Redemption: The Preludes (IC post)

[Civit]

 

 

 

Aly Treltor

---

 

"You are the expert. If we can't take them, we come back later to deal with the dead." Aly was thankful Oslan was here. Had it been up to her she would have blundered in.

"The wagon I was headed for is still good? It's on the edge and we can still escape?"

[Varen Tai]

As if in silent answer to her question, another 20 figures in squad formation rounded the corner. They didn't head straight for the invisible fugitives, but took their time searching the caravan while watching closely around them. Their more relaxed poses showed they weren't expecting any more trouble.

Of the ten wagons of the caravan, only four were burning, and it looked as though they were only put to the torch once they were thoroughly searched. Now that they were closer, they could see that a veritable army had been sent - at least 40 or 50 dark assailants could be seen clearly standing or wandering in the night in addition to the squad sent after them earlier, with who knows how many more they couldn't see. Luckily, both the chef wagon, where Aly had kept her equipment, and the guard wagon, where Oslan's compatriots had slept and kept their gear, were next to each other and dark - neither had been searched or burned yet.

Also in their favor, there was enough noise around the camp that their movements, as long as they didn't get too loud, would be masked, and the hard packed road wasn't leaving footprints.

The chef wagon was only the third wagon from where they stood at the end, so they had a chance to find their things and perhaps even search for survivors, though Oslan could tell by a quick count that nearly all, if not all, the guards were down, but he couldn't be sure if one or two had gotten away or not. Similarly, though they couldn't see for certain, it looked as though all the merchants and staff and similarly been slaughtered. If there were survivors, they might be hard to find.

Edited January 12 by Varen Tai (see edit history)

[Civit]

 

 

 

Aly Treltor

---

 

This many? After her? She had never done anything to warrant this. All the dead, Aly fought back the urge to cry. But the task at hand took priority. Whispering in Oslan's ear, "Grab our gear and go?"

[Harding]

Oslan's voice, barely above a whisper, responded, "Indeed. And help the survivors if we can find some, but..." he trailed off, his tone carrying a nuanced blend of resignation and sorrow. "I think it would be very unlikely that there are any."

The tender quality in his voice, a stark departure from the gruff exterior Aly had grown accustomed to, hinted at the emotional toll of the unfolding tragedy. Oslan, though not intimately acquainted with his fellow travelers, recognized the inherent goodness in them. It was sad for him that such good people ended their life, their story, to the hands to those savages.

Taking a moment to take a deep breath and regain his composure, Oslan asserted himself with a newfound determination. "Let's go to the chef wagon first—it's the closest one. I presume your belongings are there, correct? Then, we can retrieve mine from the guard wagon. I'll take the lead. Just wait three seconds and follow. If things escalate, and we're forced to fight, our priority is to neutralize immediate threats and retreat. Pay close attention to my instructions."

Before his first step, he paused for a beat. "By the way, before we go" he added, his tone shifting to one of strategic consideration, "may you tell me what other kinds of magic tricks you can you use? Knowing your full capacity might enable me to better direct you in the midst of a chaotic situation."

 

[Civit]

 

 

 

Aly Treltor

---

 

"If you can get as many as you can in one area, I can hypnotize them. That is my largest spell. The rest are more supportive magics."

"You've seen my swords, I've had training in an old style. My ancestor was the last grandmaster of it. It's effective only.... only I've never used it on a person outside of sparring " There was both hesitancy and resolve in her statement. Although the resolve was a little weak. she hoped it wouldn't come to that. And if it did, adrenaline would override doubt.

Edited January 13 by Civit (see edit history)

[Varen Tai]

Agreed on a course of action, they crept as quietly as they could, still invisible, around the remaining searchers. While Aly rummaged quietly in the chefs wagon, trying hard to resist the urge to shove every single herb in the small wagon including the ones supplied by the caravan, Oslan kept watch. He kept to the side of the wagon so as not to accidentally trip a passerby, but as he listened quietly, he heard talk about how the worthless merchant that tipped them off about the girl being here ended up getting killed because she wasn't here after all. "Lady F won't be happy," one of them murmured quietly to another one as they passed by.

Aly finally got what she could from the kitchen, including her own beloved cooking set wrapped carefully in cloth so it wouldn't clank, and bound them all to her body so that the invisibility spell extended to cover it. She slunk out of the wagon and they crept as quietly as they could to the guard wagon, where she stood watch while Oslan, who had less to grab, retrieved his own gear. She found herself shivering, less from the chill of the night and more from the stress. They were an instant away from death, or worse, at any moment and they both knew it. One wrong step, one unlucky turn...

As they quietly consulted on where to go next, a small commotion at the center wagon caught their attention: a dark figure landed on the ground and they heard him say, "We searched the road and the grove where the merchant said she would be, and nothing. There were some signs that someone had been there, she wasn't there and hadn't been there for hours, if it was her there at all."

"What do you recommend?" asked the female voice coming from the wrapped figure he was reporting to.

"Either she is here at the wagons by somehow slipping by us at the beginning, or she was never here and the merchant lied to us, or she was there at the grove and never came back this way." He shrugged. "If it's one of the last two, then we have larger problems, but on the chance that she's here... well, let's get all our spellcasters casting Detect Invisible, True Sight, or whatever other detection spells they have, and then we comb the area with all our troops. We might get lucky."

The woman put her hand on his shoulder. "There is a reason I trust you, Althmet. You are never afraid to give me bad news, which means I can also trust your good news when it comes. You have done well. Act on your plan, and we will decide what to do from there."

The mage bowed, turned, and began yelling orders to all the gathered troops. The search was getting ready to begin, and Aly and Oslan were right in the middle of it. The only open path, which could close at any second, lay northwest, right past where the woman stood imperiously, but alone, while Althmet gave orders 20 paces away. It was now or never.

Edited January 13 by Varen Tai (see edit history)

[Civit]

 

 

 

Aly Treltor

---

 

Aly didn't wait for a signal from Oslan. True Sight was a spell cast by well seasoned wizards, those well above her skills. She only hoped Oslan saw the same opening. Why had she even risked this much? She could not grab her pack, her lute case and the bag with the instruments she purchased in Zhakara, a shame. But she needed her hands free.

She moved as quickly as she could without alerting anyone and still make it out of range of the detect spells.

[Harding]

In an instant, Oslan grasped the ominous nature of the incoming spells. Without a moment's hesitation, he intended to propose to Aly that they make a swift escape toward the Northwest path. However, before he could voice the suggestion, the woman, discerning the imminent threat, fled in that precise direction. Oslan, recognizing the wisdom in her choice, wasted no time in giving explicit directions, instead swiftly following her steps. His heart pounded rhythmically, echoing like a Uthgardt war drum beneath a crimson moonlit night.

Though urgency propelled him forward, Oslan spared a fleeting moment to turn his head, etching the faces of Althmet and his enigmatic mistress into his memory. A muttered curse escaped his lips as he distanced himself from the unfolding scene, frustration and resentment simmering beneath the surface.

[Varen Tai]

And so they ran, as quickly as they could while also making as little noise as possible. Freedom was seconds away when the woman, hearing a rustle from the fleeing pair, suddenly turned towards them, eyes narrowed. “Althmet!” she called loudly. “I need your detection spells there!” And she pointed right at them.

That is when, for some reason, I stepped in to meddle.

I summoned three rabbits from a few miles away and dropped them into a bush right next to the fugitives before Althmet could even turn towards her. These rabbits, scared to death due to the sudden change of scenery and noise level, immediately scattered in different directions, startling the woman, Aly, and Oslan. 

Fortunately, the pair held their tongues and began moving quickly away, while the woman called back out, “Never mind, Althmet. False alarm. Keep searching.”

Within a few minutes, they were safely away enough to begin to sprint in earnest, hoping to not trip and make noise until they were further away.

And I, still watching them, was stunned at my intervention. Why did I act? I put a lot of risk on myself by meddling like this – I was invisible to all the others, as they were to me, until I acted. Though the rabbits seemed like pure fortune, a coincidence, to the two people I saved, I had put myself in jeopardy by doing something. I felt an immediate attack from two of the others and I quickly drew from my Power to defend myself, but it was too little, too late. I was blasted from the scene back to my stronghold, unconscious, feverish, and nearly dead. All this happened well beyond the senses of any there – they would never know the battle that raged in another plane, the battle that begun because of them.

I woke up a week later, the devotion of some of my own servants well versed in arcane and divine lore finally freeing me of the enchanted torment laid upon me by my enemies. It took me another week before I was strong enough to check in personally on the bard and warrior that I had saved. My servants that I sent to check on them for me assured me they were still safe, though running as quickly as they could from the scene and avoiding nearby towns.

And the question burning in my mind while I was recuperating was, Why did I act? I have seen countless atrocities and done nothing. What was different this time? As I look back, I can see that these questions that cause my mind to toss back and forth with no good answers to them had occurred to me only a month prior to this experience, in the middle of the night while I lay, wide awake, staring at the ceiling. In that month, my confidence in my quest for power had been undermined, and when I was faced with the suffering of innocents, I acted.

I still quested for power - I had not turned into a holy man by any means. But these questions began to haunt me more and more. Were my actions dictated to me by my circumstances? I had changed, but was that change due to my own choices, or did I change because my internal environment had changed? I had become obsessed with finding the answer to this question. Every sage, every priest, every book had a different answer, but none of them satisfied me. All the answers I heard were based in dogma or opinion, and none of them pierced the fog that had fallen upon my mind.

Time usually passes quickly for those of us with lifespans much longer than that of a normal human, but those seven days were the longest of my long life. I read every book I could while awake, and the faces of the bard and warrior haunted my dreams.

I did not know who I was anymore. All the power I had became meaningless because it could not answer these questions. Did I act because some larger power imposed upon me? Did I act because I had chosen to do so, unfettered of any outside influence? Or something in-between?

What’s more, none of the other Watchers knew why I did what I did. By saving the beleaguered pair, I had placed them in greater danger from the others. I resolved to keep an eye on them, to try and protect them from the peril I had placed them in. But this decision only served to deepen my confusion. Why should I care what happened to them? Should I not cut my losses and let them go? What is it to me if they survive or perish? If Fate touched them, they would fulfill their destinies with or without me. The others and I had survived for a long time by not placing ourselves directly in the path of each other. We worked through agents and circumstances. If I continued to intervene, it would jeopardize all my plans. But all these plans seemed like dust to me, because without the answers to my questions, what did it all matter anyway?

When I checked in with them, I was surprisingly pleased to see that after two weeks, they were still together, though still trekking through the wilderness. Some sort of odd friendship had sprung up between them, a comfortable interaction even when they were silent. I watched them when I could, but they seemed to be in no danger, at least not yet. At that point, I was still blind to the storm that was gathering, a storm that I was as much responsible for as they were.

END OF PART ONE

Edited January 14 by Varen Tai (see edit history)

[Nighteyes5678]

PART ONE: EPILOGUE

 

 

Given enough time, mountains became boulders which became stones which became sand which became dust.

An eternity saw everything noble and good and beautiful turn to dust. Once, there was a great and noble enclave of dragons who toiled together to make something so grand and beautiful that it would drive weaker minds to madness as they could not comprehend the splendor that they beheld. They did so, and it was rumored that one of the early gods looked upon it and broke.

The dragons?

Dust.

Their work, that great thing of myth and legend?

Dust.

Gadianton had seen it all crumble and break. There was beauty in the making, yes. Even a simple child could raise a hand and smear paint on a canvas, creating art. There was beauty, too, in the way that painting faded, cracked, or burned to ash.

A long road had brought him to the City of Ruin. He was not the first to seek this place, and it was not empty when he came at last upon it. Those who were here first raised their eyes first to behold him, then their hands to oppose him. Their blood boiled, their eyes burst, their ligaments turned to sand.

It had been glorious.

They, too, were dust. Joined together at last in the final indignity that awaited all who claimed physical form and were too weak to oppose entropy. The path Gadianton strode made him greater than these things, made him eternal in a way that even those great dragons of old couldn’t begin to comprehend. 

He, himself, was his greatest creation.

Some would be lonely to be so removed from the little joys that others soiled themselves with.

Gadianton endured.

And closed his eyes, letting the outer ones dim as the greater one opened within. Sand surrounded him, swirling and pouring in a great chasm. The sensation of sound roared within him as the small particles buffeted him, seeking to sweep him away.

Gadianton stood firm. 

His laugh, dry and cracked, made the sand shudder and blow across the great plains. In turn, the sand caught flame and burned, became stars, became the vast reaches of the spiritual dimensions and realms that lived both within and without.

Gadianton dreamed.

What he dreamed, not even he knew entirely for he split himself once, twice, thirteen, and forty-two times. Each of him became sand and traveled, touching and landing and breaking, accomplishing great tasks and weaving tapestries of plans that would become his greatest work of all, even greater than himself.

With his single mind, not even he could hold all of what he knew and did within himself.

Gadianton swarmed.

A single chime, its sound pure and crystal clear, reached all of the pieces of him. The vibrations carried out, gathering him, pulling him together. Shards of memory were stored within crystals that vibrated with the chime, stored for later, kept safe and holy. In a great rush, all of him became one.

Gadianton woke.

Opened his eyes.

This City of Ruin, this place he called home and sanctum, was not empty. The great chamber where his Throne, his place of power, sat was formed of black hewn stone laced with crimson veins. The ceilings were high and arched, colors of ancient mosaics that told of histories forgotten and blasphemed still gleamed in the light that emanated from his throne. There were no doors to this place, no way of entry, yet before him stood another who, when she felt the weight of Gadianton’s gaze, bowed deeply at the waist.

She was beautiful in the way of the lesser beings, dressed in robes of rich shimmering fabrics of purple and gold. The cut of them made to hint at her figure without displaying it, her feet bare save for crystal sandals and her thick golden hair adored by a crown. The only sigil of her rank that she dared wear in his presence. And, as she was a good servant, one who knew a small piece of the great work he strove towards, he allowed her to wear it and continue to keep from turning to dust and floating away on the desert wind that often came through this place.

“Rise and speak,” he commanded with a voice as dry and inevitable as the sand that surrounded his vast domain. To his ear, his voice sounded weaker than it ought, but still his senses returned to him. How long he had been delving was uncertain; it could be moments, days, weeks, or longer still. Before his creation, he might have felt strain from muscles not meant to stay seated on this cold throne for so long. Or sores might have developed in his skin, chafed and rubbed by even the cloud-soft robe he wore. His eyes might protest being closed for so long, or further indignities of the flesh might make themselves known.

All this was forever beneath him now. Instead, Gadianton cast a command internally for a census to be done, then forgot it entirely. Others within would carry about the good work of perpetuating his splendor so he could focus on this servant before him.

She obeyed as she knew she must. A command given by one greater than a god could not be ignored, not without unending consequences.

“As you have foretold, thus the world turns, Great One,” she said, hands clasped before her. With her head raised, Gadianton could appreciate her beauty in the way one might take note of a flower at the height of its bloom just before it began to wilt and rot. Clear blue eyes complimented the healthy glow of her white skin kissed by the sun just so. Her nose, straight and proud. Her jawline and chin both strong and unafraid of time’s demands. All of her radiated health unending just as he had granted her.

Her voice was her crowning glory. If the halls of the bards could hear her speak or sing, they would tear their own tongues from their mouths in despair of ever being able to match her. She was ever truthful, for even as Gadianton had granted her a great many terrible gifts, he had also taken a price: the ability to speak any word that was false.

“You have the child in hand. She travels to the barren reaches with the chosen?” Even as he spoke, Gadianton could taste a hint of the immediate future. A buzzing within made him pause, attend to the smaller self with its whispered wisdom. Gifting himself knowledge he already possessed.

In all of creation, was there anyone left who could give him a gift?

The woman fell silent as he raised a hand, his mouth drawing to a frown. “Fate stirs and the Watchers gather like vultures before a greater creature’s kill. One is struck most dear, yet the One’s face is hidden from even me. Show me.”

Bidden, the woman fell to her knees and raised her hands upward. Her mind opened to him like a flower, all that she was and yet might be revealed.

Uninteresting.

Gadianton reached forth with his power and drew her memory from her, cast it into the air above so he might better study it in all its nuances.

Wagons burned, bright torches in the sky, choking the sun above with smoke and ash until it turned the same color that watered the soaked grass and muck. Mortals churned, grasping weapons in closed fists, their eyes open yet unable to see the truth before them. How dreadful that Gadianton must endure their service when he longed to be done with those unfit to even know his name. Long ago, before his creation, he once walked among them and the stain of that memory was put again in a tarnished crystal and flung into the further reaches of his vast storehouse.

The Child was there, fear in her eyes as she could no doubt hear the hunting cry echoing from her blood. With her was another mortal, himself unremarkable in every conceivable way save for the bright swarm of Fate clung to them both. They churned with it, sparks and embers that told a tale for any wise enough to speak their tongue.

Among the Watchers, Gadianton alone could do so. Once, there had been another that could before Gadianton tore him apart and feasted greedily upon the knowledge he spilled. 

So Gadianton alone knew that while he had woven his own tapestry of majestic lore and tales, another had begun to sing an entirely different song. Its notes discordant with his own. The harmony and resonance would build until the crescendo would turn all to dust.

It was without surprise that he then beheld a Watcher reach out and alter what ought to have been. Believing that his hand moved on its own will, unmoved by another, master of self in such a laughably childish way.

The hand, a crystalline memory all of its own, banished until called.

Other Watchers gathered. They were all predictable in their own way. Dwelling in darkness, drawn to the faintest hint of the light they craved. Called by Fate, and they counted themselves wise that they danced on puppet strings.

They drew power. Struck at the one who dared to meddle.

The wounds, grievous. Unlikely to be fatal, though they would be costly to one wise enough to see opportunity where shadows gathered.

Unaware, the Child and man fled with their lives, walking the path destined for them.

Just as the memory began, so it fell to dust in the stillness of the City of Ruin where Gadianton dwelled. Piles of such dust had formed over the years, blown and moved by winds that carried the scent of flowers and decay. These, too, would travel beyond this place until they became something less.

The woman lowered her hands and stood on legs that refused to tremble. The experience had drained her, made her face pale and lines appear at the corners of her eyes. Dust clung to her robes, soiling and marking her with the glory of this moment.

All this she strove to conceal, and Gadianton blessed her for it.

“That Watcher. I know him,” she said, hands clasped again before her though her knuckles now turned white at the effort. “He is-”

A great and terrible buzz filled Gadianton’s mind, blocking out her words until her lips ceased moving. As it faded, he felt disquieted though that feeling also dimmed until it troubled him no longer.

“You will command your minions to pull away so their clumsiness troubles the pair no longer,” Gadianton said, ignoring what she might have said in favor for what must be.

Surprise widened her eyes and she dared what few might; she asked a question. “After all the effort and blood spilled out, you would have us withdraw? Great One, it is not for me to understand, yet I beg your favor. Please, what changed?”

There were those whose tendons would have snapped, whose skin would have sloughed off their bones, whose souls would be shredded by howling winds of teeth for merely questioning him. Yet previously sought and paid for experience taught him that not all questions were death, and not all curiosity ought to be cut down. Some-not many, the number so preciously small-ought to be rewarded for their desperation to please him that they dared risk exposing themselves as needing further clarification.

This woman before him was one such rare servant and so Gadianton graced her with a smile and her life.

“When speaking, another might interrupt you with a louder voice. A temptation follows to raise your voice, to match might and overwhelm and overcome. An indignity, for even after the victory all that results is mere noise.”

The woman was wise enough to accept his answer, and though he could see she did not understand it, he also saw that she would study his words as truly sacred until she glimpsed the start of his wisdom. This was why she was favored.

“As you say, Great One, it will become.” She bowed again, low. Expecting to be released.

Instead, Gadianton raised a hand and drew shadows up with it. The light in the room flared as crystals inlaid in the chamber ignited, burning with purpose and desire. The shadows fled from the light save for the woman’s own, which turned darker than the purest ink or the night sky when all the stars finally died. 

She gasped and stepped back.

Her shadow did not. Instead, it turned and bowed to Gadianton, acknowledging the only truth of this place.

“Take this gift and use it to observe. It will allow you to see as true as you speak. Be faithful and take care in the songs you choose to sing. A hymn easily becomes a dirge.” Releasing his power, Gadianton bound the Shadow to the woman again and he sank back into his Throne. The lights flickered, then faded away. Only a muted promise of the glory that was, is, and will be again.

“Your favor is all I seek, and fear of you is the beginning of wisdom, Great One,” she said, then she reached out and her Shadow took her by the hand. Power flared and they both were gone, leaving Gadianton again alone in his sanctum.

Then, and only then, did he release the breath he had been holding. He summoned himself and must attend, for only a fool refused to listen to a voice greater than his own.

And who was greater than Gadianton?

He closed his eyes and went before himself to proclaim what had been revealed. 

If a song, though beautiful and true, went entirely unheard, was it truly a song or merely a song that became verses that became chords that became notes that became sound that became vibrating dust on the desert wind?

There was much to be done.

Edited January 14 by Varen Tai (see edit history)

[Varen Tai]

PART TWO

As I said before, these were the seed of the storm. Others gathered around, others just as important to the coming conflict. The next pair I call the Twins, and they joined forces only a few weeks after the bard and warrior found their friendship.

The soldier had fought in the War of the Earthmotes, named from the large geodes that fell from the sky, splitting open and leaving valuable resources available for the finding. Dubbed residuum by the locals, I was familiar with the substance and knew it by a different name, and also knew it was far more valuable than they understood. It even proved critical to the end of this story, but I am getting ahead of myself again.

She had come from a family that had, at first, been looked down upon by other citizens of the kingdom, yet as they began to prove themselves, they became more and more valued. They gained a reputation for collecting dangerous magic items and substances, so they were particularly invested in the war with the neighboring city-states that also greatly desired the substance.

Loyal, almost to a fault, honest, and structured, she had struggled with several of her closest relationships, both in terms of friction and also in loss. Ironically, she was so sure of herself that she had become lost in that surety. It is difficult to see the world in a different way when you are confident you have the world figured out. 

I think in this way, we were kindred spirits. For over a thousand years, I have been so sure of myself, so confident that I knew where I needed to go and what to do there that I stopped questioning my reasons for going there. Much of this... much of the storm that followed was my fault. Because...

 I... I’m not ready to talk about this yet.

Ironic, isn’t it? I have more power than most mortals could even dream about, but I am afraid to talk about my own failings. I have been so godsdamned focused on my own goals, my own purposes that I cannot even be honest about my struggles, as if a millenia would be enough time to erase my weaknesses and follies. Bah, the advantages of immortality are a sham and a lie. Don’t let anyone tell you differently.

The rogue was angry. Well, she was less angry than she had been when the Thieves' Guild double crossed her and her family because she had found a mentor willing to rehabilitate her. Despite her criminal leanings (the fault of her mother to a degree), she had enough of her father to be willing to walk a better path. 

Basil Dillworthy represented that better path. He had been guiding her to let go of her need to make the Guild pay for what they had done, and she had wrestled enough with herself to begin to work her way out of that mindset. That being said, where the soldier was structured and self-disciplined, the rogue was chaos. Not quite chaos incarnate, but she might as well be compared to the soldier. They both lacked a certain subtlety, though the rogue had more of it than her Twin. 

They met because the soldier had been sent on a mission by her commanding officer, Major Ferranti. It was not the normal kind of mission she was used to, though - she normally got sent on retrieval missions for dangerous artifacts and the like, but this was simply, “Deliver this letter to my friend Basil Dillworthy in Heldapan over in Durpar, and then follow his instructions as if they were mine. You don’t need to leave right away, but head out tomorrow as soon as morning comes.” He had leaned in at this point, and said simply, “I trust you, which is why I am sending you and not someone else. Also,” he had added, tapping on his desk with his fingers, “you may want to plan on this being a longer trip than simply going there and back here.”

He wouldn’t answer any other questions about the mission, only that she was not being discharged from the army, her family would be sent her pay in her absence, and he had confidence in her.

So she set off and arrived in Heldapan around 2 weeks later. It didn’t take long to find the address listed on the letter, B122 Bakir Avenue, and after she had delivered the letter to Basil, a distinguished looking harengon (she had never seen one before), he asked her to return in 2 hours time, and he would take it from there.

She wandered a bit, but came back at exactly 2 hours to find Basil waiting for her. He ushered her into a study where she saw a svirfneblin girl sitting at the far wall, which was a bit of a shock since she was, herself, a gnome. Basil gestured towards a chair, and when she sat, he paced and said with gravity to the both of them,”Thank you for coming. We, or I should say those that I trust and interact with on a regular basis, have need for you. Major Ferranti and I were each requested to send the Right Person-” they could easily hear the capital letters in how he pronounced it “-to meet another mutual... friend of ours elsewhere for Important Business. And so each of you are here, right now, at this place. Take a few minutes to get to know each other, and then I will let you know what will happen next.” He gestured to the both of them and took a seat in another chair behind a small desk.

Invisible to all of them were the sparks of Fate that flared to life around each of the girls as Basil sat down.

Edited January 14 by Varen Tai (see edit history)

[PixCO]

 

 

 

 

Yopine Quietclock

---

Yopine's head was bobbing almost imperceptibly as the hare spoke. She was Counting the Capital Letters as he pronounced each one of them. There was a pattern she'd noticed in regards to how he used them. Too many meant that he was just going into one of his lectures and there wasn't much to worry about. No capital letters at all, at least during a Business Meeting, meant something was about to go very, very bad for someone very soon.

By the current count, she gauged the matter to be serious enough to warrant care without an immediate threat of death. She was able to relax a little with that. While she'd seen Dillworthy hand out life-and-death-critical missions to others, the threat of such responsibility still only swayed gently over her head without falling harshly into her lap.

The Deep Gnome hopped from her chair with youthful enthusiasm. She seemed the type to dislike sitting even under the most relaxed of conditions. With work to be done, it had been difficult just to wait patiently for the other to arrive.

"Aye, Yopine 'Right Person' Quietclock. That's me." she extended her diminutive hand in greeting.

She'd dressed for Work. A soft grey cloak with an electric blue fringe was draped over her shoulders. Underneath was studded leather armor that was freshly cleaned and well maintained. A pair of throwing knives could be seen strapped to the wrist being used to welcome her new partner. More could be seen tucked away in various convenient locations. A larger knife, big enough to qualify as a short sword, was secured at her waist.

Yopine wanted to ask The Question. It was a pretty standard deal working for the Harengon, and the same went for many of his affiliates. You messed up somewhere in your life, big time, but luckily you get to work off your debts and come out the other side a stronger person. It was better than either prison or the grave. She had no complaints about that. But every time she met someone who seemed to be working the same job, she always had the same question.

So what did you do...

But of course that would just be rude. Manners did matter, and Yopine was learning to mind hers. A tremor of false bravado behind her words indicated she was still getting used to the idea. After all, she wouldn't mind if asked that same question. The Svirf knew her mistakes and owned them. Maybe she was a better person standing here today than she'd been back then, that would be up to her mid-terms to decide. Being ashamed to the point of paralysis over the past helped nobody, however. If nothing else, she could at least talk about it all now without getting blood in her eyes.

[Rumrunner]

Rillik d'Sivis

---

The gnome soldier girl had to respect Durpar, despite the having little government and few taxes it still ran efficiently. Most all of her homeland's trade came from this nation and no small part of that from Heldapan itself, yet she'd not had the opportunity to visit. When she arrived at the designated address at attention and was greeted by the rabbitman. Silver eyes blinked slowly, but she did her best not to otherwise show her astonishment, instead focusing on the granted two hours leave, for that was truly a blessing. Raising a hand to her oversized green-grey slouched beret, she made note of the height of the sun and gave a straight faced nod to the Haringon, then promptly did and about turn and marched straight to the market, her long silvered curls bouncing as she did her best not to break into run.

Dark maroon lips curled into a grin of anticipation as she spied between the many long striding legs, the multitude of market stalls that grew to meet her. In short order she found herself at a stall of dyes, then another of scrivener supplies, then tomes all, the Tomes! No.. not buying not yet... just browsing for another time when coin and calmness aligned to make more rational decisions. Then time did the scumbag thing it does when one is enjoying themselves, it vanished. The sun had dipped notably and she did a calculation, less than six minutes and it would be two hours. Bustling back between, under and around people, she dashed back to B122 Bakir Ave.

She made it back with some time, so took a moment to use a trick she'd learned on tour, casting a cantrip on her beret to cool it down and sooth her as she gathered her breath, and went to knock. The door opened before she had the chance and she was ushered in and to a seat. She was uncomfortable from the start. The deep gnome across from her made her back stiffen, on one hand, it was a gnome, on the other hand, it was the underdark gnome with pale grey skin and often morals to match. The commanding officer at this post considered them the Right Person though, so she would trust it, though having to sit while he paced was not helping.

Her neck pulled back at the sudden movement and jutting hand of the oddly friendly svirfneblin, and Rillik found her own diminutive though tattooed hand fit too perfectly in Yopine's. For a moment she was dumbfounded, deciding that the intelligence on deep gnomes was not serving her here she nodded and gripped the purple haired girl's hand more firmly.

"Rillik d'Sivis, first ser.. I guess rank doesn't apply here does it? Rillik d'Sivis, Right Person." She said with a grin looking the Svirf up and down, making a note of various concealed weaponry and leather armor, and her mind made the leap: Covert operative. They must be competent to be a Right Person. Her own gear was less... stabby. Her large beret held the silver insignia of rank, from which her silver locks spun out of in long thick spirals. Her too large eyes also matched that precious metal, they seemed all the larger from her a button nose, rosy lightly freckled cheeks, and deep maroon lips. A guess she either been very fortunate or may have had some color added to her accentuate her features. A brushed metal choker and matching decorated necklace with embedded azure stones adorned her neck, above a low cut purple leather tunic, and sturdy leather skirts. At her hip there was a hefty tome, with a slender sheath that looked to contain some sort of elaborate pen. Opposite that a belt knife and crossbow that seemed somewhat too alongside her small stature. She wore no armor but had bronze decorative pauldrons, and metal bands to hold up her sheer silk bracers. The skin on her arms was fully tattooed even over her hands... one of which was still awkwardly holding Yopine's. Turning it over, she looked for scars and felt for callouses.

"Assassin?" She asked point blank.

 

 

 

[PixCO]

Yopine Quietclock

---

"In another life, yeh. I would've been." she admitted freely. Her voice relaxed audibly as the ice had apparently been broken. It contained elements of various races, cultures, and nationalities all at their most imaginative when attempting to pronounce Common. There was a gutter patois barely being held by the chains of education straining to emerge.

There were scars on her hands, but from flames rather than blades. Her past sins apparently did not include RECEIVING harm.

"Our man Dillworthy here tends to collect hard cases like me if he thinks we can be turned around..."

At this point Basil interrupted, briefly, to correct Yopine. He 'collected' cases, as she put it, when it seemed he possessed the means to aid them in their rehabilitation. There were others who could take over if the Hare found himself ill-equipped.

Yopine elected to ignore the interruption, though not without a mild wince, and continued with Rillik. "See, this is the part where I'd argue 'semantics', at which point he'd assign me extra legal research so that I'd learn the value of semantics. So frankly I'd rather say nothing at all now and hope he only assigns me extra wind sprints for impertinence."

It couldn't help but be noticed that she'd actually said all of this aloud, and while pitching her voice ineffectively low, the Harengon's very large ears twitched with each syllable. It seemed to be either typical behavior between the two, or there would be some severe consequences once 'the garrison was closed' as they say.

There was also the distinct fact that Yopine still held the other Gnome's hand and was examining the tattoos closely. A wonderful tradition. It helped identify so many operatives that she was trying to compile a linguistic study with conditional modifiers based on psychological profiles. Dillworthy claimed that it'd been tried before, but he encouraged the effort regardless. There is far more to learn in failure than in success, he would always say.

The military attire was too obvious to be noted. She was a soldier, and apparently not a disgraced one. At least not yet if the uniform was real. The mannerism certainly were... oof... and she supposed that 'Major Ferranti' should have been a dead giveaway. So, fine, she still had a lot to learn. A glance at her mentor showed that he noticed her making that realization. Whether he considered that to be cause for remedial studies or a sign or emotional growth would come later.

What she really wanted to know about were the tattoos, now. Rillik's criminal record was probably all spelled out for her.

"So far being fair and all. You asking about my job means I get to ask you about the tattoos, yeah?"

[Rumrunner]

Rillik d'Sivis

---

Taking in each bit of information she filed it away. A rehabilitated deep gnome, that explained the inconsistency with what she knew of the race. She wondered if the burns were a part of the rehabilitation, but that wasn't in the formula for speaking with new people. Start with work, then you can speak of home, then family... traumatic events is way down the line. The banter between the two was amusing, it reminded her of soldier talk, there's a level of trust that justifies that teasing. If their mission was going to be a success she'd need to trust this girl. Rillik raised an eyebrow and the question then replied deadpan.

"In another life maybe..." Waiting a moment for a reaction, she cracked a smile. "I learned the trade from my father, some mean more than others, but most of them are arcane and imbued with power. These three lines of fire for example..." She pointed out three lines of swirling red, orange, and yellow, that followed the bones on the back of her hand and up her fingers. For a moment she considered the burn marks on Yopine's hand and how well they fit."...they can release scorching rays. Depending on what our mission calls for, I can give you temporary ones that will give you the ability to use my magic." A grin sprawled across her face then, a twist of the lips and twinkle in her eye that was mischievous and characteristically gnomish.