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AC: 14  | HP: 38/38 | Initiative: +4 | Passive Perception: 11 (Darkvision 120ft) | HD: 4/4 | Inspiration 0/1 

Alban had thought Lady Ittiah and Donato would be the harder of the two to convince, certainly they were the more valuable. However clearly the offer of revenge against the creature that slew their Captain was ample motivation. The mayor was surprisingly recalcitrant, needing Alban to employ the full variety of means at his disposal - both what he had learned himself and what Cordelia had taught. Perhaps the Mayor saw the truth of the matter beneath their veneer of hope, that each of them had been scraped raw by what they had witnessed and were holding on with broken fingernails alone as dark forces swirled beneath the little town, their fear bleeding through in the sincerity of their pleas. He did not blame the townsfolk for the desperate hope that their tales of devils and armies were lies, they needed that. Otherwise rather than muster they would perhaps be fleeing with their families into the woods. A vain attempt to outrun the wrath of a god. Certainly Cordelia had, he heard, and truthfully he had considered the same whilst clad in his invisibility earlier. Though he had not wanted to suffocate alone in those tunnels.

When the Priestess presented the letter he carefully signed his name in exquisite flowing penmanship - years of practice hiding the tremble of his hand. He rolled the bone coloured parchment and carefully dripped a glob of dark red sealing wax, imprinting the Stuart family crest with tarnished gold ring, trying to to see imagery of death in every motion. "Any and all aid is welcome, to stem this tide," he offered gravely. "Your offer is welcome," he thanked her a moment later as they all carefully stepped around the truth that they may be penning their last words, "but there are none I would wish to inform." My father would just be disappointed if I resurfaced, or perhaps he would rush to declare me lost and pass his estate on, he thought bitterly, certainly there would be no period of mourning as Vincent's.

Eventually there was nothing left to do but join the crowd lingering around the graveyard. The men-at-arms game him a sliver of hope at least. As the ground cracked, he flinched, wondering why he was still there.

At his companions words, he breaks his silence gratefully. "They will spend their lives as is their duty, that the soldiers may strike down the army," he reframes the assassins words in flowered language, hiding the ugly truth with practised ease. "A noble soul would stand behind them, and ensure their spirit does not break, nor their sacrifice wasted," he paused a moment, considering what the three of them at least had been through. How much to share. "At least, a noble would. I'm not sure if I've ever come across a noble soul."

"Perhaps now his true face is shown Dalin, his charms will have less power," he reassured the dwarf, unconvinced by his own words. They had all seen the unearthly beauty those features still held. "If not, we trust in our pact of blood. If that fails, I shall try my best to see your wishes carried out. Is there perhaps a scene that would lure you over all others? The manner matters not, as long as you can describe it sufficiently."

He turned to address Ren, keeping half an eye on the rising smoke still. Knowing what was to come. "As for the amulet, Priestess, I cannot say. The mage was vague and my questions of its power have only grown since. Perhaps if I laid hands on it I could tell you. Perhaps not. Were it not for Jozelle's display in the cavern, I would have started to doubt if Vadim King could even be slain."

His heart beat once, twice, driving sluggish blood through his veins, heavy with condensed power. Behind his eyes, shadows danced. His mind drifted back to quiet pine forests, dark blood soaking into needle carpets, and the price of power. How many more would he - could he - sacrifice upon that altar?