it would draw Seretha's eyes down to a small vellum on the desk if she had not seem it already, where each and every of the half-dozen names above her own were harshly struck through in dissatisfaction. The black ink a heavy, merciless expungement from Petrus's interest and measure.

With a very soft 'tap' the square object would be set upon the table, an elaborate, thick thing of bone and inlaid onyx. A minor artifact, if one was to be generous, that murmured a low cloud of necromantic energy. It was no great, wondrous item, though a bit too potent to be a fool's bauble. Small engravings would line each side of the upper square, while the onyx center seemed carefully, mechanically inlaid into the bone it was socketed into. For someone of Seretha's skill it would be a moderate task to decipher. An interesting combination of energy storage and puzzle in one, something contained within, to be hidden and only unlocked by precise incantations of necromancy.

Having given Seretha a moment to ponder the device Petrus rest his elbows on the desk, motioned with a hand, and simply commanded one thing.

"Decipher this, if you can, you've two minutes."

That said Petrus would calmly extend his hand to something behind himself, setting an odd device to ticking in time with the seconds, before lacing his fingers in front of his mouth and watching Seretha with level, scrutinizing eyes.

Seretha ibnat Rezhe Zulgrid Valkanthrandilax Tarsas Môdhryd Patrik Fetladral Quoril Dingo​

 

[Seretha ibnat Rezhe]

It was unavoidable for Seretha to admit that the party was far more impressive than basically anything she had attended both on purpose, and with the host's foreknowledge and consent. It didn't surprise her in the slightest when she realized there were at least a score of guards in full plate watching them, especially as she took in those assembled around, nearly all of whom seemed in some manner impatient, paranoid, or friendly in a way she didn't find particularly settling.

For a moment, she wondered if this is what it felt like for others to have to wait in her own presence, but she missed it quickly. She was well more pleasant, surely. Rather than make any real attempt at small talk, she stood over the food tables, endlessly consuming canapés with little regard for how it might have looked to anyone else. She was a deep pit of needed energy, and could easily keep herself that way for the next two or three hours until sleep was her limiting factor, as she touched her fingers to her necklace and closed her eyes, draining some of herself into the bone charms held there.

To her surprise, however, she had only counted six audiences before she was herself called in. She sucked some of the oils of the cured meats off her fingertips and wiped her hands on the inside her inner cloak - the one they hadn't requested she leave at the door for safety reasons. It was thin, practically sheer, and clearly just a fashion accessory rather than anything with real utility. This is, utility beyond just being a surreptitious towel.

What luck, she thought, smiling at those around her as she made her way to the attendant. And a "Lady" and a "madame" too. That was inordinately pleasing, though she had no delusions that such honoring would continue.

Though, then again, if she was here then it was likely that the host already knew of her talents. And she hadn't seen any Templars.

She entered the small office, a claustrophobic space to someone used to nature and open pavilions, and sat when the man within told her to do so. Her chair was noticeably short, and her smaller stature than many beyond her own kin didn't help matters as she realized how small she felt sitting in front of the man who offered no tells that she could read. All he did was place a small but thick tablet in front of her.

He sat silently, so she reached for it, looking it over and turning it every which way. It felt in some way familiar, and the power emanating from it was unmistakable. Certainly magic, and one that felt easy to manipulate for her, rather than just a pure taste of unknown energy. She looked into the onyx and tilted it around until she could nearly see her reflection, and felt drawn into it until the man finally said something.

"Decipher this, if you can, you've two minutes."

That snapped her back to reality. The first step was to rule things out. She consciously bade her other sight to take over, and her eyes darkened with a stormcloud-like sheen. There in that plane of being, the tablet had a slight glow to it but nothing connecting it out into the void. So, she had to assume, nothing involving the dead themselves.

Back in the normal realm of things, she leaned in close to the inscriptions and recognized them, though silently cursed herself for not outright taking books from the library at Crossroad Mire. She probably could have done it. Her magic was largely self-taught, after all, so the reading of inscriptions was not in general her forte. That meant examining the feeling of the embedded magics themselves and working with those, like picking a lock instead of using its key.

Timewise, that could be a lot of work, and she had already wasted forty-five seconds. She focused on one of the inscriptions, cutting the work in half for now. It sounded firm, strict, unwavering in its insistence that words be spoken to it.

Her nostrils flared. Its smell was, however, fleeting and indicative of a construct which was expecting a specific approach to dealing with it. That was good. She probed and prodded, looking for way behind the enchantment, to separate it or fool it.

Pushing some power into the bone - it was a dead thing after all - she suddenly could hear words in her ears, though their actual existence in the real world was up in the air. She repeated them softly and one of the inscriptions seemed to glow slightly as though to let her know it was done.

Now for the other half, though she noted that she only had forty seconds left. She tried the same trick on that side but couldn't channel in enough to get the same result. It seemed to have a deeper hunger than the first.

Twenty seconds.

Only a fool would keep trying something that yielded no indication of potential success. There had to be something else.

Fifteen seconds.

Fuck it, she thought, shaking a bracelet loose and into her palm so she could press it hard into the object. If the previous method was lockpicking, this was sheer breaking and entering. The charm there began to drink deeply from the power stored behind the enchantment and suddenly the thing clicked as the other inscription was apparently fulfilled.

That was too easy, almost as though that was its intention all along.

Well, it wasn't a win for her scholarly literacy, but the tablet opened and out dropped the onyx as the top of it split.

She placed it on the table heavily, inordinately pleased with herself, with ten seconds to spare.

"I admit," she said, "I fell for the red herring at first, if that means anything to you."

 

[Tarsas]

The letter had come to the door of the house through a courier late one evening. Outside of the shallows and the suburbs of Alliria, in the woods outside of the city, Askel rarely received visitors. The small house comprised of several rooms allowed him to live peacefully away from the city, obtained as a reward from one of his former employers. His reputation and his distance from the city was enough that thieves avoided the house and did not find it worth burgling. Regarding the knock with a measure of caution, he had waited a moment before answering the door. Set in his hand was a letter, passed off by a man dressed in courier’s clothes. Askel had handed him a gold piece and taken the letter.

It was the contents of that letter that caused him to find himself here, invited into this banquet hall in the house of one of the wealthiest merchants of Alliria. The estate was illustrious and opulent, like many of the great noble houses of the city. Askel had to travel through the wealthiest part of the city to arrive at his destination. He donned his most expensive cloak, reserved for his various assassination missions amongst the wealthy populace of the city. To his surprise, he was allowed inside with all his weapons and armor. Once in the banquet hall, it became clear the reason. Dozens of soldiers lined the room, some equipped with crossbows and some with swords. All of them were poised to deal with anyone who might cause trouble.

Wearing a fine royal blue cloak, freshly polished armor, and shined up boots, Askel looked at least somewhat like he belonged. Figuring it best not to appear suspicious, he decided to indulge himself in the wine since it was the only drink or food item he could consume without throwing it up later. Thankfully, he was freshly fed, and his strength and speed were at peak levels. Observing the layout of the room from a seat at the back corner under an alcove, he surmised that if things did go south, he could slip into the shadows using a rune of shadow walking to hide himself from view. He had not paid attention prior but did look up and notice when an elf was called upon and escorted into the next room by an attendant.

Askel continued to observe, using his enhanced senses to discern the layout of the room. Despite the lethargy that feeding brought his senses, they were still sharper than a human’s. He detected a pungent smell, something like a dog and a deer laying next to each other. It was peculiarly unlike anything he had ever smelled before and was bizarre enough to arouse his curiosity. The hunger, though freshly sated, shifted in his mind, a strange sensation he had yet to experience. A word formed in his mind, though not spoken to him, as the hunger was hardly more than a part of his biology, the instincts that presided over his base survival. It was more like information he obtained from knowing what his senses were saying. The word echoed through his psyche as he acknowledged the instinct, predator. He began to observe the room more carefully to ascertain its source.

 

[Môdhryd]

It had been some time since Môdhryd had been in any hall approaching the one in which he now stood, and even then: Farhold was far more comely, both in character and provision. In truth, he hadn't stepped foot within Alliria in the better part of two years; he certainly didn't expect to be sitting in the hall of some noble. It'd been nearly two weeks since he'd overhead a portly fellow, his fingers so engorged with wealth and gout that they had nearly-glowed purple around his jewel-encrusted rings, speaking of “compensation” – 'Once again...' When Môdhryd had waylaid the man and his carriage, it was the first thing he offered-up in payment for his life: some man looking for his own sort, some sort of meeting, an “evening of festivities,” as it were.

Môdhryrd was given a ring – he presumed a signet – to offer for entry; while he'd displayed it at the door, it wasn't taken from his possession – though his own, false name was: Vidar Malthûrn. Well enough. It would fetch almost as much as what he'd otherwise pried from the be-gouted swine's own belongings. The guards for the night, too, he noted, were not the sort of high-gardened spectacle he'd come to expect of Alliria: they were true to their sight, be it veteran or mercenary. They smelled faintly of sweat and sunflower oil; well-dressed, yes, but not merely for show.

As for the rest: beneath all the finery of the feast, the heady aroma of mulled and spiced wines, and half-a-dozen burners of incense and fragarence, the lot was a motley crew of the worst sort. Man, dwarf, foul-fetched keebler: they all stank of peasantry, commoner desperation, cisterns and emptied ale casks, and more than a thousand other potent swirls carrying the seedy tells of the societal underbelly. Môdhryd almost felt at home, were it not for the mask of deceit that the hall itself exuded, as if to hide the presence of cut-throats and burglars. It was enough to keep him from eating, at least just yet – nevermind the suspect nature of it all. He did, however, bother to carry a small glass of mulled wine with him; it smelled neither of apple nor almond, and while bewitching wasn't out of the question, he considered it worth the risk.

He'd dressed in an attire he found fitting for the evening, even if all he'd bothered to do thus far was walk among the pillars and observe. Môdhryd kept little in the way of high-class attire and accouterments, but he wasn't completely lacking in the way of means to deceive. Even so, he dressed in the style of a well-rewarded sellsword: smithed pauldrons over padded leather and cloth, a fitting shirt kept tight around his neck, close to his chest by bonds and straps; for trousers, they billowed in the mercenary style common of the Reach, tucked trim into his shin-boots. Begrudingly, he'd left his greatsword behind, reckoning a check for such an item at the door; it was stashed in a manner. He was sure to keep his hip-bound arming sword; the guards did not seem fussed by such.

Of which, too, he'd noted the effective kill-box they'd crafted from the balconies above the party. In consequence, Môdhryd preferred to keep himself beneath the same, just off to the side of much of the revelry. Were this some charade beyond what civilization normally chose to spin, he'd at least not be knee-deep in bolts immediately. As he loitered, he continued such observations: counting guards, counting servants and attendants, making note of each. A particularly drunk halfling – boasting of himself the finest thief south of the Drawa – made a ruckus after diving headlong into the bosom of some well-to-do knightly sort; the slaps that followed were loud, but the halfling's own celebration from receiving them were all the louder.

Abruptly, a well-dressed man began a summons call for some “Seretha”; the woman that produced herself made Môdhryd's nostrils flare. She smelled of soil and sand, and the coast, but all disguising the tell-tale sweetness of decay just beneath the surface. Rather suddenly, he didn't feel the mulled wine was to his liking, setting it aside onto a silvered pewter tray an accompanying servant provided. Something uniquely set his teeth on edge – something beyond the suspicious affair and assortment of vagabonds, rogues, and scoundrels: something about the woman. Môdhryd mulled leaving; there was certainly something off, but then the reality of the situation took hold: if there was to be some manner of pay, especially from the likes willing to throw such a soiree, it may be worth it to at least see-out the possibility. The belongings of the swine would only last so long, and could only be bartered-up and strong-armed to such a degree.

'Dam' it all,' Môdhryd cursed inwardly, yanking another glass of wine off the tray of a passing attendant; he downed the drink entirely before the man had even managed realize it was gone.

---

Petrus Ritus Iskandar​

 

[Evelyn Briarthorne]

"Stop right there Miss," a rough voice halted Evelyn's advance. "Don't know how you managed to get in, but this is a very important meeting for big grown ups only."

Evelyn stared silently up at the much taller man, a blank disinterested look on her face. Why was she being stopped? Wasn't everyone here a person of note and renown in the Allirian underworld? Why would she be any different?

"Where's your mother? Does she know you're traipsing around the dark corners of the city?"

"Where's my mother?" Evelyn repeated flatly. "Likely out drinking and gambling. Either that or at home trying to fuck her wife. Probably both in the same night knowing her."

"Oh so we think we're funny now do we? Well listen here you little-" the guard's face grew bright red as a second hastily stepped forward.

"Name?" he asked.

"Evelyn." she answered coldly.

"Aw, what a pretty name! Well, Miss Evelyn, why don't you just scurry along home and-"

"Briarthorne." Evelyn added pointedly, the tiniest hint of annoyance entering her voice. If nothing else would get her in, her name alone certainly would, though she hated having to lean on it to accomplish things. So much for dreams of making a name for herself.

"Briarthorne...?" the man echoed with confusion. "Why would such a powerful family send-"

"They didn't." Evelyn interuppted, her voice slipping back into its usual bored monotone. "I am here on my own, for my own purposes." She stepped forward. Where others would have stopped and presented letters of invitation, Evelyn had none so she just continued forward, pushing her way past the guards. They looked at each other and shrugged. What was the worst a child could do?

Once inside the lavish room, Evelyn immediately began looking around. Not out of fear, but out of curiosity. She wasn't there to fight. There was information to be learned and gathered, and after some moments, her head was full of mental notes and observations.

A younger man in a blue cloak seemingly a bit older than herself, consuming nothing but wine despite the delicious foods piled high on platters. Was he trying to get drunk and just not hungry? Or was some sort of condition preventing him from eating?

There was also a grizzled old warrior type hiding away off to the side. Had he, like so many of the others present, been drawn in by the possibility of riches beyond his wildest dreams? Or was he perhaps, a member of the security, and just wearing different armor? Though that didn't seem likely in Evelyn's mind.

Her gaze shifted as an elven woman appeared from an adjoining room, though Evelyn couldn't glean much from her except to notice that she wasn't the typical Fal'Addas elf that one would normally encounter in Alliria.

The rest of the guests, for the most part, were nothing to write home about, and so Evelyn figured she might as well try the food while she was there. If she ultimately failed to learn anything useful, at least she would've gotten a full stomach out of the meeting.

Smoothing out her jet black dress, she made a beeline towards the chocolate fountains, and relished the opportunity to dip anything and eveything in reach into it.

 

[Valkanthrandilax]

Valkanthrandilax didn’t deal in the underbelly of Alliria—or other cities, for that matter—so much, but the allure of gold was nigh irresistible. He had no qualms committing certain acts to acquire it, so long as the risk was acceptable. After all, the dragon burned many caravans to ash, tore out the throats of fellow dragons to claim their wealth for himself, and slaughtered trespassers without a second thought in ages past. Well, the latter was something he still did with zeal.

He’d happened upon one of the dossiers and put himself forward as a candidate. In the form of a wiry, black draconian, he approached the guard at the entrance. Even with his thin build, at around nine feet tall, he still towered over nearly all of the lesser races. This included the guards, who had to incline their heads to meet Valkanthrandilax’s gaze.

“Name?” one asked.

“Valkan.”

“Right this way.” The guards pushed open the doors.

The shape-changed dragon found himself in a grand hall showing off extravagant wealth. It was the clearest display of how much coin the client might offer. He took a tentative step forward, obsidian talons clicking against the stone floor. Valkan hummed as he tilted his head back and observed the armed guards stationed throughout, armed with crossbows and swords. He seemed unperturbed, though it was difficult for most beings to read the draconian’s pointed face in general. To most humans, elves, halflings, dwarves, and the like, it was simply too alien. Still, he was relatively limited anyway. The glossy black horns emerging from his brow and sweeping back over his head didn’t permit the raising of a brow; his lips were, for the most part, stiff; and it was practically impossible to tell where, exactly, his glowing violet eyes were pointed, as they lacked visible pupils.

One might’ve been able to tell from how casually he trotted up to a table, spaded tail swishing behind him, and plucked a star fruit off a tray that he was pretty much unbothered by the silent threat looming over the guests. A rune near his shoulder glowed a little more brightly than the others before he snapped it up. Despite his nonchalant behavior, Valkanthrandilax still took note of those gathered. He was mostly unimpressed. Two looked like children. He would’ve raised an eyebrow at that if he could’ve. His nostrils flared as he snapped up the chocolate. One grizzled, aging man smelled… off. Something wasn’t right with him. The elf who disappeared into the office seemed like one of the most normal ones here thus far. Valkan leaned against a tall, glossy, black staff inlaid with glowing golden runes. While his magical might was nearly unparalleled even without, it was nice to have a conduit for a little boost.

While a draconian had little to show, he still presented some manner of decency, wearing something akin to a dark toga to cover up as much of his body as he could. On his torso, they were little more than wide strips of cloth draped over his chest and fastened at the back, as his large wings did not permit full covering. More cloth cascaded down to roughly his knees, leaving much of his scaly legs exposed. Valkan didn’t display much decency eating, however. A plate of pork ribs disappeared down his gullet in seconds. He strode by Môdhryd as he finished downing the wine he swiped off an attendant’s tray.

“Do try the pork. It’s exquisite.”

He ended up at a chocolate fountain, eyeing the trays of pastries and fruits arranged around it. The draconian stood only a short distance away from a girl only around half his height. Valkan took a strawberry between the tips of his claws and held it under the flowing fountain for a moment. He brought it back out, and with a snap of his jaws, it was gone. The sorcerer noticed Evelyn Briarthorne nearby.

“Ah, almost thought you were Lord Iskandar’s granddaughter and wandered in here, but I should hope he wouldn’t put his dear kin in the line of fire of our friends above. Then again, the nobility don’t come across as being above that. Well, at least you would be a harder target.”

He shrugged, adjusted his wings, and flicked his forked tongue, tasting the sweetness permeating the air around the fountain. Valkanthrandilax took a wafer next. From the moment he took that star fruit in his claws, he’d augmented himself to resist poisons. He hardly trusted the man, and he would’ve been a fool to eat it without any precautions whatsoever. And he was going to enjoy delicious food now that he had some manner of protection.

“He does have some excellent chefs in his employ.”

 

[Zulgrid]

"Name?" Came the voice of Allirian poshness incarnate.

"Zulgrid... Of Cerak." Replied the voice of waves crashing against ancient rocks.

Then entered a dwarf with an eye patch dressed in an ornate outfit of dark navy and sky blue. Accented by turquoise jewels in his beard, hair, earrings and inlaid in the straps of his sandals. But any thug or soldier could tell that he was wearing a vest of light chainmail beneath his tunic. To say nothing of what he might have up his sleeves.

He gave the firm headnod of roguish greetings to each guest he noticed as he made eye contact with them. Except for the elf. He had walked in after she had already walked out. But he entered in time to hear praises to the chefs coming from a draconian.

And yet somehow he hated hearing that. His hackles we're up when he noticed the setup here. This was a little too luxurious for something that he heard about in Teth. Something smelled funny. The guards were wrong for the luxury. The luxury was wrong for the way he'd found out about this. And...

Shite, he thought, may as well try the wine...

Taking up a glass he found himself entering more into the spirit of his surroundings. As he smelled the wine, he began to feel better. When he finally drank it, he decided to try the food. He'd been sober for far too many days. It could be starting to effect his judgement. He tried the spiced fungi. It wasn't bad.

Then he went for a second glass of wine and when he'd taken a few steps from the attendant, there was that Human mercenary type standing there. He raised his glass to the man and sipped it.

"Good drink, eh?" Came the voice of crashing waves.

Môdhryd

 

[Patrik Fetladral]

Patrik was having himself a interesting night.

On the way into town he'd encountered some kind of noble or something, his wagon having become stuck as it had tossed a wheel. The driver for this wagon was busy trying to fiddle with the wheel, the noble in question bemoaning how he was going to be late for something, and Patrik, being the good natured soul he was, decided to stop and help. After getting them set on their way, he'd hitched a ride with the driver the rest of the way in town, a small gesture of thanks.

When they reached the city limits, Patrik would hop off, making his way into the town when he caught something particularly poignant in the air.

Food. Lots and lots of extremely good smelling, hot, and what surely was delicious food.

His stomach growled as he hadn't had something outside of the pack rations he'd been carrying for about a week or so now. That and his curiosity was now abound. He walked towards the smell, coming upon a large manor surrounded by a low wall. The smells were coming inside, and he saw a que to get inside. There was a slight problem however.

Whereas most of these people seemed either well dressed, unique in their person, or otherwise well distinguished, Patrik.... was none of these things. There was no way he was getting inside the proper way. And his stomach growled loudly, telling him that he was certainly going to want to get inside. His traveler's cloak, simple black leather armor, unkempt hair and unshaved face, and travelling pack were going to be dead giveaways that he wasn't invited to this. He looked to the low wall however, and sized it up. This would be an almost rudimentary obstacle, as big as he was he'd be able to scale it no problem. He took his pack off and stashed it in a small spot next to the wall. He paused when he looked at his weapons and decided that those should stay as well, a simple dagger should be sufficient if things got out of hand. Plus he was definitely going to avoid a fight if possible.

He glanced over at the main gate, making sure that the guards were entirely focused on the people in front of them, and did a short hop to grab ahold of the top edge of the wall. From here he pulled himself up and muscled himself up and over the wall. As soon as he cleared the top though he doubled over, keeping himself low to the wall in case there were sentries watching from the manor. From here he would do a simple roll over the wall, hang from the other side and drop to the ground with a soft thud.

From here it was child's play to sneak inside, the guards seemed intent on watching the main drag where all the activity was, and Patrik was doing everything to stay far away from that. He would do his best to find a side door, probably used by the servants of the manor, and slipped inside. The hallways were certainly quiet, and empty of traffic thankfully. Probably everyone was entirely focused on this gathering that was going on. Small blessings and all that. Patrik quickly moved through he house, his boots making almost no sound with practiced steps as he followed his nose. He'd either make it to the main hall, or the kitchen and so long as he ate some of this delicious food and heard a few good stories, he didn't really care. As he came upon a door to another room he stopped and cracked it open to peer inside.

His jaw almost hit the floor.

The room, was packed. And ornate enough that it put some of the most wealthy individuals he'd happened to be in the presence of to shame. And the smells. Patrik's mouth watered a little at the smell and sights of delicious food in front of him.

He was most certainly going in there.

Patrik would quietly open the door, step just inside of the hall, and close it silently behind him. He took a silent breath and just said to himself under his breath.

"Keep calm and act like you belong,"

He then skirted the edge of the hall, making a beeline for where the vast majority of the food was being served. He tried to keep his gait and stature casual, a little hunched over to hide his size a bit better, and staying away from the center of the hall.

Hopefully no one asked any questions in here. Or too many of him. There were stories and food to be had here. And he didn't want to miss out on either.

Petrus Ritus Iskandar | Môdhryd | Zulgrid | Valkanthrandilax

 

[William Dreixmond]

William felt his mouth water. Saliva pooling in the well betwixt his teeth, his eyes large as they took in all the lavish plates with food piled high.

He was especially intrigued by the chocolate fountain.

Still, he moved with caution. So much so that he had given the name, Alois Tencopper at the door. An amalgam of acquaintances really. Not that it mattered. He could hardly believe that he was back in Alliria. So soon after all the mess he had left behind in the Crossroads.

Sand beneath the waves, he reminded himself. On to better tomorrows. Tomorrows with good food in them.

Roast chicken, grapes, cuts of cheese and healthy chunks of fresh bread were all piled high on his plate. His upbringing the only thing that kept him from picking at his plate. He noted a man that looked as hungry as he felt, not too far from where he stood.

"Here for the offer of work?" the disgraced scholar said with a wistful smile.

Patrik Fetladral

 

[Petrus Ritus Iskandar]

Iskandar Estate: Aliiria - Tertiary Dining Hall

Spoiler: For Seretha

The "catch" to Seretha's test would be clear to anyone who could observe the interaction from the outside, that is to say no-one but Petrus himself, as rather than have any interest in how Seretha solved the artifact before her Petrus's stoic, granite gaze remained ever on the face of the elven woman as she set about her work. The hand that had set about activating the ticking mechanism sweeping up a quill, dipping it in ink, and placing it neatly upon the paper with an impressive amount of dexterity given that Petrus never directly looked at anything that hand did.

No instead Seretha was his sole, intense, focus. Not only was the she-elf being tested on her efficacy with Necromancy in general but more importantly whether she was able to even properly utilize it under pressure. Petrus was all too familiar how comfortable magic could feel in an academic, or perhaps more accurately a noble setting, but he had learned long ago in the Falwood that in order for magic to be of any use to the wielder the complex weaving of the energies of creation must be comfortable enough to the wielder to use in more common reality. That is to say.... panicked and pressured.

As Seretha neared the thirty second mark Petrus would let out a disappointed exhale from his nose, as if consigning Seretha to failure already, a heavy ink blot falling from the quill to the page beside where he had written her name. The black mark of a coming condemnation to be. His eyes would harden as time ticked by, lower and lower, implacable as it's passage was.... before Seretha placed the stone on the table, successful. Seretha's words would be met with Petrus's eyes finally leaving her face to gaze down for a moment that, in the wake of the rush of the test, drug on forever.

Finally, when he spoke, his voice was blunt and stony with lack of emotion.

"It does not. The item was not of my creation."

Once again displaying a bit of ambidexterity Petrus's eyes and right hand would sweep up the onyx, peering at it in the light, while his left changed it's motion from striking out Seretha's name to putting a tally beside it. A stark, unmistakable contrast compared to the earlier failed applicants above her name. Petrus's voice now coming out in a low, murmuring rumble.

"Intriguing...."

Petrus would then calmly place the quill in the ink pot, sweep up a small jar from beneath his desk full of sand, and deposit the onyx within it gently. With this done Petrus would turn his head back to Seretha, his gaze now less heavy on her and more contemplative as he set the sand jar back below the desk.

"Inexpertly but ardently performed Lady Seretha. If this night continues on it's.... expected schedule you will have one more test presented to you. The nature of this expedition dictates we thoroughly scrutinize those possessing your.... unique skillset. Now then, that is all for now, you are welcome to return to the festivities and enjoy yourself until such a time as I send for you. But know that, thus far, you have performed the most amicably."

With that done Petrus would turn his gaze down to the page and begin to write a new name, waving a vague and dismissing hand at Seretha, with their business unilaterally considered concluded.

Seretha would find the door to the office opened for her by the same attendant who had originally called for her audience with the Lord of the house. It was not until a minute or so following Seretha returning to the festivities that the band playing would pause, take some time to adjust their instruments, before beginning to play a much more lively jaunt of a tune. The attendant would take this time to vanish into the office for a time, stay there for several minutes, before exiting the office and striding off to business unknown for long enough for conversations to progress.

However, once the attendant returned he was not alone. Two half-ogres joined him, carrying an odd contraption. It was shaped like an "L" with a facsimile of a humanoid torso attached with it's back facing the spine of the "L". Between the spine of the "L" shape and the mannequin were three orbs of crimson substance, directly behind where indicated striking surfaces were denoted on the torso. The half-ogres would set the contraption with it's back to one of the feast halls as the attendant cleared his throat and put on a level, polite smile. His voice now flaring quite a bit louder than before as a small rune alighted at the base of his throat, empowering his voice magically across the bustling hall.

"If I could have your attention for but a moment. In order to liven the night amid the food and chatter, and separate from the personal assessment of our Lord, the House Iskandar would offer a small purse of rewards for any who wish to display their skill at swordsmanship...."

The attendant would calmly place a rather hefty sack in the grasp of one of the half-ogres before drawing a hand-and-a-half sword from the sheathe at his hip and nodding.

"....using this blade any participant is welcome to hack or stab as indicated by the targets on the torso. A slash to the throat, a stab to the midsection and a disarming slice to the arm.... however, the goal of this contest is control and precision. As one can see each of these targets is backed by a precariously maintained orb of, ostensibly fake, blood. The goal is to commit to the actions presented and cleave as close to the orbs as possible WITHOUT causing a drop to spill from them. Even a single nick or drop let loose will result in disqualification. Now... each attendee is welcome to try their hand but once, so do put your best foot.... or perhaps most aptly your best sword-arm... forward. Thank you."

With the fun little contest lain out for the attendees the attendant would calmly place himself back in his previous position beside the entrance to the office, calling out two more names, causing a few more minutes to pass, and ultimately making it a near twenty minutes from the time Seretha left the office until a third name was called.

"Next we have our only draconian attendee, Sir Valk, right this way if you please. Your attire is quite fitting Sir."

The attendant would bow respectfully, opening the door for Valk to enter, and smile cordially.

Spoiler: For Valk and William

Valk would find the small office a good bit different, unknowingly, to how Seretha found it. Instead of a small chair on his side of the desk Valk would find something less likely to cause his physiology distress than something as cold, or potentially inconvenient for his tail, as a wooden chair. Instead there were luxurious covers and pillows laid out in a circular arrangement in the floor, along with rather expertly manipulated and warmed stones both along the inner and outer edges of the pit to keep the draconians scales warm.

Petrus would give a small nod to the tall draconian and motion with a hand, the two names preceding his own and following Seretha's were both harshly stricken out, and Petrus's expression was a good bit more bored than it had been even during Seretha's display. Denoting that the prospects preceding Valk had been, if not entirely inept, simply boring to the Lord.

"Seat yourself as is comfortable. I've no time for fools or the incompetent, but my guests are worth some accommodation until they prove, or disprove, themselves to be either."

Petrus was no fool, however, and could easily feel the potent and intricate magics emanating from the Draconian. Likewise Petrus was not at all the simple wealthy noble he presented himself as. To whatever degree it may have surprised the hidden dragon or not, he boasted a particularly astonishing level of magic reserves for a human. Whether by some arcane ritual, some fiendish bargain, or simply being born a freak of his race Petrus was a respectable quantity above the normal human limits for most magi. Revealing, perhaps, to the dragon that he also made routine use, and practice with, whatever magics he reveled in.

Petrus had no sooner spoken than once again retrieving the jar of sand from beneath his desk once Valk was situated. Calmly setting the jar before the draconian on the desk Petrus pulled the plugging lid free with a small 'pop' and held his hand above the opening. The sand inside would swirl gently, magic softly singing in the air, before a small onyx rife with magic would float into Petrus's hand. Petrus would then set it on the edge of the table close to Valk as he moved the jar of sand aside and motioned to the draconian.

"There is more to this onyx than meets the eye. One of your predecessors has freed it from it's prison...."

Petrus calmly retrieved the bone pieces from a nearby the shelf beside him and set them beside the onyx for Valk's perusal.

".... I will offer you ten minutes to scrutinize this onyx and provide what information you can."

Petrus would gently set the timing device to ticking, lean back in his seat, before calmly pulling a tome from beneath his desk and setting to reading it. Should Valk care to look at the tome it was title "A Thesis on the Relations of Horticulture and Necromancy: By William Dreixmond".

The onyx would radiate moderately potent Necromantic energy, that much was more than clear, as it radiated the cold of death like some sort of malevolent ice-cube. Permeating and filling the air, and Valk's hand should he touch it, with numbing cold without protection. Perhaps more intriguing to the disguised dragon was that should he set his eyes on the depths of the onyx purple runes would alight and whisper from it's depths. Perhaps most uniquely amusing is that these runes whispered in Draconic of all things but it was slurred or, perhaps more accurately, encrypted and hidden by another powerful dragon.

It would make perhaps some sense then, to Valk, why the "lesser races" present had struggled with such a thing. As though the onyx did not ruminate excessive power it held the impersonal touch of another of his true kind. Obscuring both the name of the dragon in question and the onyx's purpose within it's dissonant whispers. The Runes themselves a more personal touch of the onyx's true owner, someone less powerful than and certainly less skilled than Valk or the unknown dragon it held a lingering trace of.

While deciphering and unweaving the runes of the onyx's owner would be a paltry task for Valk, a simple transposition of runes an adept of the art would find potent, it was perhaps more of note to Valk the name they unveiled to him. One he may or may not ben familiar with:

Geladryx: The Emerald Death

With that bit of new information only the deeper secrets of the onyx remained, muttering now in the original owner's perception of Geladryx's powerful voice, the imperious voice of a dragon speaking to a lesser being. The magic drawing deeper, the runes flowing more into the dragon's personal script, and becoming substantially more difficult to decrypt in the process as whomever owned the onyx acted as a mere sieve through which what power Geladryx saw fit to put into the onyx was entangled and twisted, encoded by happenstance, and housed within the onyx.

Ultimately, however, the echo of even a powerful member of one of his own kind was within Valk's power and ability to scrutinize and conquer. Unveiling the secrets buried within the onyx to the hidden-dragon as a compendium of sorts. Possessing incantations and information for a necromancer under the service of Geladryx, a reserve of magical energy, and intonations for fairly potent necromantic spells. Nothing a Master of the art would be impressed by, but, certainly not something any failure of the art could conjure.

Seretha ibnat Rezhe Tarsas Môdhryd Evelyn Briarthorne Valkanthrandilax Zulgrid Patrik Fetladral William Dreixmond​

 

[Seretha ibnat Rezhe]

The man was unsettling, Seretha had to admit. There was something about his eyes for certain but also the sheer fact that this item she had opened for him wasn't something of his own devising. It wasn't a test puzzle, at least not one that he knew much about. What had she just opened, then?

She committed the item to memory as best she could, consciously describing it to herself in her head. She was dismissed with the expectation of another test and a wave, and with that, she was sure, went any acknowledgment of her existence for the foreseeable future.

All the same, she said, "It was a pleasure, sir," expecting it to remain unheard.

Standing, Seretha prepared an illusion for her face to make it less recognizable to the crowd outside, just as she had when she had entered. She would not lie so blatantly to a prospective employer - unless, of course, it was plainly necessary to do so - but the mob outside of the office and the guards around the perimeter meant nothing except additional risk.

The illusion warped her nose, her eyes, and hid her ears behind a mostly-transparent mask which made them very human shaped. Her hair developed graying roots and a lighter auburn highlight, though she knew better than to attempt to change the hairstyle itself or make any drastic changes. Hair, after all, was unpredictable in its movements, and her lesser talent for illusion work was already taxed. She was her previous average, brown-eyed, older human woman as she stepped back out into the crowd.

Before she could forget, she withdrew her notebook from where it was tucked against her hip by her belt and found a seat. She quickly committed her memory of the tablet to the page with a string-wrapped lead, and made notations of her experience with it around the edges.

Sighing, the burden of trying to recall something so exactly now released, she returned the notebook to its secure position and returned herself to the food tables.

There were definitely faces that she didn't recognize from earlier - latecomers, apparently, or else simply so unremarkable that she never noticed them. She joined two others who appeared to be hovering over the food as much as she had been, considering them to be some kind of kindred spirit, and began grabbing more of the chicken and cheeses present.

"Can you believe all this?" she said to them. "I should come to Alliria more often."

Once again, she became a nigh-bottomless pit to feed as she ate well more than anyone would expect a woman of her stature to be capable of, all the while using the intake to fuel her storage charms. Before the night was through, she would be full to the brim.

As she loaded some various fruits on her plate, she noticed at a table not that far from her a familiar face. Well, a familiar nose and hood, anyway. He was glancing around, and so she started waving in his direction, "Hey, kid! Ask--."

She stopped mid-word, coughing to cover her tracks, remembering that with the current crowd here, he might not have wanted his name shouted out.

---

Patrik Fetladral William Dreixmond Tarsas

 

[Tarsas]

Still appraising the air for the strange scent, he was soon distracted as a girl who appeared younger than he did entered the hall. Appearance was, of course, relative once one ruled out those who possessed more limited lifespans. Both briefly appraised each other and Askel determined that she wasn’t one of the people here likely to cause a scene. Following her a few moments later, a Draconian entered the room, tall in stature and brimming with magic power as most Draconians were. Approaching the table, he began sampling the food.

Turning his attention to the dwarf, he greeted his nod in turn with a nod of his own. The drwarf had been the first to pay him any real mind, which lifted his mood a bit despite himself. Life was lonely at times, being what he was. The guards had so far made no movement, which reassured Askel a bit more that this wasn’t some sort of trap by the Allirian Guard. It occurred to him that it was likely somewhat suspicious that he was not partaking in the offered food but he did not know how long he would be here and didn’t want to regurgitate it later in a display that the invited guests would find off-putting.

Askel’s enhanced vision caught a man skirting the corners of the room, hunching over and trying to stay hidden. He was very clearly appearing as if he wasn’t supposed to be here, to Askel at least. It wasn’t that he was doing a bad job of blending in, in fact, most of the party guests probably wouldn’t even notice him overly much. It was just that Askel was conditioned by years in the Shallows to spot that sort of character. Whether the man was a thief, assassin, or otherwise, he didn’t much care. It wasn’t his job to report every out of place individual in the room, the guards could handle that much themselves.

The final newcomer that Askel’s eyes came to rest on briefly was a hungry looking individual who was focusing very heavily on the spread laid out before him. The smell of the excess saliva his mouth was producing wafted across Askel’s nostrils, a less than pleasant smell but hardly the worst one present here. The lanky man began to socialize with the individual who didn’t appear as if they were supposed to be there. Askel spotted more newcomers in the room, though they were hardly worth noting. Most of the brigands and cutthroats here would be dead in seconds if any sort of confrontation occurred and he had already mentally worked out how he would attempt to eliminate most of them if it came down to it.

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the attendant, who explained a party game that had a hefty reward attached to it for winning. Askel’s skill with that style of blade greatly paled in comparison to his accuracy with a ranged weapon and capability with a dagger, therefore he had little interest in trying the game with the proffered sword. Askel figured he might try another way to win, and clicked the catch on his right gauntlet, which caused an internal mechanism to release a lever that popped into place between his pointer finger and palm. Once depressed halfway, the lever would cause the limbs of the crossbow to deploy from the sides of his gauntlet, tensioning the string behind the preloaded bolt. Once he pressed it the remainder of the way, the gauntlet crossbow would fire.

Both the hidden crossbow and the bolt were small but lethal at close range. He was raising his arm midway when he was interrupted by a shout in his direction. "Hey, kid! Ask--." She stopped as he jerked his head up, wondering who could possibly recognize him. Askel regarded a familiar looking individual who had shouted his name from the central table. Noticing her familiar smell, he thought back for a second and suddenly remembered her from the mission to slay the Naga. He stood up and went over, not wanting to be rude and deciding to get some insider information on what was to happen when he was finally called into the other room.

Noticing with some trepidation he was entering the crossbow killbox, he approached at a casual pace. “Oh, it’s you. Seretha, was it? I see you also received this nobleman’s invitation.” As he approached the center of the room, the dog-deer scent grew stronger, and he finally pinpointed it coming from a grizzled old knight nearby. He turned back to Seretha, attempting to “see” Môdhryd without looking.

Petrus Ritus Iskandar Seretha ibnat Rezhe Môdhryd Evelyn Briarthorne Valkanthrandilax Zulgrid Patrik Fetladral William Dreixmond

 

[Môdhryd]

The party bustled as yet more food, more drink, was ever brought forward and presented. More than a small handful of the assembled vagabonds and rogues, once reeking of the filth of poverty and desperation, had begun to gain the aroma of inebriation. Môdhryd leaned his head forward, glancing upward: the crew of crossbowmen seemed unperturbed, even stoic, watching as their proverbial wards continued their revelry. He didn't like the notion - hadn't when he'd first spotted them - and the growing raucousness of the party only seemed to make the circumstance more questionable overall.

Just as he began to lean back, a sudden rush filled his veins. Môdhryd's nostrils flared wide even as his eyes narrowed. A familiar scent: instinctively, his mouth filled with salivary anticipation. Darting, Môdhryd's gaze swept across the crowd, searching for its source: the source of the smell, the source of blood. It was old, but not terribly so. The smell was naked, crisp, tinny - far different from the smell to which he was accustomed, to the smell of life that surged through the party-goers. Theirs did not drive intrusion to the degree he felt, their cruor thinned by the rich largesse provided.

When the draconic entity passed and spoke, Môdhryd barely provided a dismissive grunt of acknowledgment, his mind only briefly registering "overgrown lizard" as a thought. He was of little interest; Môdhryd had eaten his fair share of snakes, lizards, reptiles, and amphibians since Farhold, and found few of them satisfying and fewer still even enjoyable in the moment. The scent of incorporeal energies wafted around the creature, which in his youth would have raised a manner of ire, but now? No, but somewhere in the crowd, close, was something unique. Another sharp inhalation told him of the blood's comeliness: nothing special, spare that it was there at all. Beneath it, however, another perfume served as an undertone: a smell he had not perceived in quite some time.

"Good drink, eh?" a voice suddenly announced itself; a deep baritone, it sounded grizzled, brined, and vaguely melodic in its intonation - oddly akin to his own.

The interjection drew Môdhryd's attention back, forcing him to quiet the bestial intrusion pushing itself forward at the back of his mind. With a quick glance, the source - the speaker - was discerned: a dwarf. He looked all the part of his voice: stout and barreled, but built less portly than many of the deepkin Môdhryd had encountered in his life; the regalia and odor of salt that seemed to permeate his skin forced him to assume the dwarf must be some manner of sailor, or at least accustomed to coastal life.

Already, however, the hall was drawing him back. Across the party, over the tops of the revelers heads, Môdhryd spotted a door swing open only slightly, slowly sliding back into place. "Good enough," he gave the dwarf in response, his attention clearly diverted. He hadn't seen who, or what, had caused the door to open, but a primal curiosity tickled in the back of his mind nonetheless.

The band had stopped playing, prompting Môdhryd to set aside his emptied glass on a nearby attendant's tray. Without further word, he abandoned the company of the salt-touched dwarf, slowly working his way back toward the rear of the hall. Either the truth of the matter was about to be revealed, or there would be violence. Normally, he could hear the twinge of decisiveness in the hearts of men, but even with the band gone, between all the voices, the mixed cacophony, and the myriad odors that assaulted him in the hall, each note had become muddied and indistinct - spare that of blood and, rather abruptly, a peculiarity.

'An ogre…?'

The scent-driven thought was nigh-confirmed at the sight of two gargantuan figures dawning into the hall carrying some contraption Môdhryd found reminiscent of a gallows - complete with a hanging man, or, at least, a portion of a facsimile of such. The pair were not ogres, at least not of any manner of which he was familiar: too short, too soft in their features and physique. 'Half-bred,' Môdhryd thought as the high-class attendant began to detail the nature of the competition.

A party-goer called Môdhryd out in description; he did look the mercurial sort, and it seemed some drunken reveler had it of his mind to pull the tall, northern man to the competition outright. For a moment, he paused, then stepped forward; in the corner of his eye, a figure entered view among the crowd. 'Found you,' Môdhryd thought, nearly breaking from the impromtu actions underway, the social pressure to entertain; for a moment, a flash of memory overtook him: back in the wilds of Eretejva, among his brothers, when drink often led to contests of strength and resilience. What notion he had to dismiss the reveler's prompt faded.

The sword was offered to him with little ceremony. Gripping it in his dominant hand, Môdhryd let the blade relax downward. It was satisfactory, clearly of some craftsmanship; it wasn't a mere slab of steel, and felt more than comfortable in his hand. As for the contraption, he stepped forward, keeping the blade low as he only briefly inspected the device, ascertaining its purpose and methodology. It was a simple enough contest, but it relied on either finesse or brute strength; the interior of the facsimile torso was unknown. Even a great swordman could find his blade deflected against bone, if struck wrong, if hit at an angle that simply refused to cooperate.

Stepping back into a position before the odd assembly, Môdhryd rolled the hand-and-a-half blade over in his grip, tightening his hand once the sword fell into an upright posture. He could thrust; a thrust would work, beneath one bauble and above the other. That, however, would leave less in the way of forgiveness if the interior of the torso was modeled appropriately or held some trick: one tiny, errant sway, and the tip could graze, disqualifying him. With the striking edge, however, he could compensate: even if some internal difficulty sought to deflect his blow, the fragile bladders might only graze upon the flat - safe, more sure.

Abruptly, Môdhryd spun the blade forward in a counter-clockwise rotation over his grip - a practiced maneuver, largely meant to dazzle and distract or to entertain among the sellswords of free companies. When the blade fell once more into his hand, he gripped, pivoted, maneuvered himself sideways into a stride, and made his move. Swing. He gripped the pommel to add control and greater leverage; he aimed for just below the vague shape of a nose, just above the plane of the highest of the bladders he eyed while carrying forward his striking poise.

Short of trickery, Môdhryd drove the leading edge of the armament through the torso's uncanny face, where upon a real man mandible would meet maxilla. He stepped into his strike: this was a blow aimed to take-down cavalrymen in the field, and Môdhryd wielded the relatively light weapon with the strength required for one five times its mass - deliberately. There were sounds: fake flesh cleaved, some cracking, then a resounding "thunk." Môdhryd held his position, eyes forward, motionless.

Without fate's intervention, the blade not merely sliced through, but struck home, deeply embedding itself into the edifice that had supported the mass - like an axe into a great oak. As his perception of time returned to normalcy, Môdhryd listened for the sound of the body to hit the floor.

---

Patrik Fetladral Tarsas Valkanthrandilax Zulgrid Petrus Ritus Iskandar​

 

[Patrik Fetladral]

Roast chicken, grapes, cuts of cheese and healthy chunks of fresh bread were all piled high on his plate. His upbringing the only thing that kept him from picking at his plate. He noted a man that looked as hungry as he felt, not too far from where he stood.

Here for the offer of work? the disgraced scholar said with a wistful smile.

Patrik Fetladral

Patrik was trying his best to walk between guests, ensuring that he could just slip through unnoticed by most untrained if not a few well trained observers as well. His father had been an elf after and moving through the woods with things entirely more dangerous and perceptive than most mortals were very hard things to train against indeed. But he wasn't exactly an assassin, or used to crowds, being more at home in the trees and weeds of Falwood, or in the wilds of the surrounding regions. He'd seen a lot, and gathered many stories from his travels so far, his father would be so very proud when he told him all the great tales he'd experienced. But he had to remain focused, he could gather stories later, food was the primary objective right now.

Which was why when he was walking towards the table he almost froze instantly when someone spoke towards him.

Uh-oh. Uhm.... act natural. Play it cool, play it cool.

Patrik looked towards the man (William Dreixmond ) with a sheepish grin, he had to think of something, and fast.

"Well, I mean sure the offer of work is certainly something I could appreciate," He started, slowly, trying to buy himself some time "But I do find myself quite curious about the kind of people I'd find here, it certainly -"

He was cut short when the room turned around to focus on an attendant, a small game being presented with a probably small to these people purse for winning.

Nevermind that such a "small" purse was probably more gold than Patrik had ever had to his name in his life.

He did however see that a certain someone had stepped forward and was walking towards the display, and he could've sworn that it almost looked as though he'd seen Patrik. He felt his hairs stand up on his neck as he realized that he was probably surrounded by a lot of very, very dangerous people. And he'd tangled with small giants, some kind of demon knight thing, and others.

But he felt very outclassed here.

This was only accentuated when the man stepped towards the figure and in what seemed to be a practiced, almost casual display of how skilled and strong he was with a blade, and slammed it home inside the dummy. Patrik gulped a little bit, suddenly feeling how dry his throat was now that he fully realized that most of these people were not only that dangerous, but just how out of his league he was here.

Patrik knew his way around a sword. With a bow there were few he knew that could compete with him outside of elves with their natural gifts towards the things. This man, he felt, would view him as nothing more than a plaything.

Still, the food was right there. He tried to sheepishly chuckle to hide his nervousness and start edging towards the food.

"Well that was certainly impressive..."

Petrus Ritus Iskandar Seretha ibnat Rezhe Môdhryd Evelyn Briarthorne Valkanthrandilax Zulgrid William Dreixmond Tarsas

 

[Valkanthrandilax]

Valkanthrandilax pondered if the attendant just gave him a backhanded compliment for a moment, eyes narrowing ever so briefly, but his attention turned to the office he was beckoned into.

"Many thanks, Lord Iskandar," he replied with a quick bow, wings spreading slightly and tail coiling forward to accompany the gesture. He took his seat amidst the arrangement, which, truthfully, looked more like a bird crouching. The draconian's legs simply folded up. Still, even on the floor, Valkan's height was such that he was easily able to look across the desk. The title of the book Lord Iskandar read from wasn't lost on the dragon, nor was the wellspring of magic radiating from his prospective employer. The hidden dragon dismissed those thoughts for the moment as he quickly shifted his focus to the task at hand.

He stretched his neck out to inspect the onyx, then glanced at the bones set to its side. Typical necromancers, he thought. The sorcerer extended his obsidian claws and held them over the small, black stone, feeling the chill emanating from its surface. He withdrew his hand to visually inspect it, peering into its center. His violet eyes narrowed as words formed in the abyss. One minute of his allotted ten already passed, but the mage's posture was relaxed, shoulders slouched, tail coiled loosely on the floor around his wiry body. Even his wings were held loosely above his back, draped over his form.

"This stone holds information transcribed by a servant of the draconic necromancer Geladryx," Valkanthrandilax stated. He clacked his jaws once, biting back some of his opinions on said dragon and his attempted conquest of Alliria. The speech became more garbled and warped. Oh, he preferred how Geladryx's servant did things earlier. A few minutes passed as he untangled the speech in his mind. He was no necromancer; virtually every other arcane art had more appeal to him. It certainly made the task more difficult than it otherwise would have been for a master of the undead magics. Given the speech was Draconic and it was getting more complicated even for him to interpret due to the heavy distortion, he had to wonder if Lord Iskandar actually knew what information was held within the depths of the stone.

"Geladryx himself used said servant to encode instructions on how to cast various necromantic spells," he continued, leaning back. "They were largely intended for others in his service. These include methods for powering them, particularly soul sacrifice. He inhaled the souls of the recently deceased, as there was minimal loss in potency with a fresh kill, and taking them into his own body made their manipulation easier. He warns of the cost otherwise paid: his own lifeforce."

Valkan leaned forward again to look into the cold stone, listening intently to the other dragon's voice. A low rumble reverberated in his throat as he interpreted further text. Another minute passed.

"There are Draconic incantations of necromantic spells, including puppeteering deceased flesh, the binding of life and spirit energy to deceased life forms, warding flesh from decay, stabilizing dying life forms, and tethering one's life force to another living thing. Only verbal components are detailed for each spell; non-verbal components, aside from the aforementioned life and soul sacrifices, which are more general, are not described. Not for each individual spell, anyway. Some of the incantations also appear to be incomplete. The information likely faded with time, as all enchantments do, and the sieve—his servant—was not powerful enough to completely and clearly encode all of the information such that it would last longer. Some of the spells can still be cast, but may be weaker without additional non-verbal components. Certainly weaker without the complete incantation."

He paused and tilted his head ever so slightly.

"It also gives approximate locations of other necromantic artifacts: archives of spells, recorded histories of his exploits, and conduits to power spells. They are located in swamps, ruins, and caves scattered throughout the Allir Reach, the Bayou Garramarisma, and the southern parts of the Spine."

 

[William Dreixmond]

'Well, I mean sure the offer of work...'

William agreed, with a nod. "Yes, quite the crowd, a mix of calibers and merit, to be sure," he went on picking some morsels for his future self. A couple of minutes from now, he was sure of it.

A woman joined their side.

'Can you believe all this?

William laughed. "Hardly, to be quite honest," a hint of nerves there in the shake of his chords. "A far cry from the hard biscuits and salted meats of the road, certainly," a wide smile came across his face, but his eyes still looked distant. Gaze laden with a cold sadness.

It was the motion of her that drew his eye. The repetition that came with her consumption. Not a graceless devouring, no, far from it. It was almost discreet. But his eye had a thing for patterns. Cadences and details.

"My..." he said with a hint of awe in his voice. Stared, before his mind registered that he was staring, and so he turned away. Nervous smile there again upon his face.

There was a call for a game. Participants drawn forward to test their skill.

No, no. Certainly not a task for him. He had. Other strengths. So William went on smiling, and ate up a bit of cheese and buttery cracker. Popped a grape into his mouth and savored the pop of its skin within his mouth.

A newcomer approached their small group. "Hello," he said in a small voice, with a bob of his head.

Around him, people hushed and turned to face the contest.

In the distance, a wave of surprise and impress washed over the onlookers as the contest was bested. William looked to the aftermath, saw the ruined contraption. Frowned, but there was no sorrow behind it. "Certainly," he agreed with the man he had spoken to first. "Do you fancy giving it a try yourself?" he asked, made a strained sound, and took a bite out of a piece of roast chicken.

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Seretha ibnat Rezhe Tarsas Patrik Fetladral