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>Winter 59, 238 ACR
>Fortress of Alnerwich
>Marcus Painel

Klara and Patrik dissolved the meeting moments after the prince made his declaration. Everyone was shaken, and you can’t exactly blame them. A living legend from the darkest period of the Empire’s history, one of the Crimson Tyrant’s apprentices in Blood Magic…but to you, it is only one of many enemies that threaten the life of your charge.

There’s only a handful of people in a good mood, and almost everyone’s eager for Lords Mazur and Pullman to return in a few hours. Especially Klara, you note before departing from the hall. Royce seemed to be in a hurry to escort his lady back to his chambers, out of a genuine worry for her safety as opposed to some carnal rendezvous. The alchemists mingle at the door, huddling among themselves in private, urgent conference.

Allanus and Urath remain sequestered in a little corner of the Great Hall, whispering to themselves in a hushed undertone. Their lips are moving too fast for you to make out anything. With that said, the concern is visible on their faces, though Urath’s has a darker undertone.

But, you digress. The debacle has left you with a seemingly free afternoon until the lords of Alnerwich and the Pullman Vale. You need to take care of your own business, and said business just happens to be the continued protection of Ellana, in addition to her sister. Until Bellatrix returns, you suppose that it’s only fair that you help keep the elder princess in your field of vision in the knightess’ stead, especially with a Warlock on the loose.

“It’s a terrible shame, really. I was hoping that we could go into town.” Adrianna offers a wan smile as you come to collect her and Ellana. “For the horrible smell of the fish and neigh-stagnant water, staying trapped within the fortress is quite maddening.”

Your lip twitches in the ghost of an amused grin. “Necessary sacrifices, I’m afraid. Even with both mine and Archer’s skills, we would be hard-pressed to fight a Warlock, let alone find the Master of Masks in a crowded river city.”

Even if the old tales were prone to exaggeration, a realistic view still offers no comfort. Is this the same Warlock of Envy that stood at the side of Aedric? Or is this a usurper of the mantle, or an inheritor who wields power equal to the original? And the faces, the dozens of faces he would collect in all those campfire stories, tavern tales to scare the half-drunk or skittish. Now, the face of Silvera and the four acolytes had been added to that ghoulish collection.

Was the castle already compromised? Perhaps one of the servants, stepping out into the city on errand for the Mazurs, was in fact the Warlock in disguise. Lying in wait, bidding their time for the opportunity to strike…

(cont.)

You shake your head. Paranoia is an old companion, one that you keep on a tight leash lest it overwhelm you. Just as nothing good ever comes from blood magic, nothing good would ever come from dwelling too long on it. Soon enough, you’d run your thoughts in an endless loop of anxiety and unchecked suspicion.

“The fortress is the safest place,” You continue, gesturing towards the side exit. “But if you desire fresh air, the courtyard is open, as well as the eastern ramparts. Both are defensible and hard-pressed for our friend to enter without notice. And if he’s stupid enough to try…then we’ll be ready.”

Even as Ellana’s face brightens at the prospect of going outside, her sister regards you with a private amusement. “Not even Bellatrix would go into the finer details of fortress design. You sound very much like Ser Palme whenever he gets into one of his moods.”

…you decide to take that as a compliment. “I would think,” You answer carefully, “That given the oath I swore and the gravity of the situation, the smallest pinch of paranoia and caution is justified-”

“Ah…p-pardon me, Ser C-Crownguard?”

Three heads swivel in the direction of the voice. Standing in the shadow of an overhanging pillar, Claudia HIdegard offers the three of you a small curtsy before approaching. The color’s returned to her cheeks, and she no longer looks like the nervous wreck Patrik nearly reduced her to. Silvera’s daughter is hesitant, but no more than one would be in the presence of high royalty.

“I…I just wanted to thank you,” She continues, bowing low in your direction, “F-for stepping in when you did. I was…so caught in the heat of the moment that I…lost control when Lord Mazur began to insult my father...”

The poor girl is rambling. She mustn't be too used to this kind of interaction, especially with those several degrees higher than her station.

>“Anything for a friend, Claudia.” [Express familiarity.]
>“It was the right thing to do.” [Hide your familiarity.]
>“You’ll have to thank milady as well.” [Deflect to Ellana.]
>Custom option.

>>1607054
>“Anything for a friend, Claudia.” [Express familiarity.]

>>1607054
>>“Anything for a friend, Claudia.” [Express familiarity.]

>>1607054
>>“Anything for a friend, Claudia.” [Express familiarity.]
>>“You’ll have to thank milady as well.” [Deflect to Ellana.]

>>1607054
>>“You’ll have to thank milady as well.” [Deflect to Ellana.]

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>>1607075
>>1607080
>>1607083
>>1607087
Smiling, you cut her off with a friendly wave. “Anything for a friend, Claudia. Besides, it was very brave and commendable for you that. I don’t think I could’ve reacted the way you did if I was in your place.”

Not a complete falsehood, considering the lack of fondness between you and your mentor…

“Still, I would hope that I didn’t make too much trouble for the guild.” Claudia casts a worried look to where the high chair of the Mazurs sits above the dais. “Justified I may have been, he was still a noble lord, and you’re a Crownguard-”

The image of Klara hiding a smile behind her hand comes unbidden to your mind. “Something tells me that he won’t be making too much trouble. But if he does, let me know right away. I’ll be sure to intercede in your behalf for-”

A tugging sensation at the elbow of your tunic pulls you away midsentence. Looking down, you find Ellana staring up at you, with a look of incredible confusion on her face. “Marcus?” She slowly asks, eyes flickering towards the alchemist, “…do you know her?”

A cursory glance at Adrianna mirrors her little sister’s expression, albeit with a touch of wariness in her eyes.

…oh, shit. That’s right.

“Ah, forgive me, your highness…Claudia?” Silvera’s daughter starts at the mention of her name. “Before we continue, there’s someone else you’ll have to thank. Were it not for the permission of milady, I would not have been able to stop Patrik. May I present to you Princess Ellana Crowmond?”

Claudia manages a hasty curtsy, to which Ellana nods her head in marginal acknowledgement. “I…I suppose that I must give you my thanks as well, your highness. You are very lucky to have him as your retainer.”

Your charge furrows her brows, but the curve of her lips tilt into a friendly smile. “Now the urgency in his voice makes sense. And are most welcome, Missen Silvera.”

To her credit, she manages to hide the wince at the incorrect appellation of her surname, but offers no correction.

“You two are…familiar with each other?” That is Adrianna. Her voice is friendly, and the smile on her face is amicable enough. But you’ve enough experience to see that she has questions on her mind. “If it would not trouble you, I am very curious as to how a Crownguard becomes fast friends with the daughter of the Grand Master.”

>“I helped rescue her father.” [Full truth.]
>“She’s my ingredient supplier.” [Half-truth]
>Custom option.

>>1607231
>>“I helped rescue her father.” [Full truth.]

>>1607231
>“I helped rescue her father.” [Full truth.]
No point in lying to /ourgirls/

>>1607231
>>“I helped rescue her father.” [Full truth.]
>ahem, by killing that blutlinge there

>>1607231
>>“I helped rescue her father.” [Full truth.]
I got to stab a Blutlinge!

>>1607249
>>1607272
>>1607292
>>1607318
Supporting.

>>1607231
>“I helped rescue her father.” [Full truth.]

>>1607249
>>1607272
>>1607292
>>1607318
>>1607932
>>1608163
Urath and Allanus are still caught in their own discussion. Similarly, the dull chatter of the alchemists provides more than enough noise for you to have a quiet discussion without too much worry for eavesdroppers. Mazur’s guards won’t hear anything other than the murmurings and frantic whispers of the nearby servants as well.

“Keep your voices low…” You motion for them to come into a secluded little corner of the hall. Just to be safe. “And don’t make too much noise.”

Adrianna’s brow creases in a confused frown. “Noise?”

You continue as if she hadn’t spoken. “Absolute discretion will be necessary. Other than a handful of people, this information isn’t known to the masses, or to the nobility either.”

“Marcus…” Ellana makes a disapproving face. “Please stop beating around the bush and tell us what’s happened.”

Claudia reluctantly nods. “I agree with their highnesses. Marcus, it’s only making them more suspicious…”

“That is not my intent,” You mutter. “But very well. I trust that I’ve made my point very clear, then?” When the two princesses nod, you continue, “I was the one who saved her father’s life. The only reason we even know about the involvement of the Warlock is because I slew its servant in the Alchemists’ Guild.”
Their reactions are instantaneous. Ellana blinks, staring at you with equal measures of disbelief and wonder. Adrianna is admittedly more dramatic, reeling back even as she glances from the corpse of the homunculus. You and Claudia try not to wince. All in all, you suppose, it could have been worse.

When she recovers her composure, the elder princess says in a hushed whisper, “You mean to say that you…you killed the blutlinge?"

You nod. “Aye. I did.”

A pause. Then...

“How in the name of the gods did you even find yourself in the Alchemists’ Guild to begin with?” She demands, turning the entirely of her attention on you and you alone. Even as her voice takes on a sharp edge, it retains the quiet that you’d earlier requested. “What on earth were you doing there?”

Before you can even explain, Ellana seemingly comes to a startling realization. “The ingredients…those little trips you spent when you had some time to yourself.”

“That’s right,” You answer, slowly picking your words. There is little to gain from giving the full account of how you…interposed yourself into Claudia’s good graces. “Claudia and I met by chance at the Alchemists’ Guild. And due to…similar interests, we became friends.”

Adrianna look suspicious, but a supporting nod from Claudia seems to put her at ease. “It’s true, your highness...es. I was the one who would sell him ingredients and supplies for the trade. As for the presence of the blutlinge and the ensuing…mess that came after, that was all due to events that had spiraled beyond either of our control.”

(cont.)

“Events?” The younger princess echoes, frowning. “Pardon me, but I’m not entirely sure as to what that entails…”

You answer, “Crownguard business for Ser Palme.” When Ellana doesn’t seem to be happy with that answer, you exhale. “As you wish, your highness. But I will keep it brief. Walls have ears, and the wind does as well…do you remember the assassin that came on the night of your brother’s return?”

The reaction is instantaneous. Her eyes widen in alarm, and she shifts closer towards you with an uneasy expression on her face. “…yes, I do…but what about him, Marcus? What does he have to do with the blutlinge?

“The phial of Alchemist’s Fire came from the guild here in Alnerwich. Which meant that we would find a trail for the ones responsible for trying to kill you.”

“Blood mages…” Adrianna whispers. “…they were trying to kill my sister? But why? If they could get their assassin into Karthmire Keep, then why not Emeron, mother…even father! Why the youngest of the Crowmonds? Wouldn’t there be more value in trying for another member of the family?”

…no one else notices it, but you can hear a distinct pop as Ellana’s fist tightens in a white-knuckled grip. Her sister doesn’t seem to have noticed, but Claudia does, and one look at your charge’s face sends a shiver down her spine.

When the elder princess turns to you, all you can do is haplessly shrug. “…I can’t say for sure. I don’t know their motives, and neither does Palme. But, given how they remain secretive even more so than rogue sorcerers or necromancers, it would take a good reason for them to brazenly move. A personal vendetta could easily be the reason. But the simplest answer for their reason would be…”

“Money,” Ellana finishes for you. Dusting off her skirt, she glances warily up towards you. “So does this mean that our enemy is…another noble-?”

“Another noble would not be out of the question…” You muse. “But the political fallout would be too dangerous if they were discovered, yet we can’t immediately discard them…or even powers from another country…there are still lingering tensions from the neighbors and conquered territories..."

“Ah…excuse me?” Claudia finally mustered the courage to interrupt your talk. Fidgeting nervously, she casts occasional glances towards the rest of her guildmates. “This is all very…fascinating…but I don’t think I quite belong in this conversation. And my father…”

Adrianna seems to realize what she wants. “Ah, that’s understandable. Very well, you are excused. And as someone who suffers from a similarly ill father, I hope that yours makes a…good recovery.”

(cont.)

She catches herself before she can say “a full recovery”. With his eyes torn out of his skull, and the flesh peeled from his bones, Mengus Silvera would not be returning to the laboratory for a very long time. Over time, he would be able to stand on his own once more, and return to the hale and whole image that the impostor once walked in. But he could never regain his sight. No matter what he did.

Still, his daughter seems to understand what the princess wants to convey. “Thank you very much, your highness.” She bows, low and grateful. “I wish the same for the Emperor as well. And…Marcus?”
You turn to her. “Yes?”

“Thank you, once more…for everything. And…and if there isn’t too much going on in your duties to the royal family…” Claudia offers you a hesitant smile. Her cheeks are a dusted a light pink to match the lace along her sleeves. “Then…I would not be too bothered for you to come back to the Guild. We still had not reached the experiments with the guano or saltpeter.”

>“I am looking forward to it.” [Flirtation]
>"If my duties will permit me." [Neutral]
>“Take care of your father first.” [Refusal]
>Custom option.

>>1610928
>they were trying to kill my sister? But why? If they could get their assassin into Karthmire Keep, then why not Emeron, mother…even father! Why the youngest of the Crowmonds? Wouldn’t there be more value in trying for another member of the family?”
Because the curse is probably not targeting her.

>>1610956
>>"If my duties will permit me." [Neutral]
If we're allowed to sure.

>>1610956
>>"If my duties will permit me." [Neutral]
>>Custom option.
Perhaps if the Princesses are amicable to it, I could bring Ellana for her studies.

>>1610956
>"If my duties will permit me." [Neutral]

>>1610956
>>"If my duties will permit me." [Neutral]

>>1610973
Unless you have a damn good disguse not going to happen. Remember everyone is still on high alert from the Blood Mage.

>>1611002
We'll just Clark Kent her.

>>1610956
>"If my duties will permit me." [Neutral]
>>1611015
Foolproof!

>>1610956
>"If my duties will permit me." [Neutral]

Actually, I do like the idea of having Claudia help with teaching Ellana, but it'd be dumb to take Ellana to her rather than vice versa.

>>1610956
>>"If my duties will permit me." [Neutral]
The flirting, while amusing, won't look good in front of the princesses.

>>1610970
>>1610973
>>1610985
>>1610998
>>1611043
>>1611085
>>1611097
Smiling, you answer, “If my duties will permit me, then I would welcome the opportunity. Gods walk with your father on his path to recovery.”
And you mean every single word of it. It’s not just a platitude you’re compelled to say, even if you were polite about it. The words are something that truly comes not just from social requirement, but from a genuine desire to see Silvera recover. There are too many bad relationships between fathers and their offspring without a good one dying off before its time.

...Mengus Silvera is indeed a good father. Of that, you most definitely can say without a single doubt.

>Claudia slightly approves.

With the departure of the alchemists, there is little reason for anyone to stay in the great hall save for a handful of individuals. Servants move in with buckets of boiling water, cleaning the mess of the homunculus’ corpse. The creature’s blood proves to be a difficult stain to scrub from the stone. To make things worse, the steam carries the fetid odor of the monster, slowly spreading throughout the room.

The prince has already departed, with Urath trailing silently in his wake. Both had grim looks on their faces, and Adrianna was unable to stop them in their haste to their destination. The elder princess expresses both frustration and irritation. It seems that she has yet to scold her brother for her reckless stunt with the fireball.

Still, it is none of your business. The three of you manage to leave just before the worst of the stench reaches your little corner, making to the guest quarters with all the haste you can muster. It is no surprise to find additional Mazur guards standing watch around the area. Patrik (or Klara, more likely) doesn’t seem to be taking chances.

It will be approximately four or five more hours before the punitive force returns, and with it, lords Mazur and Pullman, the missing Crownguard, and the rest of the caravan’s escort. And in that time, you decided to spend it with both princesses in the relative safety of their quarters.

Seated by the heart, Adrianna seems to be caught in some kind of book. From your distance, as you whittle a sliver of wood, you can’t make out the cover all that well. Still, it seems that she's quite engrossed in its contents. Nearby, Ellana fidgets at the table and the impromptu lunch she had brought. Tentative hands work at the dried sausage and bread, as if worried they’re poisonous (which they aren’t; you tested them yourself).

Until the others return at the end of the afternoon, you decide to…

>Enter the Dream. [Meditate and rest your body.]
>Perform alchemy. [Prepare Bombs and Poisons.]
>Read your book. [Try to finish the Botany guide]
>Custom option.

>>1611263
>Read your book. [Try to finish the Botany guide]

>>1611263
>>Read your book. [Try to finish the Botany guide]

>>1611263
>Read your book. [Try to finish the Botany guide]

New alchemy tricks, hoooo

>>1611263
>Read your book. [Try to finish the Botany guide]
those 4 assistants may be using some local herbs we don't know about.

Whether they are harmful or beneficial will mean a lot on whether they are kill on sight.

>>1611272
>>1611281
>>1611305
>>1611312
It’s been a long time since you’ve cracked this thing open. Between the battle of the Midbridge and the Guild debacle, you’ve certainly not had that much time devoted to your own pace and pleasures. And though teaching Ellana about various plants did advance a little of your knowledge, she was the one who had benefited more than you.

But who knows? You might get along further than you had when you first perused its pages.

The second chapter deals with the flora more commonly found in the flatlands, the verdant plains of the continent. Grasses and stalks, the tough moss and roots…plenty of ingredients used in a wide variety of ways. You take exceptional note of the more poisonous ones, in addition to subjects with profound healing qualities.

“There are many within the Empire who do not know that there are dozens of grasses that grow in the Moonlight Plains…” You mutter to yourself. Gods, this is going to be difficult, isn’t it?

>Roll 1d100 + 30 (+20 Knowledge, +5/Sessions with Ellana)
>Best of three.

Rolled 38 + 30 (1d100 + 30)

>>1611353

Rolled 22 + 30 (1d100 + 30)

>>1611353

Rolled 70 + 30 (1d100 + 30)

>>1611353

>>1611364
nice save

>>1611364
saved

>>1611358
>>1611361
>>1611364
Somehow, you manage to struggle through the banal writings of Magister Bamel. Apparently, one could, in fact, wax poetic about the virtues of over a dozen types of grass. The next chapter came as a sweet relief, and you manage to go through it with relative ease. Desert flora is incredibly fascinating. What little patches in the Wastelands of Opran remain able to sustain life are certainly havens and pockets of life.

With a satisfied nod, you close the book, setting it down as you stretch in your seat. Time has certainly passed. The sun, now almost an orange red, now hides behind the peaks of the Whrelzwth Mountains. This session was incredibly productive, banal and hesitant as its start had been.

>You have finished two chapters of “The Botanical World of Kaithe”!
>You are now (3/5) of the way to achieving a permanent +20 Bonus to identifying plants on Kaithe without external aid.

A cursory glance around you reveals that both sisters have fallen asleep. Nestled in the crook of her chair, Adrianna breathes softly into the cushion, somehow clutching the book in a limp and precarious grip. Likewise, her sister has long since used her own reading matter as a pillow. Hopefully, she hadn’t drooled into the pages…

The knock at the door causes both of them to start. Even as they blink the sleep from their eyes, you’re already at the entrance, hand on the pommel of your knife. “Yes?” You grunt.

It is a servant’s voice that answers. “The lords have just been spotted coming to the city. They will be here within the hour.”

You quietly thank the man. As he leaves, you return to the princesses, offering a quiet smile as they emerge into the waking world. “Let’s not keep them waiting, shall we?”

>Choose a memory:
>Alnerwich, four years earlier. [The Vulpine]
>Black Alley, six years earlier. [The Locust]
>Karthmire Keep, eight years earlier. [The Aegis]

>>1611433
>Karthmire Keep, eight years earlier. [The Aegis]

>>1611433
>Black Alley, six years earlier. [The Locust]
gotta keep an eye on natural disasters

>>1611433
>Black Alley, six years earlier. [The Locust]

>Black Alley, six years earlier. [The Locust]
>>1611433

Rolled 1 (1d3)

>>1611433

>>1611433
>Karthmire Keep, eight years earlier. [The Aegis]

Palme backstory?

>>1611433
>>Alnerwich, four years earlier. [The Vulpine]

>>1611444
>>1611460
>>1611462

>Summer 48, 232 ACR
>Black Alley, Karthmire
>The Locust

“What a haul!” Deiter cackles. His smile reveals teeth half-rotted from a potent combination of sweets and narcotics. Were it not for those unfortunate blemishes and broken nose, he would have looked out of place in the slums. Silver coins falls through his hands like rain through the top of a forest, clinking in the palm of his hand. “The old man sure was generous, wasn’t he?”

Before you can flash him a withering glare, Wulf beats you too it. He cuffs the addict on the back of his head, and he nearly crashes face-first into the gutter. Everyone doesn’t bother wincing. It’s an old practice and habit of your friend’s.

“Has all that Hazeleaf finally fucked your brains into jelly?” he growls, bearing down on him with all of his imposing bulk. “Flashing your silver in the open like some Eastgate merchant’s brat? You’re just asking for six inches of steel to get into your liver, assuming it hasn’t rotted away.”

He takes the words right out of your mouth. And the rest of you aren’t even done with your idiot ganger. Even as Deiter tries to get up, Jannick is the one to finally deliver the blow to put him right into a stagnant puddle of gutter water.

“If you’re so eager to get die,” she says, driving the heel of her boot into the back of his head, “Then just give me your share and I’ll gladly cut your throat. For once, can you use some gods-damned common sense and not get all of us killed? Oh, no, I forgot. That’s too much to even ask-”

Given all that’s happened in his years with the Locusts, Deiter would be more likely to donate a share to the Church of Light than listen to their advice. Your suspicion is correct when the blonde comes up, murder in his eyes as he spits out the swill.

“I will fucking cut what little teats you have-”

“Oh yeah?” She rounds on him, jutting out her chin as if to invite a blow. “Try it. Hell, I’ll let you do it for free. It’d be the only time you’d ever get this close to a woman without you having to blow your money for it.”

…another river crossed.

Before any of you can stop him, Deiter’s face purples with rage, and takes the invitation. Jannick’s head slams back as his fist catches her underneath the jaw. Blood and brown hair go flying as their owner crashes back against the wall. Stunned, all she can do is spit out a globule of blood and shake her head as the addict advances against her.

But before he can go any further, Wulf intervenes. He pulls him by the scruff of his tunic, spinning him around like a girl at a festival dance. The blonde yelps as a pair of meaty hands throw him further back into the alley. Swearing up a storm, the addict stands up, weapons drawn and ready as Wulf helps Jannick from the ground.

(cont.)

This isn’t good. At this rate, someone’s bound to be killed. And if not, the noise would do it in for them.

“Alright, alright!” Heads turn in your direction as you let cold iron seep into your voice. “All of you, cut it out before someone calls the watch. Do you want to be found out during curfew? Get your shit together before I, the guards or some passing gangers decide to do it for you.”

“But Marcus-!” They vocalize as one, each pointing fingers and refusing to lower their weapons.

>Castigate Dieter for being an idiot.
>Castigate Jannick for provoking him.
>Custom option.

>>1611529
>Castigate Jannick for provoking him.
if you're going to get pissed at someone for making a scene, DONT TRY TO MAKE A SCENE.

>>1611529
>Castigate Dieter for being an idiot.

I mean, it's the practical thing to do in this scenario.

>>1611529
>Castigate Jannick for provoking him.

>>1611529
Both of you are acting like addled children. Dieter shape the fuck up or else you're out, we can't afford a member that doesn't give a shit about the rest of us, Jannick, when you're making a scene by yelling at someone to not make a scene, you're being so unaware of yourself it's hilarious... and fatal. Keep it up you'll get YOUR throat slit.

>>1611605
this

>>1611605
second

>>1611605
Actually, I change to this. Very Marcus.

>>1611529
Supporting >>1611605

>>1611605
This, but can we say it in a way that doesn't bring even more outside attention to us?

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>>1611605
>>1611608
>>1611612
>>1611639
>>1612019
>>1612133
“I don’t want to hear it!” You hiss. “What the hell is the matter with you? Gods, you’re acting like children, fresh from their mother’s tit and dribbling all over themselves!”

Before any of them can protest, you cut them off with a ferocious snarl. You place yourself between the combatants, raising a severe finger in the addict’s direction. “Dieter, shape up or else you’re out of the Locusts. The last thing we need is a member that doesn’t give a shit about the rest of us or keeping quiet in the alleyways.

“And Jannick.” The girl in question starts, and the smug look on her face freezes as you turn to chastise her. “I’ve never seen anyone blinder. When you’re making a scene by yelling at someone to not make a commotion, you’re so unaware of yourself that it’s goddamn hilarious…and fatal. Keep it up, and it’s your throat that’s going to get slit.”

Silence engulfs the alleyway, and the only sounds that can be heard are the dull buzz of summer flies, and the distant roar of the main road. In the summer months, the approach of evening brings life to the slums. As the winds blow the hot air towards the distant mountains, more of the district’s inhabitants come out of their hovels and shanty houses. The life of the slums does indeed happen in the hours of twilight.

Still, you have little cause for too much worry. Even if someone were to see the four of you within the deep part of the alley, they would more often than not ignore you. Their lives are hard enough under the Imperial crown and the smell of the gutter without the additional presence of the gangs. So long as they keep out of your business affairs, they’d only need to pay “protection” at every odd interval.

The irony of the situation is not lost upon you. The Black Alley Locusts are not as dangerous as some of the other gangs, nor do they have such lofty ambitions for themselves. And yet, everyone who knows of your affiliation not already in a gang either treads carefully or goes out of their way to avoid you at all costs.

It’s a shitty situation, you think to yourself, one whose balance hangs tenuously. A single spark will be all that it takes to light the powder keg and send the gangs into open war. Rumors have it that some of the richer one’s have got rogue sorcerers on their side, in addition to brute force and merciless muscle. The bloodbath would be horrendous. And even if the city guard were to pacify the riots and kill all the gangers, the inhabitants of the slums would still be the ones to clean up the mess.

But, you digress. You’ll burn that bridge when you get there. The brunt of your attention returns to your companions. “Are your heads finally screwed on right?”

A chorus of muttered profanities and incoherent slurs answer your query.

Good enough for you. “Now scram. And get back to base before sun’s completely down, got it?”

(cont.)

You’re not risking anything. Even though you’re on neutral standing with the more powerful gangs, you’ll not risk one of them tailing you to the hideout. When in larger groups, or in the aftermath of a job, the Locusts go their separate ways. Should a pursuer be watching, they’ll be hard pressed to follow up to three or four at a time.
And that was before you had a benevolent shadow watching all of your backs…but you’ll not take any chances.

Wulf is the first one to depart. The tattoos along his arms ripple as he waves a farewell before exiting down a side path. And with a final, baleful look in Jannick’s direction, Dieter stomps off to the other end of the alleyway. Half-coherent profanities reverberate along the walls of the alley.

And then there were two.

“Son of a bitch…” Jannick curses, wincing as she rubs her jaw. Blood drips from a nasty cut where the blonde’s knuckles had burst open skin. “How can a guy strung out on so much haze throw that good of a punch and not break his hand?”

You scoff, shaking your head. “Kick a dog long enough, and it’s bound to bite back. I swear, I’m never putting you two on the same team ever again.”

“Works for me,” She answers blithely, spitting out more blood into the cobblestones. As she works the muscles of her jaw, her face contorts unexpectedly. “Shit, this is gonna need some stitches.”

“That’s coming out of your purse. Not mine. Consider it a lesson learned to never provoke Deiter into a brawl…even if he deserves it.”

“When does the bastard not?”

You shake your head. Gods, what a head case. There’s no hope for the two of them. Of all the Locusts, why was it that the skills best suited for each other belonged in the hands of two people who couldn’t stand each other?

“…I gotta get this fixed.” Jannick winces as she ties a crude bandage around her jaw. “And I know Serena's still not over that cold of hers, so I won't ask her to magic my chin together. You can take my time if you want to go home. The girls are definitely worried sick about you.”

“Oh?” You can’t help but pounce at the opportunity. “Does that mean you don’t count yourself a girl?”

She sneers, making a rude gesture with her hands before she saunters off. “Ass. Tell them that I’ll be back much later…”

It’s getting late, but you’re a very rich man. At least, in the slums. Fifty silver crowns are almost four months of the average laborer’s wages, and half of a golden aurum. A young man your age could do a lot with that amount of coin…

>Celebrate with a drink.
>Return to the hideout.
>Visit an expensive bordello.
>Custom option.

>>1615038
>Return...

>>1615038
>Return to the hideout.

>>1615038
>Return to the hideout.

See if we can find some herbs for that cold on our way back

>>1615038
>>Return to the hideout.

File: Sewers.png (426 KB, 1024x656)

426 KB PNG

>>1615048
>>1615049
>>1615053
>>1615067
You keep a close eye on your surroundings as you make your way through the alleyway. There is an abundance of shade, and the cool summer air is a balm against your brow. But all of these comforts cannot hope to stop the trail of sweat going down your back. No matter how many years you’ve been working the streets, all it takes is one bad day before your luck runs out.

However, today is not that day. You emerge onto the main thoroughfare without any trouble, quickly falling in line with the passerby. To the sides, hawkers peddle their wares, aggressively shoving their merchandise to anyone close enough. These ran the gamut from half-stale bread and boiled kohl stew, glass trinkets and healing crystals, patchwork blankets and spools of cheap yarn.

Even women, under the sharp eye of their kuppler, stood outside run-down tents or ramshackle buildings, flashing smiles, breasts and leg to all they could see. The eldest could not have been older than fifteen, a little slip of a girl in a dress entirely too big for her. Or perhaps that was the purpose. In her struggle to keep it from slipping, it further attracted the looks of the passerby, who whistled lewdly and hooted in her direction.

You shake your head in disgust. The sooner you get out of the city, the better. There’s no place for you or Serena, and ever passing moment only increases the danger. A gang could never have enough sorcerers. And given her affinity, they’d be more than willing to kill for her power. It truly is a horrible situation: caught between the gangs of the city, and the mage-hunters of the Ivory Tower.

…but they’ll die before they lay hands on her.

It hangs from atop a dilapidated building. Placed within the beak of a bronze cock, a glass ornament in the shape of a butterfly dangles in the wind. Every so often, it rattles against the vane, tinkling softly above the dull roar of commerce and civilization. White for no imminent danger. The hideout is safe.

Your steps take you down a winding side road, where the walls grow thinner with every step. Only a child or a lithe man could ever hope to come through this way swiftly. Bulk and muscle would be hard-pressed to come through the main entrance of the hideout: a half-rusted sewer grate between a seamstress’ hut and an abandoned mill.

It opens with little fanfare, and you slip through the opening with little difficulty. The summer has rendered the platforms dry, but the murky water below offers more danger than just the cold. You’re careful to balance yourself properly as you hug the stone wall and slide into the depths.

The path is labyrinthian. Even after so many years of residence, it still takes you some time before you manage to navigate the twisting paths and corridors. The architecture here myriad, changing from granite hauled from Alnerwich, to the old stones laid by the order of Aedric von Brandt. Two hundred years of a history of waste disposal.

(cont.)

The hidden door gives way underneath your touch, unlocked by a series of rhythmic knocks. At the threshold of the portal, a familiar face greets you. Ringed curls whisper in the din as its owner lets go of the door to fling their arms around you, uncaring about the stench that clings to your body.

“Marcus…” The smell of clean linens fills your nose, and the mere whisper of your name sends a shiver down your spine. “I was so worried…”

All you can do is pull away, offering her a wan smile. “I’m sorry I’m late, Reina. There was a…complication. Nothing too serious,” You assure her at the alarm on her face, “Just a small hiccup that held us back for an hour. Nothing that we couldn’t solve given time.”

It does little to ease her worry. At the look on her face, you chortle, gently cupping her chin. You pull her close, pressing your lips against hers in a quick, chaste kiss. “I promise. It was nothing that we couldn’t handle on our own. We actually got a bonus from the old man for doing it within a few days. See? Take a look.”

Reina’s eyes widen at the size of your purse. “How much…?”

“Fifty crowns.”

“Fifty?!” Shock gives way to joy, and she clasps your hands tight in her own. “Marcus, we’re almost there-!”

You can’t help but grin. “I know. Just a few more jobs, and we’ll have enough to make the journey. The three of us, all together on a caravan to the Moonlight Plains, furthest we can get away with our coin…”

Of all the countries of Kaithe, it is the Moonlight Plains that are the safest for the three of you. Even if it is on the border towns at the edge of the Ingulan sanctums, the mage-hunters would be hard pressed to travel all the way to Ingulan territory. Not with the autonomy they’ve held since the Bladebound Rebellion.

It’s still within the Empire, but it’s the only place you can go and live in relative safety. Old Eridia is too far away, and all the other countries have their own problems and view in dealing with magic-users. The Ingulans are your safest bet for securing a life without having to look back for pursuers.

“Serena’s going to be excited, I think.” You draw the purse strings tight, replacing it at your hip. “I think this is going to go towards that book of the plains she wanted to read.”

Even as Reina nods, she can’t help but offer a wry grin and a small cuff on the shoulder. “She will be excited to see her brother coming home safe and sound…” Her voice drifts off as she notices the place where you’ve placed the reward. “Marcus…you have...two purses? Who's the second one for?”

(cont.)

>>1615368
Wait, serena was our girl right? Who is reina?

>>1615383
looks like a pet name

>>1615383
Kaz @TaskForceKaz 3m3 minutes ago
More
(Braces for impact)

>>1615392
oorrrrrr not; I should finish reading before I post.

>>1615393
>Subaru: I love Emilia.
>Marcus: I love Serena.

>>1615393
I said this before in Taskforce but Kaz I swear to god you better not do what I think you're gonna do

>>1615368
Ah, that’s right.

You pull the purse from your belt, weighing it in your hands. You saw the old man count it out himself. Fifty crowns for everyone, doled out to all five of the Locusts who participated: you, Dieter, Wulf, Jannick and…the complication.

Even though the purses and coins are identical to yours, you can’t help but feel that his weighs heavier than yours by a significant margin.

You sigh. “It’s for him. He left before Asmodai could pay us. Something about keeping out of sight from the important gangers…” As if that explains everything.

And it does. Reina’s face twitches in discomfort, and she unconsciously takes a step closer towards you. “Ah…that’s right. So that’s what that noise was…I thought it was just another rat in the attic, but…”

A rat would be more comfortable, simpler and easier to deal with. Not so much with…someone of his disposition.

“It’s fine,” you exhale deeply. “I’ll take care of it myself. You don’t have to worry about it…but how is my sister? Has she gotten any better.”

She has to clear her throat before answering, “Sleeping. It looks like the worst of the coughing is over. All that’s left is for her to get those tea leaves and she’ll be fine in a few days. I’ve seen it before enough…you did get the leaves though, right? Twelve is a critical age when the immune system is not mature...”

“Yes, I did.” You give her a grateful nod, planting another kiss on her lips as you pass her the necessary items. “And Reina? Thank you for looking after her.”

>Go check on your sister.
>Give your wraith his share.

>>1615409
>Go check on your sister.

>>1615409
>>Go check on your sister.

>>1615409
>Give your wraith his share.
I thought this fuck was dead.

>>1615402
And what would that be?

>>1615414
Wait for it...

>>1615416
>And what would that be?
Give me a moment you dropped in the fucking wraith and now I gotta double down on my shadowrunning

>>1615416
Don't tell me he's haunting our ass.

>>1615410
>>1615411
The blankets pile high above the bed, but not so high enough that you can’t see the bed’s occupant. You wring the strip of cloth over the pan, gently dabbing at the sweat that forms on Serena’s brow. Even through the cloth, you can feel the heat radiating off of her body. Still, it’s not nearly as bad as it was when you’d departed. That had truly been terrifying days.

Even with only a difference of eight years, you could easily pass off as her father. Bouts of illness in her younger years had left her unable to eat much. And while she’d been making up for those years as her health improved, she was still trailing behind other girls her age. What little memories she has of mother…she said that she wants to become like her when she grows up.

A melancholic smile creases your lips. Still, the actions that have led you up to this point in time? If given the chance, you’d do it all over again, and you wouldn’t regret a thing.

As Reina comes in the room with the tea, your sister stirs to life. Eyes the color of the open sky flutter, slowly focusing on the arm that cleans the sweat from her face. “B-brother?” Her voice is a hoarse whisper.

You offer her a reassuring smile, gently patting the hand that feebly plucks at your own. “That’s right. I’m finally back. How are you doing?”

At the sight of the steaming mug, she motions for it. The warm smell of herbs fills the room as you gently pass it to her, slowly helping her take the liquid. It’s a slow process, but one that absolutely cannot be rushed. Too fast, and one risks choking and even death due to the sudden introduction of water.

When she finishes, Serena lies back down, wiping her mouth with the corner of the blanket. “T-thank you.” She exhales, a blissful smile on her face as she sinks into the sheets. “Brother…how are you doing?”

At a look, Reina departs from the room, leaving the two of you alone. “I’m fine, thank you for asking. No, I’m doing even better. We finished the job for the old man, and we got paid a little extra.”

“How…much?”

“…I’ll tell you when you get better…” You decide, flashing her a wink. I wouldn’t want you to get too excited when you’re still ill…”

She pouts at that. “You’re being mean…”

Chortling at her face, you answer, “The privilege of being a big brother. I get to relentlessly bully my little sister all I want.”

“…no…bullying…” Serena murmurs. She momentarily closes her eyes, as if thinking about something. You let her take her time, and it takes a few moments before she asks, “Was…was he useful? Our…”

“…yes,” You reply slowly, as your eyes flicker towards the attic. “Helped us out of a…complicated spot, he did.”

She smiles at that, even as her eyes begin to drpop. “…I’m glad…he said that he wanted to help…so I think he’ll be happy to hear that…from you…”

(cont.)

So wait if they're related does that mean incest?

>>1615500
“Happy”, huh? As far as you can remember, his reactions were either nonexistent, irritated or blunt acceptance. But before you can answer, she’s once more asleep, breathing softly into the cushions. And you have little desire to wake her now. The medicine’s side effect is apparently drowsiness. Good. It is almost twilight, and as…knowledgeable as she is about the night world, you have little desire for her to remain awake in those hours.

But before you can even think about spending time with Reina…there’s a wraith in the attic. And his purse is on your hips.

>>The Attic

It isn’t too hard to find him. All you have to do is follow the noise. It is a grating sound, the harsh draw of stone against steel. He must be cleaning his weapons, you realize. Considering the, ahem, use he’d gotten out of them today, there certainly would be good reason for it.

Little more than a small chamber within the foundation, the hideout’s attic is a ramshackle mess of brickwork and stone. All that’s here are storage crates, myriad supplies, and a plethora of traps for wild animals. But within the last two years, it had been turned into a residence, far away from the sleeping floors of the rest of the locusts, in absolute or near pitch darkness.

The boy lies tucked away in the darkest corner, and the sole source of light is a tiny lantern on the dusty floor. He does not bother looking up when you approach, pulling yourself up from the stairs. Underneath a mop of disheveled hair, those cold, lifeless eyes that even make you recoil in fear are solely focused on the dagger in his hands, and the bloody cloth working at it.

He’s almost an exact mirror, a complete opposite of your sister in almost every way. If she is the comforting light, then he is the unyielding darkness. She is curious about many things about the world. All he cares about is the next mission and the target in the way.
But similar to her, he is around her age. And his own…circumstances at the hands of his parent left him stunted, and it was only recently when he began to eat enough to grow and match the boys of about twelve or eleven, the average of his own age.

But could that really be said? How many other boys you know were trained to be assassins and cold-blooded killers from as soon as they could stand?

“…you finally made it back.” His voice is low, flat and devoid of the familial warmth that the girls had shown earlier. “I was wondering about the delay, but I knew you’d return eventually.”

You exhale deeply, pondering how you’re going to approach him today. “Painel…”

And that which binds your sister and this...human weapon together is the fact that she had saved his life.

>“Did you have to kill all of them?” [Stern]
>“Here’s your share of the reward.” [Neutral]
>“Thank you for the help on the job.” [Grateful]
>Custom option.

>>1615527
>>“Did you have to kill all of them?” [Stern]

Oh.>>1615527
>“Did you have to kill all of them?” [Stern]

>>1615527
>>Custom option.
Thank you Marcus, you are my greatest ally and you can totally come over to my house and fuck my sister.
>“Did you have to kill all of them?” [Stern]

>>1615536
>fucking her out of wedlock wouldn't be honorable and this guy is all about HOOONNNOOOOORRRR

>>1615553
That's why he's the wraith, if nobody else sees him, they can't build up life debts by saving him.

>>1615527
Fucking assassin life debts. Worse than even the Wookies, I tell ya.

>“Did you have to kill all of them?” [Stern]

>>1615527
>Anyone notice our little....scuffle?
>“Did you have to kill all of them? We don't need to draw any eyes.” [Stern]

>>1615527
>>“Here’s your share of the reward.” [Neutral]
>>“Thank you for the help on the job.” [Grateful]

>>1615530
>>1615532
>>1615590
>>1615655
As he speaks, Painel continues to clean his weapons. “No one noticed that commotion, if that’s what you’re referring to. The rooftops were empty. No patrols there. And in the nearby buildings, there was no one there who wanted to listen. Their windows were shut from the very beginning of your arrival.”

Small mercies where you can find them. The fallout from today’s job is already bad enough without additional complications. But as it is, as leader of the Black Alley Locusts, you need to put your foot down. Dieter and Jannick are easy enough to manage. It’s this one, who’s unfalteringly loyal, who proves to be the most troublesome.

“Did you have to kill all of them?” You ask sternly.

The answer comes swift and without hesitation. “There was no other choice and not nearly enough time for me to prepare a sleeping draught for all the guards. Rest assured that was as quick an end as I could for all of them. Severing the artery, veins and trachea to prevent them from alerting the guards to our presence.”

It’s as if he’s talking about the weather. His expression hadn’t even changed. There’s no remorse, no second thoughts that plague him long after the deed, no guilt over ending several human lives in a single instant.

But it would be hypocritical for you to say that you’ve never killed someone, and you’d had good reason to do it. And for the most part, the Locusts try to perform heists and petty crime without severe or permanent injury. That is what sets you apart from the other gangs. At the worst, Wulf had overestimated his strength, and accidentally snapped a man’s neck with a wayward punch. And even then, the guilt had gnawed at the orphan for months on end.

At least with the slum gangs, you could place a reason for them to kill. Drugs, money, power, sex – all powerful motivators, enough to comfort them at night. But what does Painel have that drives him to do these things? There’s only a vague notion, an oath sworn to repay Serena for the life she saved. He is a sexless entity, one seemingly content do remain in squalor and eschew the presence of narcotics.

If it were not for those principles and the coincidence of that meeting...

A test, then. Tugging the purse loose from your belt, you set it down besides the lantern. His movements stop, and the flat look directed up at you prompts an answer, “Your share of the reward. Forty silver crowns for a job well done, plus the ten bonus from Asmodai. And…in spite of the trouble, I am grateful for the aid you rendered. So...thank you.”

For a moment, you think you saw something flash in those eyes of his. But as quickly as it comes, it passes, leaving the assassin to go through the purse with intense scrutiny. In the dim lighting, you’re able to see the amount he counts on his palm before closing the bag.

(cont.)

“This will be all that I need,” he intones, tossing it back to you, and catching it almost forces you a step back. It’s still almost as heavy as it was before. A handful of crowns lay in the palm of his hand, no more than seven or eight at the most. “I have no need for the rest. Give it to the others.”

“That’s it?” You stare at him, test forgotten, completely nonplussed at the meager collection in his hands. Compared to the others, who are sure to spend their money at their own discretions and pleasure, it seems like a poor prize to come away with. Were the lives of those men truly that inexpensive? “What in the name of the gods could you possibly do with that much coin?”

“Enough to purchase the necessary supplies I can’t otherwise steal on my own.” Painel looks at you with that same empty stare, replacing the whetstone with the bloody cloth. “I have enough to survive.”

It’s truly maddening. Money is not his primary motivation. Perhaps you can find some relief in that he won’t be bought off by another gang, but it’s only a slight balm to your worry. The others aren’t so nearly at ease with him as you are. Dieter couldn’t care less since he makes his job easier, but Wulf and Jannick are constantly wary.

There is nothing that humans fear more than what they don’t understand. Other people, the wilder places of the world…the intricacies of magic. Fear leads humans to do great and terrible things, especially done in the head of the moment.

For everyone’s sake and morale, you at least need to make a considerable effort to chip away at Painel’s mask.

>“Do you even have emotions?”
>“I don’t understand you at all.”
>“That isn’t any way to live a life.”
>“Why are you still here, then?”
>Custom option.

>>1615944
Option one seems more like lashing out at the thing which doesn't fit, so
>“I don’t understand you at all.”

>>1615944
>>“Why are you still here, then?”
>What wi-....would you do, if we were to leave? If Serena were to leave?
>Can you teach me? I don't understand you at all, but maybe I can try starting now.

>>1615944
>>“I don’t understand you at all.”

>>1615944
>“That isn’t any way to live a life.”
>"Try to spend some time with the others, talk to people."

>>1615944
>“I don’t understand you at all.”
>“That isn’t any way to live a life.”

>>1615952
Bit of a jump there. He would most likely refuse.

>>1615944
>“I don’t understand you at all.”

>>1615944
>“I don’t understand you at all.”
>“That isn’t any way to live a life.”
>“Why are you still here, then?”

“I don’t understand you at all.” Perhaps a more honest approach will work. Painel blinks as you sit down, leaning back against a dusty crate. Reina won’t be happy about the dust on your clothes, but you’ll make it up to her in due time. “But I know for a fact that what you’re doing isn’t the right way to live your life.”

He cocks his head to the side. “How do you claim to know this? You said it yourself. You don’t understand me at all. I am content with where I am, and I see no reason to change or otherwise alter the status quo.”

You frown. “There it is. That which you define as the ‘status quo’. What does that mean to you?”

“…working as a Locust,” Painel eventually states. “Repaying your sister for saving my life. Helping you and the others perform heists and petty crime within the district.”

It’s an accurate answer, and one you immediately pounce on. “Yes, but that’s it. Those are just means to an end. Do you think we enjoy this? Do you really think that this is all we wish to do for the rest of our lives? Living as criminals and thugs in the poorest district of Karthmire?”

The light of the flame catches the edge of Painel’s dagger, momentarily blinding you. Once you blink the spots out of your eyes, tense and anxious, you find that the child has begun working on his other weapon. “I don’t believe you do, but it’s as you said. Means to an end, the price to pay for achieving a goal. But I don’t see the others trying to do much to change and, as you say, better their own lives.

“Look at Deiter.” His mouth twitches in the ghost of a sneer. “He spends all of his money on whores, drugs or sweets at the first available opportunity. He has no future, both in terms of funds and plans, and doesn’t seem to particularly care about the consequences of his habits. I’ll give him two more years before he finally overdoses on hazeleaf or some other illicit narcotic.

“And even as Jannick saves all her money and pay, she doesn’t even use it at all. Her repository is more like a holy temple, dedicated to some god of money. Her greed refuses to ever let her be satisfied with what she’s made.”

He pauses, in thought, before shaking his head. “Save for you and Wulf, the others are no different. They have no plans for the future. Perhaps living life the incorrect way is a requirement to join the Black Locusts.”

There it is. That condescending attitude has surfaced once again. Painel is a pendulum, trapped between two moods and whims of fancy: cold indifference to brutal scorn. It’s eerie, listening to the words of a misanthropic cynic come from the mouth of an eleven-year old boy.

“So does that mean you admit to not living your life correctly?” You assert.

He dips his fingers in a nearby jar of oil. Gently slathering it along the length of the blade, the crusted blood begins to run once more. “I can admit that I’m far from normal. The others, not so much.”

(cont.)

“Then what are you doing here?” You demand, almost snapping as your temper frays. “Oath to my sister? You’ve already paid it over dozens of times, either through stealing, picking locks or outright killing people. You’re more than free to go to wherever you want to. What keeps you here, trapped with people you deem to have no future?”

“…” A heavy silence falls over the two of you, and the only noise in the room is the sound of his whetsone against the blade. His eyes are unreadable, focused solely on the weapon in his hands. Then, he answers, in a neigh inaudible mutter, “I’ve not paid it back yet. The debt hasn’t been paid yet.”


…if it was any other person, you might have thought that he’d fallen in love with your sister.

Shaking your head, you repeat the statement. “I don’t understand you. And you’re not exactly helping me, Painel.”

“I have little desire to be understood,” the boy answers quietly. “No one can unless they’ve lived the life I had.”

He’d always been tight-lipped about his past. But every now and again, he’d drop vague hints whenever the fruits of his “training” were used in a mission. You have the general idea of what Painel was before that fateful day in the winter.

Assassin. Killer. Wraith.

“…do you even know of why I do this?” He looks up as you gesture towards…everything. “All the smuggling, thieving, petty crime?” When you receive no answer, you take it as a statement of disagreement. I do have a goal I wish to attain, but it can’t be done unless I make large sums of money as fast as I can.”

He remains silent, still cleaning his weapon. Staring at him prompts no answer, so you continue on, “I don’t have any interest in controlling the slums, owning women or pumping myself full of narcotics. All the money I’ve saved is for our own future…

“Painel.” He doesn’t start at the mention of his name. His eyes are no longer disdainful, now once more the empty, soulless eyes that they’d been in the beginning. “What wi-” You catch yourself, clearing your throat before continuing, “What would you do, if we were to leave the slums…if Serena were to leave?”

That gets his attention. His eyes shoot up in your direction, matching your gaze with a severe intensity. “…I would follow her to the ends of the earth, until the debt has been repaid."

The ends of the earth? “What do you even mean…what debt...why!? You just went on about how we have no future. Even if you were to leave and exist solely for her sake, you’d be nothing. You’d be empty, a hollow man living solely for the sake of other people. That’s no proper reason, and not even better than any of the Locusts, then!"

(cont.)

You run a hand through your hair, now completely off-kilter. And Painel just…stares back at you, with those unblinking, soulless eyes, as silent as the grave of his enemies. You’ve long since reached your wit’s end. Shaking your head in disbelief, you take the purse, muttering about unruly assassin children as you stand up and make for the ladder.

Then, he speaks. “When she saved my life…I’d had no reason to live. I had nothing at all, not a single reason to keep on breathing.”

The dagger and cloth lay to the side. Painel stares at you with nothing short of his undivided attention. “And she…she changed all of that. And that gave me…gave me strength. Gave me a purpose to live…”

You can’t help but gawk, even as you slowly return to your previous spot along the crates. “…I can sense a caveat in there.”

The boy’s mouth tightens in a grimace. And it takes him several moments before he can speak. “I am looking for my reason to live. Your sister inspired that search within me, and…she accepts me for what I am. The things that I’ve done. All of them, without judgment or condemnation. Just…acceptance.”

Now it’s your turn to stare as Painel’s mask slowly peels itself off his face. “I still don’t know what I want to do with this life, and all the troubles that’ve come with it,” he admits. “But…as long as Serena is there, I can…continue searching for that reason to live.”

…gods, you’re going to need a really strong drink. Hopefully there’s still half a bottle of that Hinterlend brandy in the hidden barrel. Because the last thing you expected to hear from Painel was a near-declaration of his eternal loyalty to your little sister.

You regard him with a look of pity, shaking your head as you pinch the bridge of your nose. “Right…Painel…do you want to know what my future is?”

“…it’s escape, isn’t it?” Something on your face must’ve shown, because he continues, “I've known. You’ve been saving all your money, and those maps you bought from the trader’s market...and that comment about leaving.”

“Right…so, Painel, what we want to do is…” You stop, cutting yourself off. The boy looks on in confusion before you regard him with a wry smile. “I can’t call you that all the time. That’s…your last name, is it not?” When he nods, a pang of empathy strikes your heart. “…what kind of heartless father doesn’t even give his child a name?”

“Mine,” He deadpans, and you can’t help but chortle.

“Alright, alright, I’m sorry,” you say, raising your hands in surrender. “This isn’t good. We’ll need to give you a name other than just ‘Painel’. What do you think? Can you pick one for yourself?”

He frowns. “…I…don’t believe…”

“Well, you don’t need to think about it right away. Give it some time, read some books, go out into the market square. Surely there’s plenty of names that'll strike your fancy.”

(cont.)

>>1616326
Marcus Painel, turbo autist champion six years in a row.

>>1616326
You stand up from your spot, stretching out the kinks and aches within your joints. The light of the lamp burns low. You’ve been here longer than you expected. Doubtless, Reina must be besides herself.

“Eh, take your time,” you say as you exit the room. “But you’ll have to pick a name soon.”
He frowns. “Why?”

“…if you’re dead-set on accompanying my sister, then you’re going to need something else to go by other than ‘Painel’.”

A dragon could have appeared in the room, but the boy would not have taken his eyes off of you. “…you mean…”

Scratching the back of your head, you explain, “Look. I get it, alright? Not knowing about where you belong, finding a purpose in life…save for whatever turned you into…well, you.” You finish lamely. “And I can’t just leave you well enough on your own, now, can I? You may be a wraith, but you’re also the youngest and most recent join of the Locusts. And we look out for each other, even if the swarm disperses.”

Not a complete falsehood, even as your gut churns with guilt. He’ll be extremely useful in getting from Karthmire to the Moonlight Plains. Much as you’re loath to use him this way, it’s for the best. He gets his vindication, and the three of you gain a loyal and deadly ally.

Still, he doesn’t seem to care. His eyes fill with what you think is determination, and he nods. “Alright. But…I don’t exactly have…experience in names…”

Of all times, now he’s finally acting his age? “It’s like I said. Just find something that strikes your fancy. It could be something that just feels right to you. Lots of kids out there named after famous people, and hell, there’s always a generation to name their some of their children Maxvell, or people they admire or respect. It could mean anything or nothing, but what matters is that it means something to you.”

He seems to understand, albeit hesitantly as he returns to his thoughts and introspection. “Means something to me…famous people…respect…”

You offer him a friendly wave as you head down the stairs. Already, you’re loosening the top of your tunic, undoing all the straps holding your clothes in place so Reina won’t have to work too hard. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Caught in your own anticipation for Reina’s bed, you’re unable to see the first smile on his face, one devoid of cynicism and derision, full of warmth and contentment. Nor are you able to see the word he mouths, over and over again, as if trying something for the first time:

“…Marcus…”

>Alnerwich, the present. [The Wraith]
>Alnerwich, four years earlier. [The Vulpine.]
>Karthmire Keep, eight years earlier. [The Aeigis]

>>1616344
There's a marked difference between a reason to live and a reason to die, anon...

>>1616377
>Karthmire Keep, eight years earlier. [The Aeigis]

>>1616377
>Alnerwich, the present. [The Wraith]

>>1616377
>>Karthmire Keep, eight years earlier. [The Aeigis]

>>1616377
>Alnerwich, the present. [The Wraith]

>>1616377
>>Alnerwich, the present. [The Wraith]

>>1616377
>Alnerwich, the present. [The Wraith]

>>1616377
>>Alnerwich, the present. [The Wraith]

>>1616377
>Alnerwich, the present. [The Wraith]

>>1616377
Neat twist

>>1616377
>Alnerwich, the present. [The Wraith]

>>1616377
>Alnerwich, the present. [The Wraith]

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>>1616396
>>1616411
>>1616439
>>1616583
>>1616607
>>1617020
>>1617087
>>1617190
>Winter 59, 238 ACR
>Alnerwich Courtyard
>The Wraith

Patrik and Klara stand at the foot of the steps, awaiting for the arrival of their father. To their left, the house staff lie in wait for their master’s return. The guests of the palace are on their right, starting with the Crowmonds and ending with the Rudnick’s retinue. More than once does the urge to sneeze violently nearly take you. It seems that Lady Sofia has made all attempts to present her best…whatever that may be.

While the Patrik makes a pointed effort to pretend you don’t exist, his sister catches your eye, tipping a wink and a vulpine grin in your direction. Clearly, she plans to be doing something. But before you can think on it too much, the heralds announce the return of Lords Mazur and Pullman, their respective retinues, and the Eagle Knights.

There are no cries of joy or noises of celebration as the punitive force files into the gate and into the courtyard. Of the immediate retinue to accompany the lords, several of them sport serious injuries. Though both nobles have their own share of wounds, the worst of it seems to have gone to Mazur’s forces. The lord of Alnerwich has his arm in a sling, and the look on his face could have been carved out of stone. He’s not in a celebratory mood, and from the rest of everyone’s expressions, there’s good reason for the dour atmosphere.

You can see Ellana’s face blanch at the sight of her uncle’s wounds. Lord Pullman has a blood-stained bandage wrapped around his scalp, and his beard is crusted dry with blood. However, it appears to be more superficial than anything else, as his hand is firm on the reins and he rides straight and true. He spies his niece’s worried look, before offering a tired smile and a cheery wave from the saddle of his charger.

Riding a close distant behind the lord of the Vale, you see your fellow Crownguard. Much like the others of his column, Raleigh appears haggard, severely fatigued in rough-shod robes. Poor man hasn’t looked like he’d gotten an entire week’s worth of sleep. In sharp contrast, Bellatrix is the only one among them who doesn’t even look tired. If anything, she looks immensely satisfied with herself, but she doesn't try too hard to try to hide it.

As Mazur approaches, a stablehand quickly sprints across the flagstones to grab the reins of his horse. There is a collective gasp of fright as the lord nearly slides out of his saddle, and everyone surges forward in alarm. But at the last moment, he catches himself, swaying momentarily before regaining his balance. Muttering profanities underneath his breath, he accepts the aid of a stool and is helped down by a squire.

(cont.)

“Father…” Patrik approaches Mazur, who warily glances at his son. Nodding deferentially, he gestures towards the imposing spires of the fortress. “Alnerwich is yours once more.”

He does nothing, continuing to breath heavily before placing a heavy hand on his progeny’s shoulder. Under the weight of the iron gauntlets, Patrik nearly stumbles to the ground, but there is no malicious intent behind the gesture.

“I see nothing’s changed too much.” His voice comes as a low whisper, and even then, it’s extremely hoarse. He must have overused his voice in the siege. Weary satisfaction appears on Mazur’s face, who silently nods in approval. “You missed a good fight, but I’m glad to see everything’s in one piece.”

Leaving his boy practically beaming, he then turns towards his daughter. For a moment, the two of them just stare at each other, neither moving nor even saying anything. Then, just as Mazur tentatively opens his arms, Klara rushes forward, pulling him into as tight an embrace as she can muster.

“Watch the ribs…” Mazur groans, wincing even as he returns the embrace as best he can. “…and the arm…actually, I think it’s best you let go before you break any more bones…”

She reluctantly pulls away, leveling a hard look directly at her father. “Can a daughter not show relief for her father coming home from battle safely? Especially when the initial reports contained worrying prose?”

His face softens, and he permits a small smile on his lips. “…I’m sorry for worrying you. And I’d been meaning to talk…”

She sniffs. “All is forgiven, father. There is nothing to discuss.”

He seems to be surprised, but he takes it as it is. Giving her one more gentle squeeze on her shoulder, Mazur glides, individually greeting his staff one at a time. Then, when he goes down the other way, he approaches Lady Rudnick.

The soft cotton of her dress sways in the winter winds as she offers her betrothed a low curtsy. “My lord,” she intones, smiling brightly at him. “It warms my heart to see you returned from war, safe, sound and victorious against your enemy.”

A vein twitches in Mazur’s brow, but he shrugs it off with a weary sigh. “Aye. And it’s good to see you too as well, milady. The enemy fought hard and bitterly, but knowing you were here while I was gone…it gave me strength to continue and carry on the fight. It is more common to dedicate the results of a turnier to a lady, but if I may be so bold…”

Sofia hides an amused smile behind her hand, and Mazur cannot help but grin in return. “You may.”

“I would dedicate the Siege of Silverstone Quarry to you, Lady Rudnick. Even with the aid of Lord Pullman and the Eagle Knights, I could never have achieved victory without your divine inspiration..”

(cont.)

There’s a little noise as Adrianna almost slips in her boots, and Ellana suppresses a violent sneeze. Likewise, Klara’s brow and nose rankles as if she’d just smelled something incredibly foul.

As the two of them continue to exchange pleasantries and flirtations, you turn towards the rest of the party. Lord Pullman has already dismounted, and has gestured for his Eagle Knights to do the same with a heavy sigh. To your surprise, Bellatrix offers Raleigh a hand, which he accepts with a tired mutter. He’s almost as limp as a de-boned fish as the knightess helps him out of his saddle.

>Check in with Lord Pullman.
>Check in with the Crownguard.

>>1617883
>>Check in with the Crownguard.

>>1617883
>Check in with the Crownguard.

>>1617883
>Become a danmachi isekai MCU character

>>1617883
>>Check in with the Crownguard.
Klara can sort that political vomit out. The rest is beyond the crown's care.

>>1617943
Leave those memes in anonkun

>>1617883
>Check in with the Crownguard

>>1617883
>Check in with the Crownguard.

>>1617883
>Check in with the Crownguard.

>>1617883
>Check in with the Crownguard.

Bring them up to speed on the homonculus and new threats.

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>>1617888
>>1617931
>>1617953
>>1618170
>>1618177
>>1618191
>>1618790
As the girls reunite with their uncle, you, Urath and Allanus sprint towards the other Crownguard. A closer inspection of the sorcerer reveals that he’s sweating profusely, and he’s almost entirely leaning on Bellatrix for help. His skin is pale, nearly clammy, and he looks as if he’s on the verge of being sick.

You quickly move to grab his other arm, which you take with little resistance. And in spite of his slurred protests, Urath bends down to grab his legs. Together, with the prince in tow close behind you, the three of you make your way towards the entrance of the door as quick and gentle as you can. Even if he isn’t as wounded as the others in the returning force, it’s clear that Raleigh needs immediate attention.

“Why were you riding?” Allanus demands in a hushed voice, sprinting to match with your long strides up the stairs and down the entrance of the main hall. “You told me yourself that motion is only going to make the symptoms of prana sickness even worse!”

“…oh…prince?” The sorcerer blinks, staring at the boy as if only realizing he is there. He has to wet his lips several times before he can ground out in halting words, “There was no…time…and I was…better when we…headed…out…”

When Allanus shoots Bellatrix a heated glare, the knightess counters with a flat look. “Don’t look at me, your highness. He was the one who insisted that he was alright after nearly four non-stop hours of casting spells, on top of going at it with a rogue pyromancer. I did everything I could to dissuade him, but he carried on as if he was as right as rain…”

If the Spark is the gate that allowed a human to cast magic, then logic would only dictate that it let something through. Over the course of the years, it’s gone by many names: aether, chaos, quintessence, pranna. All describe the energy that permeates the fabric of reality, the means for sorcerers to perform feats of supernatural wonder.

But it comes with a price. A sorcerer has lived his or her entire life suffused with those magical energies from both without and within from the moment of their birth. Though not nearly as malicious, the relationship between the mage and the power could be akin to an addict and his narcotic. The easiest way to kill a sorcerer, other than running them through in the middle of their casting, is to deprive them of their prana by simple virtue of exhaustion.

There’s been plenty of horrific stories, both passed through word of mouth and the scrawl on a page, of those who become severely prana sick. Some fall into trances, never to wake up again. Others go mad, becoming no different from slavering beasts. And yet there are still those who survive, but become hollow shells of their former existences, incapable of feeling anything beyond a numb and bitter helplessness.

(cont.)

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Special horror goes to that last one in particular. It is a fate that seldom of the arcane would desire to inflict on their enemies. Because for a majority of those survive the extremities of prana sickness and live to tell the tale, almost all have lost the ability to cast magic, their Sparks permanently snuffed and little more than ashen husks. It’s rare for one of these “Forlorn” to live beyond a year without either contemplating suicide or committing the deed, unable to live without experiencing the heightened emotions that comes with magic.

You shake your head, not even sure whether to be impressed at Raleigh’s strength, or borderline stupidity. It’s a miracle that he isn’t comatose, drooling into the snow as the energies within his body slowly recover. Better yet that he isn’t dead.

“Must have been a powerful enemy,” Urath remarks in a grim voice, “To have so desperately forced your hand.”
Raleigh nods, though it’s hard to tell as his body begins to shiver. “Aye…bastard was powerful…had to have received training…at the Ivory Tower…no amount of self-taught…achieve that kind of power…”

His words grow quieter, dissolving into an innane series of ramblings and mutters, leaving Bellatrix to pick up the slack. “Damn bastard came too close to turning us all into Hultish wickermen. As it was, he turned half of Mazur’s forces and his own into piles of ash…”

She almost spits, but at your looks of alarm, she realizes where she is…and spits anyway, before continuing, “Silverbrain over here had the bright idea of maintaining a ward over the army while exchanging magical crossfire with the enemy mage. And even after Mazur and Pullman buried their swords in the bastard’s guts and lopped his head off, he went on to treat the injured as best he could…”

The knightess shakes her head, grimacing at the now-incoherent Raleigh. “Mistakes were made. Damned fool better get well. I haven’t finished insulting him.”

The four of you leave the Crownguard in the care of Mazur’s court physician, a balding, but relatively young magister by the name of Tann. Though he admits a lack of familiarity with magical-based illnesses, he’s more than able to follow the instructions the prince leaves him with. A complete liquid diet, rich in dried meat to fortify his body, with no animal fat in order to expedite the prana recovery. And every three hours, he must be roused, lest his sleep become long or, gods forbid, permanent.

As the prince leaves instructions with Tann, you pull Bellatrix and Urath into an empty storage room in the hospital. As quick as you can, you give the knightess a quick account of what happened while she was gone, and inform Urath of the full details of your activities. Ten terse minutes later, and the Crownguard, minus Raleigh, are completely up to date about the conspiracy surrounding Princess Ellana and the Alchemists’ Guild.

(cont.)

File: Belatrix Lupine.jpg (210 KB, 512x512)

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“Blood mages, huh?” Bellatrix sports a grim smile on her face. She looks entirely too eager for someone who was informed that her opponent is the alleged Warlock of Envy. “Sounds like the rebels have made themselves some interesting friends. Gotta say that I’ve fought a blood mage before…”

Urath remains impassive, but his eyes speak volumes of a dark mood. “I will have to request for arrows attuned to slay their abominations. If I were to slay one of the Tyrant’s pupils, then the spirits of my ancestors would find an additional measure of peace…”

Both seem to be anticipating a fight, but whether or not they’re going to get it ultimately rests with either Palme’s orders (pending return via messenger bird), or with the Warlock himself. And you have severe doubts that the blood mage would give them the straightforward fight they want. The game he seems to play is one more suited to a hunt.

Subtlety does not seem to be one of Bellatrix’s finer virtues. But Urath is a hunter, with sharp eyes and an even sharper aim with his bow. If push comes to shove, the job would either fall to you or him to bring the Warlock down.

“So with the mines cleared and the guild flush of any traces of blood magic, everything should be safe, right?” Bellatrix asks, leaning against the wall. “At least, it should be.”

You nod. “All known threats have been taken care of. The best we can do is remain on guard and wait for Raleigh to recover. Palme’s orders should be coming in within a few days.”

“They’ll not be anything more than confirmation,” she states placidly, staring out of a nearby window. It’s only around five hours after noon, and already, the sun has begun to set. A feast to the returning victors is to be held at the first edge of twilight, just before the light disappears beyond the peaks of the Whrelzwth. “Least that’s what they usually are…”

With that, your little meeting is over. When you walk out of the room, you find that Allanus has long since left the hospital, and that Tann has begun his treatment of Raleigh. He promises to let you know when your comrade is hale and healthy, but firmly requests (insists) that he be left to begin his work. Raleigh will not be the only injured in the retinue to immediately seek his services. You don't argue, and leave promptly before the hospital becomes too crowded.

At the best, you estimate that you’ve an hour and a half before the feast is to be held. Perhaps you could find something the three of you could do together before the main event. The Crowmonds are likely to be in the safe company of their uncle and his knights…

>Go your separate ways. [Do something on your own.]
>Spar in the courtyard. [Pit your might against each other.]
>Visit the closest tavern. [A toast to conspiracies foiled!]
>Custom option.

>>1619854
>Visit the closest tavern. [A toast to conspiracies foiled!]

>>1619854
>>Visit the closest tavern. [A toast to conspiracies foiled!]

>>1619695
>she realizes where she is…and spits anyway
hah

>>1619854
>Go your separate ways. [Do something on your own.]
the vascieli cipher. Not much hope, but maybe there's something about the blood mages in there, at least herbal concoctions they use.

>>1619854
>>Visit the closest tavern. [A toast to conspiracies foiled!]

>>1619854
>>Go your separate ways. [Do something on your own.]

>>1619854
>Visit the closest tavern. [A toast to conspiracies foiled!]

Might as well take a break where we can, we're gonna be back on the road again soon.

>>1619867
>>1619873
>>1619928
>>1620064
At the suggestion, Bellatrix lets out a snort of laughter. “‘Conspiracies foiled’, huh?” She shakes her head in amusement, regarding you with an appreciative look. “I could drink to that.”

While not openly opposed to the idea, Urath has his own concerns before he can fully commit. “As you say, the children will be with their uncle. But will we be on time for Mazur’s feast?”

“There’s a tavern just down the road from the gate to the fortress,” You answer. “No more than a few minutes away. We stay there no longer than thirty or forty minutes, and we’ll return with enough time to prepare ourselves for the feast. All we’re doing is preparing ourselves for the good lord’s meal.”

He doesn’t argue with your reasoning. “In that case, let us be off.” A rare smile tugs at the stern line of his mouth. “I look forward to cleansing my palate.”

Before you leave the fortress, you find one of Pullman’s Silver Knights, tending to the horses in the courtyard. He seems to be perplexed as to the state of your dress, heavily cloaked to hide your armor, but relaxes when you tell him of your plans. He will tell Lord Pullman of your absence, and keep a close eye on the Crowmonds while you’re gone.

Once you see him depart the stables and head back into the fortress, the three of you finally take your leave, and walk into the streets of Alnerwich.

The smell of fish does not nearly bother you as it once did before. Urath seems to be likewise disaffected, but Bellatrix does not. From the permanent scowl on her face, it seems that the days fighting in the mines have not prepared her for the odious smell of maritime harvest.

For the most part, the road is clear and devoid of any hazards. The people of Alnerwich go about their business without obvious haste or worry. You can see that as some vendors begin to pack, there are still others who are haggling over the price of fish, meats or miscellaneous other services. Coins exchange hands, goods are loaded into wagons, and river barges come into the docks bearing the catch of the day. Business as usual for the city along the Anosar.

But there’s a lingering air the three of you can sense. There is no laughter, no amicable smiles. Faces that are not stern are otherwise dour, melancholic, or grim, in the case of the dockhands or laborers. Twice, you can hear the sound of muffled crying from behind a shuttered window.

“One hundred ninety went into Silverstone,” Bellatrix mutters as you pass a carpenter putting the nails into a coffin, “Eighty nine didn’t come back to tell the tale, and another forty three without bodies to bury.”

(cont.)

>>1620217
>>Choose one:
>>You’ll be paying. [Lose 2 Crowns, 25 Links.]
>>Everyone pays. [Lose 6 Crowns, 75 Links]
Why do we pay more if everyone pays?

>>1620222
I'm a fucking idiot, apparently. Whoops. Gimme a sec to fix that.

>>1620073
Urath is silent, before speaking, “…and how many did Lord Pullman lose?”

“…eight knights and seven crossbowmen.”

The celebratory mood is slightly dampened, but you’re still in good spirits by the time you reach the tavern. From the glass windows, curtained second floor and the fresh coat of paint, it’s clear that this tavern has a select clientele. Unlike the other motley inns you’ve seen on the road, this one seems to be slightly more respectable, not nearly as likely to moonlight as an incognito brothel.

It doesn’t stop Urath from raising an eyebrow at the iconography that hangs atop the entrance. “‘Zum Schwarzen Adler,’” he struggles to pronounce the Vethic. “…I thought that the crest of Alnerwich was an osprey. This is clearly an eagle.”

Bellatrix scoffs. “So long as they’ve got the good brew, I couldn’t give a damn if it’s a hummingbird. C’mon. Let’s head in before we freeze to death.”

>>The Black Eagle Tavern

The interior of the building is just as well-kept as its exterior. The tables have recently seen varnish, and they catch the warm light of the overhead candles. Mildew has not been given time to take hold within the flooring, stained only by the boots of the entering patrons. And the air itself is suffused with the rich smell of Midland beer, spiced tomato soup and roast chicken.

There is still some time before twilight, but some of the tables already have their fair share of customers. Hunched around a bowl of dice, a group of mercenaries nurse their beers as they call bets and place their coins in a nearby pot. Nearby, a group of dockhands sing an off-kilter chorus of happy returns to an embarrassed harbor meister, all the while downing tankard after tankard for every year since his birth. The serving girls make the rounds as quick as they can, delivering food and ale with surprising dexterity. The ever-present threat of being groped gave them speed beyond mortal ken.

At the bar proper, a rotund man notices your arrival, and gestures for you to approach his station. “Welcome to the Adler!” He says with a friendly smile. “How can I help you?”

“Three cold taps…” You state, eyeing the steins as well as your companions. Suddenly, the weight of your purse makes itself apparent on your hip. “Of your best brew. No food.”

>You have:
>7 Golden Aurums
>70 Silver Crowns
>372 Bronze Links

>You’ll be paying. [Lose 6 Crowns, 75 Links.]
>Everyone pays. [Lose 2 Crowns, 25 Links]

>>1620217
>[Lose 6 Crowns, 75 Links]
There. Most of what Marcus needs doesn't cost money anyway. Money can't bring the dead back to life

>>1620228
>>You’ll be paying. [Lose 6 Crowns, 75 Links.]

>>1620228
>You’ll be paying. [Lose 6 Crowns, 75 Links.]

>>1620228
>>Everyone pays. [Lose 2 Crowns, 25 Links]

File: Tavern.png (3.81 MB, 1920x1080)

3.81 MB PNG

>>1620230
>>1620231
>>1620232
>>1620245
…it’s not the richest you’ve ever been. Even if it was a collective fortune, amassed over four years of criminal enterprise, it was something that you actively contributed to in the hopes for something better. And just like before, most of these coins were taken from the hands of dead men, whose corpses lie rotting far below the Midbridge. You’ve no regrets about it, but you still have trouble spending for your own pleasures and wants.

…if you even have any of those to begin with.

“I’ll pay,” You tell your companions as they fish out their own purses. At their surprise, you wave it off as you place your coin on the counter. “…I’ve the funds to spare, and I’m at the front of the queue. There’s no point in haggling when we’re here to celebrate.”

>Urath approves.
>Bellatrix approves.

They seem to accept without further need of an explanation. Heinz, the tavern owner, swept the coins into a pocket of his apron before a serving girl ushered you to your table. Tucked away in one of the alcoves facing away from the river, it’s considerably warmer than most parts of the inn.

Pulling off your hoods and cloaks, you settle into the benches. Bellatrix kicks back on her side, as you and Urath file into the opposite side of the table. Moments later, the serving girl returns, a busty thing in her early twenties with freckles and curly red hair. With a smile nearly as broad as her hips, she slides all of your drinks on the table, without having a single drop fall from the mug.

“Enjoy!” She says, before hurrying off to serve another table. And as she departs, even the knightess can notice the hunter’s gaze that tracks every gentle sway and movement of her hips.

“Never would’ve pegged you for someone who wants his woman to fill her skirt and not her bodice,” Bellatrix snarks as she takes a whiff of the beer. Her eyes widen, and she nods appreciatively both at the tankard and at you. “Best taps in the house, huh? Best taps in the entire county, I figure. That last bar we went to had borderline piss for beer.”

The Ingulan's smile is frosty as he takes his own drink. “In my people’s culture, wide hips are considered to be a desired trait among our women. It means that they have hips capable of bearing many children-”

“Fifteen seconds into meeting her and you already want to pump her full of snot-nosed brats?” Bellatrix ogles at him. "Damn, you're one horny bastard..."

The gobsmacked look on Urath's face nearly makes you drop your own drink. For someone coming from a heritage of hunting and trapping, he certainly walked right into that one.

“Alright, alright,” You clear your throat, raising your tankard in toast. “If you’re going to kill each other, do it after the first few rounds, alright?”

(cont.)

File: 406.png (65 KB, 250x250)

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Even as Urath exhales deeply and glares at the knightess, he raises his own tankard in conjunction with yours. Likewise, Bellatrix does the same, not even bothering to hide her amusement as your containers come together.

“To conspiracies revealed…” You mutter quietly, before raising your voice. “And to…”

>Depending on your toast, you may receive a temporary bonus or increase in approval.
>These bonuses will not likely last for more than two days.

>Choose one:
>“The lords of the land." [Nobility] [+5 when dealing with nobles.]
>“…the gift of friendship.” [Friends] [Approval from Crownguard]
>“…the victorious dead.” [Tribute] [+5 when in Combat.]

>>1620309
>>“…the victorious dead.” [Tribute] [+5 when in Combat.]
may they rest in peace.

>>1620309
>>“…the gift of friendship.” [Friends] [Approval from Crownguard]

>>1620309
>“…the victorious dead.” [Tribute] [+5 when in Combat.]
if it was strictly stats I'd go for nobles, but...

>>1620309

>“…the victorious dead.” [Tribute] [+5 when in Combat.]

>>1620311
>>1620315
>>1620321
>>1620323
“…the victorious dead,” You finish solemnly. Both seem to be surprised at your toast, but likewise nod respectfully. And to your surprise, the neighbors closest to you raise their own tankards in toast with you. Those would be the mercenaries, as well as some other townsfolk scattered around your immediate area.

You let the toast hang in silence for a few moments before you turn to your comrades, meet their eyes, and tip your steins back in a single, swift motion.

Your knowledge about alcohol is one born from clinical professionalism. As such, you never really had the time to appreciate any of the drinks that went onto become either solvents or bases for potions. Even in your earlier years, spending money on alcohol was more along the lines of the other Locusts. You took a weak beer, watered down heavily. You could never take any chances with water in the sewers, but you’d never desire anything stronger.

All of that the liquid hits your tongue and slides down your throat. The beer is cool and clean, crisp and full of zest. The taste brings to mind the image of sprawling wheat fields, and the long days of autumn harvest. And as it goes down your gullet, it feels like golden light. This may be your first real beer, but this is arguably the best one that you’ve ever had.

You almost gasp as you come up for air. Wiping the froth on the sleeve of your tunic, you look down into the tankard. The fact that only half of the liquid remains in the container comes as a large surprise. If this is what Deiter had been drinking every time he returned to the hideout completely piss-drunk, then you could understand how he could spend his money so easily.

Urath comes next, leaving a magnificent foam moustache along his upper lip. His stein has less than yours, but it’s not nearly all the way to the bottom. The Ingulan meets your gaze and raises his cup to you. “This is a good brew. Among the best I’ve tasted, even in noble feasts.”

You’d be hard pressed to disagree, but before you can affirm his statement, Bellatrix slams her stein down onto the table, and a satisfied “Pah!” escapes her lips. The grin on her face could not have been on a happier woman. Both of you stare, completely askance at the empty mug she clutches like some kind of battle trophy.

“Good stuff, good stuff,” She crows, before glancing at your mugs. “You guys didn’t finish? That’s pretty weak of you…”

Urath blinks, before raising a critical eyebrow. “There are three kinds of drink in this world,” he intones solemnly as he takes another swing. “The kinds of drink that must go down quickly, that which disagrees no matter what, and that which must be savored and appreciated.”

He shakes his head, and you’re not sure whether the disdain is all an act or the genuine article. “You lessen the beer’s worth by downing it as if it were worth little more than five links.”

(cont.)

Little to your surprise, Bellatrix doesn’t seem to care in the slightest. “Beer is beer,” she refutes, shaking her head and inspecting her glass. “No matter what it is. This beer just happens to taste better than the piss they have in the cellars of Karthmire by a real fucking long shot…hey, girl, where are you?”

At the unspoken question in your eyes, the knightess waves it off with nonchalance as the girl veritably bounces over to your table. “I’m getting us a second round. On me, this time,” she adds as she slides her own coins on the table. Those are deftly picked up by the girl, who scurries back to the bar counter. “So hurry up and finish before she comes back and gives us another tap.”

Admittedly, the idea is very tempting, and becomes even more so with every swallow you take from the remainder of the brew. The alcohol is crisp, but not nearly sharp or strong enough to knock you out on your feet. As it is, you don’t even feel the reported “buzz” that is so often talked about.

Still, it only took you a few minutes to finish one stein. And though Urath looks reluctant, his face brightens when the same girl comes back with another three full tankards of the brew. And this time, he’s staring at…actually, you aren’t even sure. The way she moves takes the tray of bottles across her ample chest like some kind of lustful pendulum.

“…one more, then,” You agree, trading your empty stein for a full one. “And then we leave.”

Bellatrix nods. “I can drink to that also.”

“Indeed,” supports Urath.

And once more, you clank your tankards and take a long, deep swallow from the brew. And this time, it’s an unspoken race to see who can finish first.

It’s too close for you to even tell. Just as you can’t continue and set your mug down, Urath and Bellatrix come up and slam their mugs down on the table at around the same time. At their mutual finish, they blink, confused and slightly flushed from effort, before turning to you as if you are an arbiter.

But before you can answer, the door to the tavern open with a heavy BANG, slamming against the wall and coming around back violently. Heinz doesn’t look too pleased, and you can see him rushing around the counter to try and reprimand the offenders who nearly damaged his door. But his aggression fades away, replaced with careful uncertainty as he greets the new arrivals.

“Welcome to the Black Eagle,” he says slowly. “How can I help you today?”

There are about eight of them, assorted men in various styles of dress. Some bear wrinkled clothing, haphazardly thrown on to preserve some basic sense of decency. And yet there are also those who appears as if they just stepped off a battlefield. Dirt, soot and grime hangs onto metal gauntlets and padded gambesons. On their tabards, jerkins and chain, the symbol of Mazur’s osprey marks them as common infantrymen.

(cont.)

>>1620410
Buy them a drink in honour of our earlier toast and to subtly curb any crude excess.

>>1620410
>>1620772

Don't pretend you can't write this is with so much of a break lol.

>>1620410
“…we have the coin, Heinz,” the leader of the men wearily sighs. From his plate armor, you can identify him as an officer, perhaps a sergeant or a petty leader of a handful of men or an entire regiment. “Can we at least sit down before you try to kick us out?”

For a moment, you thought he might disagree. But Heinz sighs, before gesturing at an empty table in the center of the tavern.

“Much obliged,” the leader says, pulling off his helmet. He’s easily in his early thirties, and his hair comes down in a tangled, sweaty and blood-crusted mess. “Just take it as we order…oh, the blood? Don’t worry, it isn’t mine.”

The soldiers laugh, perhaps at some inside joke you’re not aware of. Regardless, the barman scowls as he takes the man’s money. Muttering to himself about dead man’s money, he returns to the counter as the men take their seats. You make a note of how he fills their tankards, and how he keeps the rest of the girls away from that particular table, serving the men their steins himself.

Seeing that there isn’t any trouble, you turn back towards the rest of the Crownguard. The looks on their faces share similar concerns that are ultimately without worry. Other than the rowdiness of soldiers come home from war, or in this case, a deployment, there is not a major cause for alarm. All they seem to be interested in is huddling among themselves, nursing their beers, and occasionally throwing a lewd whistle or gesture to the closest wenches around them.

“Pikemen unit,” Bellatrix explains, taking another large portion of her stein. “I recognize the captain from the siege meetings, but I didn’t think he’d survived. Werner…Borch…something or other got stuck on the wall when the sorcerer toasted everyone…”

She shrugs, uncaring about the finer details. “Drink up. Longer we stay here, more I’m tempted to skip the feast and stay here for the evening.”

It’s best to do as she says. The festive mood is gone, and and Urath drink as quickly as you can. You manage to make good time, finishing your brew in under a handful of minutes. All the while keeping a sharp eye towards the door, and growing warier by the second as more customers pour in.

Some of them are citizens on the upper echelons of the social hierarchy, and keep well enough manners. Then there are the traveling fops, the sneering sons of merchants or tradesmen from distant lands or local company who eye the girls like wolves salivating at meat. Others yet are the miscellaneous: craftsmen, wayward soldiers, wandering travelers including, to your surprise, what appears to be a paladin from the Holy Kingdom of Opran, keeping to himself and nursing a glass of wine. Now there’s a man a long way from home.

(cont.)

Even as the night goes on, and the taps begin to flow more freely, tongues loosen and inhibitions decrease. A fragile peace is kept under the watchful eyes of the bouncers, three hulking brutes with equally large weapons. In their presence, no one tries anything funny with either Heinz or his serving wenches. But there’s a tension in the air, a tight bundle of nerves laid down around the inhabitants, just waiting to snap at the slightest provocation.

The silent mercenaries grow annoyed at the pikemen, whose low mutterings have gained volume with every tankard imbibed. The pikemen, in turn, are irritated by the fops, who harper on in voices dripping with condescension about the habits of the lower class. And with liquid courage, the merchants begin to make advances towards the wenches, waving cuts of wurst and obscene gestures in the air and laughing as they recoil and cringe. Within little under fifteen minutes, almost everyone in the small tavern has a grievance, a hatchet and a bone to pick with another individual.

Forget staying for more drinks. You can read the atmosphere well enough to know that there’s trouble bound to happen.

“Time to go.” No one at the table argues. But before you can stand and go, the voices of the pikemen stop you in their tracks.

“Mazur’s losing it,” one of the soldiers mutters. A nasty gash along his temple has only since begun to heal, and dark splotches of blood poke out from the bandage around his head. “Mad to send everyone before they’d breached the gates.”

One of the other soldier protests, “He’s lord of the land, so he couldn’t sit down and wait for Pullman-”

“And where did that get us?” the captain growls. “Half our boys are dead, and there’s another twenty unable to swing a sword for the rest of their lives. Face it, lad. Our Lord Mazur’s just as guilty of killing them as much as the rebels. All for the sake of his pride…”

“Not pride, cap’n Werner,” a hook-nosed man remarks. Underneath the leather cap, his sandy-blonde hair does a poor job of hiding the pockmarks of youth. “He’s not thinkin' with the head on his shoulders. Not that I can blame him for thinking with his cock…”

That gets a wave of amusement to ripple among the soldiers. “That Rudnick chit…” Werner shakes his head. “Now there’s a cause I’d throw my lot into.”

Another soldier laughs. “You throw your might for her, I’d prefer to throw myself on her. Finest teats nd arse I’ve ever seen from a Hinterlender, and they’re going to our good and noble lord…what a waste.”

“Sooner she climbs into his bead spreads her legs wide open, sooner Mazur’s all right and straight. Seventeen years without a woman can’t leave a man right in the head…”

“Clearly. Look at the battle. Word from the boys at the gate say he dedicated the battle of Silverstone to her…” The man says with open disgust. “As if he was the cornerstone for that ‘victory.’”

(cont.)

The captain’s face is a cherry red. He’s long passed tipsy, if the bottles at his table are anything to go by. “And those mages…and not just the bushy-bearded bastard. Everyone knew Clirharn’s a potbellied charlatan barely able to shit out a spell. That pretty boy of Pullman’s? There’s a real sorcerer. But what did Pullman do? Kept him all to hisself, protecting the Eagles even as the rest of us burned. Joined at the hip like some sword-swallowing ragr…”

“Pretty boy…” The pocked man’s smile is far from pleasant. “Thought he was a girl with that face and robes. Certainly explain why he was sharing a tent with the other woman they’d brought, a real nasty piece of Hultish ass. All during the siege, not a single noise from their tents. Sharing a tent and not fucking?”

“Maybe he doesn’t have the stones to mount one of those barbarians…” the wounded man speculates. “Or who knows? Gods know what those old men in the Ivory Tower get up to with those boys they haul from all over the island…”

Urath glowers with a simmering rage, and Bellatrix’s eyes flash a very dangerous color in the hearthlight. Your gauntlets creak in protest as your hand tightens into a hard, metal fist.

“Well, fuck all of them,” Werner mutters, cutting through the talk with a half-slurred command. Instinctively, his men stand ready, as he raises his flagon in a toast. “Fuck Mazur, fuck Pullman, but a huge and hearty fuck you to sorcerers. Gods strike all of those freaks dead where they stand.”

You can almost hear the snapping noise as your collective patience finally breaks.

>Buy the house a round of the best taps. [Diplomacy]
>Demand they retract the insult to your friends. [Intimidate]
>Quickly leave without saying anything. [Stealth]
>Custom option.

>>1621119
>>Demand they retract the insult to your friends. [Intimidate]

Diplomacy

>>1621119
>>Quickly leave without saying anything. [Stealth]

>>1621119
>>Quickly leave without saying anything. [Stealth]
Should have left a while ago. Nothing good will come out of crownguard getting mixed up in a
tavern brawl right before the feast.

>>1621119
>Quickly leave without saying anything. [Stealth]
Simmer down. They just lost a shitload of their friends and are rightfully pissed at their commander and the whole situation in general. As annoying as it is to have them insult Raleigh after he saved their asses we should just leave.

>>1621119
>Supporting >>1621185

>>1621119
>>Quickly leave without saying anything. [Stealth]

>>1621119
> supposedly dead people are shit talking

I mean the usual soldiers grumbling? Or sedition?

I say buy them drinks and see where it goes.

>>1621154
Sorry Friendo looks like our toast was an empty boast.

>>1621266
No sedition. Just angry, bitter grumbling.

>>1621119
>>Quickly leave without saying anything. [Stealth]

We got work to do soon. No time to get caught up in a small-time, alcohol-fueled pissing match.

>>1621119
>>Quickly leave without saying anything. [Stealth]
Leave them to it, they'll drag their own name into the mud, even if we don't tell Mazur.

>>1621119
I always wanted to ask, can we move on from Serena, or will we be eternally tied to her death unable to move on?

>>1621916
It's more than possible. The process of moving on just has to be justified so it doesn't stray too far out of character and/or left field.

Writing...

>>1621916
Why would we? Literally most of the choices we've made have reinforced that we won't move on. Not to mention it be kind of interesting to play as a character who won't move on.

>>1621916
Clearly we are going to betray the Crowmunds, kidnap Ellana for parts, then make a blutlinge and fleshcraft it into Serena.

>>1622013
Nope.

>>1621997
Ironically Lord Mazur's and his suitor's condition might open our eyes some. Because he loved his departed wife dearly, and the suitor took advantage of his reluctance to move on.

>>1621997
Eh, I dunno if our choices are really about refusing to move on. I see them more of a consequence of how little time to grieve we've had. Remember its only been like a month or two since Serena died in in-game time...

>>1622032
Yeah and most of that we were KO, or ripping and tearing.

>>1622021
>Implying it won't drive us further off the deep end.

>>1621997
I got the same impression. We are unwilling/unable to move on. The closest we come is devoting our life to the Crowmunds. Even if we did get over her, we couldn't devote any time to another; we have responsibilities.

>>1621956
Did you die?

>>1626099
I got distracted by the CK2 DLC summer sale.

Writing...

File: Marcus2.jpg (515 KB, 1280x720)

515 KB JPG

>>1621155
>>1621171
>>1621185
>>1621257
>>1621264
>>1621495
>>1621838
But cooler heads prevail. You place an arm on Urath and Bellatrix each, holding them fast before they can surge out of their seats and towards the pikemen. Their surprise does not last long. Even as they try to shake off your grip, you hold fast and tight, refusing to let them go.

You hiss, “It’s not worth the trouble. Remember their faces, but for now…just let them go.”

They have legitimate grievances. Prince Allanus is a sorcerer, through no fault of his own. And as his retainer, Urath would be hard-pressed to ignore such an insult to his liege. Bellatrix traces a lineage to Straxhult, the proud isle of barbarian kings where blood waters the soil just as much as water. And before those, both are comrades, if not friends, of Raleigh Silverow.

Your relationship with Raleigh could be described as a comfortable camaraderie. Bet when the insult comes, it is not your fellow Crownguard that comes to mind, but the image of a sorceress with a smile as warm as sunlight…

It takes every ounce of your self control not to give into your rage, to surrender to the typhoon of emotions lodged fast within your heart. The captain’s sheer callousness brings the memories of that snowy night, of the comments the Red Snakes had made before you cut them down. All of that anger, pain, sadness…it’s threatening to spill over and consume you from within.

But you are no longer the Wraith of Black Alley, or the nameless child of Lucien Painel.

You are Marcus Painel, sworn Crownguard to Princess Ellana Crowmond of the Aderaveth Empire. And the actions you take, regardless of intent, will reflect in their entirety on the princess and her family. What would it say that their Crownguard were the start of a tavern brawl, even if defending the honor of their fellows and the Imperial family?

All Bellatrix needed was that urge to pull her back from the brink. The knightess growls, shaking her head in unbridled disgust. But she does not resist your grip any longer. Offensive as their comment was to her, it is merely crass and vulgar, lowborn talk. Save for the parts about Raleigh, it is completely forgettable and ignorable. Another link in the chain forged to hold back your anger.

But Urath is Ingulan. And the Children of the Elder Goddess do not so easily forgive slights, or let them simply pass. Culture and pride dictate they avenge all wrongs done unto them until the slight has been avenged. His anger is that of a seething river, just before the cloudy skies unleash the fury of the storm. He takes significantly longer before you can be certain that he is in control once more.

As one, you throw your cloaks over your bodies and make your way towards the door. No one tries to bar your exit. Heinz catches your eye, thanking you for your patronage with the slightest of nods. And with little ceremony, the bouncers let you through the entrance, and out onto the streets of Alnerwich.

(cont.)

>>1626171
>>The Feast
Ellana frowns as you dig into a portion of chicken, with more intensity than what you would normally expect. As far as you can tell, your manner of eating is no different than the others at Mazur’s table. After all, Ansell was very strict in drilling the proper etiquette of high dining in-between history lessons of all the Empire’s houses. You’re almost certain that it’s nothing to do with your dining habits.

The three of you had returned to the fortress with little fanfare, quickly making your way towards the guest quarters to change. When asked about where you Heardhad been by the Crowmonds, you were sparing on the details.

“A local tavern,” You muttered, shrugging off your cloak, “A curiosity that I wanted to try while we were here.”

“Try the beer,” Bellatrix supplied, kindling the hearthfire, “It’s almost to die for.”

“…the patronage is no good,” Urath finished, rubbing his hands together, “Food spoils quickly.”

From the worried looks they gave you, you’d think that you paid visit to some seedy house of ill repute. And most certainly not the best and closest tavern within the vicinity of the fortress. But before they can ask for more details, the servants whisked them away, in order to prepare them for tonight’s feast.

For his apparent lack of tactical sense on the battlefield, let it not be known that Lord Mazur has no sense for festivities. Following the mirthful tune of some archaic minnesang, the Lord of Alnerwich begins the feast with a toast; a toast for Lord Pullman and the Eagle Knights, a toast for his officers to have come home safely, and finally, a toast to the dead, who gave their lives to stop the Vascieli.

As a member of the Crownguard, you have the unique privilege of a seat at the high table, albeit all the way at the end of it. But as a result, you are given a lord’s portion and choice of the dishes to be brought out into the room. It’s not nearly as refined as the food served in Karthmire, but it’s a high cut above what the peasantry would be eating.

Still, even the taste of spiced meat and creamy tomato soup is not enough to take the edge off your mood. It’s not just from the irritation the three of you had felt in the tavern. There’s something else that charges the air with ominous premonition. Even as the assembled guests make a show of toasting, as sporadic peals of laughter ring throughout the hall, there’s a neigh-palpable tension just waiting to be cut.

The rest of the Crowmonds could not care, too busy either digging into their food, or making small talk with their neighbors. Even Patrik, for all his bluster, keeps a low profile, morosely picking at a drumstick. But his sister watches with narrow eyes, at the woman clinging onto the arm of her father...

Something is going to happen tonight.

>Choose a memory
>Alnerwich, four years earlier. [The Vulpine – Social]
>Karthmire Keep, eight years earlier. [The Aegis – Combat]

>>1629194
>Alnerwich, four years earlier. [The Vulpine – Social]

>26 hours between consecutive posts
Jesus Christ Kaz

>>1629194
>>Alnerwich, four years earlier. [The Vulpine – Social]

>>1629205
He ain't dead that's all I can ask of QM at this point

>>1629194
>Karthmire Keep, eight years earlier. [The Aegis – Combat]

>>1629194
>Alnerwich, four years earlier. [The Vulpine – Social]

>>1629194
>Something is going to happen tonight.
Oh boy, this'll be interesti-

>Choose a memory
Fuck

>>1629194
>>Karthmire Keep, eight years earlier. [The Aegis – Combat]

>>1629194
>>Alnerwich, four years earlier. [The Vulpine – Social]

>>1629194
>>Choose a memory
Really?

>>1629194
>Klara's imagination, 5 minutes ago
I want to see what kind of torture methods she has prepared.

>>1629194
>Karthmire Keep, eight years earlier. [The Aegis – Combat]

>>1629194
>>Alnerwich, four years earlier. [The Vulpine – Social]

>>1629194
>Karthmire Keep, eight years earlier. [The Aegis – Combat]

>>1626171
>that pic
I'm on to you Kaz.

>>1629194
>Karthmire Keep, eight years earlier