Knights of Anathaeum Echoes in the Deep

[Helena]

A summons finds you, handed off by a squire, or left in a place all would know you frequent.

A call for aid from the East. Lord Brimheart of Grenquarry, has unearthed some foul strangeness in the depths of his mines, an entire mining party has been lost. Risk level, high. Report to the Chamber of Operations, post haste.
-Captain Helena
​

---

Inside the Command Room there would stand the Captain of Dawn, hands clasped at the small of her back, her head was down and her eyes away from the entrance as she studied the multitude of figurines and markers that were spread about a great map. The work of art looked precise in its rendition. Coves, fords, glens and bogs, all clearly rendered by cartographers hand. Rooks and forts and holds dotted the Valen's perimeter, like the nodes that anchored ropes in a net. Their home, marked by the white chrysanthemum of their sigil, sat deep within the green borders of the wylds, nearer to the dark ring of the Balewood than the nearest Lord's settlement. There were beasts too, of stone and wood, perched about the features of the illustrated cartograph. She measured it all with a stony gaze.

Until the footfalls came close.

The Captain turned to face those knights who came to answer.

"Knights of Anatheaum," she said with a bow of her head, an open palm turned up to let hand's edge press against her heart in crisp salute. Her head rose and she met their gaze. "We have been called upon for aid," she angled her stance, and invited them to look unto the command table. "Normally, we would not send such a new member to our ranks on a quest with so much left in the dark of the unknowns, but," she smirked at Petra. "I've heard Storm Dragons can be faster than the wind, and time is of the essence," She turned her attention to the massive table, her lungs drew in breath, and her fingers crooked and bent into quick signs.

A soft glow of green and gold illuminated a pair of alabaster coins, the many petaled flower of their order carved their in relief upon their surface. They slid out from the Monastery, and arrived at a fort marked in a gulch to the east. They stopped beside the hashed borders that marked it.

Helena looked to each knight in turn. "We are worried the miners may have encountered a horror down in the dark," her tone was grave. "As many and more dangers lurk in the dark heart of the mountains," she shook her head, and stepped away from the map. "You are to investigate the mines, find out the cause for the Miner's doom, and deal with it as you see fit," she paused. "But, be wary while on mission, Knights," she took a moment to choose her words. "Lord Brimheart has paid little respect to the wylds prior, nor is he loved by the small folk," she nod to them. "Still, this could be a chance at a new chapter in our relations with Grenquarry," she looked them over once more. "If you have no questions?" She turned back to the map. "You best gather your equipment, and be on your way." she looked over her shoulder. "May the pursuits guide you, Knights, always,"

Spoiler: Considerations

Feel free to generate your own KoA NPCS as needed! Remember, there should always be a pair of knights, Dusk and Dawn, out on official quests! So, use it as an opportunity to create some cool little npc dudes, dudettes, and non-binary friends to help you kick some more ass or add some *spice*

 

[Valborast Valchek]

“And why, pray tell, is it you who are telling me this, Parshen, instead of my counterpart.”

Parshen placed the sealed letter upon the desk which Valborast was so often seen at within the library, his quill not yet dipped into the ink, for the task of writing had just been adopted and so interrupted by Parshen's delivery. Valborast made an irritated rhythm with the fingers of his left hand as the right gripped the quill as if it might be used as a weapon at any moment. His eyes moved from the paper he intended to scribe upon to the letter which lurked heavy on the wood.

The clouds parted and sunlight streamed into the library. Valborast's expression became pained at the visitation of light and squinted at the envelope.

“Well?” Valborast added, his hands falling still as his eyes willed the letter to burn into ash, his eyes distant as he thought of further scornful remarks.

“Your counterpart, Syr Valchek” Parshen said, his tone professional, polite and civil, “is busy preparing. You should be too. Read the letter, and prepare in kind. Only the best have been asked after,” Parshen instructed.

Manipulative flattery, Valborast thought and turned his gaze to say as such to Parshen. The librarian had turned upon the spot to attend other matters.

Valborast pursed his lips and produced a penknife to open the letter as if he was cutting a throat.

“I'll put away your writing materials. Go at once,” Parshen said who had disappeared out of sight from the Crimson Knight. The letter was read and folded up quickly in lithe hands as meaning was made clear. The irritation transfigured into grim determination at the prospect proposed by the Captain's orders.

Finally, a challenge worthy of my skill.

Darkness. My forte. My field.

He slipped the letter into a fold of his cloak. Who knew who he might have to present this to down the line to justify his presence in the tunnels to some terrified miner that he was not the true threat to contend with.

It will be refreshing to fight in true darkness once again. I wonder if this mission with present me with old foes. The fighting pits were a diverse training ground. Few others would know of it like I. They are wise to call upon me. I must retrieve Riven.

Valborast continued to congratulate himself for being chosen for such a mission as he left the library, leaving Parshen to tidy up his desk of quill, inkwell, and the work in progress which upon the subject of the vampire who lurked within Zakron, the city of eternal darkness, safe haven of the fanged one, and his former home. Parshen went to the book and sealed the open pages and sealed them in a lock box without reading a single letter of what was written. Parshen was too much of a professional to pry into Valborast's writings before completion.

---

“You're late Syr Valchek,” a dwarf of the name of Syr Grundor said as his palms were upon the handles of his pair of silver axes that were nestled at his belt, as if he might be ready to launch one at Valchek for his impertinence at any moment. The dwarf's breastplate was polished to a high sheen and reflected much of the sunlight that beamed during the fine day. Valborast did his best not to let the irritation show. That would please him greatly if I let him see how damnable that sheen is, Valborast thought.

“I'm here aren't I? The briefing has yet to commence?” Valborast said.

Syr Grundor snorted and looked around to see if anyone was within earshot, but a few knights exchanged pleasantries some feet away, so he held his tongue of his opinion. Valborast took Grundor's snort as an indicator that the briefing had not begun and began to make his way to the briefing, speaking a few sly words as he passed and joined by the dwarf.

“I had to retrieve my weapon of choice given the threat rating. Some of us don't brandish our best for every little quandary,” Valborast said scathingly and tapped his true counterpart's hilt within the scabbard as he passed the dwarf.

The scabbard was an item of pure silver and bolstered with significant magics to halt the voice that would emanate from the thing, along with ramify the contract between the two, master and servant. The blade had been created as a desperate attempt to own himself, and now, he did in more ways than one. Riven, the magical blade that contained the amalgamated spirits of slain vampires and his own corrupted soul. Riven, a blade untested in the field, yet undeniably potent.

As Valborast touched the pommel, the two communicated through emotion. Valborast was irritated by the sun and wished that he was not bound to his dwarven counterpart in the mission. Riven was irritated by all number of things. The silver encasement. The silver the dwarf wore. The fact that Riven had not been drawn in violence. Valborast sent a shiver of light down the silver scabbard as to remind it who was in command of such an event.

Riven became silent and the link was broken between the two.

“Some of us respect that every task given, small or large, deserves everything we have,” Grundor muttered in response.

Valborast breathed in and resisted a number of retorts as he saw the Captain. The one who had been instrumental in creating such a powerful item that he now carried.

The two stood beside each other, one blood red, one a shining stub of silver, both with beards and moustaches of black, both bound in duty to fight beside each other. They had worked together on a few occasions to good effect, but both had doubts about the other. Valborast, his attitude. Grundor, his reliance on simple violence in the form of his axes and light magic. But when applied together the two could command the field better than most, Valborast a whirling dervish of quick cuts and daggers thrown, of spectral darkness and superhuman speed, Grundor a whirlwind of chopping hacks with axeblade, fiery breath and sunlight beams. Valborast had once used the breastplate that was of mirror sheen to amplify his own light attacks so that it might obliterate the undead they had contended with a few missions ago. It had made Grundor blind for a few minutes, but he couldn't deny how it had obliterated their undead foes.

Both would be rid of the other had they the authority to do so. As it was, the one who had the authority to send them to the darkness of the tunnels gave them as much information as she could and bid them forward.

They exited the command room and Grundor looked at his counterpart. Valborast looked off to the distance as to not meet his eye, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade as he parlayed with Riven.

“Valchek,” Grundor breathed, “I know you're used to fighting in darkness. As much as I hate to say it, I'm glad that I'm going to be partnered with you on this one. Tunnel fighting is a valuable skill, and what you told me about Zakron when we faced the undead last time, well, you're well equipped. Back when I was a lad, I used to fight the dead in the great halls of-”

Valborast placed his hand to his temple and multi-tasked. His ears were dull to the conversation that the dwarf was providing, a story that Valborast didn't doubt was but a pit of bravado and ancient deeds to brag about. His mind was consumed by communication with Riven as he sent out arcane council to the amalgamated soul sealed within the blade and nestled within the scabbard. The two communicated as the dwarf droned on for a while, ending his tale with a chuckle.

“-and that's when I thought, those poor bastards without dark vision, they never stood a chance. But what can you do, they were only human. Uh, what I mean,” Grundor said and Valborast took his hand from his temple and rubbed his eyes.

“I know what you mean Grundor. I won't have that problem as you know. My eyes are used to darkness, and I have all I need to contend with the darkness. I won't be blinded you again if that's what you're worried about.”

His hand rested on the pommel of Riven.

His hand went to grip the hilt and the two were better connected for communication.

Riven spoke to Valborast, the two having exchanged a meeting of the minds on their own capacity and capability. Valborast with his command of blood magic, blade and violent application of light magic, Riven, with conjoined souls, old vampire foes and his corrupted self, turned into something new, had revealed what it might provide in the combat to come against whatever may arrive.

The blade and wielder passed a refrain between themselves.

I am ready-
I am ready-
-I am Riven.
-I am Valborast.

Give me victory against the dark.
Riven shall serve ourselves.

It was a good enough response for Valborast. He nodded to Grundor.

“Let us go and meet who else contends with the dark and be rid of the awful light of day. Draw it in while you can. I don't want to see you not be able to summon sunlight for lack of being in daylight for a few days. Where we go, we'll need to banish whatever lurks in the dark with focused light I suspect. I won't blind you this time," Valborast repeated.

“Let's go meet the others then, and be off,” Grundor said.

And so it was.

 

[Mara Tillerman]

Mara watched without emotion as Syr Runawynn finished reading Captain Helena's summons. A dangerous smile crossed the dwarf's face, one the squire knew all too well after three years of service under her. Flicking an auburn strand of hair from her face, the knight laughed a belly-deep guffaw.

"Risk level high? Good, me blade's starting to rust!" Mara didn't find the comment humorous, since she had personally sharpened and polished Syr Runawynn's glaive not two days earlier. Mara found that she usually didn’t find her mentor's aggressive sense of humor very funny.

"Eh Rabbit, go find Tarren and tell him I want to speak with him after this meeting." She flashed a crooked and slightly gap-toothed smile, the result of many brawls.

"Right away, Syr," Mara said softly and bowed, a grimace creeping across her face only when she'd jogged out of the knight's personal chambers. She hated that nickname. Tarren, Syr Runawynn's older squire, had started calling Mara that some time ago because of her demure personality. Unfortunately, Tarren was well respected both among the squires and by his knight, and it stuck. It didn't help Mara's case that she was, indeed, painfully shy. Cowardly, some said. Flawed, Mara thought.

--------------​

"I would be honored to accompany you, Syr," Tarren said with a low bow. As usual, the squire was as puffed up as he was eager to please his knight, although he was less than a year away from becoming a sworn knight himself. Syr Runawynn had asked Mara to stay as well, although she couldn't imagine why.

"I know you’re brave and able, lad, but the captain made it clear that it could be dangerous. I’ll watch your back, you watch mine. Better bring extra supplies - weapons, medical gear, torches for yourself. And swear to me here and now you’ll get out the moment I tell you to."

"I swear it, Syr," Tarren replied.

"Good." The knight turned to Mara. "Rabbit will be your porter. We’ll get a room at the closest inn, keep our extra supplies there. Rabbit, you’ll look after the supplies."

Porter...Mara thought miserably from her position near the door. Or in other words, his horse.

"I understand, Syr," she acknowledged as her knight's ever-fiery gaze bored through the room at her.

"Excellent. I will draw up a list of what I will need," Tarren said before giving Mara an arrogant smirk. The same smirk she secretly wished a dragon would tear right off his face.

"You can do that after we meet up with the other knights. Just the torches and usual shite for now, if you would, Rabbit. Come on, then. I’m sure the others are anxious to crush whatever’s lurking about too!” Syr Runawynn beckoned for Tarren to follow her.

Mara breathed a sigh of relief as the clank of armor, the squeaking of leather still needing oiled and the boisterous voices dwindled down the hallway. Now came the task of packing up for the journey, one she would enjoy immensely compared to whatever time she’d be on the road taking orders from that pretentious idiot Tarren.

 

[Petra Darthinian]

The soft trilling of larks outside of her window woke Petra in the early morning. Frost had begun sinking its claws into the land, evident in the spider webs across the outside of her window panes. Yet despite the chill, the clear sky outside promised a warm autumn’s day. The kind that brought hope to farmers that their yearly hardships were due to thaw. Bringing easier days full of fleeting bounty until winter came again.

"I was half expecting you to sleep the morning away..." Came an amused grumble into her mind.

Ah yes... of course her dragon was already awake. And it seemed he was determined that she be as well. She slipped from bed with a reluctant groan, the plush-down comforter clinging to her limbs, as tempting as a lover luring her back to their embrace. But the duties of her station pulled her further from slumber and with a groan, she stood and stretched.

"You have a summons from the Dawn Captain. It's there next to your wash basin."

She rubbed the sleep from her eyes in reply and turned to look sourly at the dead heat of the fireplace. It had gone out sometime in the night, leaving a chill in the air to pick goose flesh on her exposed skin.

Tartly, she replied, "Well, since it seems you're already versed in my morning agenda, do you care to share, you overgrown lizard busybody?"

Sensing his indignant huff, she chuckled to herself as the cold continued to nip at her to dress as quickly as her fingers could manage. The whispering of cloth was the only sound in the dark as she struggled briefly with the ties on the side of her leather armor and soft curses fell from her mouth in frustration. Hissing, she gave in and softly sang magic into the troublesome knots until they fell into line and settled into the eyelets.

Finally satisfied her clothes were behaving and wouldn’t fall from her amble figure, she stepped over to her washbasin to wash her face, popping in an herbal tablet that she crushed between her teeth. The refreshing taste of mint and magic spread across her tongue and she reveled in the soft zapping away of plaque and bad breath that had built in the night. Her mother had actually been the one to invent this small piece of apothecary magic. And they had been a hit at her shop in Erendale ever since.

Glancing briefly into the enchanted mirror hanging above the water basin and grimaced. People always envied curls, until they were the ones waking to this battle every morning. A more temperamental head of hair, she had yet to find. Sighing in resignation, Petra began pulling apart the inky tangles, trying to corral some semblance of order into her hair. But like herself, her hair had problems with authority. It was just better to make them both think something was their idea first. Lest the poor soul who thought to argue, be left banging their head against the proverbial wall.

Petra gave up halfway through, the sun had since risen and she didn’t have the kind of time needed to fight hair that fell to the middle of her back. With another huff, she snagged a leather tie from a drawer and swooped the back half of her hair into confinement. Usually, it was customary for her people to adorn their hair with braids and beads and metal clasps as celebratory symbols of station, experiences, and reverence of the gods.

Once she was satisfied with the few wayward curls that fell to frame her strong jaw, she finally took up the letter by her wash basin and opened it, reading its contents with an eagerness to serve and be of use.

"A call for aid from the East. Lord Brimheart of Grenquarry, has unearthed some foul strangeness in the depths of his mines, an entire mining party has been lost. Risk level, high. Report to the Chamber of Operations, post haste.
-Captain Helena"

"Shit." The curse fell from the elf's lips. This was it. They were finally being given a mission that she hoped her skills were worthy of. Petra wanted to prove herself to the Knights, and more importantly to herself.

"And me." Norvyk quipped sarcastically.

"Oh, shove it!"

The dragon's laughter echoed in her head as she spun towards the door and strode purposefully off to find the Chamber of Operations. Her fellow Knights wouldn’t be up to attend their morning chores for another hour or so.

**********

The songweaver answered Helena's salute with a respectful one of her own. That feeling of belonging bloomed like a flower in her chest while she listened to the stoic instructions of her Captain. Following the woman's direction, Petra set her eyes on the command table, marveling at the detailed figurines and marking where they were laid out on the map.

"Normally, we would not send such a new member to our ranks on a quest with so much left in the dark of the unknowns, but," Helena smirked at Petra. "I've heard Storm Dragons can be faster than the wind, and time is of the essence."

The elf gave the recognition an answering grin of her own. "Careful, I'm not sure Norvyk needs a bigger ego." Her small bout of sardonic humor dying in her throat as Helena continued on with explaining their treacherous task.

The mention of delving into mines briefly killed the anticipatory thrill that was gathering in her gut. It was replaced by the anxious realization that she would be unable to bring her dragon. A formidable companion to level most any battlefield. For he was her Dusk counterpart, as she was his Dawn. Two halves of the same coin. But forged into the same coin, nonetheless.

Lost in her troubled musings, she almost missed when Helena dismissed them. Hesitating briefly as everyone filed out, hanging back as if to question her Captain. But with a brief shake of her head, she filed out behind the rest of her fellow Knights. Determined to solve the mystery of Lord Brimheart's deadly mines.

Helena Valborast Valchek Mara Tillerman

 

[Valborast Valchek]

Syr Grundor was looking at his axes in the sunlight, the gleam of the crescent blades did much to remind Valborast of the painful element of daylight. That thing he had once only heard about from the ones who had raised him had firmly been compartmentalised into the region of things that were overrated about the surface. As Syr Grundor appraised his weapons and attempted to soak the tools of butchery in the high sun, perhaps to capture the mana that was required to sustain his abilities, Valborast thought. The Crimson Knight crunched on an apple with audaciously loud swirls of his jaw.

“Must you chew so...vigerously, Syr Valborast,” Syr Grundor said idly as he tucked away his weapons to his belt, content that enough sunlight had reached the silvered weapons for his purposes.

“Food of the orchard and sunlight born crops are quite the delicacy. I'm making a small reminder of the good things of the surface,” Syr Valborast said with a somewhat chipper disposition. Perhaps it was for the very reason that it annoyed his counterpart.

They stood in silence for a moment outside the monastery walls for the rest to arrive.

The crunching began again.

“Why,” Syr Grundor said, “you thinking of staying there? Deep in the ground? Such is a dwarven trait, not human I say.”

Valborast did he best to consider if his dwarven colleague was making a barb concerning a grave ahead of him, but thought the warrior of sunlight and axes was not to be suspected of such low insults. It was a dwarf thinking aloud of the nature of humans. Most humans were raised in places where the sunlight kissed the faces of farm workers and brought about life from the valleys and plains.

“Or a trait of the culture I came from,” Valborast said plainly, and threw the apple far off into the distance of the wood. Branches gave way to the apple's approach as it was lost to underbrush.

“The culture you came from. Zakron. Cursed place of-” Grundor said, hiking up his belt about his belly.

“Cursed place of vampires, yes, no need to utter your distain of the folk. Where we going you'll have plenty opportunity to slay a thing of darkness to sate your appetite, I'd put good money on it,” Valborast said, and looked towards the gates of the Monastery for anyone else to approach. The two had been the first, and awaited the rest in their forms of punctuality.

“You suspect foul play?” Syr Grundor asked, and folded his arms.

“Positively so. Mines are a place where dwarves get plucked from their mortal moorings by beasts and other denizens of such dark places all the time. I faced many in my upbringing. Not dwarves. Although there was that one time...which I really should tell you about some occasion,” Valborast said flippantly, “perhaps while you drink a beer and I drink some wine and we can compare what things in the dark we have ended. Compare notes. But for now, I do say, any tunnel fighting is a grim business. I hope that our companions are well prepared for such a place to investigate. Any idea what they mine there?”

Syr Grundor looked to the gate himself and huffed as he considered if Valborast was confessing to killing dwarves in his youth.

“Syr Valborast,” Syr Grundor said, “I do not know. Perhaps the others might have gleaned more from the briefing, or Captain Helena's own information. But...we best be off soon after we have gathered.”

Valborast nodded.

“Indeed. Say what thanks you have to the sunlight now, and on our travel be grateful that we can both see in the dark. If the others need illumination in the dark, well. We might be best separating so as to preserve advantage.”

“You might be right. You might be wrong. The others might need us in front for that very reason.”

Valborast hummed a single note of not quite annoyance and not quite agreeance.

“Look,” Syr Grundor said, “the rest of our group gathers. At least they won't have to put up with another apple being consumed,” he grumbled.

Another red apple was produced within the thin digits of Valborast.

He tossed it at the dwarf.

“If you eat that silently you're missing half the fun of it,” Valborast said and chuckled as he watched the gates open with more company to greet them. Syr Grundor tucked the apple into his pack and gave The Crimson Knight a sideways glance as he did appraise the rest of the group they were to be delving into mines with.

Helena Petra Darthinian Mara Tillerman

 

[Mara Tillerman]

Syr Runawynn and Squire Tarren came through the monastery gates together. The two could not have been more different: The human boy in his late teens looked every bit the military type, dressed in chainmail still bright and new, his face clean-shaven and his light brown hair cut short. Runawynn looked like a hunter in her fur armor, her auburn locks threatening to break free of the leather band that held them, her nails dirty, her grin semi-feral. But the rune-inscribed glaive that she favored gleamed with perfect clean edges. Untamed she called it, as she liked to refer to herself.

She twirled the glaive casually as she approached Valborast and Grundor. With a practiced motion, she brought the polearm tip up into a resting position at her side.

"The dark-loving sword dancer and the sun-worshipping Arragoth. 'Tis a misfit group here today, innit?" she nodded to both of the other knights in turn, grinning like a wolf. "Syr Grundor, Syr Valborast, you remember Tarren?"

The dwarf cast a suspicious glance back towards the gate, but the only one there so far was her other squire, carrying the burden of a large backpack with supplies stuffed on the inside and a crossbow and shortsword strapped to the outside.

"Didn't the Dawn Captain say that elf lass and her infernal lizard were coming along?"

Tarren's longsword rattled in its sheath on his side as he stepped forward nervously and bowed to the two knights. "Of course, I would be remiss not to know of Syr Grundor's axes of light and Syr Valborast's legendary skill with the blade. It is my great honor to have the chance to fight with you."

Runawynn snorted. "Don't get your hopes up too much, lad. 'Tween us, whatever creeper's in that mine is as good as dust and bones!"

Another softer snort of derision came from behind them and Tarren wheeled around with a scowl. Mara turned her glance sideways, coughed and wiped a hand across her face as if she had no idea of this sound.

"Arse-kisser," she mouthed silently when his back was turned.

Valborast Valchek Petra Darthinian​

​

 

[Valborast Valchek]

Syr Grundor nodded both with satisfaction and primal masculine acknowledgement as he saw the fellow dwarven knight appointed to the task before them. The others were where Syr Valborast's eyes drew themselves across, like fingers on a chalkboard did his line of sight scrape down their visages.Valborast folded his arms and allowed the platitudes flow freely for now. Allowed the words from Runawynn to speak of dust and bones before Valborast provided commentary.

“Misfits is it,” Valborast said flatly. Syr Grundor looked at Valborast warily, yet patiently. The Crimson Knight narrowed his eyes such a touch, and then as if he were removing tension from a bowstring he relaxed his muscles and made a gesture as if to dismiss his own distaste for such a description being levied at them all.

“Squire Tarren. On a high threat mission? And...” Valborast said as if the notion did not bother him at all, as if it were a jest. He grew serious and looked at the third. Marren. He unfolded his arms and began to march towards Marren, as if he was out to reprimand them for uttering such a quiet word of animosity. In truth, that was not the motivation behind his powered walk, but it might have appeared to be an act of incoming discipline and education to one in Marren's position. Valborast considered such a thing and used it to their advantage.

Valborast stood before Marren. He remained neutral. A well practiced art of a near perfect poker face. A face that had forced to endure the scrutiny of fanged nobility, of immortal councils and monstrous tutorship. Was that a trace of a sneer upon Valborast's features, or just a trick of the shadow due to Valborast standing with his back to the sun?

Syr Grundor extended words in hope to sidetrack Valborast's potentially withering tirade as he was known to indulge in from bitter moment to bitter moment.

“You honour us both with your words,” Syr Grundor said, and looked to Valborast as if to urge further silence, and then returned to Syr Runawynn. “Your skill with polearm will be of great effect I am sure, Syr Runawryn as will your courage to end whatever prowls in the mines. Squire Tarren, remember what's honourable when the time comes and all will be held true. And yes, the dragon knight shall be joining us, it is known.”

Valborast's face flashed a sneer as he turned his head to reply to Syr Grundor's mention of Petra, but Valborast was held in attention by the aspirant's presence. The present moment was important, old grudges could be addressed and ignored at his leisure when Petra arrived. Instead, he kept silent and still, as if he were a gathering storm that was darkening by the moment. No twitch of anger. Just the promise of something.

Syr Grundor watched as Valborast held motionless posture and thought of all the ways that things might go wrong before they had even set about.

Cruelty has many forms, Valborast thought, and my visage no doubt impresses that something is amiss. No point prevaricating.

The Crimson Knight began to speak, and as he did so, he spoke slowly, and to Marren alone. He spoke with deadly calm, as if might inform someone who wielded a deadly weapon not to swing so recklessly with it as to not imperil others or themselves.

“Aspirant,” Valborast said, “this is a high threat mission. Everyone is at risk. Even you. Do you accept this?”

Syr Grundor made a few steps towards Valborast and was about to say something when Valborast raised his voice ever so slightly as to stop interruption or infighting. Valborast was not entertaining anything but the truth being told in this moment.

“The others might have not warned you of the danger of the dark, but I will. I will because I understand that this is an opportunity for you if you face it correctly. Are you ready to assume the danger that comes with any high risk mission? The others might have coddled you. I won't, for your own good. Are you able to step up, Aspirant, should the cause need you? Speak true.” Valborast asked, with an odd mixture of hard truth and compassion in his voice. A disarming blend of emotions.

Petra Darthinian Mara Tillerman​

 

[Mara Tillerman]

Mara froze mid-step when Valborast approached her. The girl was only a year younger than Tarren, but petite by comparison even in the slight bulk of her leather armor. Frowning, she moved her dark eyes slowly to his expressionless face. She flinched ever so slightly as if expecting a blow to follow before her gaze fell back to the ground, in the manner of a peasant when faced with an aristocrat.

“...Everyone is at risk. Even you. Do you accept this?” he asked. Swallowing a lump in her throat, Mara forced herself to look back at the knight’s face as she tried to fully digest what he was asking of her. Her mind’s eye instantly flashed through her training over the past few years with bow and sword, sparring practices and tests that she progressed through adequately. Adequately, she might have thought if she didn’t obsess over her every little mistake.

“I… um... I…” she stuttered softly for a moment before finding her voice again long enough to answer his first question. “Yes, Syr.”

She opened her mouth to respond to the knight’s following words, but went silent again when Syr Runawynn’s voice interrupted in gruff annoyance,

“Eh, Syr Valborast, there’s no need to interrogate the poor lass! You’ve probably not met Mara. She was sworn in as a squire this year. She’s been working hard in the monastery for awhile; I figured she needed some time on the open road, toes in the dirt. She sure as the bleeding hells ain’t going into the mine with us! Tarren’s only going in because he’s already a knight in all but fancy title.”

Runawynn moved to Mara’s side and gave her a playful elbow with her free hand. “She’s just going to keep us company and mind our gear. No fighting this time – right, Rabbit?”

Mara jerked her head vertically in a nod, fidgeting under the scrutiny of the group’s combined stare. She tried to distract herself by running through combat routines in her head.

"Aye, a few years from now, if she keeps up with practice," Runawynn continued with a chuckle. "But for now, she's stuck on slug control and potato peeling."

Mara tried very hard to stop fidgeting.

​

Valborast Valchek​

 

[Valborast Valchek]

Valborast's dark eyes kept on the squire Mara as Syr Runawyn provided commentary. He did not falter in his presence. It was as if he allowed the words to pass through him without noticing them. But he felt the irritation build in him at the prospect of Syr Runawynn's refusal to use all the resources given. But such was not his call, and he knew it. Just as he could not command Syr Grundor, he could not command another's knight's squires. He harboured his displeasure at the prospect without sign.

Instead, he waited until Syr Grundor spoke. And speak he did, clearing his throat and trying to fashion some decorum between the party. Valborast spoke at the same time, quietly, and only to Mara, in his own subordinate fashion as Syr Grundor provided adaquate smoke screen to his manoeuvrer.

Syr Grundor spoke thusly to Syr Runawynn.

“Syr Valborast is just being thorough I'm sure. This is a high threat mission after all, we've survived a few because of such an attitude. Valborast didn't mean any offense by his questioning. Isn't that right, Valborast?”

At the same time, Valborast leaned in and spoke in a hushed conspiratorial tone, as if revealing a secret to the Squire Mara.

“Squire Mara, this is a high threat mission. Remember that, and act appropriately. We are all of the Order. We are all capable of great things against terrible foes. Don't be misled. You may be needed. Be ready.”

Valborast brought himself back and heard Syr Grundor repeat himself.

“Isn't that right Valborast?”

“Certainly,” Valborast said, and turned on his heel and flashed a small conspiratorial, smug smile at Mara, before marching off as he produced a pipe about himself, “I'm sure that whatever you said is correct Syr Grundor. Now, we wait for the dragon knight, Petra,” he said, slowly rolling the name in his mouth as if he was forced to endure the sound of it in his throat.

“Oh,” Valborast said, and turned to look at Mara. A moment passed.

“Squire Mara, not Aspirant. My apologies. I mispoke. We all have our titles to wear and own, a responsibility and boon. Squire or Knight, we all act for the good of the mission.” Valborast said sincerely, but it was not the apology of one who viewed themselves at grievous fault. It was just respectful to attend such a misplacement of title. It was sincere enough. He added, “Yes?” as he set light to some tobacco and made small clouds of smoke while he brooded over the delayed response.

“Yes Syr Valborast,” Syr Grundor said, and tolerated the apparent and curious leadership that Valborast was displaying.

“From here on, until this mission ends, just call me Val. Easier to call when,” Valborast said and held his tongue. He frowned and shook his head.

“When, pray tell, what. You know, you don't have to be so thrilled to spook us, why-” Syr Grundor said, puzzled, before he was cut off.

“When we are surrounded by the dark and have to keep noise discipline,” Valborast said, exasperation growing that he had to explain this to the rest of the group. He smoked and kept his careful balance of professionalism, animosity towards his fellows and scorn towards his need to prepare for working with such a large team.

One day I'll be a pursuant and I won't have to contend with such a collection on a high threat mission. Why, I might be able to contend with whatever is going on in the mine alone.

But who knows what troubles the mines, and what the dark has birthed this time. It is infinite. I am not. I am of the dark. But it is made of the dark. Just as the squire is unsure of themselves and is a potential liability, they too can be an asset. So too my confidence might...

Valborast chuckled to himself.

Such thoughts of humility.

Unusual, he thought. He knew that in this moment, his rejected corrupted part of himself would never have allowed even a sliver of such a thought. His hand unconsciously went to Riven, his blade, and the Riven spoke only to Valborast in this moment.

'We are powerful.'

The humility disappeared as visions of what Riven could perform in his hand danced in his mind. A scene of black with flashes of white steel, as arcing blood of unknown foes fell to the wayside.

Syr Grundor noticed the far away look in Valborast's eyes and kept near him as they waited for the dragon knight to arrive. There was no telling what Valborast's next words might be, given his odd humour, and Syr Grundor said something quietly to Valborast and Valborast alone. Words that Valborast didn't hear.

He was too busy thinking of glory to be found in the dark, alone yet not alone in his head.

 

[Petra Darthinian]

"Norvyk."

"Yes, I heard. You are to delve deep into the mines where I cannot follow." His grumbling reply was colored by discontent.

Petra was strutting purposefully from the command room, a list of supplies running through her head. Chief among them being sources of light, although her trepidation at performing her first task as a Knight was a close second. Especially since it would be in the absence of her Dusk counterpart, her dragon.

She had yet to take her oaths with the Knights of Anathaeum, so it felt all the more prudent that she prove her place among them.

"These mines, we do not yet know how deep they dug. But my first thought is goblins, considering it's a relative distance to Tarlik-Za."

"I am not so sure,' Petra reached the door of her room and entered, her frenetic energy carrying her through her room like a whirlwind as she packed, 'If it was goblins, a militia of men could have taken care of the nuisance without calling for the aid of the Knights. I would not be so quick to discount the might of mortal men." The pack she grabbed was quickly filled with the necessities, anything extra she was sure she could buy along the way there. There had been a handful of Knights in the command room, but much to her chagrin, she was still learning many of their names and specialties. But she supposed on a deadly mission was as best a time as any to familiarize herself and create a beneficial connection within her newly found community.

Satisfied with her gear, for now, the elf exited her room and made her way to the front gates of the Monastery, the sight of a small group of people coming into view. Their voices melted into a raucous rhythm of discordance. A team not yet unified, but Petra hoped with guidance, they could all form a more harmonious cohesion for their mission.

Her eyes flitted across the visage of the Knights who would accompany her. Unable to stop the intrusive thoughts that plagued her the closer she drew to the edge of the group. Just how many of them would survive their trek into the dark? Would there be some who would never see the light of day again? Their last moments spent trapped beneath the crushing weight of the stone.

Granted, she had only met a handful of the Knights, yet already she felt a fierce protectiveness against any who would harm them. Especially as the figure of a teenage human girl shuffled out from the shadow of Syr Runawynn, a defiant spark lighting her eyes as the aforementioned Knight cackled away at the girl's expense.

Petra appreciated that kind of quiet and resilient presence of spirit; she was never one to doubt the small and unassuming. For more often than not, they had the most to prove.

Upon reaching the group, she nodded curtly to Valborast, a pained grin pulling at her lips. For she wanted no hard feelings between them, but she understood that their sparring led to a chastising of his ego and pride. And from the mouths of others who had known him longer in the Order— Petra learned that that was not something Valborast easily forgave.

Valborast Valchek Mara Tillerman

 

[Mara Tillerman]

Mara, for her part, certainly didn’t intend to do anything severely stupid on this trip. She’d leave that to Tarren and his need to prove himself to the knights. She might have been content with that, but something in Valborast’s words struck a chord: We are all capable of great things against terrible foes. He didn’t seem the type to mince words or throw warm sentiment around like a charlatan. She had to respect that.

Then again, he didn’t know Mara – but she felt that she knew him the slightest degree more. So she looked back at him with a bit more admiration, a bit less distrust, and nodded her understanding.

“Makes sense, Val,” Syr Runawynn replied to Valborast with a slight smirk playing across her lips. “Me kin call me Rune, so call me that if it suits you. Though if you call me that when I’m drunk, I might forget and loosen your teeth!” The dwarf laughed heartily. Tarren laughed along with her, although he looked unsure if that was really meant as a joke.

Tarren gave Petra a respectful – if not admiring – greeting when she joined them. The new knight and her draconic companion were quite popular with many of the squires. Mara, too, was looking around curiously as if hoping to catch a view of the dragon on the wall or in a tree somewhere. Runawynn grinned and inclined her head towards the elf with a casual salute; she liked Petra well enough (for an elf), but she always seemed vaguely uncomfortable whenever Norvyk was anywhere to be seen.

With the party gathered, they set off down the road.

It was several days’ worth of travel from the monastery to the mine through a rugged wilderness. Lord Brimheart obviously kept his region’s roads well-maintained for the transport of materials to the mines – some areas had even been reinforced with stone pavers. Given that some of the summer thunderstorms had lingered into autumn, it proved a boon to their feet and the few carts that were on the road; especially as the double track wound its way ever upward, further into the eastern mountains.

---------------​

“Silvertown,” Tarren read the wooden sign outside of the cluster of buildings. “An unimaginative name for an unimaginative place.”

From a distance, it looked like any other mining town: a single road cutting through a pair of shop-lined boardwalks where the main services could be found, a few extra outbuildings beyond that – a smithy and carpenter’s shop primarily – and a few homesteads cut out of the surrounding forest. The buildings looked to be a mixture of wood and stone, of human and dwarven designs. Hardly a surprise, since dwarves were found wherever the stone provided.

Or wherever the booze was, Rune would have said.

“Isn’t there supposed to be a fort here?” Tarren asked, looking up the slope of the snow-capped mountain that towered over the hamlet. All he could see was more mountain.

“It’s that way, about half-a-day as the crow flies,” Rune said, pointing away north. “That’s where Lord Brimheart rules with a golden codpiece.”

“I thought…”

“Thought what, lad? That he’d come and tell us about his mine troubles himself?” Rune started laughing almost uncontrollably. “No, boy, he couldn’t be bothered with us filthy commonfolk. Well-” she spun around to look at Valborast. “Syr Valborast...maybe they’d have tea together.”

Seeing her squire’s confused expression, she sighed and tried very hard to be patient. “Brimheart owns several mines. This is just one of them.”

“Well, yes, of course. I was just under the impression we were going to Grenquarry.”


By all the gods, can we just get on with it? Mara thought sullenly to herself. It was late afternoon by now, they’d been on the road all day, and her feet hurt. What did the stupid name matter anyway? Next she supposed he would stop and ask the mine monster what its proper name was before fighting it.

Finally, someone mentioned something about getting directions from one of the locals and a few inn rooms for the night. Mara was sorely looking forward to taking off her pack for the day.

Petra Darthinian Valborast Valchek

 

[Valborast Valchek]

The jutting composite of buildings constructed by both man and dwarf was a dim curiosity to Valborast; he regarded them as one might a model village. His eye viewed them as facsimiles of actual buildings, as if their construction was some kind of decoy or deception. The stonework impressive and built with grander suggestions beyond itself, the doors accommodating taller folk by an allowance of design yet burgeoning under the strain of that accommodation, both in style and scheme. In his time with Grundor he had heard many a purist's talk on architecture, Grundor speaking of the importance of arches and a singular vision in their times in missions together. The two found themselves in quiet agreeance as they looked at each other, sharing unified judgement on the place. If nothing else, they had agreed upon this in quiet talk as they approached. This was a place of necessity, not of grand designs, nor vision beyond practicality and profit.

“Practicality and profit,” Grundor said to Valborast and brightened as the words rose to the fore, “Say, not a bad motto for any brigands. I know you write books, being as your second home is with Parshen these days, perhaps that should be somewhere in your next book,” Grundor said, looking to cheer on Valborast in some small measure.

“You dare think that I would write on brigands? I write on what I know. And brigands were never tolerated where I came from.” A pause as memory served and Valborast drank a snifter of water from a cantine as they walked as a group. “Little was tolerated beyond the ruler's pleasures, whims and ever present war against a jaded life. And Parshen barely tolerates me. If he did, he'd let me smoke in the library.” Valborast continued, being firmly incorrect in his assessment of Parshen's disposition, but absolutely correct in his observation of Parshen's iron clad rules of the library space.

It was Grundor's turn to wonder the extent of the cruel upbringing Valborast may have experienced. He spoke on it little, beyond what was his to be proud of enduring and to be liberated from. Yet, there there was a tone of acceptance and pride almost in the forge that had created him so.

Valborast looked up at the day's progress and remembered how he had endured the company of his fellows. He harboured his judgement towards his comrades as one might regard the a chalice of poisoned wine, to be swirled for it's aroma with as much hope to spill as much to the ground for lessening one's own dose of toxicity. That name burned upon him like a brand of one particular comrade.

Lightning striking, robe ensnaring, b-

Another voice interrupted Valborast's ruminations of spite, resounding within his mind. His hand went to the pommel of his blade instinctively as to further improve communication between themselves.

The two conversed in short snaps of communication as Grundor spoke to a local, a pudgy dour faced boy who had eyes that were prompt to burst into tears at any given sign of trouble. Valborast's eyes were distant and looked to the roofs of the composite buildings, Grundor's eyes softened as he offered kindness and coin for direction to the tavern. The blade and owner spoke between each other in quick shorthand, as they had grown attuned to each other's willful nature and refusal to indulge the other in anything but productive talk, be it of warning, ambition, or these words of council.

You should thank her really – Riven spoke to Valborast's mind, and a wellspring of anger ran cold through Valborast as his eyes narrowed. He resisted the immediate retort that followed his emotion and allowed Riven to speak on, he ruled himself and the blade, and a faltering in either could spell his doom he knew. He was disciplined to speak with any vampire, and vampire indeed was his corrupt soul conjoined with the three souls of the defeated vampires he had contained for his own power lust and sense of lording victory.

Without Petra, blood would not be spilled, souls would not be conjoined in steel, you would not be free to wield Riven as you do. We would not be you as you are. Appreciate circumstances. Be not bitter. Be thankful that I am Riven.

Valborast smoothed his moustache and blinked a few times as he received hard council.

I understand that much, Riven – Valborast communicated after a time. He was forced to concede this to the blade. It spoke with piercing clarity. More than his own thoughts he recognised the clarity that this blade possessed. Riven brooded with far more efficiency to useful conjecture, Valborast thought.

His hand went away from the blade, and he guarded his mind as to grow distant from the blade so his bitterness could thrive for a time, before plucking it from what well entrenched roots it gripped his memories. Such was required if he was not to be distracted every time he saw the elven woman, bereft of drake, useful to their cause, useful to Valborast's end of surviving, nay, thriving in this high threat mission.
When did I become so tolerant, Valborast thought and smiled ruefully at himself as he tapped the blade's pommel for comfort.
Riven provided no chatterings to this sentiment, for Valborast tolerated himself.

“Thank you lad,” Grundor said and tossed a single silver piece to the child, and turned to the rest of the group.

“Attention my good comrades,” Grundor said. Valborast remained some distance ahead, his ears attentive to the address but made no effort to make him more part of the group than he had to experience. The boy smudged his face for a moment as he regarded Valborast's blood red visage. Valborast glanced in his direction and provided a glance that urged the lad into scurrying away to a better haunt.

“My good comrades,” Valborast muttered under his breath.

“My good comrades,” Grundor said, as if smoothing over the ground Valborast deliberately prickled, “Follow me to an inn. Rest before the task ahead of us. Some rest before we are demanded to action.”

And so Grundor took point, leading through the place called Silvertown. A few shutters closed once eyes did peer at the entourage of knights and squires intermingled in purpose and place along the single road that marked this place. Grundor quickly led them to an inn, and Valborast, who until this point had done his best to ignore Petra's presence lingered close to her, yet still did not give her eye contact.

As they approached an inn known as The Sparkened Stone, a place which already had the waft of homely foods and conversation over frothed drinks before the doors had opened, Valborast made his incision of conversation towards Petra, his voice neutral and all business.

“I would speak to you. Later. I've already spoken to this squire. I would speak to you too. In due time,” Valborast said, and strode forwards to open the door.

Grundor was about to perform this gesture, but the taller and more lithe Valborast made good purpose to be away from Petra before she could reply. Valborast made the door arc as far as possible, his hand upon the door in a gesture that was almost taunting some manner of comment. A few eyes did look upon his crimson armour and robes, and Valborast looked through the room in turn.

A few cowled faces, a wide brimmed hat of a magician, a plucking of a lute that strummed regardless of Valborast's sense of dramatics.

Valborast spoke a single word to his colleagues as his eyes still fell to those inside.

“In.”

Grundor shook his head, and held the door open as Valborast allowed the others to pass, lingering near the doorway as the others filtered through.

“Was that...was that a pun?” Grundor said in mild disbelief.

Valborast smiled slyly.

“Good heavens no Syr Grundor, I would never debase myself so,” Valborast said, and the two regarded each other in deadpan acceptance of the terrible humour on display.

“You heard Val,” Syr Grundor said, “In.”

Valborast allowed his fellows to enter and sealed the door behind them.

Petra Darthinian Mara Tillerman

 

[Petra Darthinian]

Seeing the curiosity flash across the young squire's face had Petra throwing her an encouraging flash of teeth.

"Norvyk is near, don't you worry. But although he is a pompous creature, prone to preening at the venture of theatrics; he doesn't much care for the screaming of citizens when we land in their market square, much to my chagrin." She followed her words with a conspiratorial wink. Her keen eyes had already seen how much Mara lacked people including her in the joke, instead of making her the punchline of one. That sort of social cannibalism didn't sit well with Petra. She had been where the squire had been once when the elf had spent a decade long in Fal-Addas, drowning herself in wine, parties, and romantic dalliances. All in the name of finding acceptance from her kind. And yet, here she was, two decades later, parts of her more draconian than elf, estranged from her family, and in a ramshackle menagerie of an order that had ambitions to fight for relevancy once again. And yet, happier than she had ever been.

*******

They had spent several days journeying to Silvertown; Norvyk had even deigned the group worthy of his company in the evening, flying down to perform as his rider's pillow at her behest.

There was even a handful of nights that saw the sky light up with arcing strikes of a thunderstorm. The metallic roars of her dragon could be heard in the echoes of the crackling electric rage as Norvyk absorbed the magical frenetic energy of the storms; the best place for a dragon of his kind to be.

And the nights had grown colder, and as a result, their group huddled close to the fires they nursed along the road. Generous helpings of rabbit and quail dished out amongst them; the renditions of favorite bawdy tavern tunes sung to keep the night at bay. Plans and theories offered in lieu of any real evidence yet found between them. Although, they had all come to the conclusion that they needed to speak to the miners and their families before they interviewed Lord Brimheart.

All the while Petra grilled her dragon for information as to what might lurk beneath the stone of the Grenquarry mine. He seemed to know much of the region by way of osmosis. Considering, a dragon is ever seeking to gain more in both power and knowledge. Because for an immortal beast, knowledge became the last paragon of relevancy. Of worth.

"SO, you know nothing?" The elf quipped, dismounting from her horse in front of the tavern, she had exhausted all that Norvyk might have known about what creature hunted beneath the humble crust of the earth. But her drake had argued he was a denizen of the skies, a titan of storms. Herald to the comings and goings of the pedestrians of everything above ground, and no deeper.

As a result, here the Knights were, intent on gleaning as much information from the townsfolk as they could.

Petra was just handing off her reins to the stable hostler, tired and ready for a warm meal, her pack slung over her shoulder when Valborast approached and made a request of her presence. His dour expression was for once not full of quiet contempt as she followed him cautiously into the inn. Readying herself for a pedantic tongue-lashing from the vampire-kin, even as she blushed at the good-natured wink from Syr Grundor, who held the door for her with a chivalrous flourish.


Mara Tillerman Valborast Valchek

 

[Mara Tillerman]

Anyone who'd frequented any human mining settlement could tell one right away from the dusty character of the town's people and the rowdiness of its taverns. This inn was nameless, marked only by a hanging sign with a crude painting of a crown over a mining pick, but as the knights entered the building it became apparent that this was the heart of the town. And a vibrant heart it was.

The place was full of grubby men still wearing the dirt and sweat of a day's work over patched and ragged clothes. They didn’t take much notice of the newcomers – except for Petra, who drew a few slack-jawed stares before the drunkards inevitably noticed her armaments. Most of the patrons were caught up in drinking, talking, laughing, arm-wrestling and playing cards. All of this chaos was further punctuated with whoops and shouts that almost rivalled an orcish party. Even a bard, who was trying to play something on a rather shoddy stage in one corner, managed to turn cheerful lute chords into something a seasoned musician might call ‘useless noise meant to inspire bar fights’.

“How… quaint,” Tarren remarked of a suggestive drawing of a dwarven woman in a dress - her long dark hair and beard both elaborately braided - that had been painted on one wall. It was obviously old, the colors faded and the paint peeling. Beneath it, a group of dwarvish men had taken over one table, their own ruckus somehow noticeable above the din in a manner only dwarves could accomplish.

The squire made a face of slight anguish and turned his attention instead to the game of darts going on towards the back of the tavern that caught his interest. He already knew that Rune was a terrible darts player, but he wondered if his other companions might prove better opponents.

Runawynn made a heading directly for the bar, where a portly old human with a head of greasy white hair seemed completely unconcerned with the surrounding cacophony. She slapped her hand against the counter, putting down a handful of copper coins.

“One pint of Grimbeard Stout! Or something that makes me think it's Grimbeard Stout. Whichever you got!” There were other dwarves here, so surely there was something suitable enough to go down the hatch without coming back up immediately. Syr Grundor could hold on to his chivalry if he cared to, but there was a a deeper propriety known to all dwarves that every journey worth drinking to was one in which you drank afterwards. Or during. Or whenever the opportunity presented itself.

Mara was far more subtle as she made her way to the bar and paid for her room. Technically, it should have come out of Runawynn’s earnings, but Mara didn’t have the patience to wait for Rune to stop drinking and get to business. A bit of quiet and privacy was worth a silver out of her coinpurse. Seeing as Rune was busy getting a drink and Tarren was busy doing whatever it was Tarren did when his mouth was shut, she excused herself and would make her way to the stairs leading to the rooms.

Valborast Valchek Petra Darthinian

 

[Valborast Valchek]

The chatterings of the goers of this place made Valborast long for the quiet of the library. He pressed fingers into his temples and made gentle spirals which soothed his rising irritation as he waited to be served. He closed his eyes, and waited for the approach of someone to serve him.

There would be time enough for silence within the rock of the mine. Where echoes are to be attended instead of the verbal grindstones of the hoi polloi against my temple.

He exuded enough isolated dignity and potential scorn not to be addressed by any of the common folks, including the barkeep for some small measure of time. His thoughts assembled and a speech was formulated in some small measure. Balanced, tempered, first hot anger fed his words, outrage and disgrace, then, slowly, eaten away by utilitarian mindset and requirements of his title. Syr. One he would be replace with loftier titles one day had he enough to prove himself. Or so his ambition instructed.

Leadership is a quality I must demonstrate to mortal men instead of kindred. Brutal and entertaining honesty and intrigue is not the order of the day, it shall not sustain our group as it might if I were with my fanged comrades of old. Ah, were I in command of the Fangs again, those vipers of the dark, my brothers against the horrors that Zakron were often host to. Each other, mostly.

He amassed his cloak around him and looked at the barkeep a little too severely for his mind was tinged by thinking of the way he had to use his authority with his previous vampire comrades in arms. Valborast tried to soften his glance, preparing himself for a better approach than what his natural inclination might yield, but found it difficult.

This conversation with Petra will be more palatable with wine in my hands. Our hands. Yes.

He took a smug satisfaction as to his meaning, and Riven thrummed a positive affirmation at him for being recognised and listened to. Petra was be counselled. Riven's instruction followed. Such was the order of the night.

The barkeep approached, slightly tentatively, but a small polite smile was practised upon them by Valborast and a speech from the employee about not causing trouble was averted.

“A bottle of burgundy, something expensive, elven or human, whatever you have. And two glasses,” Valborast said. “Two, thin, glasses,” Valborast added with a quietness that bordered on the territory of animosity.

The barkeep remained silent and acquitted all manner of complaints that Valborast's implication did give rise to, that perhaps they were a backwards people, or perhaps they did not trust the clientele with something that might smash should it clatter from clumsiness, or perhaps smash in anger. The bottle was presented, appropriate and exact coinage was exchanged, and Valborast acquired what he needed to make what would follow more palatable.

He walked slowly to a table, and exhaled silently as he sat down, the figure of control and brooding emotion that was being fought as darts failed to strike their mark. This thoughts ran thusly:

If I gave the squire that speech, well, I best address the possible weakness in the fighting spirit we may possess in our group between Petra and myself. There's a number of us, mostly in good order. The weakness is with her and I as I am forced to admit. The rest can babble as they please. It wouldn't look good if I was forlorn in comradely, nay, professionalism towards her in the final report. Clearing the air is necessary. As much as I'd like to ignore her, it's a luxury I can't afford. We can't afford on this high threat mission. It demands all we have. And if I have to make nice with someone who finds it appropriate to sabotage a man's clothing during a duel, so be it. Gods favour the well prepared. And darkness, well.

He smiled at the thought. It comforted him in the thought of a place where light did not touch. Perhaps nostalgia, perhaps knowledge of his own aptitude within it.

He looked at the wine and practised hiding his emotional response at what was sold to him. It was an elven wine to be sure, but it was something lesser than he was accustomed to. He quickly found a solace in it, for he thought of the strategy of some kind of bonding over the quality of the wine. He wondered if all elves had an opinion on wine, or at least, as strong as one as he.

The knight placed the bottle down precisely in the middle of the table and concluded his previous unfinished thought.

All the darkness holds does conspire to seize every advantage.

The Crimson Knight did sit for a time and waited for Petra to look his way. He pushed a chair out, as if inviting her, and made a neutral look alongside an open land to gesture to that same chair to sit. The path of least resistance was to carry on the bitterness that did make his soul thrive in the company of such cheery peoples about their nightly leisure. This was diplomacy, he knew, and diplomacy with mortals required a far more fairer and open touch.

He made a further gesture at the wine glasses, and sat deadly still as his prepared words took hold within his mind.

His first words, once Petra might sit down, would be the following, said calmly and without any hint of malice, measured as evenly as the glasses he poured for the two of them, lacking the warmth of the conversation around them, but rather it was cool and as clearly spoken as fresh spring water.

“If nothing else, let us agree on this tonight, that knights of stature should be entitled to wine before a high threat mission is embarked proper. We shall drink to that first, yes?”

Petra Darthinian Mara Tillerman

 

[Petra Darthinian]

The first thing the dragon rider noticed was the smell. Her sensitive nose scrunched in disagreement to the thick air that reeked of too many unwashed bodies in a small and warm space.

Petra could feel the pressure of too many curious eyes raking their gazes across the scales of her draconian limb and the small iridescent green scales that framed her brow bone. Alighting her golden alien eyes to show herself as other. Seen as different and predatory and worthy of untrust until apparently proven otherwise. The weight of their open stares causing her to fidget with self-consciousness; the subtle vibrations that songweavers were sensitive to was made worse by the crowd and was enough set her teeth on edge.

She needed a fucking drink.

And as if manifesting as some sick boon of a derangedly humored god, a chair pushed out to her in invitation of company, followed by a pair of glasses filled with wine as further enticement.

So it was with heavy caution, the elven Knight slid into the seat across from Valborast. Her eyebrows lifting higher the more he spoke, trying to hide the subtle lifting of a bemused grin.

Instead, with a deft motion, she took up the glass he had generously offered her, hiding the wolfish smile behind the red rim of her glass. It's rich bitter tannins blooming across her tongue as she drained the glass and placed it down with a decisive thunk on the sticky wooden table between them. Sliding it closer to him in acceptance of his peace offering.

And in the spirit of teasing camaraderie and self-deprecation, she asked,
"Of stature you say? Would you say that's stature gained by sheer prowess in combat,' She winked, 'or would that be stature by way of oaths I have not yet taken?"

 

[Seluria Estel'Narqua]

​

Far away and above the others in the mountains, the cold bite of autumn had fully sunken its teeth into the weathered stones and trees. Hunched around a small, still pool, the boulders seemed to conspire whether to dip their feet in and seal the rift completely. A bitter cold trickle of life, bleeding its way down the mountain and into the streams and rivers that would be as the veins of the world. Not even the creatures of the night nor the insects could be heard this high up, this close to the sky; all was calm and still, and dreaming. Even down to the pool, as it gently reflected and amplified the light of the stars above.

Perched upon the rocks, a slender ghost of a figure gazed upon those same stars, reading them as she might have read a book. There were many ways to seek answers to the fathomless amount of questions mankind held, from the small knucklebones of animals, to the signs written in blood and ash. Yet, all were of the earth, and would hold tainted interpretations, in her eyes. The Stars, hanging in the perpetual black, were the true observers and witnesses to the world, and all one needed was the right time, and the right place to receive their counsel as clearly as one might hear the gentle trickle of water over stone in this quiet place. And it was thus, that upon reading their message this time, she tilted her head in bemused confusion.

The Naga and the Beaver were chasing each other's tails.

An odd message, to be sure, considering her actions as of late. Perhaps indeed it was time to recall, and return to her brethren. It was time for a change, it seemed, in her flow. As she thought this, the breeze turned, and came from another angle- sending the white veils cascading across her like silken waterfalls. A smile touched her lips. Rising slowly to her feet, the maiden moved as a ghost over the gravel-strewn soil, pausing only at the flicker of a shadow over her frame and looking up to see a second figure as pale as she.

The pale owl watched her with large, dark eyes filled with starlight, and with a gentle dip of her head, it took off once more- drifting in the direction of the Monastery like a leaf on the wind.

It would take time for them to return. Turning her head slightly, the maiden broke her gaze from the ever-black around her, to a more humble sight below. The lights and smoke from a mining town, nestled against the flank of the mountain and fringed by the shadows of the forest. Perhaps it was just the stars, or the storms, or the roars of a dragon she had been hearing as of late, but something told her that her best place to seek a resolution to this reading would be below.

A faint smile touched her lips again, and the specter descended once more to seek the familiar eyes and voices of her living brethren, leaving the ones that had passed on to their well guarded slumber in the beyond.

- - -
​

It was not the door opening that marked her passage, for it did not creak despite its aged hinges. No, it was the cold breeze let in to tickle the senses of those nearest it, before the portal was sealed once more under a gentle hand. And in that space between was a figure dressed as if made of silvern starlight.

The maiden turned, her head moving slightly as if taking in what she could see around her, despite the crystal and ornament shielding the upper half of her face. There were several individuals here of the Order, she noted. And they came well equipped. That would explain the sign of the Beaver...now, as to learn what the Stars had deigned important enough that she descend. Her robes rippled gently as she moved, the raucous sounds of drinking men and prideful dwarves cascading over her and around her like a waterfall.

Ah. A familliar face. Rippling, smooth movements turned and flowed with purpose- until she approached the broad figure of Syr Grundor. A light hand, as cool as the morning frost moved to his pauldron and gave a faint, ringing tap of metal on metal to get his attention. A faint smile in bemusement.

"It seems the Stars requested my involvement. Would you impart upon me the specifics of what deeds you and the others of the Order aspire to perform, Syr Grundor of the Dawn?"

Her voice, as soft and lilting as a mother whispering a tale to a child nestled in her arms.

 

[Valborast Valchek]

She sets the olive branch to cinders before the dove can even fly off with it.

Valborast's look darkened a touch, the scowl firmly engrained into his defensive mechanisms that flared up tautly, yet not obvious enough to incite an argument. Such a scowl did not flash, it simmered to the surface of a face that was trying to maintain composure. A slight twitch of the eye, a thinning of lips. Not the imitation of a tiger.

He drank half of his glass in slower method than his colleague as he thought of a response, sifting through the path of least resistance in bitter retorts to find something more useful to the purpose. The Crimson Knight set down the glass and poured another measure into it. Swirled the wine. Sipped again. And gave a haughty look to Petra, as if he had only just seen her.

“We assume the mantle of responsibility, oath binding or conscience driven, to perform our cares as best we can. Further,” Valborast said quietly, as if slipping the dagger betwix'd a ribcage, “we adopt the purpose that the danger does foretell us heed, heed or be struck down.”

He left the words as a minor warning of inciting his own temper, yet it was soft enough not to be detected as absolute refutation or a declaration of bitterness. A wound of pride had been grazed, and Valborast did much to ignore it's sting. Another one might not be suffered so well.

“I perform my cares thusly. You are entitled to my wine, for you are comrade. You are entitled to my council, for you are comrade. This is a high threat mission. Your first, if I'm not mistaken. Perhaps your first at all where your partner cannot span wing to guide and assist. What know of you fighting in the dark? Or rather more importantly, of the dark? You know of sky, of sun, of dragon breath. But such will be denied, denied under weight of rock. The dark rules in it's own fashions and pleasures there. No-one has experienced it as I. I will be tending much. I would know if you are capable of seeing within it at the very least. Open flame will be a burden, perhaps a liability.”

He drank deep of the wine and left scant red as he placed it down. No exhalation or sign of effort to do as he had done, but there had been strain upon his patience for not indulging in scorn.

Meanwhile, Syr Grundor had been addressed. He turned and in looking up gave a small bow as his eyes did see.

He smoothed his beard and was hushed in speech.

“High threat mission is risk before us, to go into stone holdings of the mine. I quote the missive, 'Lord Brimheart of Grenquarry has unearthed some foul strangeness in the depths of his mines, an entire mining party has been lost.' Accident would not bring us so. Foulness suspected. And, prepared for. Your presence means much to us, you see what we cannot. You come with omens perhaps? That may please Valborast, he has oft spoken of your command of divination as a source of wisdom for us knights.”

Valborast hadn't phrased it so, but the meaning in this moment was the same as what was spoken.

Seluria Estel'Narqua Petra Darthinian Mara Tillerman

 

[Mara Tillerman]

The supply pack clattered noisily as Mara threw it down before spreading out on the meager bed of her room with a sigh of relief. It had been a strange journey in her eyes; Syr Valborast's generally bitter and brooding demeanor on the one side, Syr Petra's undaunted mirth and music on the other, and Tarren's apple-polishing right in the middle. A hot bath could not be more desired than this precious solitude, even in a shoddy room of a cheap inn. She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and enjoyed the silence.

Mara took this time to ruminate on thoughts that she wouldn't dare in the presence of others, as if her mind was an open book to be judged. She considered that she should probably take more time to get to know the knights she travelled with - particularly Petra, who had treated her kindly - but Mara found that she couldn't quite get past the sense of unease she had for anyone who acted so nice. Nice people always hid something behind charismatic smiles; something often far darker and deadlier than those who bore their ugliness openly. Mara was the kind of person who wanted to see the dagger plainly rather than be surprised by it later.

At least with Valborast, she mostly knew what to expect. That dagger was in plain sight and already bloodied.

--------------
​

Runawynn sighed after taking a swig of the surprisingly adequate beer the tavern had on offer. She was thinking about Mara at that moment, who she'd seen heading up the stairs to the rooms not long ago. Rabbit. The girl had shown a sense of strategy, of studying a situation and opponent before throwing herself into a fight. If ever she actually threw herself in, she might actually be a fair knight one day. If she could get past her desire to hide from everyone. If she could find her battle spirit.

Rune considered ordering Rabbit to come back down and find something to do or someone to talk to, but the dwarf figured it had been a long enough road. Rabbit had probably been overwhelmed by the camaraderie of the road as it was. She'd earned her rest for a bit.

Turning herself around on the bench running the length of the bar, Rune surveyed a scene that was usually as comforting to her as a favorite painting. This time, however, there was something distinctly out of place. It was the pale lady dressed in gossamer and gold speaking with Syr Grundor. She stuck out like a black eye - or a gold eye, in this case - in an establishment whose decoration theme was old blood and spilled beer. The denizens had taken notice too; heads spun around like little tops as if one of the bloody gods had just come through the door and they weren't sure whether they were supposed to offer prayer or sacrifice a lamb. First a damned flying lizard, and now this...

She was exactly the sort of enigmatic person that Tarren would have found fascinating, but he was currently focused on beating somebody at a game of darts and took no notice of the newcomer. Rune surmised that was for the best - she was starting to feel like a mother, dragging that boy away from every lady he suddenly found fascinating.

"Bloody hells," Rune whispered into her drink. Maybe one of Valborast's old buddies had decided to make an appearance; but no, he was still trying to be friendly with Petra - if friendly could be used to describe any aspect of Valborast.

Petra Darthinian Valborast Valchek Seluria Estel'Narqua

 

[Petra Darthinian]

Due to the late hour they had all rolled in, the lights of the tavern were warm yet dim. The shadows of too many candles danced between the bodies and slept in the corners, happily cloaking the patrons that needed the comfort of solitude.

Valborast had chosen such a corner to have his sit down with Petra. So it was with her back to the wall, only shadows lining the arched planes of her face. Her eyelashes dusting her cheek while looking down and playing with her glass, that she listened to the vampire-kin across from her. As he spoke, the songweaver marveled disjointedly at the dichotomy of her hands on the glass. A normal elven one on her left. White scars across her knuckles, the lithe digits feminine and strong. And her right, a jolting display of deep emerald and quetzal green dragon scales. Each finger tip ended with a long black talon. Their contact against the glass causing a soft yet clear ting to reach her ears.

She quietly thought that the sound harmonized well with the hushed cold tones of the Crimson Knight. His veiled vitriol like frigid glass. She wondered if he knew that words were fragile things, for they too, were like glass. Delivered wrong and they shattered. Cutting the people they were given to. Regardless of intent.

His effort was appreciated. But she knew... She could see. Could see how bloody his mouth was as he chewed his words and spit them at her feet.

So it was with a deep and tired sigh that Petra reached forward and poured him more wine before sitting back, leaning into the shadows behind her. Letting the light of candles reflect wickedly in the gold irises of her dragon eyes. The pupils, normally slit like a cat's, were blown wide in the dark room as she stared at him stoically.

"No, Valborast. The darkness will not be a problem." She paused. Seeing him for what he was. "But will yours be?"

 

[Seluria Estel'Narqua]

A gentle dip of the head. The soft ringing of jeweled beads clinking against one another before they were masked by silken fabric once more. "I do, good Syr Grundor. Though the last omen I saw written seems to have been more directed to call for my presence here, and is likewise fulfilled by yours and the others' presence. But the mention of a mine of all places..." her voice lowered ever so faintly. "That leads to a heavy burden for one such as myself and others of the sky. To call for my aid in the depths must indicate it is something that will require those of all skills both great and small to overcome."

As if to emphasize this, Seluria lifted her head for but a moment, meeting the gaze of Syr Runawynn without error. The varied reflections of the faces of each and every individual within the tavern could be found within the gem seated across her eyes. Like a kaleidoscope of life, both rich and poor, both bountiful and withered. And yet Seluria looked to her in that fleeting moment before the dwarf turned back to her drink and blended in again.

A slight pause; not hesitation, but thought. And then the ghostly seer gestured for the Dawnknight Grundor to follow her as she moved to close the gap to his compatriot in arms. The maiden's steps were light and careful, seemingly ignoring the passing, curious hand of a drunkard or two as they reached out toward her. Instead of catching hold, the fabrics of her robes slipped through their fingers like water, leaving them with the baffling sense of cold fingers and the scent of a river running through snow. The overwhelming din of the tavern seemed to be slightly muffled if within a few feet of her, granting ease of hearing to nearer conversations as had just occurred. A woman passed in front of them with a plate of food and drink- stumbled, and then steadied. Those watching carefully glimpsed a faint hint of a white aura about Seluria's hand as she made a symbol with two fingers, sidestepping the staff member as she went about her way none the wiser.

For how gentle her nature was, the Star Seer was perhaps one of the least subtle of those of the Dusk. Such is what was often assumed to have led to her solitary nature, even from her kin, unless otherwise called forth as she had been now.

"Syr Knight." She near whispered the greeting as she finally closed the gap to Runawynn, her head bowing lightly to her elder peer. "There is something I wish to impart upon yourself and any other companions you took with you. Syr Grundor is already somewhat familiar with my capabilities, as is Syr Valcheck. However fate would not favor us should his current conversation be interrupted, so I shall inform the latter of his pair later." Despite the faint urgency in her tone, there was a hint of amusement in the curl of her lips. "If we may speak for a moment? I feel there is more the Stars have yet to tell me, now that I know more of the nature of this mission. I wish to ensure their message is imparted quickly and efficiently."

Valborast Valchek Mara Tillerman

 

[Valborast Valchek]

Syr Grundor followed and remained silent, observing the grace of such a powerful seer in their presence. His heart was gladdened for having more reinforcements in their endeavour, and smiled softly as he listened on. He paid no attention to Valborast, who had just been asked such a direct question by Petra.

Valborast responded instantly to Petra. This was his territory, his domain of magic, his achievement to explain. And this distrust? Was something Valborast perceived at every turn.

He let out a small note of satisfaction having such a direct question being presented. It was refreshing.

“An asset.”

He picked up the glass and sipped at it. He enjoyed the taste this time, and took his time as he spoke on.

“An asset that has been sanctioned by the Captains. I have made my contritions to my own short comings. In my pursuit of understanding the kindred and providing that knowledge to the order, I found my own corruption. Indeed, it might not have happened had you not so thunderously struck in our duel. You saw the spilling of the kindred blood I carried. At first, admonishment from others. And then, I found offense at the invasion of my own mind from those I had defeated. Those who had stood in my way of liberation from Zakron, from that place of nightmare and darkness beyond imagining. Those three I enslaved by arcane vampiric diablory, the most defiant act I could make against what remained of their souls. I studied them and their power, but I was corrupted, little by little, by their presence. I had obliterated their bodies in light. Yes, I have command of the light too, as surprising as that might be to you. But their souls, eternal, I trapped, and had become my pets. Things I learned from. Arts of the dark. Wisdom I gleaned from them. But they bit at me, and gnawed at my soul.”

He drank deeply again.

“With the intervention of the Captains themselves, first by Helena, I recognised the kindred's claws upon my spirit and ripped it asunder in defiance and trapped it within the blade I carry. My own soul ripped from it's moorings in offense of what was occurring. The corruption. With intervention by Selene, to help me recover from such an ordeal, and to help me understand the monumental act that had been performed, I found my own form of kinship with my past. You have your drake. I, have a compound of souls. A triumph of will, like no other. I have Riven.”

Valborast lifted the scabbard of Riven, a thing which was wreathed in sigils born of Loch and hammered in pressed silver. He lifted it, and willed a mote of light across it. This might have been surprising. Valborast had some small command over light magic, one that allowed synergy with his partner, Grundor. And one that allowed him to escape Zakron at all.

“Now, more than before, I have more integrity of purpose than I had when I first encountered you. The Captains themselves assisted my rebirth and division, and armed me properly to complete the most impossible tasks. This is a high threat mission. I will walk into the darkness and complete this mission, and I will do everything in my power to prevent whatever lurks in the pitch black from consuming you all. Such is my responsibility. But I'd rather not carry you completely. I am glad you can see in the dark. But don't confuse sight with perception. And don't confuse one duel in daylight to give you full comprehension of what I am now capable of. And what the dark holds when it consumes.”

He placed the scabbard back down into his belt and quaffed the rest of his wine.

“You are unsworn and much to prove. Prove it yourself in the dark. Survive it. I will do my best to act as support to what glory you may find in such defiance of the dark. That is all I think. I have done all I can for you before the task to guard you.”

Petra Darthinian

 

[Mara Tillerman]

Runawynn cocked an eyebrow at the strange veiled woman. She'd heard rumors of seers among the Duskers, but she didn't want to believe it up to this point. Rune herself didn't much care for soothsayers: the future was meant to be a mystery to all but the gods, by her reasoning. Dabbling in its knowing was almost certainly a sleight against the universe; turning it into vague riddles was definitely a sleight against kith.

Yet it was a bigger insult still to hold a fellow knight's methods against them, so Rune politely set down her pint and gave Seluria a respectful nod, her fiery gaze finding nothing in particular on the veiled face to look into.

"I daresay I've spit on Fate a few times over in my life. I doubt it'd give its favor to me without a fight." She cracked a gap-toothed grin and called Tarren over to the bar. He did as she asked, though his expression was sour at having to leave the game he had apparently been winning. Whatever he'd been thinking about the game, it disappeared completely when he caught sight of Seluria. Rune directed him to get Mara back downstairs. It took him a moment to stop staring with blank confusion at the seer and listen.

He returned after a few minutes of uncomfortable silence between the three knights. He still seemed stunned by the seer's almost dream-like appearance, though he managed to snap out of it long enough to awkwardly bow and introduce himself.

Mara came down behind him, as silent as a shadow. Tarren hadn't enlightened her to the purpose for this disturbance, though she took from his obvious bewilderment that he didn't know either. Then again, everyone but maybe Syr Grundor seemed equally bewitched by the ghost standing by the bar. She wondered if this was a sign that she should just go back upstairs. Ghost stories didn't tend to have happy endings.

Seeing Mara's hesitation, Rune motioned impatiently for her presence. Mara sighed and joined them with great reluctance, mostly averting her gaze from what she was certain must have been some sort of spirit.

"Alright then. What is it your stars are so keen on telling us?" Rune asked Seluria.

Seluria Estel'Narqua Valborast Valchek Petra Darthinian

 

[Roki]

"Roki, hurry now, with those long legs, boy, you have no reason to move like a dwarf," Jarro teased with sharp hooked smile as they made for the tavern. An old iron sign, orange and spotted with rust, read, The Rusty Chav. Jarro's laugh stabbed out, sharp as he nod his head to the sign. "Seems like they heard you were comin, friend Fara," the gold caped elf went on, swaggering with his easy walk as he entered the establishment.

Roki smirked. Much as Syr Jarro could be a pain in the ass, always making him carry the gear and the kit. Proper squiring, he called it, the elf definitely had a way about him that Roki couldn't help but admire.

For the wrong reasons, of course. But admire him he did. He looked to Syr Faramund. "Right, after you, Syr!" He'd wait for the big knight a moment, then hurry in.

There was a whole gang of Knights inside. Not that he could get the best look at them, carrying all the pack and kit that he was.

"Up to the rooms, Roki, go on now," Jarro called out. "Room six, second floor, and you'll have a drink and some food waitin for ya,"

Roki grinned a snaggle tusked grin and seemed to bounce a little lighter on his stride. "Shit, you don't got to tell me twice," he said to himself.

The Syrs looked... tense. Roki could see that much, even as hurried as he was. He caught a glimpse of Mara and Tarren, gave his fellow squires a proud grin and a jut of the chin. Wasn't just any squire that got to go on a real quest.

Much less one with six knights sworn called to the action.

One of the bedrolls fell loose from the mound of stuff he carried, and he cursed under his breath, stopping mid stride. Reached out long with his foot to try and stop it. Hopped some. And by some miracle, nothing else fell down. Still didn't help him pick up the dropped roll though. "Eldyr's nuts man, not in front of all the..." he strained as he whispered. "Sworn..."

Mara Tillerman Seluria Estel'Narqua Petra Darthinian Valborast Valchek Faramund

 

[Faramund]

Brushing back the hood of his raincape, Syr Faramund gave the squire at Syr Jarro's heels a polite nod before following his counterpart up the tavern steps. Having spent the best part of five days on the road, Faramund was keen to wash the grime and dust from his bones. Hell, maybe he'd even have a drink or two. That's what these places were for, were they not? Rest. Recuperation.

Getting blackout drunk on cheap alcohol only for the locals to steal what little you had left come night's end.

Yeah, best not, Faramund thought, remembering the missive he had received nigh on a week ago now. Due to a particularly high resistance to magic, typical means of communication favoured by the order were a no go for Faramund. Instead he had been sent a letter. A brief, easy to read letter from the Dawn Captain herself. One pertaining to a certain problem in a certain mine in a certain corner of his favoured stomping grounds.

The problem had been labelled "high risk." The Captain -or whoever had penned the letter in her stead, for Helena was a busy woman- had emphasised the point by wishing him luck in this endeavour. And if luck was involved, well... chances were he was already dead.

But such was a Brother-Sworn's lot. You lived, fought, and if you didn't fight hard enough, you died. Fortunately, he had backup on this one. Spotting his comrades around the tavern, the big dawnling looked to each in turn. A small smile crossed his face as his eyes alighted on Petra. He had been the one to put her name forward, after all. A motion Syr Valborast hadn't approved of in the slightest, but then he rarely approved of anything.

Pausing to examine the gathered crowd, Faramund stifled a laugh as Roki fumbled the load he was carrying. A bedroll right at the top of the pile fell, spinning to the muddied floorboards and, to Faramund's great amusement, it wasn't his. 'Roki, Roki, Roki,' Fara tutted, stooping to pick up the fallen roll. 'Whatever are we going to do with you, eh? Never have I seen such carelessness from one with such promise,' he shook his head sadly.

'You really oughta be ashamed of yourself, dropping Syr Jarro's sleeping mat like that.' The grin that split Faramund's features belied the seriousness in his voice, however. 'Come on! Let me take some o' that,' Faramund offered, not waiting for a response to start robbing the squire of his burden. He hefted his own pack, Jarro's. 'See?' he said, brandishing the items with ease. 'Much more manageable.'

Turning swiftly, he took a boot to the squire's butt. 'Now, on with you! Before my dear brother notices.'

Roki Mara Tillerman Valborast Valchek Seluria Estel'Narqua Petra Darthinian