The seizure of Ashville [closed]

[supernal]

A major city faces a siege by a force of humans, duergar, and gnolls.

In this particular instance rumors are abound and unfounded. The most common thread of the rumors is that Ashville, one of Terrenus's major economic centers, faces siege by a force of human, duergars and gnolls. Another, but less common thread, is that they have farmed out some of the more difficult work to specialty races. It has been suggested that the duergar's have hired both Drow and Mindflayers to assist them in their task of subversion.

It is yet unknown when, how and for what reason these unlikely forces are joining and levying their resources towards the destruction of Ashville.

One thing is for certain, however, amidst the sea of indistinguishable gossip. Ashville's central political and economic figurehead, Lord Gregory Arious of the Arious legacy, has put the word out that Ashville is under some manner of duress and that warriors and problem-solvers of all kind (combative and non-combative) are welcomed to his manor to discuss particulars.

An official looking document is listed in every tavern, watering hole, and black market post across the face of Terrenus's twelve main villages. Lord Arious hopes for guests the nation over. On the paper is listed only a plea for help, the numbers of a sizable reward, a date to arrive at the manor no later than, and the seal of the family Arious.

The first one-hundred will be accommodated in the manor and the rest will have to get rooms at nearby inns, at reduced fare.

Off topic:
Your first post should be how you heard this information, you can vary what or how much and make up your own rumors, and should cover your travels to the manor's courtyard.

Location

An angelic choir fills the air with their haunting cadence, the sound coming from no discernible point of origin, instead emanating from all around. Crystals affixed strategically in the architecture provide the courtyard with a soft, pleasant, ambient light. Those attuned to such forces or, contrariwise, with sufficient scientific knowledge might surmise that the vibrating crystals producing the light as well produced the sound.

The air is brisk. Chilled, but not entirely unpleasant, merely suggesting to one that they cover their neck, head and ears and advises them against getting wet this time of year, especially at night. Varicolored leaves are strewn about the ground. Though Lord Arious prefers a trim yard in the spring, he rather fancies a colorful courtyard when the seasons allow for it and damned be the current homeowner's fashion trend.

It is fall. Noon. In three hours time, the manor will be buzzing with activity, the gates wide open and accepting all comers. But for the time being all is still, breathless in nature's abstract and immediate beauty, the time ticking away.

Disclaimer

Spoiler:

• There is a serious threat of disfiguration to your character.
• I am not involved in any posting order the players establish. I will post out of turn, and may go long stretches without posting, but will always be watching this thread.

[amenities]

”So much has changed…”

Michael’s hands dove into his pockets and his head tucked itself closer to his broad shoulders, within the barrier formed by his collar. Pushing his shoulder against the heavy door of some no-name bar in Last Chance where he dared dabble for his more recreational activities, he whisked away into the cool night’s embrace. All that was left behind was a fluttering sheet of parchment that lost its appellation in the smoggy puddle it landed in.

Being nearby, Last Chance was one of the first to hear Ashville’s plaintive cry for help.

He drove on seeking power. Or was it just to try and give those poor people a fighting chance? Settling on the more comfortable of the two for him, he bore down on his onerous path.

--

In hasty accordance with the severity of the purpose, the Bastion navigated the span between the two villages. Such halcyon duration had otherwise been fettered to his wanting daydreams, and before the bell that tolled a mournful plea, he bowed his head in supplication that this was not his last. His two day path came to a head at the mouth of Ashville’s looming countenance.

When he had immersed himself well within the city’s limits and its rippling masses, the epicenter became visible to him over the rooftops of the facilities that separated them. His footsteps moved unerring to the shifting tide of prosaic images and faces until he had crossed the multitudinous blocks between him and his destination.

There was a path designated for those who had adhered to the cause mentioned in the flier he’d seen, and he followed it toward the manor’s threshold.

Six days after the messengers bearing word of misfortune were deployed from Lord Arious’ company, the Wielder stepped foot in the courtyard ridden with a cloying melody and a diaphanous hue. Perhaps anyone else would appreciate the soft waves of sound that complemented the autumnal glow to the place exquisitely. This boy, however, simply stood beside the small pool and besmirched the tempting beauty with his unimpressed demeanor and his hands in his pockets.

For there was more to that enclosure. There was an omnipotent weight crushing down on the square with the mighty possibility that Ashville's insular vicissitudes may soon draw to an end.

[Ace]

"Is she awake yet?"

"... No..."

"Well josh drude, numbfuck, how hard did you hit her?"


Consciousness slowly dawned over Rooster Barrett, 1st Lieutenant of the Dictum Veritas, long since decommissioned. She heard the crude rumble of voices first, and that tried and true instinctive beast within her knew immediately not to make so much as a twitch of movement. Instead, the soldier assembled what thoughts she could behind the violet-and-yellow light show raging behind her eyelids and the merciless throbbing somewhere on the back-left hemisphere of her skull. Both arms were wrenched behind her and tied with, judging by the thickness, 3/4" hemp agricultural rope. Perfect.. that shit burned when you tried to wrest your hands free.

The night had started out innocently enough. What she could remember of it; Rooster had ventured into one of Tia's underground gambling rings. No surprise there. Since the dissolution of her army, she'd taken to the vice like a fish to a whiskey bottle. But she'd been winning! She could see it in that old scar-faced Johnny Mitchell's ugly mug, she had him back to the wall and bleeding coins before--

Before those sons of bitches nearly knocked my brains out through my eyeballs! Rooster's eyelashes twitched, almost flew open at the realization, but she managed to reign them back under her control. She did dare to lift her eyelids just a hair, so she could get that slim, blurry glimpse of her assailants through the veil of dark lace. Three men: one of them in a distinctly nicer suit than the other two and squeezing the bridge of his nose between two fat fingers in order to ward off what appeared to be one hell of a headache. Yeah. Doesn't feel too great, does it, you lunger? The room they were in was dimly and artificially lit, surrounded on four sides by grainy-looking brownish walls. Judging by the dank chill on her skin: underground. She was bound to a spindly chair in the center of the great dungeon-y room.

Fuck it. Just open your eyes and see what they want, you're not sneaking out of this one. Where were her things? Her cloak and hip pouch?

"Unngh," Rooster croaked out her best miserable groan and made a show of slowly lifting her head as if it weighed twenty pounds. Her eyes blinked in a performative daze and looked blankly around the room.

"Welcome back, girly." One of the goons chortled, but there was an anxiousness to his tone. Probably due to the fact that he had been the one wielding the club that nearly sent Liese "Rooster" Barrett sprawling over the poker table. If she hadn't woken up, it would have been his pocket playing host to the boss's invasive, greedy hand. Or maybe his funeral. Neither one sounded like the most ideal of outcomes.

The raven-haired pixie blinked again and fixed rather stupid look on her captors. "Did I go somewhere? ...This place is a dump, you pro'bly shoulda just let me stay." This earned an unamused sneer from the tall thug. Rooster rolled her neck, then narrowed vivid cerise irises upon the one with the headache. He was standing slowly, clearing his throat and drumming his fingers against his adam's apple.

"Liese Barrett," he oozed abominably.

Rooster looked unfazed, even though inside her stomach turned. "Hello, Dear."

"Where's my money, Rooster?"

"Lost in the fat sleeves of your wife's flaccid cunt?"

The goons tittered. Rooster and the loan shark silenced them with simultaneous daggered glares of contempt. They skulked back and busied themselves nervously with their guns, while the mafioso slithered over to his captive and curled his thick fingers around her neck. He tilted her head back and, towering over her seated, diminutive figure, sneered salaciously down. "I already checked your little bag. Ed and Mathers have turned your room over, too. You don't have it."

Liese curled her lip. "Then whatd'd you need to go to the trouble for, Louis? Tell you what, though, you're stupider than ever--I was winning it back tonight when your men over there socked me one and, well, threw off my fucking game."

"I figured this time I'd take a safer bet."

"What are you talking about?"

Liese heard a rustling whisper of paper against fabric, as the loan shark reached into his breast pocket and slid his hand back with a flyer folded neatly between his first and second fingers. The paper unfolded a mere inch from her face with a flick of his wrist. Rooster scanned the flier. It appeared to be some sort of call for aid. The soldier quirked a brow upwards, continuing to play up the stupidity. "Yeah? And?"

"And--you're going to bring me back that reward. Do that and let's say we'll call things square." A sprawling sneer slid over Louis' face. He was hoping to see some recoil of protest from the gambler, got a creepy little kick out of it, but Rooster's thin face remained markedly impassive. Eyes vaguely narrowed and glazed with a dull shadow, jaw slack, brow cocked. She sniffed, one nostril flaring and briefly curling her lips. And she was quiet...

"..."


She was quiet for an awkwardly long measure of time.

"..."

"WELL?" Louis finally blustered, unable to keep a grasp on his patience.

"I'm waiting for you to untie me, moron. I've got a train to catch."


-------------------------------------------------------

"No, I swear to god, that's exactly how it happened!"

The train conductor was in tears. He laughed so hard that an ache burned in his belly and he'd had to double over, even with the protestant creaks of an old, temperamental spine, and rest his hands on his thighs for support. Great, wheezy guffaws choked out from his dusty throat that could easily have carried from this little bridge behind the engine room to the gleaming, silver passenger cars that snaked behind. "Oh ye gods, that's good!" He cried.

Rooster's lips arched into smirk. She was leaning against the wall, a light, lumpy backpack hoisted over one shoulder and her palms splayed outwards as if those white palms would give evidence to her honesty. The conductor's hysteria finally tapered off and he arched backwards, cracking those stiff vertebra. He lifted a knobby hand and wiped his eyes. The outline of a city loomed through the window, and Rooster gently indicated it to the man with a nudge.

"Ah, yeah," he offered. "That'd be Asheville now."

She smiled. "Great."

It took several minutes for the train to roll, slowly, cumbersomely, and accompanied by grinding squeals of the brakes, to a stop. Once they had, Rooster hoisted her things onto her shoulder and offered the conductor a mutually agreeable nod. He clapped his calloused hand on her shoulder, a gesture he normally reserved for fellow men and one that surprised him a little now. But Rooster hardly exuded femininity, and it made sense to bond with her like a.. boy. "You be careful, now" he bid her.

"Mmhm." A slender hand lifted and hailed the conductor with a final, brief wave, and Rooster jumped onto the platform and disappeared into the mob. She paused only long enough to consult a railworker for directions to the mayor's home: a beautiful villa enveloped on all sides by the blazing reds and luminous golds of trees in their autumn finest, which she found relatively easily and with plenty of daylight to spare. Not a soul even cast her a glance on the way. The pixie-haired soldier all but disappeared into the crowd.

She flashed her copy of the circular to two guards, positioned symmetrically on either side of the tall, ornate gates, and they allowed her passage into the grand courtyard. Unlike the surrounding area, which buzzed as if electrified with insect life, this garden seemed oppressed by a thick, humid silence. One other hero-in-waiting had already arrived but, a terse person already and further quieted by the blanket-like atmosphere, Rooster didn't greet him. She looked him over, mind you; magenta eyes slid to the side and briefly, but thoroughly, sized the stranger up, but those thin lips remained pressed together. A military erectness had spread across her body. Rooster stood upright and held her head high, waiting in abundant patience for the steward that would inevitably come greet and debrief them.

[Jonathan Sullen]

While traveling through Casper, John had spent a night at The Sword and Board Tavern, where he stumbled upon an official document offering a reward for help in Ashville.

He needed a job.

The next day, he woke, gathered his belongings, boarded the train, rode through Ignatz, Tia and Palgard to the city in duress.

- - -

The train pulled into the station. Door hissed open for dismount.

Steel-plated boots clacked on concrete as he leapt onto the podium and followed the other passengers out of the terminal.

Arious' manor was hard to miss.

Guards welcoming guests granted him entry to the courtyard.

Crystals pulsed and sang from the walls. Visible jets of carbon dioxide dispersed into the brisk air, leaves crunched underfoot as he strode down the steps into the yard. He pulled a fur cap down over his ears and stood with his hands at his sides rather than in the pockets of his overcoat, back facing the wall farthest from the pool. A bag slumped to the earth.

[Morgan]

“Raja,” a scrawny fellow whose deep umber eyes were severely sunk into a dark brown and leathery face spoke, “the men grow restless. They want to know when they’ll be getting their pay.” His fingers fidgeted as he stared down at the wooden planks that lined the tavern’s floor, waiting for her response.

“Draw the gold from the coffers and pay them half their wages due,” deep lines furrowed her brow and her words melted with one another in the manner that drunken syllables are prone to do.

“The coffers are nearly empty. There’s barely enough to portion half a week’s rations,” he responded.

When no answer came, he pressed on, “Raja? In their weariness, the men whisper. They want to know when Syre will return.”

“Syre is dead, Darin” she told him, recanting what little she knew of their leader’s death as she poured the last of the whiskey into her glass. She stared at the amber liquid, then tilted the glass to her lips and swallowed it in one gulp. It hit her stomach hard.

“Another bottle, Tilok,” she ordered of the barkeep whose rotund figure stood behind the wooden bar mindlessly drying an empty glass. His attentions were focused on their conversation and when Raja spoke directly to him, he flinched and nearly dropped his glass.

“I’ll have to draw one from the cellar,” he stuttered, his fat cheeks wobbled as he spoke. Raja dismissed him with a wave of her hand and he disappeared into the kitchen area. Instead of heading into the cellar, though, he silently slipped out the back door intent on finding one of Raja’s men; one that would find his secret worthy of a promised favor, at least. Truth be told, the bartender would have sold Raja out for a scanty morsel of stale bread; the times were that bad.

“What else do the men whisper, Darin?” heated eyes narrowed on the uneasy man. She knew there was more that he wasn’t sharing with her. Even in her drunken apathy, Raja could sense the secrecy concealed in the undertones of his voice.

“They, they speak of treachery,” he confessed, “Even now they sharpen their blades as they sharpen their tongues.”

Raja remained silent as she processed the gravity of his revelation and then she spoke, “They would not dare betray Syre.”

“They believe that you’ve betrayed Syre. If you tell them Syre is dead, they will demand proof,” Darin crossed the room, distancing himself from her impending rage. “And when you have none to show,” he stared at the empty counter. Where did that barkeep run off to? He should’ve been back long ago.

Darin turned to Raja, “When you can’t produce Syre’s body, Raja, they will usurp your authority.”

She stared toxic holes into him. Raja knew what he meant. One didn’t just ‘seize authority’ in Syre’s ranks. No, positions within Syre’s army were taken by a show of physical superiority; a challenge that would leave one dead and one in command of the vast armies that Syre had spent his life building. Raja averted her gaze to a point just beyond him to settle upon an array of flyers tacked to the wall. Thoughts ticked in her mind and she rose. Heavy boots crossed the room and Darin squealed before he threw his arms up to cover his face defensively.

“Heh,” she shrugged, then shoved him to the side and sent him tumbling clumsily into a nearby chair as she snatched one of the flyers from the wall and read the information.

“Keep the men busy until I return,” she told him as she left the tavern. Tacking up her war steed, Bojan, who waited faithfully outside, she mounted.

“Wh, where are you going?” Darin questioned, his beady eyes darting from Raja to shadows that moved silently along the eastern wall of a squat wooden building.

Before Raja could answer, those creeping shadows solidified just behind her and shouts of rage shattered the hushed evening as her own men, Syre’s men, surrounded her, intent on pulling her from her mount. Brutish hands reached up to grip a forearm but she clung fast to her reins and her thighs clenched against the steed as she reached for the kilij strapped to her hip. A clean stroke delivered, she severed the hands of those accosters who gripped the horse’s halter and they yowled in pain, retreating to nurse bleeding stumps.

The horse reared up, not in fear but instinct and training; its powerful forelegs kicking against the aggressors and crushing their skulls as he trampled them. Raja fought them off, but not before attaining fierce jabs to the left side of her jaw and the opposing side of her abdomen. With a powerful burst of strength, Bojan jetted forward, crushing those ahead of him as they left their assailants behind.


Days would pass before Raja and Bojan would reach Ashville. Raja, injured and travel-weary, slid from her mount and guided him into the courtyard. Jet black hair drawn tight against her skull fleshed out the stoic expression that was carved onto her face. Others were there and she straightened her back, lifted her head, and hid the pain that dug into her side as she waited to be greeted by their host.

[supernal]

Michael, Rooster, John, and Raja.

These four were the first to arrive. Half an hour after Michael arrived, a much shorter wait from when Raja steps foot into the courtyard, attendants flood the scene and begin doting on the weary travelers. They are offered food and drink, free reign of the courtyard, and are informed that a light breakfast will be prepared for them in the hall within the hour.

Within that hour, more and more soldiers, mercs, rogues, champions, and combatants of all kind, size, demeanor and nature found their way into the courtyard. The end of that hour saw more scholars than knife-wielding henchmen, as they had day jobs that needed looking after, but one could tell it in that cocky gleam of the eye that each was confident in his or her ability to bring this dilemma to a fitting end.

When the 100 man mark was reached, the guards proved forceful and adept maintaining the status quo. The gates were closed, the men taken up arms behind those iron bars with steel gripped in their hands, and with both kindness and insistence lacing their tones directed new comers to the nearby inn. The remaining battalion of fighters and thinkers were invited into the great hall. The room proved expansive, large enough to seat them all with room to allow the servants to set and clear the table after each dish of their five-course meal.

As yet no one had gone out of their way to introduce themselves or elaborate on the proceedings. The address matched; as did the family seal embossed above all the doorways. They were in the right place. And yet it seemed as if, aside from the servants and fellow respondents, they were all alone.

[amenities]

Whoever it was seemed keen to keep them waiting. As if this was not an hour of trepidation. As if, even in time of war, reputation meant more than chivalry. If there was truly a threat that demanded the attention of creature and man alike from all over the face of Valucre, explanation was in order.

Michael followed the guides that were sent to fetch them, breathed in the room they were brought into, and his exhalation would be the only mark of his impatience.

The boy withdrew his hands from their pockets and folded them behind his back when they were left to stand still. He did not sit, merely lingered near a corner on the long end of the table there. His posture reflected military training, but other obvious signs told tales of more.

Silent; Contemplative eyes ran over the room once and made note of entrances and exits. He could have pictured a last stand, bathed in blood as his sword, sweat and tears losing meaning and distinction. He could have pictured diplomacy.

He pictured a girl. And vowed he would see her again.

--

Outside, a boy with machine arms was directed with a stern finger toward the musing crowd of less impressive looking warriors who searched for alternative lodgings.

[Ace]

"Hm." Rooster began to look as perturbed and impatient as her namesake. One might almost be able to picture the soldier tossing her head, thick copper plumage ruffled in tension to twice its original circumference. Having no feathers to preen, however, the soldier twisted her lips and passed a huff of hot air from her nose. Eyebrows raised high, over a gaze that swept round the perimeter of the hall in deep scrutiny. “In a real hurry to get some relief, aren’t they?”

Dinner provided some measure of distraction. The food was hot, expertly composed in plating and palate, and the service was finely tuned. She tried to find comfort in that fact. Perhaps therein lied an excuse for the master; such a savvy staff had to bear some recognition for their absentee host, didn’t it?

Rooster reserved some uneaten chocolate-almond torte from a porcelain serving dish as it passed-- a great helping of it, in fact. She swiped from the plate so fast the poor serving steward nearly tripped himself in surprise, but she needed something to keep herself occupied while they waited.

The cropped-haired vixen picked at the corner of her sweet with a fork so dainty it felt out of place in her gun-toting fingers. As time ticked by her military posture began to barely soften, like the machine-cut straight edges of butter left to sit for an hour or two on the countertop.

[Jonathan Sullen]

Jon deposited his bag of belongings in the inn and joined the other guests at the great hall. He removed his cap before entering and found a seat at the side of the breakfast table. He lent an ear to picking up hints on the situation between the clink of dishes and utensils. He drank milk, tea and water and ate his stomach full of eggs, vegetables, fruits, bacon and sausage. He glanced at the other warriors in attendance between bites of food and sips of liquid both cold and hot. The blood pumping through his veins at the thought of combat was invigorating.

[Morgan]

As others were herded into the main portion of the estate, Raja sought one of the guides to arrange accommodations for Bojan. Guided to a rather large stable situated to the rear of the southeastern portion of the estate, Raja cared for her stallion, noting the sacks of the finest grade of oats and barley that was offered. It wasn’t until she was sure the battle horse was cared for that she allowed the guides to lead her into the main foyer of the manor.

Even as she entered the dining area, Raja’s mind was processing all that she encountered. Great care had been taken to showcase the wealth of her host, despite the troubles that were alluded to within the flyer. Knowledgeable eyes soaked in the gilded halls, the fine carpeting, lush wall hangings, and even the finery spread out before her at the elegantly carved table. Dishes of savory meats, finely roasted vegetables in thick aromatic sauces and sweet-smelling desserts were served and, despite the grumbling in her belly, Raja had only one thing on her mind as she picked at her plate.

There was a time when she had been holed up in some gods-forsaken watering hole, caught in the midst of a revolutionary descent. The troop of men that Raja had left behind to guard the small community after her main forces took control had been overrun by the locals who had waited for the bulk of her army to leave before launching their aggressive attack. One of the men managed to escape, not unscathed, and had nearly driven his animal into the ground in order to alert her of the rebellion. Mortal wounds claimed him before he could explain the entire situation to his commander.

Thinking she would handle the situation quickly, Raja had ordered the main bulk of her army to press onward to their next destination while she and a fraction of her men returned. It wasn’t long before Raja had realized that the locals had been joined by an outside force that greatly outnumbered her group of men. Suffering the loss of so many, the morale of her troop began to decline and it was then, when her men were outnumbered, poorly armed, and on the brink of defeat that Raja provided them with what they unknowingly needed; the illusion of grandeur.

And now, through this thickly veiled façade her host so generously cast, Raja peered as she gnawed on some unfortunate fowl’s thigh. Sucking the rich marrow from its bone, the Savage wondered just how dire the situation really was.

[supernal]

Day stretched well into night before anything substantial occurred. Until then the masses were mollified by promises that they were in the right place, that the call to arms was indeed housed in this very same manor, and that any seeking generous recompense had come to the right place. The servants were quick to furnish all manner of seals, symbols, and insignia that proved this manor to be the home of Lord Gregory Arious, and Lord Gregory Arious the one that let loose the very document that had gathered them all here.

But not until night did it occur. Or rather, not until night was the effect salient enough to take note of. A gaffer with silver in his hair rather than grey, hard eyes given a sharp edge by experience, and a stiff gait marched with stentorian authority about the crowd of strangers scattered about the estate. One by one they were dismissed, after a brief but intense period of scrutiny at this man's gaze, and when night fell the hundred or so were no more than ten or fifteen.

Among these were Michael, Rooster, John and Raja.

The fifteen of them were divided into three groups of five, and each one taken to a separate room, each room with their own wise, elder servant in attendance. It was hard to pick out the exact moment when the tension in the room got so thick, or when precisely the ambiance had shifted from one of merry-making to one of dour scrutiny, but it had happened and now the four of them, and one stranger among strangers that favored your traditional cloak and hood, were in a room. A room with pastel walls, carpeted floors, scented oils in the lamps, and the same silver haired elderly gentleman with the stern face. Sitting there. Watching them.

"You and you," He pointed at Michael and Rooster in turn. "Both have military posture, a frame of formal discipline. But you," This at Rooster. "Are impatient. Idle. And you," To Michael. "Are perhaps too patient. Perhaps too willing to simply observe."

"You," This to the Sullen man. "Ate a lot. Nearly double what anyone else did. You either haven't eaten in a long time or do not expect to. I can tell you right now, you're perfect. You're the kind of man we're looking for. Machine-like in many respects, but with the passion of man to drive those parts. This, too, is what makes you most dangerous. Do you find meaning in anything else? How can we trust that kind of man?

"And you," Finally he addressed Raja. "You rode in on a seasoned horse, wearing that, and I saw you sucking the marrow from a chicken thigh. If this man's absolute focus is not desirable, then your utter savagery is surely second to none."

He said nothing to the fifth man. Merely looked him up and down, then returned to the other four.

" . . . All of you have been poisoned. It was everywhere. In all the food and the drink. Slathered on all of the utensils, plates, tables, chairs. The attendants had it on their gloves, and were given strict orders to touch or brush up against anyone seen not eating or drinking, to make sure to drive the point home. By now," The old man tugged at a chain leading from his pocket and pulled free a golden watch, eyed the face of it, and put it back. "The others are dead, the servants are gone. There is an antidote and I know where it is. But I'm an old man. I don't fear death and have a weak heart. Torture, hell even a strong shock, would make me keel over.

" So what now?"

[amenities]

A row of black, feathery lashes slipped over one ultramarine pool. It was lone, for its red counterpart thrived off the dryness the air. It fed off of everything downtrodden, everything that the rest of Michael’s body couldn’t even handle, let alone use as sustenance. Such were the properties of an evil artifact made appendage. The intricacies of that gizmo and the other mysterious objects he attributed small amounts of his success to were quite possibly the cause of his ‘abundance of patience.’ Those very things had driven him into his own mind as a thinker when they had been given to him so he could act as a warrior.

While he portioned himself off with four others, three of which had been the most vocal since their arrival and one of which seemed the most inane, he drew in factors that contributed to the teams, the people that had been placed in each one and the manner with which they were separated. Details pertaining to each of his teammates were documented behind multicolored irises and the nondescript features of the blank robed figure were duly noted. Then the Bastion turned his gaze upon the silver-haired elder, roughly synonymous with his confession.

Poison.. Judgment was one thing, and based off of the old man’s inferences it wasn’t totally out of line because of its accuracy, but poison? Michael spoke first in response to his practically challenging query.

“Without us, you would have no hope to survive. Why not just tell us?”

[Ace]

The Lord's treacherous revelation brought Rooster abruptly to her feet in outrage, the chair squealing its legs against the fine marbled floor in a paltry effort to keep itself from toppling. Few things would have satisfied the soldier greater at that moment than to shoot the bastard right through the skull. At least she could feel revenge's smug triumph before she died. She restrained herself with no visible amount of struggle, knowing that tempers, especially her own, may flare fast and hot but often extinguished ephemerally. Nevertheless, Rooster kept one hand on the cold agent of retribution at her hip.

"This is how you conduct business in Asheville? Like snakes? Obviously you want something of us," the cropped-haired soldier resonated through a clenched jaw. Something that Arious felt he had to back his guests against a wall to obtain. "Explain yourself, then, before your time runs out as well as ours."

Her anger cooled into something that just seethed and simmered below the surface, and somehow this colder Rooster seemed even more a threat than her predecessor.

[Jonathan Sullen]

Ephemeral, unacknowledged thoughts gnawed at the back of Jonathan's mind while he ate.

It's poison. It's a trap. The whole thing is a farce.

He tried to dismiss the thoughts under the scrutinous, authoritarian gaze of the silver-haired gaffer, although he could not help but entertain each infinitesimal intrusion on his psyche before pushing the thoughts out and continuing to function as everyone else was. It couldn't have been too late to simply leave, but he needed the job, so he decided to indulge and see where the trip took him.

---

Servant's room.

"I find meaning in many things," he responded, "among them beauty, peace, and prosperity. You called the country to arms, so I am here to take up arms against its enemies. The point of war is peace, and I hope that after the necessary battles fought to protect Ashville are over, Ashville will have peace."

The gaffer's next statements confirmed Jon's fleeting suspicions, made the situation a little more complicated. Jon stayed silent. The youth with the red eye gave the obvious response to the fact that the gaffer knew where the antidote was. Why poison? What kind of game was this?

[Morgan]

When they entered the room, Raja had found a high-backed, wooden chair whose elegantly carved arm rests and cushioned seat bid her welcome and she placated her weary muscles, allowing her pack to fall to the floor beside her. The woman listened, silently, and she remained silent when their host addressed her. The faint trace of an undeveloped smile hinted at the corners of her mouth even as he explained they had been poisoned. Syre would have done the same thing, she thought, hell, I would’ve done the same.


“What now?” The old man challenged.


“Without us, you would have no hope to survive. Why not just tell us?” This, from one of the men in the group she had been clustered with. The other two members chimed in their thoughts and Raja could not help but to burst out in laughter.


A deep, throaty laughter that filled the room with its own brand of poison, for it brought about thoughts of meticulous cruelty. She had to admire her captor, and indeed, he was her captor and she, his prisoner; at least, for as long as he guarded her death.


She slid to her feet, rolled the ache from her shoulders, and strode towards a long table at the far end of the room. This will do, she thought. Raja clenched the sides of the table and dragged it to the center of the room. Retrieving her pack, she withdrew a cylindrical leather case and rummaged through several scrolls of paper until she found what she wanted.


“Close your city’s gates,” she answered, spreading a map of Ashville out onto the table, “Do not allow anyone in or out of the city. Armed patrols should be posted here,” a finger tapped a point on the map, “and here.” She indicated the city’s water supplies and silos. “These should be a portion of your trained military, not your citizens. Citizens cannot be trusted.”


Sure that there were questioning eyes on her, Raja explained, “I saw columns of smoke rising in the distance as I rode in. A great army assembles on your borders.” Her gaze sought the old man’s face, “I can only assume that you’ve had traitors in your ranks, spies working for the invading forces.”


Her throat was suddenly dry and her tongue, thick in her mouth, felt like sandpaper as she licked her lips. “This is why he’s called us here,” she turned to speak to the rest of the group, “and why he’s poisoned us.”


If she was wrong, then truly this man was more dangerous than Syre ever was and she and the motley group of mercenaries she now found herself accompanying were in for more trouble than the spoils the flyer promised was worth.