Quest Shipment Recovery

[Rae'twyn Suvalissaere]

Spoiler: Music

The meeting point was chosen for its anonymity, no doubt. In the dying dusk, Pitchgate stooped below the shadow of its mightier brethren; the towering gates and walls that marked grand entrances to Alliria. In their gloom, a small gate fit for a country town teetered between the Outer City and the Areck Slums, as reluctantly as its meagre sentries, faces sour below pot-helmets, knowing they had gotten the shorter end of the stick in their duties. It led one to the bit of wetland near the coast, too muddy and untamed for most merchant carts to bother crossing, preferring greater gates and drier footing.

Portcullis shrieking in rusty lament, it allowed exit for those who sought escape from the Outer City into the unprotected slums, stone giving way for rickety wood. The guards looked upon any such traveler with scepticism; the sort of scepticism that weighed the options insanity or stupidity equally on their scales of experience. But for those seeking to come in? The gate only reluctantly opened, its manned operation knowing who brought trouble and who brought manpower to the districts of various crafts beyond.

A group on horseback would already stand out by their sheer mounts. No meagre mules here — no, these horse were all black as night and powerful, muscles rippling below saddlebags and harnesses. The queue of denizens seeking entrance to the Outer City gave a wider berth around this company, chief among them two figures, both wearing long cloaks, equally black as their horses, hoods drawn well over their faces, as if made to melt into the night. Below those hoods, though, they might as well have been night and day.

The first was a human with stubbled skin, mouth puckered into a taught line. His leather gloves clenched tight on the reins of his horse, a rapier jutting out from below his cloak like an open-ended question. If tension could be described with a person, it might well use this man, looking as taught as a bowstring.

The other, however, lounged in his saddle as if propped up by cushions below his cloak. Similarly, he wore a lazy smile — all gleaming white teeth, daring anyone to come question his presence. Hair white as woven moonlight spilled out from his hood, veiling skin too solidly dark and midnight blue in its tinge to belong to a human.

"You think she'll arrive, then?" asked this smiling rascal of the human.

"Oh, she will. You should have seen the look on my sister's face meeting her. I don't think I've seen her this intrigued since she received a diamond dagger from Lazular."

The white-haired rider turned his head subtly, noting the sulking tone in his companion.

"Does my eye spy a touch of jealousy here, Master Fane? A lack of familial affection, perhaps?"

A snort from Fane near matched the one from his restless horse.

"Nothing of the sort, drow. But I know that look. It always precedes a dangerous plan. And that nun, well — she seemed innocent in the way I find few to be these days," Fane's lower face twisted with regret, and he raised his reins, as if considering making it back through Pitchgate. "We shouldn't be doing this."

"Nonsense, my good fellow. A spot of wind in our hair and then a leisurely sail back home. What could possibly go wrong?"

"If you're attempting at humour, you're sorely lacking. In any case, what do you gain from risking life and limb for my sister's whims?"

The smile below the drow's hood widened — and hardened into something much more disturbing.

"That is for her and I to know. But now that you mention it, I think I know which look you mean . . ."

"That so?"

"Mmm--yes, I believe I saw it right before I corrupted her soul with my particular craft. Frightening, really. I never knew humans to have such endurance, such vigour . . ."

"On second thought, keep your lying mouth shut. I don't want to hear your deranged fantasies."

The drow tapped a long-nailed finger to his chin, as if mulling over a philosophical conundrum.

"Now I wonder how a nun compares to a noble. Are they flagellants, by any chance—? Or perhaps— ah, hello, where you going now?"

Fane couldn't endure the drow's lascivious pontifications any longer, cantering his horse out of earshot.

Lilette Blackbriar

 

[Lilette Blackbriar]

Her white cloak gleamed like moonlight; a reflection of the Allirian sun beyond. Folk paused their craft to stare, entranced by the ivory maiden whose features blended into ashen hair, and hair into argent fabrics. Only her lips showed any sign of color, a gentle pink gone pale.

In stark contrast, she bore Nightspell in her arms as though it were a delicate icon of her faith and not the long, black blade that it was.

And yet she took gentle steps down the cobblestone as though it were weightless.

When the ghostly figure arrived through the Pitchgate, she had mercifully done so after the Drow had finished fantasizing over the occasion. Her silver eyes gleamed still gleamed with her own fanciful imagination and great curiosity.

"Ser Yldore." she bowed her head.

And once more for the others of her company.

"Good sers. Art we prepared to depart for yonder coast?"

The nun examined her party; a curious bunch of ruffians donning dark cloaks and visibly armed, but perhaps looks could be deceiving? if Lady Yldore could enlist a woman like herself to this brave and noble cause then surely a few of these warriors were diamonds in the rough.

She nodded satisfactorily to that answer and joined in.

"Ah, Miss Yldore told'st me a steed would'st be prepared ere mine arrival."

"Would'st one of thee showest me to mine beast in question?"

She looked up at them nervously.

---

Rae'twyn Suvalissaere​

 

[Rae'twyn Suvalissaere]

"Ser Yldore." she bowed her head.

Fane gave her a nod of greeting back, then ducked his head below his hood and looked away, as if embarressed. If Rae'twyn could believe the manservant, their first meeting had gone rather disastrously. Perhaps the young gambling addict finally felt a spot of shame? An interesting turn, to be certain.

The group parted to reveal two horses: saddled, ready and riderless. Rae'twyn took the opportunity to slip off from his own mount first, movement fluid as oil, and take one of these horses by the bridle. Thus leading it to Lilette, he offered it with exaggerated reverence.

"I present to you -- your mount. Lasse Sua'co, I like to call him." Rae'twyn clapped the black stallion with something akin to rakish fondness, mischevious grin meeting the watchful eye of the horse. He waved his hand quickly, as if to dismiss nurturing his mother tongue. "Lady Lilette, was it? Your reputation precedes you. I am at your service." He made a flourish of his hand and gestured at himself, right below where a strange ruby pendant dangled from his chest. "Rae'twyn is the name. And we are but waiting for one more. I am led to understand that, ah . . . you are to lead this quest. Is that not so?"

Marek
Lilette Blackbriar

 

[Marek]

Marek came in from the side with the easy confidence of someone who had never once questioned whether he belonged anywhere. Leather creaked, blades chimed faintly, and he cast a lazy glance over the assembled party before his eyes landed squarely on the drow and his florid display.

A crooked grin tugged at Marek’s mouth. “Want to offer your back as a footstool next?” he drawled, nodding at Rae’twyn. “Might as well let the lady use you to mount up, save her the trouble.” His tone was light, mocking, but sharp, the kind that made it clear he was only half joking.

Internally, he snorted. Gods, this one was really laying it on thick.

His gaze flicked briefly to the woman in white. Pale. Deathly pale. Marek squinted. That’s a woman who’s never seen the sun. She’s probably incredibly wealthy.

He rolled his shoulders and stepped forward a pace, resting a hand on his belt. “Marek,” he said simply, voice gruff, no flourish, no bow. Just a name, solid and unadorned.

His eyes swept the group once more, impatience already creeping in. “So. We riding out, or are we still waiting on someone else to make their dramatic entrance?”

Lilette Blackbriar Rae'twyn Suvalissaere

 

[Rae'twyn Suvalissaere]

A peal of cutting laughter first issued from Rae'twyn, his face contorting into a mirthful mirror of a grin. Mockery reflecting mockery.

"Oh, I'm afraid none of you could afford my back. Least of all you, my dear Marek." His grin turned as oily as his movements, pouring into a friendly smile; about as friendly as a loan shark seeing a return customer — all pearly, sharp teeth.

“So. We riding out, or are we still waiting on someone else to make their dramatic entrance?”

"Well, we were just waiting for your timely arrival. But I agree, let's not waste any time in saving your aching purses, mm? We wouldn't want to let down your creditors, after all."

The pointed remark was not only aimed at Marek this time, but at Fane Yldore as well, whose face darkened grimly below the hood. Rae'twyn didn't seem to mind at all though, flashing his eyebrows knowingly at Lilette and making a last, commenting bob of his head to his fellow elf:

"Then he finally comes in at last, crying 'haste, haste!' Tut, tut. The young are in such a rush, aren't they?"

Lilette Blackbriar
Marek