Private Tales Hate or Glory

A private roleplay only for those invited by the first writer

Marcia

Cogitare
Dreadlords
Messages
221
Character Biography
Link
"We're losing light," came the quiet observation from Euan Cawdor.

He was an unassuming boy, cursed with a youthful face, narrow frame, and the thick eyelashes of a particularly bashful cow. From a single glance, you wouldn't have guessed that he was a Dreadlord Initiate, trained to be the arcane hand of Vel Anir's military might.

"No shit, Cawdor,"
Limont quipped in return, making a face at the boy as if to suggest he was an idiot. From the back of the horse, the lanky Initiate made a sweeping gesture to the horizon where the setting sun was nestling behind the trees. "We've all got peepers, y'know."

"O-oh, sorry, I was going to suggest that we stop for the day."

Marcia frowned. Initiate Cawdor's suggestion was perfectly valid, but their assignment was time-sensitive. They had been sent out to locate a pair of their missing peers, who had been sent out on a fact-finding mission on the road between Vel Anir and Vel Stratholm on the back of reports of 'suspicious activity'. With Anirian focus settling on Cortos, and the vague and dubious nature of the reports, they had sent Initiates in place of Dreadlords or the Guard. However, when the pair did not return it warranted the dispatch of double the Initiates.

"I feel like we're close,"
she muttered, narrowing her eyes in the hope that she was going to spot their missing peers in the next five seconds, which didn't happen.

"Well, I'm starving," Catrina Bletzin chimed in, clearly irked by Marcia's intention to carry on searching into the night.

Limont was prepared, looking back at the martial artist with a lop-sided grin that suggested he was prepared for this eventuality, and he was; he had the map. "You're in luck, sweet cheeks, we should be coming up on an inn shortly. A hot meal, a few rounds of ale, real beds. The whole damn dream."

"I didn't say we were fucking stopping."

It wasn't the first argument that had sprung up on this venture, and it likely wouldn't be the last.

"Marcia, I don't mean to offend, b-but who put you in charge?"
Euan chimed in, his tone nervous as he challenged the authority she had inflicted on the rest of them, immediately sending Limont into a frenzy of cheers, fist-pumping dramatically at the other boy's stand.

"Wowee, Euan's got a pair! Standing up to tyranny! Hope you're wearin' a cup, she might kick you in the dick,"
He grinned, reaching over to awkwardly fist bump the shy Initiate from across horses, a gesture which was not reciprocated. It didn't hinder Limont's stride. "Didn't you know, Marshall Marci? We're in a dem-o-cracy now! Thought you were all well-read and shit."

"Right. Hands up for stopping,"
Catrina announced, her well-toned arm immediately shooting into the air, followed by both of Limont's arms and then a tentative hand up from Euan. "Then it's settled. We're stopping."

Marcia wasn't going to take it lying down, shaking her head and gritting her teeth at the other three out of sheer frustration. People were missing, and when people went missing, everything became dictated by time. The time that wasn't spent searching was time that the two missing Initiates could have been moving further away from them. A long rest could have been the difference between life and death. Yeah, she was hungry and tired too, and the thought of fumbling in the dark looking for them wasn't an attractive prospect, but there were things more fucking important than their comfort.

"How would you feel if one of us went missing and the search party was more excited to eat, drink and get fucking merry?" The short Initiate seethed, making sure to look at every single one of them in the eye as she lectured them. Cawdor couldn't meet her gaze, Limont shrugged but looked away at the challenge, but Bletzin held her stare.

"If you went missing, Marcia? I wouldn't even fucking look."
 
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Limont’s claim that they were 'coming up' on the inn had not been the entire truth, much to Marcia's frustration, as they left the open main road and down a branching path leading into the forest. Mercifully, for the scoundrel, the conversation had evaporated into terse silence following Bletzin's biting comment, so he escaped a further tongue-lashing for the time being.

The light fled as they moved deeper into the woods, the setting sun a memory for another day. It spurred Bletzin to increase the pace, riding ahead of the group at a canter before Limont joined her. They seemed to be engaged in a hushed conversation, but Marcia remained too angry to give a single shit, quietly hoping that the martial artist fell off her horse instead.

"I'm sorry about earlier, Marcia. I didn't mean for things to get heated," Cawdor piped up at her side, his big, tragic eyes apologetic, "but maybe they stopped here?"

"Maybe," she replied stiffly, in a manner that made the boy recoil somewhat.

"W-well, there's no harm in asking around."

The Aching Hooves Inn was an unassuming place. Its function was evident as a point for weary travellers to rest before continuing their journey—nothing more, nothing less. It nestled into the trees on a bend in the road, the branches having begun the gradual reclamation of the roof over time like creeping hands. A lone lit lantern outside the door was the only indication that it was occupied.

Joining the other two at the small unattended stable, Marcia quickly leapt from her mount and made a beeline for the door. "Take care of the hoses," she announced, waving a dismissive hand back at them, "I'll go ahead and get us a room."

Limont's squealing protest did not evade her ears as she walked away.

"A room?!"
 
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Initiate Limont Portrait.png"I don't understand," Euan said, perplexed and showing himself to be the most enormous virgin going since, well, ever. "What's wrong with a room?"

"Oh, my sweet boy," Limont remarked, shaking his head as a slippery smile reached his lips. His hands clasped down on the shorter Initiate's shoulders. It was time for a father-son chat, no, the father-son chat, and who better than to impart such wisdom than he? "You see when a man and a woman-"

"Fucking hells," remarked Bletzin in the background, the only person making an effort to put their horses into the stables.

"Please stop," Euan practically begged, looking up at Limont with great pleading eyes, like a sad calf missing its mother, "I understand now. You want multiple rooms, so you can..."

"Uh-huh."

"...sleep with..."

"Mmmhm."

"...ah, I don't want to know, Limont," Cawdor finally finished, his features screwing up in revulsion as he delicately picked up the scoundrel's hands and freed them from his shoulders. Even if he didn't want to know, he could see the boy's brows twitching, no doubt trying to fathom which one of them he was going to attempt to shag. Limont leaned backwards, trying to catch a glimpse of Catrina's arse as she faffed about with the horse tack before looking back and waggling his brows at Euan.

There were few visions of the female form that didn't appeal to the taller Initiate, but Bletzin had that muscle mother physique. The type where you wanted to put your head bet-

"I said I don't want to know!" Euan squawked loudly, clearly reading Limont's mind from the look on his face, the boy's hands gesticulating wildly in a rare animated moment from the support mage.

"He's just chatting shit, Cawdor," Catrina bellowed from within the small stable, a hint of mischief in her voice, "Limont's dick hasn't worked since Marcia booted it."
 
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Euan Cawdor Portrait.png"It doesn't matter anyway," Limont remarked sulkily, his pride wounded by Catrina, "Marshall Marci's probably got us bloody bunkbeds or something."

"Do inns even have bunkbeds?" Cawdor inquired, scurrying into the stable to offer the woman inside doing all the work a helping hand (although, really, it was to escape lecherous Limont). Judging from the scowl she offered him, he arrived precisely when she had just finished.

"Prolly not, but I bet she's building them as we speak!"

"Can we talk about any-fucking-thing else other than that nasty little dwarf?" Catrina asked, although, upon closer inspection, Euan found it more of a demand.

The boy's face turned sullen, the healer's mind drifting back to the argument they'd had on the road prior. Cawdor couldn't help but exude wounded puppy dog energy, both a curse and a boon, depending on the scenario. Bletzin caught the expression and sighed. "Go on, spit it out."

"I'm worried about Gosia and Beckeln," he admitted, his gaze cast downward at the dirt, Marcia's words having hung a noose of guilt around his conscience. "What if they're really in trouble, and they need us? M-maybe we shouldn't have stopped..."

"We're hungry, and we're tired. If they're really in trouble, it's best we're at full strength."

"I suppose..."

"Good," Catrina said with a resolute clap onto Euan's back, which was more like a thud. "Now let's fucking eat."
 
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Catrina Bletzin Portrait.pngCatrina strode past the boys with the unflinching will of a titan, the desire for a hot meal triumphant over all other needs and wants.

At least on the surface.

The young woman would have been lying if she claimed not to be troubled by the disappearance of the others. Gosia and Beckeln were no slouches, more than capable of handling themselves when the need arose, the former having her shit together more than most of the Initiates combined and the latter a shoo-in for the Anirian Rangers. What didn't sit well with Catrina was that their mission brief had been horrendously vague; suspicious activity could have been anything. It reeked of piss-poor information.

Entering the inn, she was immediately greeted with the sight of a tavern almost entirely devoid of life. A lone man pottered behind the bar, his head snapping to look at the three Initiates.

"Jeezy peeps, talk about a ghost town," commented Limont under his breath before he loosened a low whistle.

Given the lack of patrons, it wasn't challenging to locate the stunted arsehole with delusions of leadership sitting in a booth wearing her usual constipated expression, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose. Bletzin took a deep breath in preparation for another arduous, stilted conversation with the prickly Initiate before approaching and sliding into the opposite side of the booth. Limont was fast to sidle in next to Catrina, leaving Cawdor stuck next to Saint Marcia the Miserable.

"Did you get us rooms?"
Bletzin asked curtly.

Marcia looked up from her no doubt furious considerations regarding the fighter with little more than frustration. "Yeah, and a meal. It's on the way."

"Good."
 
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There was something disconcerting about an empty tavern.

When Marcia first entered, nobody was there. Just layers of dust soon to be disturbed by their presence. The only indications of life in this place were the lit candles along the walls and the fireplace that softly crackled in greeting.

Her entrance did summon the proprietor, who rushed through to the bar at the sound of the heavy slam of the front door closing behind her. There was an innate sense of relief at the sight of him, half-dispelling the instant unease that the desolation had placed in the back of her mind. The man himself was a haggard creature, gaunt and wiry, likely from the stress and lack of income from owning an inn without patrons.

Marcia skipped pleasantries and went straight to business, describing the missing Initiates and asking if he had seen them at all in the last month.

He had not.

She then asked if he had any rooms available for the night.

He did (obviously).

Once that had been settled, the girl set about ordering their supper, the menu restricted to a single stew due to the lack of business. It would do. Naturally, in place of ale, no doubt gone sour in its barrel, Marcia opted to order them water. The Aching Hooves didn't have much but it did have a well, as the man was sure to assure her.

The act of paying was half arduous as the inn owner kept filling the empty air with all the excuses of why his inn was empty. 'It was off the beaten track' and 'Nobody travelled that road anymore' before launching into a tirade about people becoming self-sufficient enough to make camp instead. Marcia practically had to force the coins into his hand to get him to stop talking.

Eventually, she escaped to a booth and awaited the arrival of her peers.

Bletzin was clearly still sore about what happened at evaluation, her curt words and caustic attitude painting her as petulant to Marcia, who managed to keep her temper merely simmering.

"Limont, get the map out," she ordered, "I've spoken to the barkeeper, and he's not seen them, so we should take stock and go over what we know so far."

"Maybe there's something we're missing," Cawdor agreed, showing himself to at least somewhat care as Limont reached into his pack, pulled out the map, and unfurled it onto the dust-covered table. "Yeah, two Initiates..." the lanky scoundrel mumbled.
 
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Initiate Limont Portrait.pngLimont's comment hadn't met the greatest of reception, with Euan's mouth drawing into an awkward line, Catrina rolling her eyes in irritation, and, well, he didn't look at Marcia but could feel the burning ire of her stare on the side of his face.

"We've been to Darren," Cawdor finally interjected, pointing a finger to the town on the map, "and the guards at the outpost confirmed that they left."

He recalled the grain town as a shithole, having stopped off at the Shambling Willow for a hot meal the night before they left. They'd been receiving a lot of dirty looks from the locals, who had apparent hostilities lingering from their previous Dreadlord occupant, who had holed up in the former mayor's manor as Garrison Commander before it burned to the ground with the guy still inside.

Had happened about a year and a half ago.

Shady shit by Limont's reckoning, but there was no conclusion to be found. The locals got a good grilling with no solid answers, and the posted guard got swapped out for the current lot. At the end of the day, it was ruled an accident, and the ashes were swept under the rug.

"They were seen in Kinlet too," Euan continued as he mapped out their path of investigation further before being interrupted by the barman, who appeared brandishing four pewter tankards, which he haphazardly placed down on top of their map.

"Fresh from the well," he announced with a nod, seemingly oblivious to what he was interrupting. "Just got the stew heating up. I'll get it with you all real soon."

"Thank you."

Limont peered at the drinks, having briefly begun to grin in anticipation before being let down by the words 'fresh from the well', which, unless this place had a magical ale well, meant that Marcia had taken the liberty of ordering them...

"...water," he bemoaned, his brown eyes peering at the Marshall with despair. "Fuck me sideways, Marci, you're a real fuckin' joy killer."
 
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Euan Cawdor Portrait.png"Fucking grow up, Limont," Marcia had snapped back without hesitation.

Euan didn't particularly mind that Marcia had taken the liberty of eliminating any chance of fun or relaxation slipping into their evening. Really, Limont should have tempered his expectations the moment he knew who he would be on the mission with.

"You grow up!" He replied childishly, willing to stand up for his right to... party. "People drink, Marci. Dreadlords drink, Guards drink, Initiates drink!"

Did it even matter? The lanky troublemaker had been not-so-sneakily sipping from a flask for the entire duration of the assignment. Cawdor wondered if there was a difference between a round of ale at a tavern and whatever rotgut was in his flask. The healer eventually came to the silent conclusion that the difference was that Limont wanted to enjoy himself on the Academy's sovereigns rather than his own pocket.

"You should be focused on your fucking duty!" The girl bit back, an accusatory finger levelled at him. Catrina leaned back, perfectly content to watch the scene continue to devolve.

As if it offered an escape, Ewan buried his face into the tankard and glugged several large mouthfuls of water. The boy cringed as a metallic aftertaste clung to his tongue. Suddenly, the state of the well was called into question in the state of his mind, making him fearful about the state of the forthcoming stew. The barkeep said it was 'heating up', didn't he?

"And you should untwist your little fuckin' knickers and learn how to relax!"

Deep joy.
 
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Catrina Bletzin Portrait.png"Do you want to fucking step outside, you lackadaisical shit!?" Marcia announced, standing up in the booth's corner with her arms out in a direct challenge.

It was an embarrassment.

From an objective standpoint, it was hard to pinpoint who was being more of an obstinant prick. Was it Limont and his tantrum at not getting an ale (which, let's face it, had probably gone sour with the state of this place) with his supper? Or was it Marcia? Who was so entirely rigid and unflexible that she couldn't pull the stick out of her ass for one poxy meal?

"OoOOoh, we can't have one drink, but we can fight and get injured instead! Good thinking, Marshall! Very fuckin' duty focused!" Limont sneered, rolling his eyes but perhaps smartly remaining seated.

Thankfully, Catrina wasn't objective. It was Marcia; it was always Marcia—sanctimonious, underhanded little prick. Limont had hardly showered himself in roses, fuck, he'd almost talked (begged) her into sharing a bed tonight. That was definitely off the cards.

She took a sip and immediately pulled a face similar to Cawdor's.

"Fucking hells. That tastes like ass,"
she commented, staring at her tankard and noticing the dust that had gathered around the rim and handle.

"Y-yeah! I think the well's seen better days,"
Euan immediately chimed in, attempting to steer their conversation to the forefront and away from the bickering. He was such a nervous lamb of an Initiate; Bletzin had no idea how he had made it this far.

"Eh, we've had worse, and we'll have worse."

"Fuck this!" Limont announced, suddenly standing and picking up his mug by the rim and slamming it down in front of Marcia, spilling its contents onto the map. "You can have all the ass water you want! I'm going to go and have a real fuckin' drink!" Without another seething word, he pulled out his flask and stormed out of the inn.
 
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The fucking nerve of that lanky cunt!

Marcia was ready to leap out of the booth and follow Limont outside so she could wrap her hands around his stupid, fucking long neck and throttle him until the rage subsided.

Unfortunately, Cawdor was sat directly in her path, looking up at her with those tragic saucers that he had the audacity to call eyes, and the girl wasn't so apoplectic with rage that she was prepared to leap across the table to go after the workshy fucking cretin. She stared down at the boy as if her eyes alone could move him, but Euan sat firm.

"Marcia, please. J-just let him go and cool down,"
he pleaded before gesturing to the now water-stained map with one hand, "and I think it'd be a better use of our downtime tuh-to go over the map."

She didn't disagree, but she also considered the merit of beating a sense of responsibility into Limont's face to be just as worthwhile as a pursuit. If it weren't for the fucking Revolution, then gutter rats like him wouldn't have even made it this far. Her jaw became rigid under the strain of gritted teeth; her hands balled into white-knuckled fists by her side.

"Yeah, how about you focus on your duty rather than embarrassing yourself any further?" Bletzin chimed in, unhelpfully, her words perfectly goading to highlight Marcia's hypocrisy.

Her response came in a stiff grunt from the bottom of her soul and a snarl of the upper lip before, finally, the short Initiate managed to find some semblance of sense and sat back down again. She didn't quite appreciate Catrina's tone, but the martial artist had a point. "Fine."

"Right. G-good!"
Cawdor squeaked, trying to pull the reigns on the runaway horse that they called their assignment. He delicately picked up Limont's tankard and placed it to the side, frowning slightly at the wet ring on their map. Marcia seethed into her water, her mind still reverberating with rage and loathing that she barely registered that it, indeed, tasted like ass.

"So we know that they were in Kinlet," Bletzin offered, nodding to Cawdor to encourage him to keep going from where he left off before the great ale war began.
 
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Initiate Limont Portrait.pngThe chill of the night air was a poor salve for the frustration built up from weeks on the road with that joyless midget.

Limont stood still, one hand clutching his flask and the other running down his face, pulling the skin taut before resting over his mouth. In the lingering heat of the moment, the Initiate yelled into his hand as the urge to let off steam overcame him.

If only Naser or Norah were here, they might have been able to make a night out of it. Three hipflasks and the camaraderie of gallows humour, something that only the Gutters could teach, and far above the heads of sheltered Academy twats. He raised his flask to them, hoping that whatever they were doing was infinitely less painful than this.

Hopefully, they were rinsing the marks on another poker night.

He let his feet wander, feet trailing lazily as he meandered around the perimeter of the inn, taking brief swigs of pilfered brandy in the silence of the night. It might have been eerie were it not for the remnants of irritation that lingered in Limont's perception.

Passing by the windows, he could see the rest of the party through the layers of grime on the glass across the room, heads buried in the map and suffering through their stagnant water. Limont sucked the air between his front teeth and offered them the universal hand gesture for wankers. Thankfully, it went unnoticed; he didn't need to blow his chances with Catrina any more than he had already done.

As his stroll continued, Limont couldn't help but turn to morose thoughts of man's mortality, mainly because his flask was growing empty. His dark brows furrowed before dancing in mischievous contemplation as the solution came to him after a few short moments.

If the inn had a bar, then the bar would have liquor. Liquor that was left untouched by a distinct lack of business.

They wouldn't miss a bottle.
 
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Euan Cawdor Portrait.png"The Guards confirmed that they left Kinlet too," Euan spoke, his voice somewhat unsure as his mouth pulled into a slight frown. Something hadn't sat quite right with him, but the healer wasn't sure whether it was unnecessary detail that would only detract from their search. "But I..."

"The locals weren't fans of us," Catrina interjected, giving him cause for relief as the fighter shared his thoughts while completing his sentence.

It was hard to miss.

"Exactly!"

To say that the people of Kinlet were unfriendly would have been an understatement. Were it not for the Anirian Guards stationed in the small town, Cawdor doubted they would have gotten much information from the people. Hushed mutters of discontent followed their investigation, suspicious eyes constantly glancing in their wake but averted whenever confronted by a gaze.

Not to mention the stilted conversations, like getting blood from a stone.

"I don't think we've been particularly well-received in any town so far," Euan added, bolstered by Bletzin's confirmation of his thoughts. "Could it... do you think it could be related?"

"Can't rule it out."

Marcia lowered her tankard from her lips, clearly having settled down enough to acknowledge the sour, metallic tang with a perturbed expression. "It's not entirely uncommon for civilians to dislike Dreadlords; I wouldn't leap to conspiracy immediately."
 
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Catrina Bletzin Portrait.png"Then what do we leap to?" Catrina snapped back to the devil and his diminutive advocate. "I doubt Vel Anir's enemies would be so bold as to operate within our borders."

"Why not?" Marcia fired back, her brows in their natural state of furrowed as if the girl wasn't capable of any emotion beyond frustration, which sounded entirely accurate. "Our enemies can't match us face on. If I were them, I'd seek to undermine from within."

"Of course you would," Bletzin scoffed into her tankard, just managing to stop herself from outright calling the other girl a snake.

Cawdor broke the accusation with a long yawn, which caused both of them to turn their heads in their direction. The healer gave an apologetic wave of his hand, desperately trying to indicate that it was a genuine yawn and not a passive-aggressive way of disagreeing.

"...ooah, s-sorry! While you both have a point, it w-wuh-was just a suggestion. It could be as simple as them running afoul of forest beasts..."

"No, not with Beckeln. There's no chance he'd be caught flat-footed in the forest," Catrina replied, turning less hostile attention to the boy, whose eyelids had begun to droop under the weight of fatigue. Truth be told, she wasn't far behind him; the whole scenario was completely draining. She couldn't wait for this day to be over. Hopefully, Limont wouldn't be too insistent on attempting to climb into her bed.

"Bletzin's right," Marcia murmured with her elbows on the table, the girl's hands propping up her head as the general malaise of the scenario even seemed to drag her down. "Hmph. Maybe we do need to scrutinise the townspeople further."
 
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"No."

Marcia could feel the urge to throttle Bletzin grow with every word of opposition. She understood why the fighter was being such a prickly bitch, with the events of Evaluation likely still playing on her mind, but she needed to build a bridge and get the fuck over it. Looking up with her head in her hands, the short Initiate gave an exasperated stare that demanded an explanation.

"Not you."

This would have been the point where Cawdor would have interjected, diffusing the continually burgeoning argument between the two. However, at a glance, the boy had placed his head down on his arms, seemingly having given up mediating like a tragic puppy.

"Not me," Marcia repeated menacingly, urging Bletzin just to say what she fucking meant.

"You're rude, abrupt and quick to fucking anger. People won't talk to you. They'll clam up, and we'll get nothing."


To her credit, she wasn't wrong, but it didn't mean that Marcia particularly enjoyed being criticised, no matter how valid. Although in place of instant flash fire rage, she found that the slight made her weary, and her hands adjusted, the heel of her palms settling in her eye sockets as the girl let loose a long sigh.

"If we don't find them tomorrow, we double back and send Limont and Euan back into Kinlet," Catrina continued, seemingly having softened somewhat given that Marcia gave her little to bite back with. "Limont can put his charm to good use, and Euan can offer some healing to those in need, maybe get the people to open up a little."

"You agreeable, Cawdor?"
Marcia murmured, not even bothering to look up.

No response.

"Euan, are you fucking sleeping?!"
 
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Initiate Limont Portrait.pngLimont continued wandering until he reached the back of the inn, where a single door stood between him and the sweet relief of free liquor.

This was his realm, where he was a consummate professional nearly unmatched by his peers. Of course, Nas had the benefit of precognition, and Norah had luck on her side, but he was the best at not being seen.

He gave his leathers a brief tap, causing him to vanish from sight, his form cloaked by arcane invisibility, his Anirian parlour trick.

From his sleeve appeared his thieves' tools, an assortment of picks made to crack any lock. Limont didn't imagine that this door would be an impregnable vault. In fact, with an inn stranded in the middle of bloody nowhere, he suddenly imagined that the door may not have been locked at all. What was the need?

With eyebrow raised, he pulled the handle, and it swung open somewhat disappointingly.

The Initiate stepped inside, his ears alert for any sounds of oncoming feet, in case a hasty getaway was required. The room was steeped in absolute darkness with nary a candle lit, which suited thieving hands but not so much thieving eyes. Another set of small taps, this time on his eyelids, revealed that the backdoor had led to the pantry. Handy. A dullard like Cawdor or Marcia would have used magic to light up the room, but wasn't it better to grant oneself night's sight instead?

Much to Limont's immediate dismay, the pantry was as barren as the tables, with a tragic scattering of half-empty bottles dotted around the rickety shelves. It wasn't even fine spirits either, with his options narrowing down to several varieties of dust-laden herbal liqueurs.

A travesty.

The search continued, lanky legs crouching down to gingerly inspect a long cloth-covered crate on the floor, which tragically, was not filled to the brim with unopened bottles of aged rum but rather Initiate leather armour, a short sword, and a bow...

Oh fuck, oh shit, oh fuck!
 
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"...wha'?"

Marcia looked up from her hands to observe the slumbering Cawdor next to her, the sight of which should have driven her apoplectic with rage. In normal circumstances, the healer would have had a tankard promptly launched at his skull, but in that moment, she wanted to join him.

To close her eyes for a bit.

Fuck.


"Cat," the girl murmured, which was alarming in itself, given the short Initiate's avoidance of using given names, never mind nicknames. Fuck, her mouth felt sluggish, words falling out of them lazily like sludge. "We've been poisoned. We need to... we need t'get up and get Limon'."

"What the fuck are you...? Shit. Thought I was just tired."


Unfortunately, for Marcia, there was a peacefully sleeping healer impeding her direct path from out of the booth, and the energy to shove him out or clamber over him was swiftly fading.

"Jus' go..."

Everything was heavy. Limbs, head, eyelids.
The desire to sleep overwhelmed and clawed the girl from the waking world, leaving the parting thought that their only hope was a renowned workshy scumbug with a penchant for fucking around. Fucking Limont.

"...ugh..."
 
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Catrina Bletzin Portrait.pngEven in a crisis, there was a sweet satisfaction to be taken from the sound of Marcia's head hitting the table with a hard thud.

Still, there was no time to savour the moment, as Catrina promptly shifted her arse out of the booth and made a beeline for the exit. While she could feel the soporific effects of the tainted water coarsing through her system, the fighter wasn't at the stage of passing the fuck out, presumably because she had the robust frame of an adult, unlike the other two.

Nor had she necked the rancid water as if there was a hydration quota.

"Hey! S-stop!" The innkeeper emerged from the kitchen, shouting, scurrying towards her like the rat poisoner bastard he was. A bold move on his part, given that the man looked like he'd last had a proper meal about three moons ago. Even bolder still, he dashed out from the bar to try to block her from reaching the exit.

"Fucking bastard!" It was a move he soon came to regret as Bletzin ran straight at him, a curled fist primed and infused by the elements barrelling straight for his kidneys. By the time the fist made contact with his side, it was fully encased in unrelenting metal, dropping him in one debilitating blow.

He'd be pissing blood for a while.

Instead of heeding Marcia's call to get Limont immediately, Catrina knelt next to the downed man and gripped him by the jaw. "Where are the others?!"

In hindsight, she probably shouldn't have struck the inn's owner so damned hard if she wanted him to talk in the aftermath, the man was wheezing and groaning like a dying elk. Then again, in the ultimate hindsight, she might have done as Marcia had said and left to find their fourth...

Armoured footsteps gave the wooden floor cause to tremble from behind her. Klaas Borren Portrait.png

The man that appeared from fucking nowhere could barely be called described as that. He was a behemoth clad in black plate armour, whose blanched, bald, heavily scarred head emerged as the only source of contrast. He didn't speak. Bletzin doubted he could, given the black metal plate bolted onto his jaw.

"You're fucking beaut, eh?" Catrina mocked as she returned to her feet and charged towards the man mountain with her fists raised. Flames engulfed her hands, ready to strike with enough heat that it would roast his flesh within that tin fucking suit.

But it didn't.

Bletzin's fist made contact, and a burst of white runes flared on the man's armour before dissipating. It stripped the Initiate's attack of all its magical properties, rendering it a contest of flesh and bone against steel. It was a small mercy that her fists were accustomed to such abuse.

She stood stock still, dumbstruck by how little her blow had done, before his great hand grabbed her by the throat. The runes upon his armour flared again, travelling from where she had struck all the way to his left gauntlet, which rocketed out with tremendous force in a brutal backhand across her face.

Catrina's world went completely blank for a second or two, only returning once she found herself on the floor with a throbbing face from fractured bone. She wasn't afforded the time to find her wits, never mind her footing, as that same mammoth hand clamped around the back of her head and dragged the Initiate back to her feet.

The last thing she saw was the bar hurtling towards her, as her face was driven into it.
 
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Initiate Limont Portrait.pngLimont placed the cloth back over the Initiates' weapons and armour and slowly backed out of the mostly empty pantry (making sure to swipe a bottle on the way) and shut the door behind him, the only evidence of his presence found in missing inventory.

Going back the way he came, the thief hoped that he would glance back through the window and see his peers engaged in dull discussion about the mission at hand with absolutely nothing amiss, ideally with Catrina and Marcia arguing and Euan shrinking into nothingness in the presence of angry, violent women—the status quo.

That was the hope, but it was not the reality.

Instead, he saw the two smaller Initiates asleep at the table, while Catrina was charging at an armoured behemoth with an apparent allergy to sunlight. Cat has it in hand, he ambitiously wished, before bearing witness to the pugilist very much not having it in hand, and, in return, having a fat hand smashed across her face.

It spurred Limont into a sprint, still invisible, to the front door. Every self-serving instinct inside screamed at him to run, but for as much as other Initiates gave him shit for either laziness of cowardice, he was still one of them, still on the path to be a Dreadlord as much as the rest.

When he erupted into the room, he questioned that train of thought as he saw that big bastard smash Catrina's face into the bar.

Fuck me sideways.

The fucker was holding her up by the back of the head!
In a heartbeat, the brute's head turned to face where he stood, just a floating bottle of shitty liqueur. He wasn't looking at the bottle, though; the guy was looking directly into his invisible face. Now it was less questioning the decision to burst in and more like regretting it.

Big Baldy let go of Bletzin's head, dropping her prone form to the ground and took a step towards him, to which Limont responded by launching the bottle, nailing the fucker right in the noggin. It smashed. The now bleeding bastard was still standing! No, the bastard was still moving towards him!

Having fulfilled the fight portion of his instinct, he decided it was time for the flight.
 
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Euan Cawdor Portrait.pngThe world returned slowly, cast in the dim glow of candlelight and surrounded by cold, unfeeling stone.

Euan felt different. Hollow, like a jigsaw puzzle missing the centre piece. In the immediate aftermath of waking up from his slumber, the boy couldn't immediately put his finger on the feeling, but soon found himself distracted by other things.

Namely, that two pairs of wrought iron manacles bound his hands and feet.

He was intelligent enough to deduce the circumstances that brought him to this rude awakening, his recollection of the powerful urge to sleep enough to tell them that their water did not taste foul because it was drawn from a disused well, but rather that it had been tainted by poison. In hindsight, they were all foolish, but he decided not to dwell on what could not be changed.

There were more pressing matters at hand.

Taking in the rest of the room, Cawdor found comfort in having company. Marcia was still out, slumbering on the stone floor in what might have been the only occasion he'd seen the girl look peaceful. Catrina was...

"O-oh."

...well, she was awake at the very least. Having shimmied herself up to a seated position with her back against the wall, her face a grim masquerade of swollen contusions and dried blood. Her sleep had presumably not been as peaceful.
Gosia Lubin Portrait.png
"Are you alright?" Euan whispered to the fighter, who merely responded with a grunt and a nod across the small room, prompting him to turn his head in the expectation of seeing Limont in a far worse state.

Only it wasn't Limont.

Shivering in the corner was a tangle of long, greasy brown hair and a pallid complexion marked by a litany of cuts and bruises. Dark, bleak eyes, made all the darker by the low light, stared a hole in the floor, barely acknowledging their presence. It was one-half of the reason they were here—Gosia Lubin, missing Initiate.

"Gosia!" Euan couldn't help but exclaim with trepidatious excitement, simply glad that the girl was still alive, more than anything else. "You... you're okay!" Okay was a stretch, but still. "Is Buh-Beckeln here?"
 
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Catrina Bletzin Portrait.png"Forget it, she's not made a peep," Catrina burbled in response to the healer, closing her eyes and feeling the protest of her broken face in the process. She'd taken enough hits in her time to no longer wince every time her face got bashed in. Part and parcel of the whole, fighting up close and personal thing.

Only the hells knew what shape her nose was in beneath the swelling.

"And I'm fine," the Initiate continued, a swell of guilt coming from Euan's reaction to her sharp tone. It was like hoofing a puppy, with his big, tragic eyes. "Not like you could do shit about it anyway."

Both of her manacled hands gestured at the engraved, steel collar around her neck, the very same that sat around Gosia's, Marcia's and his own. How he didn't notice it straight away was beyond her; it felt sickening, like the way a hangover made your guts feel wrong. Catrina attempted to summon the elements to her fists as a demonstration, but nothing happened except for the soft white glow of runes on the collar that faded in the trickling seconds.

"But... but I-I don't understand," Ewan spoke, his hands going up to give his own collar a half-hearted tug. "This was all the innkeeper's doing?"

"He's not alone."


"Who-"

A groan sounded out, the most unwelcome sound of the resident, miserable, lightweight goblin awakening from her slumber. Bletzin already had the play-by-play in her head. She'd be mad. She'd demand answers. She'd start an argument. If there was anybody that the fighter didn't want to be prisoner with, it was fucking Marcia.

"Big baldy cunt in black plate," Bletzin replied to Euan, opting to answer him instead of acknowledging the Marshall.

"Black plate?" Cawdor asked, evidently alarmed, but it was hard to take him seriously when the boy wore his emotions on his sleeve. "You mean l-l-like the Blackguard?!"

"Dunno, never seen one before."
 
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Before opening her eyes, Marcia had already decided that she hated everything.

She hated the emptiness she felt in her gut upon waking, she hated the embarrassment of being poisoned by a weasly man they could have toppled with little effort, she hated the weight of further shame that came from being captured, but most of all, she fucking hated hearing Bletzin bleat ignorance when she ought to have known better.

Strange priorities, but the feeling couldn't be denied.

"Well, you should know,"
she seethed, rolling onto her back and sitting up to properly chastise the other Initiate. Upon seeing the state of her face, Marcia couldn't help but scoff in disbelief.

A cooler head needed to prevail, but she'd put up with Bletzin's shit all mission with a degree of understanding but she refused to entertain sheer ignorance. There was a reason they studied alongside physical training; it wasn't fucking ancillary. If the girl had even attempted to hone the useless mass of shit she called a brain, she might not have presumably tried to fight a fucking Blackguard with magic fists.

"You fucking idiot."

"Fuck. Off."


"Marcia..." Cawdor bleated, the expression of a bloated calf hanging off his face as Marcia took stock of the small room, noting both the presence of Lubin and the absence of...

"Where's Limont?" She demanded in a harsh snap, stress-testing the wrought iron by pulling at the chains connecting her wrists. "I told you to get him! Did you? Or did you fuck that up too?!"

A key turned in the door, leaving the room in newfound silence as Marcia stared Bletzin down and vice versa. Perhaps it was a small mercy that their adversaries would interrupt them before they started battering each other with their restraints.

Grete Krantz Portrait.png"Don't stop on our accounts," announced the woman who walked through the door. Tall, broad-shouldered, and with furious red hair barely restrained in a practical bun. Battle-scarred with an air of violent loathing, she could have been an older sibling of Bletzin's were it not for the differences in face shapes, pointed, whereas the pugilist's was flat. "Give us a show of that famed Dreadlord discipline. I could use a laugh."

Marcia's scowl hadn't lifted, although it was now redirected towards the woman. Behind the stare was scrutiny. Her accent was unmistakably Anirian, low-born, although not from the city of Vel Anir itself. A warrior's build, naturally, but her plainclothes offered little clue in the way of allegiances.

A second followed in silence.Syele Wilhart Portrait.png

Another woman, a cripple with one arm and a heavily scarred face. Her blonde hair was shorter, by a woman's standards, and swept backwards and out of the way like an afterthought. What she lacked in imposing stature compared to the first was made up for by the sheer cold disdain that clung to a stiff jaw. If the Initiate's stare was marked by anger, the returning gaze was built on hatred.

"Ugly bunch of fuckers, aren't ya?" Bletzin announced as their bastion of vocal resistance.

The red-haired woman snorted, seemingly unbothered enough not to feel the need to retaliate and instead took strides towards Marcia, who automatically tensed in the anticipation of violence. She didn't fancy her chances at fighting many people whilst in irons, but the girl was furious enough in the moment to shed her senses and become a problem. She could still break a nose, given the chance. Wouldn't help, but it would feel good.

"Feel free to make things worse for yourself,"
their captor offered, noting those raised hands and clenched fists, "I know you lot struggle with your impulses."

"Fuck you,"
Marcia returned through gritted teeth and a raised chin. Defiance of her own choosing, she'd pick her spot and cave their faces in, but not yet, even if it went against every urge in boiling blood.
 
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Euan Cawdor Portrait.pngIt wasn't helpful; it never was.

Marcia had woken up and chosen violence, at least verbally. Euan, however, was acutely aware that if it had not been for the manacles, it would have been physical, too. She might have thought herself superior to them all on the merits of intelligence and determination, but what did it matter without composure?

It didn't help that so many of her peers utilised the girl's terrible attitude against her, but it was near-constant eggshells for the rest of them.

When their captors entered, Euan spared a glance at Gosia, who barely even reacted. Her vacant stare remained lost deep in the floor. It was difficult to parse whether that was a promising sign. She didn't flinch or shrink away like a captive in anticipation of cruelty, but in the same breath, the girl barely seemed to be on the same plane of existence as them. Absent in every way except physical. It caused the healer to frown more than Catrina's attempts to antagonise their foes by insulting them.

"Look at that restraint," came the scathing declaration when Marcia (inexplicably) managed to stay her hand. The woman reached out, fully grabbing the Initiate by the face and giving her head a patronising shake. She was being manhandled in mockery. "Deserving of commendation!"

Cawdor held his breath without realising, as if trying to pour his calm demeanour into the infamously short-tempered girl.

Keep your head, please.

Somehow, Marcia managed to avoid erupting into fruitless, violent resistance, allowing herself to be hoisted to her feet and dragged out of the room. With bulging eyes and trembling fists, she looked on the edge of an aneurysm, any fear of her fate replaced by barely restrained fury. Euan might have been proud if he had not been concerned for her well-being.

With their captors gone with Marcia in tow, and the door locked once more, the remaining Initiates were left in the lingering silence. Gosia was still staring at the floor, and Catrina had chosen to seethe at the ceiling with flared blood-encrusted nostrils.

"Wh-whu-where is Limont?"