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When Snow Falls

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MARCEL "SNIPE" LANCASTER

"Who are you," he snarled, "And tell me why you smell like them."

His knees were bent slightly as his arms were extended back, corralling Frost away from the knight. While his partner may have trusted the man, everything seemed far too coincidental. The wolf-shaped pommel, the faint scent of werewolves, and the man's lack of surprise were all hints to some other affiliation. His knowledge of remedies seemed out of place as well. The man was most definitely not a healer which meant that he was either a hunter of the supernatural beasts or was a werewolf himself. This, Marcel could not discern; however, it was clear this man had some connection to the creatures.

His eyes narrowed at the knight. "TELL ME," the werewolf repeated, voice low and threatening. He would not have him on their quest if he did not say who he was — that is, the full truth, and nothing but the truth. Being fooled two times was twice enough. Marcel would not risk a third.

@danzilla3

Edited by Artificer

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Samuel was beginning to grow annoyed with the werewolf snarling demands at him as it became more and more feral in appearance and behavior. He had dealt in good faith so far just by not killing Marcel once he knew of the mans affliction, and had even offered aid. Now he was being interrogated by the beast, and it was wearing on his last nerve. Still, he tried to remain calm, to remember what Marcel would be going through right now. Forcing himself to take a deep breath, he decided on a mostly neutral response to the transformed mans inquiry.

"I've met others like you before," he said, "Where and how is not your concern."

 

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KNOX "FROST" HADLEY

23 hours ago, Artificer said:

"Who are you," he snarled, "And tell me why you smell like them."

These words were of grave concern to the archer, and while he trusted the knight, Frost had faith in Snipe — even if the man was half-crazed for blood at times. Still, now was not the time and place for questions. There were more pressing matters at hand.

18 hours ago, danzilla3 said:

"I've met others like you before," he said, "Where and how is not your concern."

"For the moment, at least," Frost interjected, forcing his way under and past the werewolf's massive, blockading arm.

"You'll have to forgive my friend's lack of tact. It is the moon, I suppose. He is usually more polite, I can assure you."

"Clearly, it is the Cold South, and almost half of the mercenaries here have dealt with their fair share of lycanthropy at some point of another; however, I do believe that his suspicions are not unwarranted. It was a man who was also experienced with beastkin who led us on a similar expedition a few months back — the same expedition where Snipe contracted his unfortunate affliction, if I may add."

"The bastard stabbed us and the rest of his fucking crew in the back!" Marcel suddenly growled, flecks of saliva flying onto the back of Knox's neck.

It was then Knox turned and reached back, calmly putting his hand on the werewolf's shoulder. Somewhere in those monstrous amber eyes was his friend.

"In short, we need to know if you are a man we can trust," he said, looking back at Samuel, eyes burning with resolve. This expedition would be the fated time where revenge would be claimed, and Knox would be damned if he let the same thing happen again.

@danzilla3

Edited by Artificer

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The heir to the Gareau family understood the duo's anger and pain better than they probably thought that he did. One of the occupational hazards of being a mercenary was that betrayal seemed to always be on the minds of his employers and comrades. When people thought you were loyal to nothing but money, it made it easier for them to see you as nothing but a tool to be used and thrown away. It had taught him to always be watching his back, to trust nothing, and no one at face value. Above all else, it made him willing to kill without remorse if he thought his life was in danger. Like it was right now.

Still, he was not without sympathy, and he recognized Marcel's story as a tragic one. Those who were turned to lycanthropy were often driven insane by the rage and blood lust that came with the affliction; rendered little more than beasts that would have to be put down by men like Samuel. But the man in front of him was not that far gone yet, and there was still a chance for him to salvage his humanity. 

He relaxed his stance, and reached slowly into a pouch on his belt, from which he produced a vial of silver liquid that almost seem to glow in the relative darkness of the barn. He tossed it in a lazy arc to land in front of Hadley's feet.

"You can trust me until you try to kill me. Just like anyone else."

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MARCEL "SNIPE" LANCASTER

The vial landed in front of Hadley, but it rolled away and hit Lancaster's padded foot. Picking it up, the lycanthrope held the strange phial in a thin moonbeam which filtered through a small crack in the barn wall. The liquid looked like quicksilver with its curious sheen, but it flowed and coalesced much like water instead of molten metal. The knight seemed genuine enough, but would he really be able to trust this strange man?

The question would have to be for another time. A sudden creaking of wood seized his attention, and with his ear perked up, Marcel's muzzled face turned to the noise's origin. The backdoor to the farm was slightly ajar, a yellow light entering and purging the room of its shadows. The source of the light was a petite, brass lantern, held tightly in the unsteady hands of a short, brunette, girl.

Marcel's eyes widened. The child stood their petrified, emerald eyes transfixed on his monstrous form.

He held out his clawed hand to the girl to calm her, but it was too late.

"W-WEREWOLF!" the little mistress screamed, dropping the oil light onto the snow before disappearing back into the night. Within moments, a horn was blown far in the distance, and with a brief glace at his partner, Marcel confirmed that they were both thinking the same thing: they had to hide quickly.

Frost instantly turned to the knight. "Meet us at the gray shack due north of here. It is half a mile away, but at the break of first light, we must depart. Gather everyone. We will only have three hours of daylight, so we need to make it count."

Snipe's tipped ears caught the faint sound of horse trots in the deep snow, and at the noise, he grimaced. The perks of being a wolf-man in Valjer.

"We need to go!" he growled to both men, grabbing his partner by the wrist.

@danzilla3

Edited by Artificer

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Later that day, Varda retired to her room in a nearby inn. She saw no point in engaging in any further discussion. They would regroup at the meeting point at two before sunset the next day.

 

 

 

At about three in the morning, she was awakened by a rapid banging on her door. Sitting up in her bed, she reached for her pistol and made her way towards the door. “Who is it?” she called.

The frantic voice responded almost immediately, “Miss Lomanet! It’s me, the stablemaster whom you met yesterday!”

She paused and listened out of a sheer habit for caution. There was only one heartbeat. The man outside her room wasn’t lying about who he was, but somehow that didn’t cease to unsettle her. It wasn’t everyday that someone would pay her a visit at such ungodly hours.

Sliding her hand against the wall for balance, she briskly made her way to the door. She flinched as her hands wrapped around the cold metallic handle of the door, receiving a static shock for her efforts. She turned it open hastily to meet her visitor. “Yes?”

“Miss Lomanet, you must come with me at once. It’s terrible!”

She frowned. Had her horse fallen ill from the cold temperatures? “Give me ten minutes,” she said. “I’ll get changed and you can tell me what happened on the way.”

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Samuel had declined the townsfolk's request to hunt the fleeing werewolf with them, nobly volunteering to stay behind in case the beast circled back while the town was undefended. The suggestion had gone over well, with the hunters agreeing that such creatures were to wily to be underestimated. He suspected that the group of mostly young males were also happy to not have to compete with an outsider for bragging rights. Of course, he had no illusions that they would get far. The wind was howling, and soon the tracks left behind would be swept away. Besides, few things could catch a werewolf at full speed.

So he walked back towards the inn, intending to tell the others the message he had been given.

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KNOX "FROST" HADLEY

It was absolutely disgusting. The slick, oily residue of horse carcass covered his hands every time he tried to get a better grip on the werewolf's mane. It was a bumpy, uneven, swerving ride, but there was no choice. Frost was holding onto Snipe for dear life as the man bolted through the tundra, Deepdelve Rangers right on their tracks. Looking back, Frost could see the bouncing lights of the mens' lanterns in the distance. It was a group of roughly five — maybe seven — individuals in hot pursuit, but it was hard to tell. He could not see their faces through the sudden snowstorm — a good sign that they could not see his. Still, with arrows flying, it was only a matter of time until one of them would tag Knox or Marcel with an all-to-obvious wound.

Arrow narrowly missing Marcel, the man could feel the fletchings of the arrow brisk his hair ever so slightly.

"Quickly!" Frost yelled at his partner, iced winds burning his lungs. Another arrow landed right in front of them.

"I'm trying," his partner growled, now sprinting even faster on all fours. "You're a bit heavy you know!"

"Can't help it — just run!"

*             *             *

The shack door creaked loudly, swung open as the both the man and the werewolf entered. After about an hour of being chased, the duo had finally lost them in the flurry.

Knox moved some dry hay onto the floor before plopping down onto the cold, stone flooring. His legs felt like they were about to fall off, no thanks to Marcel. Holding onto the beast was far more difficult than riding the most rebellious of the young, fiery mares of Kethlerin. Knox turned to his side, rear awfully sore. Unstrapping his ice pick, he removed his cloak and took the brief moment to relax.

"My god... those bastards chased us for a long time, right?" he sighed, turning back to look with a weary smile. The werewolf was sitting cross-legged, hands folded and looking away from his partner. Hadley's lips flattened at the sight. He knew it wasn't Marcel's fault — the hunger, the ravages —, and seeing what was left of the man's humanity in that form, clearly soaked in guilt, made his heart break.

"Marcel, are you alright?" he asked, crawling closer.

"I'll be fine," the wolf responded, voice somewhat empty, somewhat hollow. Knox put his hand on his friend, but Marcel just shied away and moved to the corner of the shed.

Biting his lip, Knox could only watch. To see his one and only friend be torn up by some curse was unbearable. Snipe had always been there for him when he needed them, and the one time Marcel-the-Infallible was suffering, he couldn't do anything. It was as if there was a tower sitting on his chest preventing him from reaching out and helping Snipe. There was nothing he could do. He was powerless in the realm of the eldritch. He couldn't take away the man's curse. All he could do was provide comfort.

"I'll get some firewood from the cellar," he said.

Standing up, his legs wobbled, but Knox forced them to stay up. Looking side to side, he shoveled through barrels of old tools, clearly unused for years by the crystallized rust caking the surface of every one. Plucking a stout axe from the bottom, he held it up to examine it if it would be viable for the job. Other than the blade being composed of a strange, repurposed metal, the rusty, green-steeled axe was nothing special at all.

"This will have to do."

Grabbing his cloak, Knox went outside and closed the door softly, making sure that no intruders would see the werewolf hidden inside. He circled around the back, and with a hard swing, broke the lock on the cellar doors. There had to be wood underground, he thought. Descending into the darkness, he confirmed his intuition with a flick of flint on the oil lantern's wick. It was a firewood cellar, much like the other ones he had seen under other Valjerian houses — the ones where military were quartered of course.

"This won't take too long," he said to himself before taking the topmost log and chopping it in two. He yawned. The task was painstakingly simple. One log became two, and two became four. In the end, he was mindlessly chopping logs underneath the cellar, letting out his frustrations by cracking timber in two. It wasn't fair what was happening to Marcel. After all, it should have been Knox who was bitten, not Marcel. Fatigue crept in, and without realizing it Knox sat down, dejected and utterly tired from the entire ordeal. It had been months already. He just wanted it all to be over. Closing his eyes, he thought to take a brief rest. "One minute won't hurt," he thought.

As soon as his eyes fluttered, the ragged breaths of a frustrated man became the sweets sighs of a sound sleeper.

*             *             *

A loud, banging sound of the floorboards above shocked Knox awake. His lantern had gone out long ago, and the bitter chill permeating his body became all to apparent as he tried to move. How long had he been asleep?

CRASH, and then a roar exploded from above.

After he picked up the green axe at his side, Knox ran up through the open cellar and around, seeing a horse parked a few meters away from the shack. His mind exploded with the scenario going on inside, but there was no time to think as something slammed into the wall on the side. The entrance to the shack was swinging in the wind, and without hesitation, the hunter dived in.

Sitting atop the werewolf with knife raised was another man who turned immediately at the creak of the door hinges. The man's face was wrinkled, red hair peppered with strands of gray, eyes a vivid blue and full of concern.

"GET AWAY FROM HERE BOY, IT'S DANGEROUS HERE!" he yelled on the top of his lungs. "RUN!" the man yelled before being flipped on his side by Marcel, Deepdelve Ranger's silver crest flashing in the moonlight before being hidden by the fur of the wolf on top.

Marcel gave Knox a fierce look, as if to agree with the man beneath him. Run, is what those eyes screamed.

However, the ranger would not take the momentary distraction for granted.

In an instant, the man unsheathed a knife, and drove its blade into the werewolf's shoulder before twisting it with his other hand. Marcel's pupils constricted as silver tore straight through, tip hitting the bone. Down the beast went, howling in sheer pain before it was the ranger again who had the advantage. Wrapping his legs around the beasts torso, the red-haired veteran gave a twist in his body, arms out and pushing out from the floor, throwing Marcel off. Jumping on top of the beast, the man screamed wildly as he held his knife up, ready to stab it straight into Marcel.

Knox's heart quickened as the blade descended.

Vision narrowed on the one weapon which would end it all.

His grip on the axe tightened as he rushed inside.

Before he knew it, he had swung the axe, ranger dropping onto the ground with a thud. Knox dropped to his knees, warm blood soaking into the cheap fabric of his pants from the growing pool. The ranger was clenching his neck, mouth sputtering out blood. The wound was anything but covered, and definitely not concealed, crossing a third of the way in. It had missed the spine, but it was most definitely a jagged, unclean, grisly cut.

The man's shockingly blue eyes looked to Knox, expression filled with the look of the betrayed. "How could you," he seemed to mouth. With a final spurt of blood, the man's eyes glossed over, and arms went limp. The ranger was dead.

Marcel ran over to Knox, but the man was frozen still. The werewolf hugged Knox tightly, whispering things like "It's okay" and "I'm sorry" a thousand times over, but Knox didn't respond.

His eyes were transfixed on the corpse in front of him.

"We need to burn it all."

*             *             *

When first light broke at noon, all there was left of the shack was smoldering ashes alongside half-burnt pieces of timber and stone.

Before this, here is what happened:

Frost had led the horse down into the cellar before slaughtering it underneath so no blood would be found outside. After moving the ranger's corpse down into the cellar to be with his horse, Knox lit it all on fire. All of the fuel that was underneath turned everything into a raging pyre, causing the entire shack to collapse down in on itself, burying all evidence of the altercation underneath a pile of stone rubble, beams of pine, and loads of other things.

The flames were so hot, it might as well have turned the bone to ash. Knox suspected alchemical fuel hidden somewhere beneath in a lockbox as was common in the Imperial South for fire-starting, but he didn't question why the inferno had raged as it did. He reckoned it was simply the ranger's restless soul, screaming out in betrayal.

After the ordeal, both he and Marcel sneaked in and cleaned up at a vacated home on the outskirts of Valjer. Knox had told Samuel to tell the others to meet North at the cabin, but Knox slipped a letter under the doors of those whose residence he had uncovered from the innkeepers around town. 'Change of plans. Meet at the inn at the center of town, - Frost' it would say to those who had arrived already. It was shocking what innkeepers would say if you told them 'it's for a quest' and gave them a few coins for their troubles... quite shocking indeed.

Now, the two were sitting at the bottom of the inn, in clean clothes with clean wares, waiting in silence on the companions they had enlisted to either come down from their resting places or arrive in Valjer from their travels. They had scarcely gotten an hour of sleep, sun rising at a time which would normally be considered noon by most parts. They would have to catch up on their rest when they traveled to Cobran on Stoneheart's caravan as the first member arrived.

@HollowCipher @Thotification @Hani @Sleepy Seal @vielle @danzilla3 @Fierach @TheElementHunter

Spoiler

Note that the time right now is around noon since this region of Genesaris is known for its long nights in the wintertime (much like arctic/antarctic regions in the real world). Thus, daytime is roughly from 12:00 pm to 2:00 pm since the time this quest takes place is technically during the heart of winter.

Note the black, bolded text as well as its surrounding context.

Again, sorry on the long wait guys -- it's time to get this quest started for real ~

 

Edited by Artificer

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Dan yawned and rolled over. After about 5 minutes, he concluded that he wasnt going to get back to sleep, and sat up. He felt great; that was one of the best night's sleep he'd had in recent memory. It felt as if he'd been asleep for a month instead of a single night.

*cough* *cough*

"Good afternoon, my lord."

"Mmmmm..."

Peruggia walked over to his still sleepy master, and held out a piece of paper.

"A letter for you. Slid under the door last night."

Dan took it the letter. He had half a mind to order Peruggia to read it for him. He'd just woken up, he couldn't be arsed to read a damn latter.

"Change of plans... Meet at the inn at the center of town."

Was it honestly too much to ask for someone to stick to the original plan?

Right right. Because blowing a gaping hole in Cobran's street to collapse a sewer on furries was definitely part of the plan.

Those were special circumstances.

And you know these aren't?

I just woke up. Im still sleepy and don't give a flying fuck about anything.

Dan got out of bed, put some shorts on, and put on a hoodie jacket. He then checked on his potions. After simmering all night, they were all ready to go. Potions for stamina, potions for mana, and potions to heal all but the gravest wounds. He was stacked this time. There would be no dumb mistakes in Cobran this time around.

"Peruggia. Return."
Peruggia bowed, and returned to Dan's crystal in a flash of light. Dan pocketed the crystal, put his potions in a case which he put in his backpack, and floated downstairs and out the door.
Fucking gods why did it have to be so damn cold?
Dan made a wind dead zone, and before long arrived at the inn at the center of the town. He opened the door and entered, and then began looking for the others.

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Sikko leans into the fire, holding the flyer in his hand. The wind, previously whipping in a storm, is now calm, waving the paper slightly as he reads the listing again. Should you really be doing this Sikko? He stands up swiping a hand through the air to wipe away the snow that’s piled on his air barrier through the night. You’re supposed to be looking for the water artifact, not jumping on random quest that have the potential to get you killed. Stars glitter above, growing dimmer as light escapes the rising sun. Guess it doesn’t matter, huh?

He’s jolted out of his thoughts as a plume off snow erupts from his feet. Silverstrike slips in an attempt to right herself, her yowl piercing the early morning air. Her coat glimmers a fiery orange, the snow reflecting her fur in various crystalline patterns. A snarl sits upon her features, as she paws at the ground, looking him in the eyes.

“What is it girl, did you find anything?” Another yowl and she’s off. He quickly snuffs the fire, picking up his coat and putting on his shoulders. He stuffs the flyer into his pack along with a few strips of freshly cured jerky, and his blanket. With his sheath strapped to his belt he takes off after Silverstrike.

Trees whip past, stinging as they catch him in the face. Snow streams behind him as he quickens his glide, trying to keep up with the fiery stripe whipping between the trees. He’d been wondering for days, having lost his way during the snowstorm. Happening upon the flyer was pure luck, one that saved his life. He’d been following the map on it for a day now; he just hoped Silverstrike had found the town and not some stupid rats nest or something.

“Silverstrike, you know I can’t go as fast as you, wait up!” She yowls again speeding up considerably. With an exasperated sigh Sikko wills himself into the air, a sphere of air surrounding his form. Tiredness trickling in his veins as he flew higher, willing more magic to keep his sphere together in the thinning air. He could now see what she was so eager about. On the edge of a deep ravine sat Valjer a city layered in ice.

“Fwoot!”

A sharp whistle pierces the air as Sikko returns to earth, calling Silverstrike. No one pays him much mind as he strolls into town, not that there are many people out at the time. Shifting his fur coat on his shoulders, he heads toward the middle of town hoping to find a message board or an inn where he could get some information about the quest.

 

 

After a half hour of run around Sikko finally steps into the tavern. Bubbly bear and scanty women greet his eyes and his skin tingles at the surge of warmth. It’s not the busiest tavern he’s been in but the familiar buzz of leisure life still fills the place. He scans the room. Once. Twice. On the third time his eyes land on two men. They seem to be waiting, watching the door for someone.

Beats wondering around for another hour. Sikko thinks before heading over to the men. He pulls out the flyer and sets it on the table, Silverstrike perched on his backpack.

“Are you the ones who made this flyer?”

Spoiler

I'm ready for this! @Artificer

 

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MARCEL "SNIPE" HADLEY

51 minutes ago, TheElementHunter said:

“Are you the ones who made this flyer?”

"Yes, yes we are," Marcel said. It only took a momentary glance to recognize his own penmanship. The battered, soaked, and torn flyer was indeed written by him as his family sigil was emblazoned in red wax on the letter crest.

The bottom floor of the inn was relatively quiet, bar catering breakfast to only one or two. Marcel had expected more people to be there at that time, but he guessed that everyone was probably too busy working to have a good drink. It was midday after all. Revelry of all sorts, famed in the Cold South, mainly happened at devil's hour in the deepest fold of night. Regardless, he was glad of the little townsfolk present. Less noise meant more space to discuss important matters for the journey which was about to begin.

Standing up to greet the man, he tugged the cloak even more tightly around himself, concealing the entirety of his right side. Underneath the faded blues of his cover was his thrice-bandaged shoulder. The thin strips of cloth were perfumed in lavender and fern to mask the slight odor of the dry blood which caked the skin beneath. If anyone asked, it was just a hunting accident. Nothing more, nothing less.

Thankfully, by the graces of Samuel, the silver tonic worked wonders at preserving his form as a human. He didn't even feel the slightest antagonism towards the fiery feline perched on the man's back. Holding out his hand, the ebony-haired, amber-eyed man towering over Sikko extended his greetings.

"My name is Marcel Hadley, but everyone calls me Snipe."

"Are you perhaps Isaac, or one of the other members? Not everyone has arrived yet, so you'll have to forgive me if I mistake your name."

@TheElementHunter

Edited by Artificer

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"My name is Marcel Hadley, but everyone calls me Snipe."

"Are you perhaps Isaac, or one of the other members? Not everyone has arrived yet, so you'll have to forgive me if I mistake your name."

Sikko shook his head, waving a chair over to him with a bit of air.

"No, my name is Sikkoran but you can can me Sikko," He sits. "It's your map that saved me and I just wanted to return the thanks by helping you with this quest. You know I-" He is interrupted by a high pitch snarl coming from his shoulder. He only has enough time to whip the ale from a nearby cup over Sillverstrike, interrupting her launch at the other man. She spits at the man but Sikko whips her up an fastens her tightly around his backpack with the brown ale-turned-ice. He raises an eyebrow at the other man for a brief moment before excusing himself. Rushing to the back he proceeds to scold Silverstrike until her ears hunch back into her skull. What was up with that man? Why did he have her all riled up?

Young man, I'm going to have to ask you to take your... pet outside. Policy."

The tavern keepers voice brings him out of his thoughts. A frown falls on his face, as he puts a hand over one of her paws.

"Not a pet." He proceeds to go back to Marcel, making sure to keep Silverstrike firmly in his arms. "Sorry about that, she gets a bit riled up with strangers." A shrug lifts his shoulders as he sits back down.

"So what are the details of this quest?"

@Artificer

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No. I am Isaac” a voice called out.

Descending the stairs to the bottom floor of the inn was a new arrival, unfamiliar to all. Discarding his thick cloak and looping it on an arm, everybody could see that man was dressed as a mercenary might’ve, with leatherwork and gambeson. There was a katana sheathed at his hip, and a staff wrapped in cloth on his back. His eyes were sharp like an eagle, slanted and carved as if by a chisel, and his jawline was equally sharp, all framed by dark hair.

His pupils were grey, his foreignness marked in more ways than one as he introduced himself with an accent.  “Isaac Emiya” he pointed at himself. “I am sorry for wait. Arrive last night, very cold. Very tired.” He added. He had slept in a little longer. The last time he traveled so far for a job, his employer actually paid for the trip so he was able to journey in some comfort. Not this time.

There was clearly going to be a language barrier here, but the marksman mercenary was as adept a hunter as any they’d get.

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MARCEL "SNIPE" HADLEY

Marcel frowned deeply. It seemed that felines no longer bode well with him, given his new affliction. It was a pity — he had always thought of himself as a cat person. Dogs were too energetic and boisterous for his tastes.

On 1/15/2019 at 3:57 PM, Fierach said:

“No. I am Isaac” a voice called out.

“I am sorry for wait. Arrive last night, very cold. Very tired.”

During the short period of time Sikkoran was restraining his pet, Marcel's attention was arrested by the arrival of another from the stairwell. While the man presented himself somewhat clumsily with an accent not of this region, his hawklike gray eyes and weathered hands that spoke volumes about his character. This man was a capable fighter.

"It's fine...," Hadley replied, somewhat detached as he examined the man from head to toe. Isaac was thin and somewhat wiry; however, the way he moved down the stairs was with grace, poise, elegance, and discipline. Marcel made a note to himself that while Genesaran was not this man's native tongue, the blade sheathed in ornate lacquer would sing death on the field of battle. Hadley knew a warrior when he saw one.

Then came a breezy chill which brushed the air like dusted snow. Did someone open the door?

On 1/15/2019 at 3:55 PM, TheElementHunter said:

"Sorry about that, she gets a bit riled up with strangers." A shrug lifts his shoulders as he sits back down.  "So what are the details of this quest?"

Marcel looked back to Sikko, and then at the door — still closed. He walked around the man whose hand he had shaken, and looked back towards the fierce ocelot. It's fur was wet with ale, and for a moment, what Hadley thought to be ice.

It hissed and shivered, but remained in place.

"We'll... be discussing the details later when everyone arrives. Then after, we'll be departing immediately."

"I'm sorry to be rude, but also- what did you do to your cat earlier?"

Marcel never did get a good look as it happened all too quickly.

The only two things that were clear was that the cat was soaked and was still agitated by him.

@Fierach @TheElementHunter

Edited by Artificer

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"We'll... be discussing the details later when everyone arrives. Then after, we'll be departing immediately."

Sikko nods, looking over at the newcomer. His presence didn't seem to bother Silverstrike, that was one less person he had to worry about keeping save from the death claws. Nothing about the mind stands out to him, in all actuality he seemed a bit cliche-ish. A good thing in Sikko's opinion, the more common place, the more predictable; he knew this one wasn't going to blow them all up in the middle of the night or something.

"I'm sorry to be rude, but also- what did you do to your cat earlier?"

Sikko laughs.

"Oh, Silverstrike hates any type of liquids," With a wave of his hands he picks up the water from a nearby basin and turns it to ice, shredding it into fine flakes. A light coat of ice floats from above, coating the group. "The magic in my bracelet allows me to... threaten her with a full blown bath at anytime." He looks down at the glaring ocelot sitting in his lap another smile cracking his features. he didn't know what was up with the man, but he would definently keep his wits about him when he was around; if Silverstrike didn't trust, he didn't either.

"If you don't mind me asking: Who are you?" He shifts a bit, biting his lip. "I mean, you don't have to get into anything personal if you don't want to, but if we're gonna be a team," And survive "We should know a little bit about each other." He waits, foot sending shaky rhythm up from the floor.

@Artificer

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