Fable - Ask When Fates Align

[Empyrean]

This art belongs to me, please do not use without permission

​

Raea was never fond of crowds.

It wasn’t that she didn’t like people—no. She loved people, for all their complexities. People did not like her very much, she decided. She was a strange, golden-eyed girl. Too pretty to be beautiful, too strange to be normal. No husband or coin to her name, always quiet—always moving, always keeping away.

It was that people felt too much. Too much for her. Humans were complex and those complexities mingled and left her dizzied, tangled—and more oft than not, overwhelmed. She was born that way, empathetic of those around her. It was strongest when she touched someone; Her gloved hands fidgeted nervously. Emotions were—she decided—their own brand of magick. They exuded like an aura, sometimes for her to sample—it were as though the sensation translated to a sensory experience.

The inn was a grand half-timbered building, with finely-crafted tables and chairs. She was afforded a smaller room with a woolen mattress. The innkeeper was a generous male elf named Dearco. He possessed a magical shield which was created by the dwarves—and no dwarf passing through allowed him to forget about it. His flavor was calm, steadfast and—much more tolerable than others that night.

There was no shortness of character, and Raea found an empty table in a corner to seat herself. Inns were a place where information was freely shared for many.

There was an exceptionally beautiful woman, with grey hair and amber eyes like Raea’s own, though they seemed more lovely and natural. She wore splint mail with a long sword and shield and was talking quietly with an aristocrat; her flavor was assertive, aware, amenable.

Vindi was short and overweight even for a dwarf, with brown hair and sharp grey eyes. He wore chain mail and often reached for his military. He was engaging a group with tales of being raised by cultists. His flavor was boisterous, energetic—with an extra dash of proud and arrogant. Raea found him cloistering and insufferable, personally.

An expensive looking Elf was eyeing her warily. She was dressed in finery Raea hadn’t seen since she was little but didn’t miss the short sword and dagger at the woman’s side. More wariness, prickly disposition, distrust; Raea didn’t meet the woman’s eyes.

Raea wasn’t here to sample the torrid emotions of the locale. She came to listen, to find leads. She did as she always did—closed her eyes and listened. The dull roar of voices was a garbled mess—but slowly, slowly she tuned in—her mind clear besides intent.

She didn’t do it often—it was dangerous, she learned. Sometimes she was caught staring—staring at water. Running water, well water. Puddles, streams, or rivers. She couldn’t help it…it was as though the element dragged her into its current. Sometimes even over the rush of water she thought she could hear something—something else. Something more.

But now—she was listening for a name, a title—a lead.

Tales of adventure both real and fictional floated around. It was a place where people talked business—both mundane and supernatural; A diviner that was murdered by a jealous rival. News of a perpetual storm that rages across the continent. A bishop of a prestigious temple was found to be the head of a once elusive assassin’s guild. A lord is found to be the descendant of a long dead hero. Rumors of a warlord’s relic has surfaced. The dread Margrave has his sights upon it—and people are wary to go against him.

Raea turned her head at this, an ear cocked. There it was again. That title—that strange one. The one that old lady Wynna mentioned when speaking of her deranged sister. She strained to listen for more. Raea thought of the pages she had been shown before she arrived at the inn—before she began this insane journey chasing shadowy rumors and whispers of awe and fear. It had been scribbled with fanaticism, anxiety, and—perhaps even hope. It were as though the poor woman was so despondent that perhaps if she wrote—no—carved the name into the pages, it would summon the solution to all her problems.

Roen

Roen

Roen

It was written right to left, left to right. Crookedly, obsessively. Backwards, upside down. Horizontally, even. Sometimes in tiny print or neatly. Sometimes as though a child written it; page after page after page a crazed woman wrote the name.

Roen

Roen​

Raea was a healer by nature, but she was not formally trained. It made finding work exceptionally difficult. She slept in barns—sometimes in the stalls with the horses or pigs. She did small work for small coin. She had given a farmer’s wife a few extra years to spend with her ailing husband. She knew that Raea had a magick to her—and though she was fearful of it when it drove her sister mad with grief after their mother was murdered, she also knew that Raea was seeking her own answers to her own family’s tragedy.

Roen, Roen

The Dread Margrave.

No one was keen to speak of the Red Night. She had survived it—taken from her home by—who knew? She was safe, alive—and that was unfortunate side of things. No record of her noble birth, no claim to the family name. Nothing but clothes on her back, her magick and her drive to find her family’s murderers. It could not have been anything of this world. No—she recalled the gruesome exploits of salvaging anything she could.

No human could do that.

But Alliria was set in its ways, and she was a strange, golden-eyed girl and more oft than naught, turned away. There were rumors that Roen was a lich. A warlock. A powerful lord that dabbled deeply into the occult; that he knew all manner of supernatural things. And so, she listened intently.

She would find a him, sooner or later.

She had to if she wanted to survive.



Rosaria Theodane

 

[Garrod Arlette]

"Ah, good to see you again, Garrod," Dearco bid welcome.

The spellsword nodded in response. "Likewise, Dearco." He said as he approached the clerk counter.

"A room and a meal I take it?" The innkeep opened his ledger with one hand, dipped his pen in ink with the other. His eyes found a blank spot where he began to write.

"Aye, that sounds about right," Garrod replied as his hand reached for the coin purse at his belt, the bone-white of his gauntlet tinking against the metal currency.

"Four silvers will do,"

"Four silvers," Garrod said, and put six coins on the counter. "And two for any leads you have on some work."

Dearco smiled smoothly, swept up the coins in a motion that would make a fox jealous. "Thank you, Garrod," he bowed his head ever-so-slightly, produced a wooden token, and slid it to the spellsword. "There are plenty of your type mingling about, most speak of exploits and deeds long past." He leaned in a peculiar direction, and Garrod followed the trajectory of his subtlety. "But some look more determined than others, some are even thinking about going after old Margrave's prize."

"Oh?" Garrod oh'ed, with a tilt of his head. "Should I know this name?" He reached out and took the token.

Dearco shrugged. "Sounds like a name you'd ought to know. Why don't you go mingle about with the other lot. maybe you'll learn more."

Garrod laughed dryly. "Not sure that was worth the coin, but thank you anyway, Dearco," he said and bowed.

"Any time, my friend," Dearco bowed in response.

With a new name in mind, Garrod made his way through the dining hall and his eye scanned the faces gathered about. Some he knew, but most were new to him. One, alone and away from the others, looked to be intent on listening.

"Looks like a good place to start," he said to himself, and made his way over, his armor clinking lightly with each step. "How goes?" Garrod said beside the table of the golden eyed woman. He set his things down, and sat himself at her table. "Know anything about this, Margrave fellow?" Garrod rest his sword against the wall, and flagged a serving boy down.

"Yes, what can I do you for?" The boy with the brown mop of hair and bright eyes asked.

Garrod showed the meal token. "Whatever is for dinner, if you'd be so kind," and he nodded to the other at the table. "And whatever my friend here would like."

The boy's attention turned to the lady.

 

[Rysorian Kadje]

Rysorian Kadje hated people.

It wasn’t their dull personalities, their absurd attitudes, or even their noxious smell. It wasn’t how they dressed, how the composed themselves, how they strutted or boasted about hoe big and strong they pretended to be. No, it was their very character, the petty core that Rysorian could sense from a mile away. More than that. Humans were greedy, selfish, stupid things, murderous beings that cared for nothing but money and power. Always wanting more, more, more. He knew that, knew their true selves better than they, and he heated every single one of the fucking bitches.

Still, he needed food and sleep, and so he found himself here, a grand inn so unfortunately filled with the bastards of sin and filth. He strode to the counter, reading the signs that listed prices and services offered. He gave a cold tare to the innkeeper, who nervously opened a ledger and tried his best to smile.

“A room and a meal, sir?” Dearco asked with false cheer.

“Yes,” Rysorian answered shortly.

“Four silv-“

Rysorian smacked four silvers down on the table and left, loathe to give the fat fuck any more of his time. With quick, impatient, angry strides he found the dining room, to be immediately assailed by the stench of humans. Everywhere, it permeated the walls, the ceiling, the floor. It wafted around him so strongly he was nearly staggered by it.

Gods, he could smell it. Sex and booze. Obnoxious laughter and the disgusting sounds of eating and drinking. Already he regretted coming here. Sleeping outside would have been preferable.

His eyes scanned the room as he concentrated on the more pleasant scent of food – lamb and fish, beef and chicken – and the aromas of polished wood and oak that held in their intricately carved casks gallons of expensive wine and a few choice ciders. None of which was what he really wanted, but he had to make do. He chose a table as far way from the others as he could get, and soon enough a pretty waitress came to him, her smile faltering as his icy eyes fixed on her with unsettling intensity.

“What can I get you, s-sir?” she stammered.

“Fish, and water.”

“Water, sir?”

“Did I stutter?” Rysorian snapped.

She ran away.

Good riddance.

 

[Empyrean]

Raea had a sharp retort on the tip of her tongue, but when he offered dinner, well—that shut her down.

“Anything but fish.” She requested, and the boy was off.

“I suppose it depends on your business. Should he be alive, or dead?” Raea had had no plans for dinner—coins were precious, and she had a long way to go. There was still the business of acquiring an accurate map. She might think better with a stomach that—for once—wasn’t aching with hunger.

“My initial lead placed him somewhere in Malakath, but that was ages ago and he could be anywhere by now.” She glanced around meaningfully, “From the sounds of it, no one is keen to go up against him.”

Raea was a petite thing, and though she had received some military training in her youth, it had been ages since she was able to pick up a sword. She had tactics and wit on her side, but very little else in physical prowess. She had been lucky until now not to have to fight anyone for a place to sleep. Luckier still she had been given coin as a parting gift.

In a den of wolves, she was nothing more than prey.

A heaping plate of steaming fish was put in front of her, and Raea blinked rapidly, her nose wrinkling as she made a tiny noise of disgust. She had already had to speak up over the dull roar of raucous banter, but now she found herself shouting, “Wait! Wait—I didn’t order fish! I said anything but fish!” And yet it might as well have been no use.

She slouched back her seat and sighed, before leaning forward and burying her hand in her face in a moment of defeat.

“I confess,” She said to her charmingly invasive companion. “I have no idea what I’m doing.”

I’m just a young woman desperate for answers she’ll probably never receive…

---
​

“She dead, Theorre? Pale as a ghost, poor thing.” Warmth enveloped Raea. Strong, gnarled arms seizing her up. “Tossed herself in the river! The troubled girl.” The same worrisome voice hovered. She had not, Raea thought, tossed herself in the river. And she was not she decided, troubled.

“That’s enough Wynna. Fetch more blankets and towels. You got a shift she can wear?” That sounded like the farmer—yes, yes he was Theorre and his wife Wynna. Their children gone and away. Their daughter married into a merchant family. Slowly she blinked, water in her eyes. It was in her ears, her nose, her throat. Burning and stinging. She was shivering from the cold, “I’m fine,” Raea croaked, surprised by the gravely sound of her own voice.

“Beatra’s was a touch roomier, but. It’ll do in a pinch I wager.” They ignored her, hushed and quiet.

Dusk came and went and shirking her pride after some time of rest, Raea found herself in Wynna’s company. She felt awkward and sheepish. She had thanked them, not entirely sure what had come over her. She explained in kind that she failed to procure a job, her head hung low. They knew her story, understood her frustration.

But they did not disagree that she could not stay.

Wynna hesitated, climbing out of her chair and padding to a shelf. She fidgeted and murmured to herself.

“I had a sister, I choose to think she died young—rest her soul. She was like you. She was—special.” Raea could tell that that was not the right word that Wynna wanted to use, but familial bonds and respect for the dead, even the magicked dead—made it civil.

They didn’t frown on magick, no. It was just not an abundant thing. “Troubled,” Wynna continued, “But special. Our mother passed unfairly. Poor thing was robbed and beaten in the woods and left for dead—and she did die. And Hilde was crushed. Angry. Lonely. It drove her to a dark place, I wager. She wanted to take her gift and make it something. Something more—something, powerful.” There was grit and pain in her tone, something that couldn’t readily be understood. She couldn’t understand and she never would.

“She chased rumors to Malakath. Rumors of a dark man. A warlock, a lich. Some dread Margrave steeped in the occult.” Wynna stopped fidgeting and pulled a book out. It was black and gold, with an ornate spine. Its guts were cut into a neat square—a stowaway book she had called them in her youth. A small purse of clinking metal sounded.

“I never saw her again after that.” Wynna remarked blithely, turning to Raea again after returning the book to the shelf, who sat and watched her unreadable features. “I choose to believe she found what she was looking for. Or died trying. Magick was her life, not mine.” Closing the gap between then, Wynna pressed the purse into Raea’s hands, “You have given me a few extra years with my husband, the way you have treated him. That is payment enough—and more. Go and find your answers—whatever they may be. As long as you promise you won’t go mad.”

---
​

When a busy serving girl passed, Raea caught her by the arm, “Please take this. I didn’t order fish.”

Visibly distressed and glancing around nervously, she stammered an apology and took the dish away—thank goodness—and reluctantly made her way to table on the far side of the Inn with a lonely, disgruntled fellow who looked the way she felt—that he’d rather be anywhere else. The girl pointed to Raea and the exchange fell victim to the Inn’s busy nature. She could feel the man’s temper from across the room and she quickly turned her attention back to the stranger who sat with her.

At least one of them would enjoy a meal tonight.

“With whom do I have the pleasure of dining with this evening?” Raea posed the question with a manner of civility, though she felt the empathetic restlessness beginning to crawl along her skin.

 

[Garrod Arlette]

Words were powerful, and Garrod made sure to heed hers.

Should he be alive, or dead?

Her words formed question, probed at him, and he raised a brow to this, curios. Did she know the answer to her own question? Was it him he asked, or herself? He decided it was best to sit in the small silence that fell between them, tucked away from the rush of sounds that stirred in the room around them.

No one is keen to go against him.

Still, she did not show her intention. Still, her words hid her point. Which way would they turn, Garrod wondered. Did she want Margrave dead, or alive? Then came the food, clattering against the table. A fish, looking something like trout, steamed alongside some herbs and a wedge of lemon. Spices peppered about its silvery skin. A plate with a bulging chicken leg, roasted and seasoned, was put before him. A helping of mashed taters with a ladleful of golden brown gravy poured over them.

Garrod reached out to his plate, and snatched up the warm piece of bread on it. "Oh, they even gave me a biscuit," he uttered with pleasant surprise. He tore into it, and went on watching the young woman try in vain to get the server's attention. "They'll come back," he assured between chews of the warm bread. When she confessed to her lack of direction, he took another bite and nodded. "Duly noted."

There was a stress about this person. A franticness. But they seemed to know more about this Margrave than he did, so maybe they would prove a good lead. He went on eating is biscuit. He made sure to enjoy each buttery bite, as the drama of the food order unfolded.

"Garrod," He said, as he finished the snack. "Sword for hire, and occasional adventurer," he looked down at his plate and abstained from eating the rest. "You aren't completely lost though," he jabbed an easy thumb toward himself. "I only have the name, but you," he pointed at her for emphasis. "You seem to have something a little more, substantial." The boy came round again and dropped off a second plate of chicken.

"Sorry for the delay," he said, bowed and hurried off to another table.

Garrod sat up, "Speaking of names," he went on, and took a wooden spoon from his plate. "You've not shared yours yet." He said, and dug into his potatoes.

 

[Rysorian Kadje]

With each passing minute, the inn grew busier and busier. The smell of humans and a few other species gathered and coalesced in the air, forming a nauseating stench that nearly drove Rysorian out of the building. But he was not one to be daunted by the results of his own senses, especially not when caused by humans and all their ilk. He set himself to endure. After all, pleasure at a fancy tavern was not what this was about. This was about eating and sleeping to maintain his strength and health, nothing more or less.

Some lived to eat, some ate to live. Rysorian was the latter.

A waiter swept by and dropped off a plate so quickly even Rysorian was impressed. The glint of respect in his eyes, unfortunately, vanished as he inspected the dinner that he had definitely not ordered. Incompetence was, apparently, a common occurrence here. Sitting atop a hill of rice pilaf was a nice, steaming haunch of lamb coupled with a late autumn crop of vegetables and squash. It smelled very tantalizing, looked even better, and he hated it on sight.

Now, Rysorian was not too picky of an eater. Bread, fruits, and, yes, even vegetables, were things he could and did eat. In the case of meat, he was not choosy at all. But he had paid for fish, dammit, and he would get what he ordered. He started to stand just as the serving girl from earlier stopped at his table with the correct dish in her hand. She stared down at the plate the waiter left and flushed a furious red.

“I’m so sorry, sir!” she stammered. “This… that belongs to the lady over there-” she pointed. “This is yours… please let me–”

He didn’t let her finish. Suffice to say, he scarcely heard her at all. He scooped up the disgusting dinner of lamb and stalked with fast, angry strides to the table hosting a girl and some boy with a sword. Bah, they armed anyone these days. Rysorian snorted silently to himself as he neared them, thinking of the long twin knives belted to his back and the blood he had given and shed himself to earn them. What did this hooligan do? Kill some rats?

The boy was slobbering down some potatoes when Rysorian smacked the plate down in front of the boy’s whore. “I’m not paying for your filth,” he snarled.

 

[Empyrean]

“I—” Am Nazrani, though I do not look it. Not at first glance, only closely.

Raea was fair-skinned through her youth in the spring and fall, but always tanned a soft golden brown in the fall and winter, more common of her Nazrani heritage. It was in the curve of her smile and the way her lips unconsciously danced around pointed canines; if she was not of the Fae surely, she was a vampire. It was in the way she was picky about her vegetables.

How—unlike other noblewomen of their station—she did not shy away from the scars she earned doing silly things reckless young women did in their younger days—climbing trees and tussling with rude boys—for Nazrani women were revered, respected and fierce. It was in the quiet of her steps and how lightly she treads without trying. It was how she felt an irrevocable connection to the elements—water most of all.

It was in her distrust of others after a life on the run.

She remembered very little of her mother save that she was a rare creature and superstitious, but dutifully studied her culture all the same even after her mother passed. It was she who taught Raea that names had power. Raea was not as superstitious as her mother, probably was but with no formal teacher to learn magick, she had to admit she feared it a little. When a strange man makes himself at home at her table and asks her questions, she is entitled to protect herself and what she knows.

Ignorant of the Nazrani Gods her mother worshipped, she instead believed in something. She knew the ground’s deep and shaking voice, that the air whispered and sighed, and the water chattered or roared and that fire hissed and danced. She could hear things beyond the sound of things. She knew there was more to this and with no coin for school and no trust for people—she learned as she went—or what she thought she knew. Who knew if what she knew was the truth of things or not?

Therein lied the desperation, and why the mysterious name in the mad woman’s journal was perhaps the only key to unlocking more.

Who murdered her house? Why was she unscathed? And was the same thing (and she was quite sure it is a thing, not a who) that killed her house was still after her? Which only brought her back to her second question and opened many more.

She conveniently skipped her name for now.

“I learned of him from an acquaintance. Whoever he is, whatever he is, he is more dangerous than I first thought.” Raea was the sort of person to be calm in the wake of such knowledge. She never panicked until the trouble was staring her in the face. She may be calm about it now, but if she found him she was certain she would lose all manner of calm and collectedness.

“I have tried looking in the libraries, but I find very little. I decided that if I wanted to learn more, I had to take a chance and find a place where murderous, reckless and proud people would sit and discuss how to engage and topple other murderous, reckless and proud people—for glory and gold, of course.” She smiled a wicked smile, flashing her canines this time. Perhaps it was Garrod's easy countenance that made her talk despite her unwillingness to share everything.

“I'm looking for knowledge. If he is as powerful as people believe, he would know a thing or two, who to point me to. If he is hunting for something of power, I want to know what it is and where I can find it. Find the thing, find him.” She reasoned—though even she knew it was not so simple as that. Perhaps the whole thing was silly and she was going about it the wrong way.

At this point, she had decided she would at least give him a variation of her name. Something she could answer to but was not her own. That was safest without arousing suspicion, she rationalized. "I'm Ra—," She began when a plate was dropped—no, slammed unceremoniously in front of her in a such a way she recoiled with a frightened yelp. Blinking rapidly, it took a few seconds to register what was going on as she peered up at the stranger.

“I’m not paying for your filth,”

And then it happened.

The sensation settled on her shoulders like a heavy cloak, sinking into her skin and making it crawl with ethereal power. The water in her cup was steaming inconspicuously and she felt the sudden flare of a temper that was not her own but coursed through her veins hotly just the same, “I’d sooner you pay for being so rude, you ill-mannered ass! Who raised you!?” She asked rhetorically with a note of incredulousness creeping into her voice, abruptly standing to address the stranger.

She barely cleared his abs.

Heads had turned with raised brows to see the two facing off.

 

[Garrod Arlette]

More dangerous than I first thought.

The lead grew deeper, a root older than this night. And in the act of reflection, assessment, the back and forth of words and movement seemed to settle, like so much water turned even after a splash. He smirked, a small curl of the lips that played impish across his face as the orange fire of lamplight danced in his eye.

Small things tended to add up. Words. Coins. Meals. Names.

Libraries, murderous, gold and glory. No hapless prey, no. Cunning as a cat, this one.

Still, Garrod ate, and Garrod listened, not hiding his pleased smirk as she went on. He spooned hot mash into his mouth, careful not to spill any on himself. No one liked smelly armor, after all.

When she mentioned her string of logic, finding the object which Margrave was after, he gave a nod to show his agreement. "Power seeks power," Garrod said between them. "And when power wants, well," he took the chicken leg in hand and took a bite out of it. Chewed, swallowed, and nodded again. "You can be sure to find it trying to get what it wants," he put the chicken down, reached for his spoon again. "Dragons eat, and nobles send soldiers to get eaten," he chuckled small and darkly. "Or hire someone like us."

What words she offered next were cut short. A plate slammed down at their table, meat juice and sides spattering about. Garrod's eye glanced sidelong at the intruder, spoon full of taters frozen mid transit, irritation twisted a hungry grin across his face.

But before he could say a word, or act, he felt a swell of magic around him. His eye looked to the woman, noticed the water steaming in her cup. Cunning, and magicked. Words were given, hot and seething. She popped up to her feet and stood toe to toe with this foul-tempered man.

Garrod finished eating his spoonful of potatoes and let the spoon down. He weaved his own magic in his gut, and eyed the man once more. He probably had knives on him. Guys like this always had knives on them.

"You clearly haven't been here before," Garrod said. "We all have to learn someday, I suppose. But I suggest you move along now, and count yourself lucky to be in such polite company." He warned, voice gravely humorless. Try something funny, and I'll light you on fire. Or some such threat was there in the gleam of the spell-sword's eye.

 

[Rysorian Kadje]

Who raised him?

Who raised him?

For one moment a flicker of hesitation passed through his cold eyes. Not on account of her, of course, this stalwart whore who dared to challenge him. No, he was in fact uncertain how to answer that question. He glared down into her fiery eyes, taking in her scent. It was different than a normal human, though why or where it came from he could not say. But she looked human, and by god, did she ever act like one.

She didn’t deserve the truth; nevertheless, he gave it.

“My parents would have,” he replied smoothly, acidly, “if it wasn’t for the humans.” Fuck them all.

Rysorian wanted to kill each and every one of them, here in this lofty inn. More than ever he smelled the sin all of them bathed in. hearing their raucous voices, feeling the ugly heat of their bodies. How he wished he had never stepped foot in here… but how could he go back, to the endless winter beneath the shadows of cold mountains and trees dressed in white finery, to the clean snow of forests and fields?

He couldn’t. Because of things like her.

The boy who had been scarfing the potatoes spoke and Rysorian merely glanced at him. The swordsman too smelled different, but this scent Rysorian did recognize, and well so at that. He had been around the boy’s ilk for too long, with close relationships Rysorian preferred to forget, to be unable to place the stench of magic wielded strong and willful, deadly and ready. It was a surefire threat that most men would have heeded, drawing back.

In the past he would have, submitting to the power of the unknown and undefinable. He would have feared and begged for mercy.

But now Rysorian was not one to be easily cowed, not by this bitch or her bastard dog.

He regarded the boy for a few slow seconds, the condescension and contempt in his eyes clear. He stared in those magic eyes steadily, making sure the cocky swordsman could see all of it. Then Rysorian’s harsh gaze flickered back to the whore’s, dismissing the boy without further ado. He leaned close to the girl, closing the distance between his height and hers.

“You’ve got a lot of spunk,” he hissed. “Make sure to reign it in. Have a nice night,” he said, straightening. “Have fun fucking your boyfriend tonight,” he sneered.

 

[Empyrean]

She didn’t wander down to the farm so much as stumble aimlessly until she happened to arrive. A gentle nag greeting her with a chuff of warm air on her neck, ears pricked forward as she entered the stall she was calling home. She gathered her sparse belongings in her favorite satchel and mentally prepared for how to tell the farmer and his wife as she walked along the riverbanks that would lead her to the main house. The rush of the water had a way of enthralling her and Raea took a moment to pause and give herself time to breathe, to at least compose herself.

She knelt at the soft, mossy banks. The river churned here—and with it came a sense of power. Her arms plunged into the running waters, biting and cold. She grasped a root and felt the sting of power like a jolt. She was the heart of the river. She was the gently sighing tree of ages past, present and future. She felt deeply, saw far. She was every tree with roots, digging down, down—searching endlessly for the purity of energy and hope. Raea felt it like a heartbeat—the suck and pulse of a leyline that ran through her.

There was noise—too much noise to truly focus her wits.

She focused harder, harder still.

Quiet—quieter still.​

She found each noise and peeled it away as she would the skin off some fruit. Her eyes clouded; her arms numb.

Quiet.

Quieter still…​

…so quiet that only the proud roar of the river and something else filled her senses. She could smell the earthy sediments. She could feel the current surfing through her slender fingers. She could taste the minerals. She thought that if she focused hard enough that the leyline murmured something ancient and lovely, carried away by the river waters.


Answers. That is what she wanted.

Answers…​

---​

Blood rushed to Raea’s ears. She felt the proud, pounding beat of her heart in her chest. It gathered loudly, a dull roar grating at her senses. She even thought she could hear it again—that ancient whispering of something arcane and old.

He would have been a beautiful man, with dark hair and brilliant green eyes. Such features were rare and coveted, not so different than her own. Yet his contemptuous nature smothered her like a thick blanket, hot and cloistering making him hideous and ugly—and Raea felt her control slipping, slipping away from the palms of her hands like sand through her fingers. She could no longer register what he said, to her or to Garrod. Her heart was pounding mercilessly in her chest, as if it too wanted to claw its way out and hurl itself at the stranger. She barely knew her breathing hitched, her vision clouding, dizzy—dizzying as if she might pass out, she was so furious—so angry! An anger that was not her own possessed her with fierce tenacity. It roiled through her veins like hot fire, white hot and seething.

Her lips formed words she couldn’t hear, “No!" She snarled and reached for his retreating form, "You don’t get to walk away from us after—.” But it was too late. She was ensnared the moment the tips of her fingers brushed his sleeve and gripped his arm to stop him. She seized and gasped, her legs crumpling beneath her.

The weight of his fury was too much for her.

His sadness, unyielding. His pain, deep.

Some would think Empathy a lovely tool to have. Kings coveted them to root out deceit or to scout favor from his court and citizens. It was a nightmare in the hands of a woman who felt too deeply. The emotions brewed like a tea—too strong, and it was overwhelming. Too weak, and it held no flavor. Sometimes the emotions were so strong—too strong, that she saw the flickers of memories tied to them.

Horrors danced across her vision like hot white spots. Her body shuddered with a cold that wasn’t there. The cup of water exploded upwards into a spike of ice, jagged and deadly. Raea was gasping for air like she had been pulled beneath a raging current. Empathetic stasis; That was what she had read in a book once. Where one plunges too deeply, unexpectedly, and struggles to pull back to the surface, back to reality. It could be a minute; it could be an hour.

The keen buzzing in her ear returned, and Raea struggled to reach the surface. She felt the air rushing from her lungs as she pushed. She was on the verge of panicking. She tried so hard to find a job, to get closer—closer to anyone who might know.

She recalled the Red Night. The night an entire noble house was slaughtered. She thought of the corpses littered at every home—neatly, grotesquely poised as if frozen in their last moments. It was a heinous crime of unspeakable evil and sorrow. She could remember her hair slick with blood—blood that was not her own. It was impossible to believe any human could do such a thing. Even at a young age, she knew that something else had executed this bloodbath. Blazing fires danced across her golden eyes as her home burned and crumbled; She thought she felt the cold, terrifying breath of something on the nape of her tiny neck. A fresh, unsettling chill of something ethereal and inhuman stalking her. She could remember hot tears and a cold night on her warm skin as she ran, and she had been running ever since. Raea pushed back against his trauma with her own. He, too, was a victim of someone else’s joy, pleasure and lust—there could be no other way to describe it. She, too, had been a victim of something scarring and horrific.

Raea was on her back and she sucked in air as she broke through to the metaphorical surface. His—Rysorian’s, she knew now—trauma ebbed from her, leaving her to shiver violently as if the heat left her. The room spun, and with her—her stomach churned with unease. She felt her body teeter over, the world righting itself. Raea stumbled numbly, rushing past people, terrified eyes wildly searching for the exit. She threw her body against the edifice and flung the door open—out, into the cool night that made her colder still.

With a sudden retch she vomited.

He had been enslaved. Thinking about it made her stomach churn again, though there was nothing left to come up. He had no one. And she had no one. She couldn’t take back her words now. Today had truly been the worst day. To be denied work. To have fallen in the river. To be fished out of the current and scolded. To be forced to leave and come here—her dinner, and now this? She thought she might cry, she had the worst luck.

She just needed answers. She just—. Raea sighed, frustrated. She ran fingers through her long, dark hair. Sweat beaded along her forehead and at her temples. It was still damp from falling into the river earlier that day. The farmer said he was sure she had stopped her own heart. Of course, she would have tried to, she thought bitterly. She wanted to hear what old magick had to say.

“I have to find Roen,” She exhaled the words into the evening air, “I have to. He’s all I have left…”

She wouldn’t dare go back inside yet. What transpired was far too embarrassing.

 

[Garrod Arlette]

Garrod's eye met the stranger's for a long moment, and the grim line across his lip curled up as they exchanged mutual disgust. The spell-swords expression painted wild as his teeth showed once more. He dared the other man. He didn't care what this foul-tempered stranger's excuse was.

Some whispered words to the woman, and another string of bile left his mouth in taunt.

"Piss off, you feckless git," Garrod said. What came next, however, he was not quite ready for.

A shout, a grasp turned lunge, turn fall to the ground. Garrod bound up to his feet as the cup of water exploded into a shard of ice which nailed itself up against the ceiling. Instinct and experience took over the adventurer, and his hand had grabbed up the wooden spoon he'd laid down just a moment ago. "Help me!" He told whoever listened, and he bent low to the woman who shuddered and convulsed. They turned her over.

"She's at risk of harm," He'd seen mages seize up before. Seen one or two of them drown in their puke and bight off their tongue too, after an intense bout of spell-slinging. "Hold her steady, we have to put something between her teeth!" He said before he worked the spoon across the span of her mouth. The crowd around them stared on with wide eyes, And Garrod fanned them back. "Are there any trained healers in the room?" He called out, "Mind seers, or empaths?!" But they just muttered about, uselessly.

A gasp, sharp as her lungs sucked air back into them, Garrod looked down at the woman, but she just struggled up to her feet and ran out the door. Garrod went back to his seat, picked up his things and hustled after her. Strange as all this was, she was still a good lead on this Margrave mystery.

Outside in the cold, he stopped away from her, his sword rested on his shoulder. He set his pack down on the cold cobblestone street, and kept his sword rested on his shoulder.

A cold wind blew as he stood by. There was nothing to really say in a moment like this. Nothing right, anyway. So he said, "Hey," what was that back there, he wanted to ask, but instead he asked. "Are you ok?"

 

[Rysorian Kadje]

People screamed in fright as the water spiked upward, freezing into a bolt of ice. Chairs and tables were overturned as men and women who had experience fighting stood, prepared for an attack. But none of them were prepared for the scene that unfolded as the girl shuddered and fell into what looked like a seizure. It resembled magic-drain shock, and if he had been aware, Rysorian would have recognized it.

Only he was not aware.

The girl gripped his arm, and it was like falling into a black abyss. Visions flickered across his own, too fast to see clearly, slow enough to just make out scenes of horror, of death sorrow and slaughter. They awoke his own memories –

-the killing, the skinning, the butchering of his people – the enslavement and torture of his body to the murderers who laughed and used him for their own despicable desires – hands on his body, gripping his neck, his hair – ropes and chains bruising his skin – the air of heavy breathing pressing against his face –– the need to run, run as far as he could, and never truly escaping – and the cascade of sadness, helpless rage and overwhelming loss that never, ever left.

All of it mingled and merged with the sharp fragments of memories he vaguely acknowledged was not his, but hers. They exploded in his mind, and it felt as if searing hot shards of glass pierced his skull. He tore his arm away, far too late to escape, and fell against a support beam, gasping for breath as the girl ran out, followed closely by her lover. People milled about with shouting and questions and with others already going back to drinking.

A few asked Rysorian if he was all right; he was not. His eyes were wide as memories of trauma – his and hers – faded and left his mind, leaving him shaking with disgust, rage, and the remnants of terror. He had to get out, and so he rushed to the door, bursting outside to be greeted by the sight of the boy and the girl.

Propriety and apologies and courtesy had gone out the window by then. How dare she invade his mind, his privacy! He snapped the question the boy failed to ask.

“What… was that?”

 

[Empyrean]

"No, no, and no. I’m sorry, but what you are asking is out of the question.” The monk gave the young lady a sympathetic look, yet his voice had a tone of finality. “These ships are always bringing a sickness with them from afar but—I’m sorry, I cannot allow,” He looked around nervously before lowering his voice even more and leaning towards her, “I cannot allow an untrained mage to take up residence and work here.” He leaned back with a nod, as if he were proud of the way he handled himself. She was a pretty thing, but an odd looking, golden-eyed thing and that never bode well.

“Surely there is something I can do here. Even if it’s boil rags? Clean the bed pots.” Raea protested—grasping for straws at this point. She had come every week, fighting the crowds to cross the bridge hoping to land a job at the infirmary. Every week it was the same, and her last few coins were spent going to the farmer and his family whose stall she rented to sleep in. The days were cool, the nights cooler and she would soon need to find better shelter if she were to survive the cold months.

“I don’t want to cause any trouble, young lady.” She could tell he fought not to call her “girl”, she was more youthful looking than she truly was. “But--.” She began to protest when he cut her off sternly.

“I know what you are after, and you won’t find it here. I buried your father and more—I did it with a heavy heart. That night…but you won’t find your answers here. You leave those women alone—they don’t deserve to be caught up in your foolish endeavor. The dead stay dead. We remember them, and we move on.” There was something—something in the way he spoke that drew ire from her. “You know better than most that what killed my family was not of this world. You know something I don’t. What aren’t you telling me? I deserve answers—closure! It’s not as if Alliria is teeming with magi!” She threw her arms up and gestured around incredulously.

“Someone in this forsaken city knows something. Everyone seems resigned to walk away but—that was my life. My blood. My family! I have nothing to my name except my gift, Brother Aared. I have to work, and if I happen to question some people along the way, is it really doing any harm?” Her gift, she decided, was causing her a great deal of grief in that it was absolutely useless. Only the stupid and desperate trusted her to use it—and even people in the Slums get greedy. What was the point of a healing gift if you couldn’t use it?! Aared sighed heavily—and Raea could have sworn another grey hair sprouted on his head from dealing with her—and better for it, he needed someone to keep him on his toes in his old age.

“Yes,” He decided, making a sign as if to ward her away—and there something sad and tired to him. As if he had aged more and more in that transitive moment, “It harms you. I’m sorry, Lady Knight. I cannot budge from this. You best be on your way.” She swayed at being turned away as Aared closed the door and the infirmary was suddenly a foreign edifice, the last of her hope slipping away. She had no manner of sewing or mending. She could not bake or fish. Too often men had the wrong look in their eye looking at her and she shied away from such advances. She swore she’d sooner die than make a living on her backside.

---​

“I’m sorry you had to see that.” Raea replied coolly and took a moment more to compose herself. “I’m usually more careful, but when the emotion is strong, sometimes it just pulls me under. Thank you.” She said kindly, and sincerely. He very well could have saved her life tonight. “I’m Raea.” She would have extended a hand to shake his own—but she had had enough fun this evening with stranger. At the very least, he had earned her name. There would be no mention of her status as noble blood; as far as the city was concerned, it no longer existed.

“I owe you dinner, but I’m afraid I might be short on coin. I was looking for infirmary work, but—no such luck here.” A thought began to bubble and blossom—if there was a way she could repay Garrod, and possibly earn money in the process, “Say…how lucrative is it to have a healer tag along with you adventuring types?” She raised an eyebrow, “I have my magick and Empathy, but I also have skill in herbs and medicine. If you’re looking for who I’m looking for…” She trailed off suggestively at the idea they travel together to find the Dread Margrave.

At best, he just wanted to collect his coin, enjoy an adventure and be on his merry way. At worst, she’d ditch him on some backwoods road if their intentions didn’t readily align. He could protect her or even help retrain her how to use a sword. If something terrible happened, he had access to someone capable of healing and providing medicine—if he was willing to take that risk. She was no trained expert but knew enough to keep herself alive and out of the wrong people’s hair—or so she hoped.

Rysorian joined them shortly after that, the air swathed with palpable and righteous indignation. When he snapped his question at her, she replied curtly and guarded, “Empathy.” As if that would explain everything. “Are you alright?” She asked with genuine concern. She knew she was made of stronger things…but what she felt—what she had seen. It took a person of considerable strength to endure that.

 

[Garrod Arlette]

An apology. Garrod did not expect that. "Nothing to apologize for," he said, not sure if that was true. She told him more.

When the emotion is strong...it pulls me under. Thank you.

So. She was an Empath.

Now there is a tricky piece of news. He could hear Belephus whisper, and a slight irritation flashed across his eyes, his brows pinched together. He'd packed the relic away, yet its voice lingered in his mind. I'm not so easy to be rid of, it went on, and he could hear its low, pleased rumble of a laugh.

Then there was the name. Raea. Like a drop of rain. It pulled him up and out of the haze that had so quickly swirled in his mind. He nodded to her, "Well met," he smirked, soft. He adjusted the weight of his sword as she spoke of small debts and a potential arrangement. She listed her talents, and he was impressed, though he did not show it. There was a deal to be struck, after all.

"Oh," he said, and glanced up at the sky as he thought about the offer. "Healers are generally good for business," he said still some wonder in his voice as he scratched his chin. "Helps stay fighting ready, and caravans and troupes always need folk versed in treating the sick and wounded." He glanced down at her, and shrugged as he played aloof. "Assuming we find business of course," he went on easily. He smiled sharp this time as he showed some teeth. "It means we'll need two times the supplies, and two times the boarding costs, so as long as you are fine with a bit of grunt work on the side to keep us going, I'm sure we will find a suitable agreement," he nodded, firm and sure.

The angry man appeared and marched up right to her, Out, standing in the cold it was clear. Something unseen transpired between them inside the inn, and while Garrod found this man insufferable, he would let his new empath companion, Raea, handle what business she made her own.

So, he stood by, one part curiosity, one part concern, and watched what came next in this odd meeting of souls.

 

[Rysorian Kadje]

Empathy. The word wouldn’t mean much to most ignorant, inexperienced minds. But for better or worse, Rysorian was far from either. From times he tried to never think about, he’d encountered Empaths, mean-spirited people who took a perverse glee in sharing their pain to increase the pain of others. They used their power to find out what made their victims tick, what vulnerabilities could be used to torture and maim the heart, mind, and soul. Inwardly, Rysorian’s skin crawled with the realization that now she knew more about him than anyone had a right to.

She asked if he was all right. But words often meant nothing and far less besides. Was she laughing at him? Was she disgusted by him? Surely she had seen… but no, he wouldn’t think of that. His eyes fixed on hers, focusing his senses on the girl. Her posture, expression, and her scent could tell everything about a person. A second passed, then two. He breathed in her smell as he glared at her, taking in her first her body, then her face.

Nothing. That was, nothing but honesty. The question was made with integrity and true concern. His hands, clenched into fists, loosened somewhat as he recalled, if only minimally, her violent reaction. Perhaps she hadn’t seen anything after all. Perhaps she couldn’t remember? He forced himself to relax as his gaze flickered over the armed man, who had made neither word nor comment.

Sometimes no action was the wisest and most respectable action, and so Rysorian ducked his head once to the man before finally answering the girl. ”Fine.” It sounded harsher than he meant, and he tried again. “I’m fine… thank you,” he gritted.

Anther moment of silence as he thought about what to say. It wasn’t easy to say what came next. “I suppose it’s my fault,” he admitted painfully. “Sorry. I was in a bad mood.”

What else? One more thing that he didn’t like, but was necessary. Mistakes, especially of his kind, demanded payment. “Rysorian Kadje,” he said. Names were power. “If you need anything, I’ll make it up to you,” he said flatly. His tone made the promise sound either ludicrously empty, or genuinely sincere.

He expected her to demand coin for the dinner he’d spoiled, so he waited expectantly. Once the debt was paid, he could leave, and never come back.

 

[Cassandra Galanis]

If you'd asked Cassandra how the night would've gone, she doubted much would have changed about her actual situation. It was a cool night in Alliria, a place she hadn't visited in a long time out of the painful memories The Reach brought back to her. She would have been especially skeptical if you'd told her she might find something of interest in a tavern, of all places. But even she needed to eat, and rest.

It was quiet moments of contemplation that gave Cassandra the most strength to carry on despite her situation. A cool drink and warm food did wonders for keeping her soul intact; they were some of the only comforts she still had.

Of course, her quiet contemplation would come to a crashing halt as a woman and two seemingly armed men caused the massive commotion in the tavern, an occurrence which was little more than a common disturbance for such places, but one phrase stood out most amid the commotion, near the end of the event:

"Are there any trained healers in the room?" He called out, "Mind seers, or empaths?!"

Her ears perked slightly at this, though her demeanor remained calm and she did not trust to hope, although it was the favorite emotion of hers that the Shade like to consume for energy. She waited for a moment, slowly eyeing them as they left the tavern, then when the moment had passed, finished her drink and stood up to follow them into the street.

Cassandra was unassuming, for the most part, and wore a simple green dress with no adornments, the only item of note being her sword, which rested in its sheath. She came upon the three figures from the tavern and approached them, shy to interrupt but trying her best all the same:

"Excuse me," she said, bowing her head. "I overheard in the tavern that you needed an Empath..." she paused, then realized how it might sound for a stranger to bring this up. "I may be foolish for asking, but if it would be no burden to you, I would like to ask of your mission, and if you might need a sword arm. I can handle myself in a fight, and without..."

It may have seemed a preposterous statement, considering she wasn't particularly tall, nor was she outwardly strong. She gave her best fake smile; she was exhausted and the Shade had no reason to come out, even with 3 potentially satisfying targets to drain directly in front of her. For now, Cassandra was in control, and she desperately wanted this to go right.

She bowed her head again. "Please," she said. "Let me join you. You need fear no mortal threat so long as I am in your company. I require no payment; I feel the ends may justify my presence beyond the necessity for simple gold."

 

[Empyrean]

She couldn’t begin to explain it.

It was something in the air, the way it made the hair on the curve of her neck and down the span of her arm stand up. It reminded her of the unseen yet watchful eye that she knew was constantly on her—the way something stalked and followed her. There was something in that phrase—something different.

“You need fear no mortal threat so long as I am in your company.”

She couldn’t place it, but her intuition recognized it as something—it was a knowing, a telling. It was as if this strange woman was saying something else and masking it over pleasantries. Raea had always had a way with intuition—hers had always been uncanny. “Perhaps…” She began, but trailed off, looking around at the small, strange gathering, “…we should venture back inside, and have a chat.” With her moment with Rysorian interrupted, Raea took time to corral them back inside and pulled up a chair to the woman. Her satchel still hung around the chair, miraculously not stolen.

Vindi was red-faced and drunk, his armor clinking endlessly as he stomped around, barking with laughter. The two older women had left and Dearco remained busy—but not so busy he didn’t give the group and stern, reproachful look as they returned. The watchful elf was gone also, and Raea was thankful—she didn’t care for the looks given. She carefully pulled her gloves back over her hands and exhaled slowly before pulling out the journal out from the satchel and placing it at the center and flipping it open to the most read page where the spine naturally bent.

“By inheritance, I should be Baroness. I am the last surviving member of the House of Knight. For the past two decades I have been trying to find the murderers of my people. At first I thought it was a rival. The more I searched for answers, the more shut out I was. For a time I truly thought it was something afoul, some political scandal—but with time, I realized it was fear.”

She flagged the serving boy from earlier and ordered drinks. It was possible she’d need one after this.

“I searched through letters, records, libraries—searching for anything that could point me in a direction. I questioned everyone—and eventually questioning got me driven out. I was a strange child who survived a stranger situation—no one wanted to tell me anything. They called it the Red Night when my family died because of the carnage. I was too young to inherit to manage my father’s debts or assets. Our manor was sold and I was to go to work as a servant. I was still too young to understand I had rights—I was just a child who didn’t understand what was going on. I foolishly ran away.”

Their round of drinks came, and Raea stared into her cup thoughtfully.

“I ended up dipping in and out of churches and libraries where I continued to receive my education on the sly. The more I learned, the more I questioned. The more I questioned the more suspicion I drew. I’ve been attacked before. Or…maybe attacked is not the right word,” Raea mused aloud, thoughtfully. “More like provoked by…something. I know, I know I'm not making any sense right now. In time I recognized I had the gift of magick but received no formal training on how to use it or defend myself with it. When these strange encounters began to increase, I began to suspect that something supernatural had been behind the death of my family and that they were just attempting to tie loose ends by killing me also.”

“For the past five years I’ve been attempting to track down and communicate with local mages in Alliria—I don’t expect there to be some secret society of witches her anything.” She laughed nervously at this notion—if only because at this point in her life she was absolutely certain such a faction did exist, “But surely someone would know something. Anything. Then I received this book from a lady whose husband I was assisting with his illness. Her sister went in search of a man rumored to be steeped in the occult and possibly more.”

Raea flipped the journal's pages and Roen’s name was scrawling erratically, neatly, beautifully. Again and again, for pages on end his name was written with obsessive devotion and awe.

“This name goes on for ages.” Raea tapped on the pages, “It’s old, exceptionally old by every account I could find—at least by several generations. Elf or Necromancer—whatever he is, he can’t possibly be human. I think he would know, I think he would have a very solid clue as to what happened—or what killed my family, and possibly even why. Every time someone speaks of him it’s—it’s as if they’re afraid of him.” She slid back in her chair and folded her hands in her lap. It was a noblesse thing to do, to sit primly in the face of present company; old habits died hard, and Raea was still a Lady regardless of how long she had been out of a home and title.

“I want to find him. I will never get my family back. Never. But I need answers. I need to understand what I am facing. Join me for your glory and gold if you must. My cause is not your own—it’s mine alone. I can only offer my skills as a healer and herbalist and hope to gain answers along the way. I’m not terribly good with a weapon, but I have my way with words and people.” She was, however, a fantastically quick learner. “The biggest obstacle is finding out a legitimate place to start looking. Therein is how I ended up here.” She made a gesture at the table as if that were to explain everything.

“And then you.” She nodded to Garrod.
“And then you.” She flashed Rysorian an apologetic smile.
“And then, you.” She looked at the stranger, who had yet to introduce herself.

 

[Cassandra Galanis]

“…we should venture back inside, and have a chat.”

Cassandra bowed her head as the woman said this.

"Thank you; I am grateful for your hospitality." Her voice had an almost unnatural evenness, not quite monotone, but lacking some of the inflection one might expect from a woman her age.

Cassandra followed them back into the tavern, gracefully sidestepping much of the debris the earlier commotion had caused. She politely pulled up a chair and sat very daintily, then listened as Raea recanted the lines from the text.

"I realized it was fear.”

"Fear is the most dangerous of emotions," Cassandra said in response. "It clouds the mind. It exposes weakness. It distorts purpose." She listed these platitudes off with an almost uncomfortable indifference, as if she were reciting them from the very text they were written in.

The descriptions of slaughter made the Shade stir inside Cassandra, but she was still too weak for it to make an appearance. That said, it also wasn't stupid, and could observe that this group of people might become a steady source of energy, if only for a while. Cassandra felt that, attempting to mentally placate the Shade as she listened further. This time, she listened for a lot longer before speaking in kind. It was a rare feeling, but she sympathized with Raea's plight, as her own life had been so irrevocably changed by her own magical encounter. But then, why was this woman sharing? The notion confused Cassandra.

Hearing the name "Roen" over and over again made Cassandra uncomfortable. She wondered if her Shade had such a name; she'd asked, but never received an answer. They could speak only through emotional exchanges.

Another person might seem flustered or surprised at the lack of an earlier introduction, but if Cassandra felt this way, she made no note of it in her features.

"My apologies; I am Cassandra." She bowed her head politely. "If there are men and monsters following you, I will gladly follow you. My blade thirsts for battle... and I would appreciate the opportunity to reliably practice my arts. I may leave at any time, but my services are free and my word is my bond, that so long as I follow you I will not allow you to be harmed."

Cassandra didn't really have any questions. The road was always taking her new places, and this was no exception. It might lead somewhere quite dangerous--but that was her life. She could never have a life of comfort and safety. She always needed to be moving and hunting, to feed the hunger inside that would never be truly satiated.

Still, she hoped the Shade was pleased with this offering, and might give her more time in control of her own body.

 

[Garrod Arlette]

A newcomer arrived to the scene, their words and their demeanor... different.

I like this one. Belephus whispered in Garrod's mind. Odd and broken, then again, aren't all of you little mortals so.

Garrod ignored the demon in the jewel of his gauntlet, though some part of him twitched in anger. A breath, cool and crisp, tinged with the sent of freshly spilt bile which made his nose crinkle. His eye took in the sight of this little band that had formed on this most strange of winter nights. The angry man had seemed to calm down, through whatever empathetic act that had transpired between he and Raea, gave a name, Rysorian Kadje,

"Least you can do is buy us the next round of drink," Garrod said when he had offered repayment. "My food's probably gone cold now too," he smirked, hungrily and testy, but, he turned and followed them back into the Inn once more, set his blade aside, rested against the wall by which he sat, and went on eating his food while the Empath spun her tale.

Not just a cunning cat, but a noble beneath it all. One whose story was rife with tragedy, and ripe for revenge. The night just got weirder and weirder, didn't it? The dread name, Margrave, had become Roen, scrawled across pages that spanned back ages which twisted and curled and teared.

Both fine names, I might add. His own demon chimed. But Roen does have a nice ring to it, does it not?

Garrod wondered, with such dread swirling about this... potential necromancer, would chasing after his name take him closer to his own destiny. Closer to Him. He took his tin flagon of ale and sipped from its tin brim as the peculiar newcomer gave not only their name, but an oath.

That feeling Garrod had had earlier, of difference, it seemed to twist and turn inside of him. Familiar. He took another sip, let his cup down, and scratched his chin as the candle light flickered and all their long shadows danced in its glow.

"Sounds like a whole lot of trouble," Garrod said. He leaned back in his chair and glanced at Raea, then at the other two in turn. "My condolences for your loss, Lady Knight, and for the troubles that follow you, but what do you hope to gain from this?" Garrod looked at her then, a brittle steel in his eye. "You said answers yes, to this mystery that plagues you, but you have your life, and there are many better ways to spend a life than seeking after ghosts from our past," he would know.

"But!" he interjected. "If you are set on this, as you so primly seem to be, I am still interested in working together," he nodded, and rationalized aloud. 'Sounds like there'll be some coin to be made on a quest like this," he looked at the sharpened finger points of his gauntlet, and grinned some. "Magic relics, ancient tomes, valuable information, just waiting to be gathered up and sold off," he looked to the others. "And we have a seemingly capable little band here," he nodded. "So as long as the venture is mutually beneficial, I will aid you in this." He took another drink from his flagon, and finished up some of the cold bits of food still on his plate.

"As for where we get started," he shrugged. "You seem to have much more information on this, Roen, fellow than I do." Another bite of food was stuffed into his mouth. He chewed it and swallowed, and jabbed the fork in Raea's direction. "Maybe we start with one of them folks you heard sounding scared of the fellow, hmm? Get our friends here," he shook the pronged utensil at Rysorian and Cassandra. "To ply them for information, or something of that sort." He grinned.

 

[Rysorian Kadje]

How strange it was when lives intertwine.

Rysorian preferred to be alone -any other state was irritating to say the least – but it as the displaced Baroness wove her tale of blood and betrayal, it seemed his days of solitude were to be put on hold. He wasn’t too enthralled in this… Roen, no matter who or what he was. But while betters sense told him to get up and leave, his instincts, wild and honed, told him to stay. And he had never been one to shun those instincts.

He gave a smirk to the swordsman as he produced a few gold coins, exchanging them with the pretty waitress from before as she placed new drinks upon the table and whatever food was ordered. Rysorian’s fish was undisturbed, and he ate as Raea got to the point. She wanted answers. Revenge, perhaps not so much, but a closing to a tragic story. Although he seemed more focused on his fish and his face retained a disinterested expression, Rysorian could admit that he felt some kind of understanding. He too wanted answers, wanted a closing.

That was impossible for him, unfortunately, but Raea it seemed had a chance. Frowning, he mouthed the name to himself. Roen. Roen. He’d heard it in passing, not enough to really pay attention to. He stored the name and everything Raea had said in the backlog of his mind. Anything he would hear later would go in the same place where nothing could be lost, information adding to information.

He glanced at Cassandra, who seemed all too eager to follow Raea on her venture for answers. He distrusted her immediately, the woman who said she might leave anytime while stating no harm in the same breath. Such words were unreliable at best, and Rysorian had learned to never trust them. So-called warriors like her, who claimed their blade “thirsts for battle”, had to be suspected for planned treason at all times. He found himself glaring at her, taking in a very odd scent he couldn’t place. Something was indeed off about her, and the mystery of it frustrated him. Making a note to watch her for her inevitable betrayal, he turned his eyes back to the swordsman and Raea.

“I’m not your friend,” he said shortly to the man’s stupid words. He let that sink in. “And I‘m not going to babysit anyone.” He frowned at Raea. “So you can talk and weasel shit out of people. Big deal. If you don’t know how to hold a weapon you won’t get very far.” He reached behind his back, unsheathing one of the two long knives. It glittered in the light, the steel and iron flashing as he slammed it on the table.

“I’ll teach you,” he said to Raea. It wasn’t a request. Or a light offer. Undoing the sheath from its belt, he slid the knife into the scabbard and slid the weapon over to her. Until she got her own, it was hers.

He sat back, fish half eaten and fixed his icy green eyes on the man. “Let’s get this straight, comrade,” he snarled. “I’ll watch your back, just don’t stab mine. And you,” he snapped at Cassandra. “I’m watching you. One wrong move and I’ll rip your throat out.”

 

[Empyrean]

“Please,” Raea insisted to Garrod, “I’m just Raea. My house, my title…it might as well not exist. No one would remember me.” And with such a grim precedence, who would want to remember? She was destined to be forgotten. “I need to track down the—.” She cut herself off, still fighting to find the right word, “—the cause of my House’s demise. Someone that steeped in the supernatural is bound to know something. Was it—was it Fey? Was it Orc? It could be a dragon for all that I know—but someone knows.” She looked around at the three with a glint of fierce determination in her brilliant eyes, “Someone knows, and I want to know what they know.”

It sounded so foolish—so stupidly foolish to say out loud. What was she after? Revenge? Proof? Her lips pulled tightly into a thin line, then she sighed a calming sigh to gather her jumbled thoughts, “Have you ever felt watched? And not just at one moment in your life—but several? Strange, unfortunate incidents occurring around you—until you’re so certain it’s no longer a coincidence?” She didn’t wait for an answer.

“When you are the sole survivor of a horrific tragedy and unfortunate and sometimes deadly incidents keep occurring around you—you begin to wonder.”

But she wondered something else. Her entire household had been slaughtered—but not her. And now she was the victim of misfortune and with the constant sensation of being stalked. “Whatever killed my home likely never wanted me dead.” This was purely speculation—she had had a long time to think of this madness, “But I don’t know. If I can know—if I can understand what I am up against, I might get the answers I need. He has to know something. At this point, I’ll take anything.”

Garrod was Raea’s opposite. While Raea was all nerves and reserve and quiet and furtive looks and staying out of sight—he was all manner of relaxed business. It took a certain person to maintain that kind of demeanor—and in her experience, they had seen worse things. This lackadaisical whimsy was, perhaps an act—yet in an uncertain time in her life, Raea seized it like a security blanket.

Rysorian for all his allure was gruff and—she found it endearing now. She would forever regret the way she first regarded and treated him. It was never intentional—never personal, and yet he was already declaring himself a person to teach her—and she would not refuse him. It was not that she needed babysitting—but, no. No, she decided, it is too soon for that revelation. She pushed that flitting thought out of her mind. She kindly accepted Rysorian’s instruction. She wagered she had good hands for knife skills, dexterous and nimble.

It was Cassandra that gave her unease. It was in the way she conducted herself, as though she were going through the motions—mundane exchanges. Her skin prickled in a warning she had no idea how to decipher. Still, Garrod’s thinking aligned with her own. It was fair play to own up to their strengths. Raea had knowledge and wit, Garrod had wit and finesse, Rysorian had finesse and grit, Cassandra had grit and power.

“I agree with Garrod. Those men over there,” She nodded discreetly between Rysorian and Cassandra, “Earlier they were gossiping and such. Most of it was muck, but—I overheard them speak that the Margrave had his sights on some kind of thing—but it seemed speculative and honestly, it sounded like they were afraid. The world is big and—he could be anywhere. There are two kinds of people in this world when it comes to power. The power to be quiet about it, and the power to be loud about it. I have a feeling our dear Margrave doesn’t always casually just stroll out of his estate on a fine gloomy day and announce to the world what their scary plans are.”

She offered a wolfish grin, “We need to know what they know—and to know who else knows.”

 

[Cassandra Galanis]

Cassandra was surprised at how seemingly pleasant the mercenary Garrod acted towards her. She knew her affect often came off as strange and uncomfortable, but she was always finding ways to conserve emotional energy in case the Shade needed it. Good or decent folk always made Cassandra feel the most conflicted about when the Shade needed to feed. It was a dichotomy that always unsettled her, that in many ways she was just as much the predator as the Shade was, always looking for weakness and the next prey.

The other one, though, seemed much less enthused by her presence.

I’m watching you. One wrong move and I’ll rip your throat out.

Cassandra didn't laugh at this, nor did she flinch. She only responded with a perhaps unsettling calm: "You needn't fear me. I do not enjoy killing. It is just the path my life has taken. If it must come to blows between us, I would tell you first. But my blade finds no purchase in simple conversation: my word is my only bond, and for our sakes it must be enough. When battle greets us, then I may offer a more earnest proposal." She gave a polite smile.

She listened to Raea's story with some degree of trepidation. Losing everything was certainly a notion she was familiar with; she'd killed her own family when she was first possessed, a shame she would never outlive. One of the biggest misconceptions with natural predators--wolves, lions, bears--is that they were borne of some deep malice towards their prey. But Cassandra knew the difference from her own experience. She wasn't hateful, she was simply hungry. She wished she could convey this to these strangers, but to even begin to sahre the rabbit hole of her own history with anyone else seemed far too impossible. Yet she felt a growing sympathy for Raea, who seemed to have lost as much, if not more than her. Cassandra ventured to feel that sympathy, knowing full well that positive emotions were a treat for the Shade.

"I too seek answers about my past," she said to Raea. "I do not think I will find my answers with you. But we share a path, and I will follow you down yours if you would allow me."

There are two kinds of people in this world when it comes to power. The power to be quiet about it, and the power to be loud about it.

These words in particular struck a chord with Cassandra, who knew all too well what she was describing. Yes, she would help this person. Even if she was only doing it to catch her next meal. She was silent again, listening to what the others had to say and waiting for a resolution for their next action.

 

[Garrod Arlette]

Garrod went on sipping his drink as Rysorian tried to make his point. "Oh, we aren't? " he said into his cup, staring at the knife brandishing hot-head with an expression left completely unimpressed. "How will I ever go on?" He took the last swig of his ale as the long knife went thwack against the table. He sighed and let the cup down on the table with a soft clunk before he leaned back, easy in his chair. Watching and listening as Rysorian went on.

Garrod shook his head, "You are making a scene," he said not so quietly. "This may be difficult for you, but try not to draw too much more attention to us, hmm?" Though part of him felt such a feat may be impossible for this man. With his pledge... display. Offer?

A few eyes strayed toward their table, and Garrod had caught them in his gaze. He stared them down, gave them a nod, and when they kept their stares on the odd group, he smiled wide at them. That was when they turned away.

Rysorian spat some words at Garrod once he had taken his seat. "Rysorian, was it?" he shrugged. "I make no promises," he smirked. "Seeing as we aren't friends and all," his voice made clear the pleasure he took in teasing him. Rysorian shot a threat toward the other one, Cassandra, and Garrod watched how she reacted.

Calm, and cool. No. Stony was more apt. Completely unphased. No smirk, no smile, no measure of temperature in their words. Curiouser and curiouser, Garrod thought. And as was his want to do, he listened as Raea gave more details regarding her plight.

"Soul survivor,"

How those words stuck into him, like brambles and thorns, they pricked. Do they hurt you, oh bearer mine? The demon in his gauntlet hissed, sickly sweet. Why? It asked him, but he payed it no mind. Just focused on her words, her story. The task at hand.

"I say we wait and watch them," he glanced at Rysorian. "Quiet like," and smirked. "Then," he looked at Raea and Cassandra in turn, leaned forward and spoke in a voice that did not carry much past their table. "We tail them, split up into two groups if need be, and see what information we can ply from them," he straightened up in his seat. "I've got a room here for the night," he scratched his chin as he tried to remember. "Number nine. We can rendezvous there, less of course, we have a better plan?" He glanced at each of them, expectant.

 

[Rysorian Kadje]

Tragedy and a deadly unease filled Raea’s tale of her House’s downfall. It was something Rysorian was familiar with, and though it was imperceptible his harsh opinion of her softened ever so slightly. It took a stronger kind of person to survive what she had, and a stronger person to go seeking more of it. That, he respected.

The others, not so much.

Cassandra’s stony reaction and grim words did little to impress Rysorian. His eyes stayed on her for a few heartbeats after she spoke, and though his face showed nothing, he wondered. Wondered what she was hiding, what she was that smelled so strange and tinted with what he could only surmise as… evil. Yes, that was it. He had smelled this kind of menace a long time ago, when his home was destroyed just as Raea’s had been. Since then, he had never forgotten the taste or smell of evil and ill intent. Sour. Bitter… intoxicating.

His eyes moved on, but not before he smiled at her. It was not a friendly expression.

The swordsman Garrod’s words were weak in their subtle insults. Nevertheless, Rysorian decided on one thing there and then; he hated Garrod. He hated cockiness, smartasses, and idle humor. Rysorian’s hands, resting on the table to either side of the half-eaten fish, tightened into fists. The knuckles paled, revealing the scars that crisscrossed up and down the flesh, winding around the wrist in deep grooves. He leaned forward, just ever so slightly toward Garrod, eyes shifting into slits. For a moment, it looked like he might lunge at the asshole.

Then all at once Rysorian leaned back against his chair, slinging one leg over the other. He gave a smile, of the same unfriendly kind he had given Cassandra. His next words were a bit unexpected.

“Please, call me Rys.” And that was it. Enemy number one was Garrod.

For now though… he looked at Raea, gaging her reaction to Garrod’s plan. In truth it wasn’t much of a strategy, but what else was offered?

“I say we do what my good man Garrod has proposed,” Rysorian said nonchalantly. He leaned forward again, this time to pick up the glass of ice water that was all he had ordered. He swished it around and took a sip as if it were fine wine. “It seems you have yourself some investigators, milady,” he said to Raea. “And if what you say is true and incidents keep occurring around you, then one of us should stay with you at all times to make sure nothing… unfortunate happens.”

He set the water down and wove his fingers together. “Raea should stay out of sight,” he finally decided out loud. “She’s a suspect here, and in more danger than us, it appears.” His eyes turned to the lady and one eyebrow rose. “Unless you’ve something else in mind, Raea?”

 

[Empyrean]

Well, that settled things.

Almost.

Garrod had that tone to him—the kind that men have when they were ready to do no good and take pleasure in it—or perhaps the way boys were about to do something that might verily offend their mothers gravely. It was endearing, because Garrod was a talker, and Raea was a listener and she was drawn in, even as he glanced between her and Cassandra. He would have made a fantastic bard, she thought silently.

Raea glanced between Garrod and Rysorian with some measure of reproach, the way a disapproving mother who still adored her two rambunctious boys might. The tension between the two was damn near palpable so the amiable façade was downright comical. Cassandra’s unwavering—unflinching coolness only served to exacerbate the strangeness of her presence and yet it only added to the endearing quality of the three. Still, she deeply admired the way she handled the raw ferocity that Rysorian threw at her. That was the kind of woman you likely wanted on your side when things went sideway, "Thank you." She said quietly, but earnestly the woman.

“I can stay out of sight.” Raea stated matter-of-factly, glancing between Rysorian and Garrod. “But I won’t stay behind.” She added quickly, and assuredly before anyone thought to object. She had her own way of navigating and doing her best to remain unseen. It was, after all, how she managed to stay alive so long. She was tired—very tired, if she were being honest with herself, but it was one more adventure and like Garrod she had paid for her room for the night—and received far more. Rysorian had asked a question and she was distracted and thoughtful for a moment, her eyes following the sound of others enjoying their evening.

Vindi howled the sound of drunken debauchery before a loud metal clang echoed—the dwarf had toppled off the table he stood on. He had been regaling anyone who would listen the intricate and gruesome details of the Battle of Irithul against the Emperor Gerra. She wondered how true it was that he stood by the great Commander Haelen Blacklocks and held against the onslaught. The proud dwarves had been victorious and so, Vindi drank deeply to the memory of a glorious war.

“Honestly I thought you were going to suggest one of us ladies seduce the poor souls. Some men like a pretty lady to wine and dine them.” But the threat of being too handsy didn’t sit well with Raea. As if by instinct, she reached for the knife Rysorian offered and pulled it close. It was long and needle like—or so she thought. Still, it felt—okay in her hands.

“A man with a loose tongue has plenty to say. We can tag 'em and bag them either way. You can't hide the truth from an Empath.” She shrugged nonchalantly before leaning back in her chair. Honestly, she believed her and Cassandra together were more of a threat than the men were. She smiled a crooked smile, unwilling to admit it out loud.