Chapter 2: Lost in History

[Gregorotto]

I remember the first time I set eyes upon Oppara. My family had come for Exaltation Day, the whole of us, when my father received his letter of recognition from Stavian II, the then-king of Taldor. He was a simple tailor who made some of the finest clothing in the north of the country, enough so that the military began to order his tailored uniforms for commissioned officers and began imitating his style for the rank-and-file.

And what a glorious day! He was exalted, becoming the first Baron Oldernast. It was then that the troubles began.

You see, it was not long before the military top brass invited my father to Zimar, to garnish the finery of the officers there while they commanded yet another war against Qadira. There were nights he could hear the fighting, hear the beasts the Qadiran military unleashed on our forces, hear the laughter of the commanders juxtaposed to the sound of screaming men and women dying in tents.

He took me on one such trip. Near the canyon of Tapesh, on the occasion of what would become the Third Battle of Tapesh. We were not the ones making the uniforms by then, father could afford to hire tailors and apprentices of the finest quality in the Inner Sea. The styles were changing but so were we, leading the charge in a tradition-prone nation that rejected change: we embraced the best of both worlds. It was on that trip that, based on bad orders, our carriage was set upon by Qadiran cataphracts, who took my father's head and the use of my left arm. It was also on that occasion I met my wife who saved my life.

Forty-three years later, I am here for another Exaltation Day. This Kalbio, of Breezy Creek: I saw him earlier tonight. A kind young man, a bumpkin by most standards. He reminds me of my father in every conceivable way. I think tonight will be magical for him.

After the vote, if the gods favor us and Eutropia, I think we will all have a magical time.
-Hieronymus Flark, 2nd Baron of Oldernast, in conversation an hour before his death at the hands of the Ulfen Guard, 4718 DR

Unknown,
Calistril 29th, 4718 AR
Somewhere, Oppara, Taldor

The light, at last fades.

Lorelei, Hrotha, Armen, and Greyrose find themselves in complete and utter darkness. Of the three, only Hrotha's eyes adjust to the darkness, revealing a room within. The adrenaline surges through all of them, energy and more: they were just there, in the Senate Chamber, helping get Martella Lotheed, Princess Eutropia, and others get to safety, breaking through the ranks of the Ulfen Guard: there were cries of reinforcements from both sides, but it was uncertain.

So where are they now?

Hrotha, alone, can see that: Faded wallpaper lines the walls of this thirty-five-foot-by-thirty-five-foot room, peeling up at the seams. Six beds line the western wall, each pristinely made but caked in a thick layer of dust. Eight closed wooden lockers line the northeastern corner of the room. Two doors exit the room: one to the north and one to the east. And in addition to Greyrose beside her, and Armen near the wooden lockers, there are two other souls among them she barely recognizes, and then only by sight from this very night.

The tall one is dark-clad and hooded, her face thin but her eyes having something to them. Taldane in style, she recalls having seen her near Lady Gloriana Morilla, the Pathfinder Society matron and friend of Eutropia. Is she a servitor? The shorter one, her ears obvious and her eyes a bright blue that fills the whole of the orbs, is shorter, clearly an elf, with red hair and robes that flow down her. She doesn't remember having seen her near anyone but the two women have something in common: both are wearing senatorial pins, showing a linnorm wrapping a unicorn in its coils. They must be senatorial aides, or at least pretending to be them, just like they are.

What she does not realize is, as they look around the room, they see as much as she does, at least at first. With the flash of the low light, Myrthe has enough time to take everything in before it fades, the magic leaving their senatorial aide badges. Iris, meanwhile, sees it all: just like Hrotha, she has the gift of darkvision, and see Hrotha looking at her as well. The elf quickly infers something akin to what Hrotha does: that the badge she found on the ground near that Ulfen fellow singing songs is just like the ones being worn by the other four in the room.

Hrotha's mind races to that particular point as well: there are four other people in this room... and none of them are Juvenal, Alexis, or Lorelei. Lorelei was just with them.

Where is she now?

Out of Character

Welcome to Chapter 2! And for some of you, welcome to War for the Crown!

I'm applying light filters to the map, which will be useful in how I display things in the long run but an irritating mess overall. If you lot want I can use Roll20 and invite you all to join in and handle things accordingly.

A few points of order:

Armen and Greyrose: Obviously you two will need to get a light source, as will Myrthe. Anything will do.

Myrthe: I'm giving you access to the image because your low-light vision would have shown you more than the other two. Now though, you need light.

Hrotha and Iris: You two have darkvision: Hrotha's is yellow-ish, Iris' is blue. Hopefully this will become clear in less confined spaces.

Iris and Myrthe: You two can repeat whatever you were doing in the Senate Chamber during the Ulfen Guard massacre: if you fought, if you hid, what you did, etc. I need you both to roll a Reflex save. If you beat a DC 13, you take no damage. If you fail, roll 1d6 and take that much slashing or piercing damage, roller's choice.

Everyone: Even though you leveled up, if you took damage in our short bit of combat, subtract that from your new HP total. No one's had a chance to heal.

Lorelei: What the hell?

As always, if you've got questions, let me know in Discord. Let's dance! Note: if you have not leveled up, don't post yet. If you're new you obviously can post because you came into this world at level 2.

 

Edited February 19 by Gregorotto (see edit history)

[Fletcher]

 Lady Myrthe

AC: 19 | Fort: +4 | Ref: +10 | Will: +8
HP: 22 / 22 | Hero Points: 0 / 3 | Perception: +8
ConditionsNone

---

The Ulfen Guard pressed in close and the Princess' defenders were beginning to separate and step on each other as they fought to keep their ground. Weapons could no longer maneuver and arcane gestures were interrupted by jostling shoulders and stray backswings. Lady Gloriana Morilla, as ever, was a feral force when cornered like this and her stalwart attendant was a blur of blade and blood. The cloaked elven woman shifts to close a gap that formed at Eutropia's flank, her fists striking out in two quick jabs. The 'schlick-schlick' of retractable blades punctuates each punch and her pale knuckles come away from an Ulfen's torso crimson, yet bladeless. "We cannot hold here," she states flatly, though whether it is to the Princess or her Lady, it is unclear. Plans seem to be shouted over the din somewhere behind her - Martella's people, it appeared. While they had played Little Lion Blades with the Senators, she had been protecting their leaders, their Princess.

Another push from the traitorous northmen drives a sudden wedge between herself and her sworn charge and Gloriana can see Myrthe's eyes widen slightly with that understated intensity her protector showed when under duress. The soldiers and their armor are suddenly too dense to simply punch through and return to the Lady and the Princess and she grabs impotently at a shield to dislodge the Ulfen from her path. "My lady, to me," she says, words more a demand than a panic. "My lady!" The elven woman stomps sharply on his foot with unladylike boots hidden beneath her dress, but even that is not enough to budge him with the other Guards at his back. He angrily retaliates with a sharp jab of a dagger he had pulled from his belt, trying to gut-shot her... but it strikes empty air.

"Glori-!"

---

Lady Morilla's name disappears into the magical tide of teleportation, only a soft exhale remaining to whisper into the cold, damp darkness. Myrthe squeezes her eyes shut a moment to counteract the sudden blindness of the abrupt light change and only gets a glimpse of the small room that she's been deposited in. All the faces she sees in the lingering glow are familiar from the Gala, the redheaded elf right beside her the least of them all: Hrotha and Greyrose she knows by reputation and Armentarius... The fell-handed elf makes eye contact with him last, her pale, bloody hands rising to pull the hood back from her features. He would recognize the barest, subtlest shift in her features as a genuine smile... and then the room goes black.

Her voice then comes quietly in the dark, aimed toward Iris. "Mae lovannen*," she greets the other elf with a bow of her head, though it is immediately clear that Myrthe is not fluent by ancestry or intuition, but rather by practice. She has lived exclusively among Men for a very long time. The sound of rustling follows as she readjusts her cloak to fall behind her back and keep her arms free. While the others work to bring light to the dark place, she murmurs, "Where have your Master's badges brought us to, then?" For those who can see, her expression is flat and difficult to read, but her inflection hints at irritation or worry.

"We must return to our Ladies - our Princess - with haste."

---

* - Well met, Greetings

Edited February 19 by Fletcher (see edit history)

[Kavonde]

---

Armen Lotheed | Human Bard/Cathartic Mage 2
HP 23/26 | AC 17 | Fort +5 | Ref +6 | Will +8 | Perception +8 | Hero Points 1
Focus Points 3/3 | Spell Slots (1st - 2/3) | Class DC 18

---

In the silence and darkness that follows their mysterious and unintended escape, Armen hums a few notes and gestures in the air with the bow of his violin. The bow begins to glow, radiating a soft, greyish light that illuminates the pitch-black chamber. He holds it up like a torch, surveying their new circumstances.

The cut on his shoulder stings. He hands the illuminated bow to Greyrose and pulls his cravat loose, dropping it to the floor, then unbuttons his jacket and slides it off his shoulders to get a better look at the wound. It's still trickling blood, but not a life-threatening amount. He pulls one of the small butter knives he collected to use as telekinetic ammunition and cuts away part of his shirt sleeve, ripping it further to create several makeshift bandages. He pockets all but one of them, then presses the last to his wound, wincing at the sharp pain the pressure causes.

"Was anyone else injured?" he asks, looking to his companions. A feeling of dread settles into his gut when he realizes that neither Lorelei, Juvenal, nor Alexis are with them. They must still be in the Senate, and at the mercy of those treacherous Ulfens. Then, for the first time, he notices that the three of them aren't alone.

He doesn't recognize one of the newcomers: an elven woman with bright red hair, clad in fine robes that seem to indicate that she's of the arcane persuasion. (Traditional wizard robes aren't the style among younger Taldan spellcasters like his brother, Bartleby, but some classics are known to all.) The other, the tall, slender figure clad all in black...

Oh, bloody Hells. It can't be. What cruel twist of fate is this?

The dark figure says something in Elven to the red-haired mage, and her familiar voice confirms Armen's suspicions. He picks up his jacket and shrugs it back on, then steps towards her. There's no point in delaying the inevitable. "Lady Myrthe," he says, his voice flat and heavy with resignation. "I thought I recognized you amidst the fighting. I... suppose I can assume you're not responsible for bringing us here." After all, she'd been studiously avoiding him for three years, so why stop now? He turns to the red-haired elven woman and bows politely. "Armentarius Lotheed. Would you, perhaps, be the spellcaster behind this, ah, what I assume to be a rescue attempt? Because, not to point out the obvious, but you missed at least one important target."

Edited February 19 by Kavonde (see edit history)

[BlackHat]

Greyrose takes the glowing bowstring, carefully, giving Armen an impressed look then turning his attention to the room around them. "I was fortunate enough to be overlooked," he responds, when his friend inquires about injuries. Greyrose is being modest, he actually did quite well against armed guards, considering he was without armor or weapons. Where did he learn to fight like that. It was strange, though: when he was searched on the way in, he did have a blade, but he hadn't reached for it in battle... or even attacked back, come to think of it.

"Indeed, perhaps someone else was overlooked, as well," Greyrose notes, gesturing with the bowstring to draw their attention to the western side of the room. "...six beds and five of us."

[Blue Firebird]

Iris Summerdew

HP 20/20 • Focus Points 1/1 • Hero Points 1

---

One moment, intense battle fills the hall with the clash and clamor of people killing one another. Her host, the Marquess Tanasha Starborne, eyes wide as betrayal rears its many heads like a devouring hydra, swallowing up the din in its fury.

Silence.

The steady thump of her heart.

Sound rushes back in like a tidal wave: screams, clanging metal, sizzling magic. Fireworks fill the air with glowing bursts of color. The Marquess turns her arcane wrath upon the traitors. Iris calmly points her staff at one Ulfen warrior rushing toward her with his sword. "Betrayal is a storm that consumes all." A crackling sphere like ball lightning flashes to life at the end of her staff. "Those who raise their swords highest call down its greatest wrath." The warrior springs at her with a shout. A surging wind about the electric sphere billows the Elf's robes and floats her hair.

Iris sends forth the arcane tempest. A flash. The treasonous warrior vanishes as lightning ionizes his form, armor and all. Thunder follows, deafening, crushing all sound in its terrible roar as white fills her vision. The tidal storm sweeps away thought and feeling for a long moment.

Then....

* * *

"Curious," the Elf murmurs. If she is shocked by the sudden transition, her tone suggests otherwise. Iris processes the events in an instant, flashes of sensation and sights blending into a cacophony of remembrance. As the familiar melts away into the new surroundings, she takes stock of her new situation. These people are strangers to her; perhaps one or two she saw at the Gala, but their names and faces are lost on the Elf. She realizes that it is dark, and that most of them cannot see once the light fades, but for the woman with Orcish blood. The other, in the hood, spoke in her native tongue. With a slight dip of her head, she responds in kind: "Le suilon."

To the others, she ponders their introductions and considers one of her own. That seems the most optimal course. "Irinesse Summerdew. You may call me 'Iris' if you so wish." She bows politely, if stiffly, as if recalling the gesture from a distant memory. "I am afraid that I lack the answers to your questions. This was not my magic." The questioning gentlemanly one raises a light in the room by which the others can see, sparing her the effort.

Ever a practical one, Iris walks to the northern door and presses her long ear to it.

---

OOC

If she hears nothing, she's going to open it up and go through!

[DoNotFearToTread]

 

Hrotha Vinmark

---

HP: 19/19 | AC: 15 (18 arm/20 shl) | Fort: +7  Ref: +6  Will: +6 | H-Points: 0 | Languages: Common, Orc, Celestial

---

Current Conditions: None

Active Abilities: None

 

I am the Bastion, I am the Wall, I Will not Falter!

"Push!!" It's a growl, deep and throaty, as she braces the serving tray with her shoulder and shoves against the press of bodies before her. A blade scrapes against the makeshift shield and the fingers she has around the edge vibrate with the impact, pain sparking in her shoulder. "Push through!" She can hear the voices on the other side, allied in purpose, and every molocule in her body strains to reach them. It's a task that demands focus, and in the final moments that focus is broken by the gleaming light of a glowing badge. Her own, but a glance back shows that the others are similarly afflicted. There isn't time to ponder what that means, darkness setting upon her in an instant.

But darkness is no stranger to Hrotha. She'd been given many things from her Orc ancestors that she'd quickly call a burden. The tinge of her skin, the stunted fangs protruding from her lower lip, that white-hot fire that burns in her chest when crossed. But the vision is not one of them. The vision is a blessing, one she'd used to slip out of her family villa and into assorted trouble often in her youth. The better to sneak out to drink with competitors in the wake of a competition, or to sneak back in after that drinking turned to other things. Her eyes adjust without struggle to the black and she slides her feet in opposite directions to widen her stance in anticipation of trouble. None approaches, but there is strangness and unfamiliarity to be seen. No Lorelei, that's her immediate take. The others are there, and alive, but no Lorelei. The half-orc's heart, still pounding from the conflict moments before, skips a beat as she sucks in deep breaths and forces thought through the adrenaline. She speaks, and she does her level best to keep her voice low and even. No sense in showing aggression if none is coming her way.

"Armen, Greyrose...we have company here." And they do. Two faces she does not recognize as friends. In the black and white world of her night vision she can see the others clear. The hooded figure provides few details but the recollection of seeing her near Gloriana puts Hrotha a bit more at ease. The other, though, holds her attention for a long moment. Her father's words find purchase in her memory, unkind ones about elves and their proclivities. Her father, she is sure, is a good man but not a kind one and he spares little when it comes to his opinions on 'knife ears'. It had, no doubt, been influential in her own lack of experience with them. No elven friends as a child, and few enough in the Kurgan competitions that dominated her teen years. There is heat in her face that matches the one in her chest, and while the later is cooling as the risk of further combat seems unlikely the former is hotter than ever. The woman is looking at her, can see her, and so they're looking at each other and Hrotha is deeply glad to know blushing isn't visible in the dark.

"They have badges..." She seems ready to say more but then the darkness is pushed away by Armen's magic and her role as narrator no longer seems necessary. In the glow, she is suddenly keenly aware of her state. The suit, spattered with food from upending the serving tray and blood from an unfortunate Ulfen that got in Lorelei's way, is torn in several places where the hems failed to hold up. Her hair has fallen from it's pinned pile atop her head to spill down over her shoulder, the close-shorn left side dotted with dark spots that could be either wine or blood. All in all, Hrotha is what her mother would call 'a hot mess' and she feels her shoulders shrink down as discomfort scratches at her mind.

Utterly embarrassing.

"Does anyone know where we are?" That question is at the forefront of her mind, followed by a hundred others, but catching sight of Armen's grimace puts them out of her focus. Stepping over, she reaches out to his shoulder but pauses a moment as she gives him a 'may I?' look. Pulling the sleeve aside, her eyes narrow as she studies the wound. She'd seen all kinds of injuries in both her athletic pursuits and her time in the guard, and while she wasn't academically studied in the whole injury thing she'd developed a rather keen insight into mending them. Pressing her palm to the back of his shoulder to brace it, she looks away long enough to address the elf at her introduction.

"Hrotha. Vinmark." A soft noise as she clears her throat and turns back to Armen, her eyes dipping in an almost uncomfortable fashion as she faces him again. Her smile is tight as she locks eyes with the musician and presses her other hand to the front of his shoulder, sandwiching the injury between them. "Deep breath." She moves her hand in small circles, pressing against the muscle around wound in a fairly rapid massage. First pressure, then heat, then it's done. Gone. A nice trick for fixing sprains or training injuries and one Kurgess seems happy to provide.

"All good?" She pulls her hands away and wipes them on her stomach, adding more color to the outfit as she steps back and tosses the serving platter onto one of the beds. Beds? Yes, beds. Lockers. A bolt hole? A secure escape room. She looks at Greyrose as the thoughts cascade. "Is this the chamber you were mentioning? The secret escape tunnel?"

OOC Details

I included the picture of Hrotha's party attire from the first thread cause I forgot what she was wearing and it is incredible.

Lay on Hands for Armen - 6 HP

 

Edited February 19 by DoNotFearToTread (see edit history)

[Fletcher]

 Lady Myrthe

AC: 19 | Fort: +4 | Ref: +10 | Will: +8
HP: 22 / 22 | Hero Points: 0 / 3 | Perception: +8
ConditionsNone

---

"You know that I am no weaver, Armentarius," Myrthe replies with a subtle amusement that does not match the tone which he uses to speak to her. When the tip of the bow illuminates the room, the dark-haired elf is pulling the long blackness back into a leather tie, baring similarly long ears to the redhead. A wrinkle finds her brow, though, looking up at the man. "You are hurt." A hand, still bloody with violence, raises as if there were aught it could do to ease his pain, but Hrotha is quicker to arrive and offer actual relief. The hand lingers a moment, outstretched, but then withdraws as the moment of caring has passed its opportunity. She recognizes the sting of his words, then - or perhaps more his tone - and reminds herself that it has, in fact, been a very long time. And it seems some things had been left... undone.

Later. That could be dealt with later.

"Your scholarly friend - the one with the acid-blade and the eyes - she must be here as well?" Myrthe had been close enough to see the resulting furor of Lorelei's turning, though it did not strike her as unusual at the time for she did not know the woman otherwise. And obviously this question has no answer. Instead of awaiting one, she follows the other elven woman as she strides purposefully to one of the doorways. "Lady Iris, please do not go alone," she says, glancing over a shoulder to see if the others are prepared to move forward. "Allow me to accompany you, at least." It perhaps becomes more clear to Iris that Myrthe is less a noble as she seems to have been addressed and is in fact an attendant.

"I am called Myrthe, my lady." Then she nods a 'I am with you' sort of gesture.

Edited February 19 by Fletcher (see edit history)

[BlackHat]

Greyrose finds his senses drawn to the fourth bed among the six arranged neatly in rows. As he moves closer, he touches the side of his head as though concentrating on something just at the edge of perception. Standing beside the bed, Greyrose closes his eyes briefly. His fingers gently graze the edge of the comforter, tracing the intricate patterns sewn into the fabric. He taps the comforter twice with the glowing violin-bow, right where he believed he had found the first clue. "Here," he looks back at the others, "there is something sewn into the blanket." His eyes flicked to someone's weapon and once again, he does not simply draw his own dagger from where it is buried in his satchel.

He then turns to Hrotha and answers her question, "I do not yet know. Perhaps, if we have time, I can attempt to commune with beings that do." Greyrose understood that the others might be in some hurry to try to escape and return to the Senate. Greyrose felt sure that any impact they might have on that battle had already been made.

[Kavonde]

---

Armen Lotheed | Human Bard/Cathartic Mage 2
HP 26/26 | AC 17 | Fort +5 | Ref +6 | Will +8 | Perception +8 | Hero Points 1
Focus Points 3/3 | Spell Slots (1st - 2/3) | Class DC 18

---

Armen's heart lurches into his throat as Myrthe reaches towards him. Emotions he thought buried years ago suddenly surge to the surface as he sees the concern in her eyes. All the hurt she caused him, all the misery he took and poured into his music, and... the good times, as well.

They had been the best times of his life.

Hrotha pulls him out of his paralysis with her ministrations. Armen sighs contentedly as she presses her warm hands to his wound. His eyebrows rise as he examines her work. Miraculous. "My thanks, Lady Hrotha," he says, touching her hand softly with his own.

He turns back to Myrthe, feeling ready now to address her... but she changes the subject to Lorelei's absence, and his moment of emotional clarity vanishes and that dread returns to him. "I... think she must have been left behind. Along with Juvenal, Alexis... Martella... the Princess." He shakes his head. "Damnation. What brought us here but not them? If that madman murders her, he and that horse-f***er Pythareus will have won."

Lady Iris' clear intention to explore their new environment with or without them surprises him. He turns to the others to find Greyrose slicing open one of the comforters. All well and good, but whatever's there is unlikely to be their means of escape. "Hrotha," he says, "does this place look a bit like a barracks to you? Perhaps we could find some better arms than this salad fork I pocketed and your half a serving tray. Unless Lady Myrthe wishes to share some of the dozen or so daggers she no doubt has strapped to her body."

Edited February 19 by Kavonde (see edit history)

[Blue Firebird]

7 hours ago, DoNotFearToTread said:

 

Hrotha Vinmark

---

HP: 19/19 | AC: 15 (18 arm/20 shl) | Fort: +7  Ref: +6  Will: +6 | H-Points: 0 | Languages: Common, Orc, Celestial

---

Current Conditions: None

Active Abilities: None

 

I am the Bastion, I am the Wall, I Will not Falter!

The other, though, holds her attention for a long moment. Her father's words find purchase in her memory, unkind ones about elves and their proclivities. Her father, she is sure, is a good man but not a kind one and he spares little when it comes to his opinions on 'knife ears'. It had, no doubt, been influential in her own lack of experience with them. No elven friends as a child, and few enough in the Kurgan competitions that dominated her teen years. There is heat in her face that matches the one in her chest, and while the latter is cooling as the risk of further combat seems unlikely the former is hotter than ever. The woman is looking at her, can see her, and so they're looking at each other and Hrotha is deeply glad to know blushing isn't visible in the dark.

"They have badges..." She seems ready to say more but then the darkness is pushed away by Armen's magic and her role as narrator no longer seems necessary. In the glow, she is suddenly keenly aware of her state. The suit, spattered with food from upending the serving tray and blood from an unfortunate Ulfen that got in Lorelei's way, is torn in several places where the hems failed to hold up. Her hair has fallen from it's pinned pile atop her head to spill down over her shoulder, the close-shorn left side dotted with dark spots that could be either wine or blood. All in all, Hrotha is what her mother would call 'a hot mess' and she feels her shoulders shrink down as discomfort scratches at her mind.

Utterly embarrassing.

...

"Hrotha. Vinmark." A soft noise as she clears her throat and turns back to Armen, her eyes dipping in an almost uncomfortable fashion as she faces him again. Her smile is tight as she locks eyes with the musician and presses her other hand to the front of his shoulder, sandwiching the injury between them. "Deep breath." She moves her hand in small circles, pressing against the muscle around wound in a fairly rapid massage. First pressure, then heat, then it's done. Gone. A nice trick for fixing sprains or training injuries and one Kurgess seems happy to provide.

Iris Summerdew

HP 20/20 • Focus Points 1/1 • Hero Points 1

---

Iris stares intently at the half-Orc woman, not in challenge but curiosity. Her part in the battle is evident in blood and grime, but as rough as she looks, Iris suspects her opponents fared worse still. There is a curious tenderness in the way Hrotha tends to Armen. "A healing touch?" she says softly. "Unusual, yet interesting."

"A blessing on you and yours," Iris says in Orcish, and bows lightly, surprising even herself.

---

6 hours ago, Fletcher said:

 Lady Myrthe

AC: 19 | Fort: +4 | Ref: +10 | Will: +8
HP: 22 / 22 | Hero Points: 0 / 3 | Perception: +8
ConditionsNone

---

Instead of awaiting one, she follows the other elven woman as she strides purposefully to one of the doorways. "Lady Iris, please do not go alone," she says, glancing over a shoulder to see if the others are prepared to move forward. "Allow me to accompany you, at least." It perhaps becomes more clear to Iris that Myrthe is less a noble as she seems to have been addressed and is in fact an attendant.

"I am called Myrthe, my lady." Then she nods a 'I am with you' sort of gesture.

Iris Summerdew

HP 20/20 • Focus Points 1/1 • Hero Points 1

---

Iris shrugs. "Myrthe? I suspect that is in short supply here." Did she make a joke or is that simply the way her mind works? The formality feels strange; Iris has never done anything to deserve noble entitlement. "So be it," she says, but whether it's her thinking aloud or answering Myrthe's question remains to be seen.

"Going out alone seems likely to end in death. It seems we are witness to a coup."

The Elf takes off her badge and turns it over in delicate hands. "All for this, strange chance though it is."

---

OOC

-

[Fletcher]

 Lady Myrthe

AC: 19 | Fort: +4 | Ref: +10 | Will: +8
HP: 22 / 22 | Hero Points: 0 / 3 | Perception: +8
ConditionsNone

---

"Many of the men in this land hold to longstanding traditions of a dominant patriarchy, my lady. Tightly enough to recoil from even the glimmer of equality with fratricide and violence." Myrthe looks over her shoulder at Armen and Greyrose, glad that not all are of such a mind. "One might say mirth has only just recently gone silent. But that is where I work most effectively." As if to accent this determined thought, she withdraws a hand from her belt with the soft ring of steel, holding three of the alluded blades between her fingers.

Myrthe steps away from the door long enough to hand the knives to Armentarius to be passed among the others. "This you do remember, then," she muses, fingers brushing against his in the exchange. "And that there are more, should your need arise." So rare is the sight of the pale elf with her ears visible and hair back that she could almost be mistaken for someone else entirely. The hoods and shawls have always been such a great part of her being. Myrthe glances to Hrotha and Greyrose, nodding that they are welcome to her blades before returning to Lady Iris.

"So fleeting are the years that humans squabble over, are they not? When they could simply just... choose peace."

Edited February 20 by Fletcher (see edit history)

[DoNotFearToTread]

 

Hrotha Vinmark

---

HP: 19/19 | AC: 15 (18 arm/20 shl) | Fort: +7  Ref: +6  Will: +6 | H-Points: 0 | Languages: Common, Orc, Celestial

---

Current Conditions: None

Active Abilities: None

 

A Quick Thinker, Not a Deep Thinker

"Under-stuffed beds and too-small lockers. Yeah, I'd say barracks. Long vacant from the dust." She looks between Armen and Myrthe as they banter and her eyebrow lifts at the underlying simmer. Reading social cues isn't really her area but anybody could sense that's something is going unspoken between the two. Greyrose's suggestion that one of the beds holds a secret draws her attention, but that is quickly lost to Iris as the elf dips into a linguistic oddity. She turns quickly in the woman's direction, eyes narrowed and shoulders tight in what can only be shock. The way one might react to being slapped, or inheriting a large sum of money.

"Magyarul beszélsz?"You speak Orcish? The inflection is on you when she asks it, and it takes her a moment to realize how that makes the question feel more accusatory than she'd intended. Like this woman was somehow undeserving of knowing the language. Speaking Orcish is not a thing people do in Taldor and less so if they don't carry the blood. Even in her own home, Hrotha's mother forbids the language for casual conversation, describing it as a gutter tongue. One time, when she was barely a teen, Hrotha had gathered courage enough to call her mother a self-hating hypocrite. She found out just how much of an orc Estrid Vinmark truly was that night, and she'd nursed bruises for weeks as a result. "Csak úgy értem...miért?"I just mean...why? The more she looks on the woman, the more difficult she finds it to do otherwise. The half-orc had often been called exotic as a wooing tactic but only now does she understand the draw of the uncommon. Weapons are bared and, being who she is, that alone is enough to pull her thoughts away. A tiny blade, but sharp from the look and likely the only thing between them and any dangers lurking outside.

"Any port in a storm, right?" The word play around the other woman's name is lost on Hrotha, which would be no surprise to anyone who knows her. The river run fast but shallow, her tutor once said, and her parents did not argue the point. She reaches out for a knife from Armen with a nod in Myrthe's direction but her thoughts are elsewhere. On blood, and screams, and Kalibo's stunned face as he fell. Her fingers tighten around the blade as she replays the moment in her mind, seeking a change that would have altered the outcome. She'd only known the man briefly but he'd seemed genuinely kind and now he would be a footnote in the story of this massacre. The Grand Prince's face is next in her head and her own features tighten as she paces between the beds and lockers, her breathing speeding up to match her steps. An hour ago she would never have entertained the thought of regicide but now it is all she can focus on.

OOC Details

I'm amused that Greg uses Hungarian for Orcish, as I vacationed in Budapest for my birthday years ago and managed to get somewhat conversational in the language over the week. Doing the translation brought a lot of that back to me.

 

Edited February 21 by DoNotFearToTread (see edit history)

[Blue Firebird]

 

Iris Summerdew

HP 20/20 • Focus Points 1/1 • Hero Points 1

---

 

10 hours ago, Fletcher said:

"Many of the men in this land hold to longstanding traditions of a dominant patriarchy, my lady. Tightly enough to recoil from even the glimmer of equality with fratricide and violence." Myrthe looks over her shoulder at Armen and Greyrose, glad that not all are of such a mind. "One might say mirth has only just recently gone silent. But that is where I work most effectively." As if to accent this determined thought, she withdraws a hand from her belt with the soft ring of steel, holding three of the alluded blades between her fingers.

Myrthe steps away from the door long enough to hand the knives to Armentarius to be passed among the others. "This you do remember, then," she muses, fingers brushing against his in the exchange. "And that there are more, should your need arise." So rare is the sight of the pale elf with her ears visible and hair back that she could almost be mistaken for someone else entirely. The hoods and shawls have always been such a great part of her being. Myrthe glances to Hrotha and Greyrose, nodding that they are welcome to her blades before returning to Lady Iris.

"So fleeting are the years that humans squabble over, are they not? When they could simply just... choose peace."

"I see. How disappointing, although not unexpected. I have traveled in many human lands where this is so."

Iris notes the girl's elven tongue, and her grace, and makes a note to remember. It seems Lady Myrthe has history with this group, and perhaps that is normal. There is an awkwardness to these interactions that even Iris can feel. No matter. The swiftness with which she draws her blades denotes a skilled hand. She may be good with traps and other deft-handed pursuits.

"Fleeting, perhaps, but the cycle remains unchanged. Years pass them by quickly; faster still at the end of a blade."

35 minutes ago, DoNotFearToTread said:

 

 

A Quick Thinker, Not a Deep Thinker

Greyrose's suggestion that one of the bed holds a secret draws her attention, but that is quickly lost to Iris as the elf dips into a linguistic oddity. She turns quickly in the woman's direction, eyes narrowed and shoulders tights in what can only be shock. The way one might react to being slapped, or inheriting a large sum of money.

"Magyarul beszélsz?"You speak Orcish? The inflection is on you when she asks it, and it takes her a moment to realize how that makes the question feel more accusatory than she'd intended. Like this woman was somehow undeserving of knowing the language. Speaking Orcish is not a thing people do in Taldor and less so if they don't carry the blood. Even in her own home, Hrotha's mother forbids the language for casual conversation, describing it as a gutter tongue. One time, when she was barely a teen, Hrotha had gathered courage enough to call her mother a self-hating hypocrite. She found just how much Orc Estrid Vinmark truly was that night, and she'd nursed bruises for weeks as a result. "Csak úgy értem...miért?"I just mean...why? The more she looks on the woman, the more difficult she finds it to do otherwise. The half-orc had often been called exotic as a wooing tactic but only now does she understand the draw of the uncommon. Weapons are bared and, being who she is, that alone is enough to pull her thoughts away. A tiny blade, but sharp from the look and likely the only thing between them and any dangers lurking outside.

"I speak Orcish, yes." Iris turns and leans back against the door, spreading her slender arms across it. She tilts her head curiously toward Hrotha. "I thought a familiar tongue would lighten your anxiety. Does it not?" Watching Hrotha pace, Iris rummages around in her pack and produces a small wedge of magically-preserved cheese. "Our lives do not appear to be in immediate danger. Will food help? This cheese is quite good, I'm told." She offers some to the half-Orc woman.

[Kavonde]

---

Armen Lotheed | Human Bard/Cathartic Mage 2
HP 26/26 | AC 17 | Fort +5 | Ref +6 | Will +8 | Perception +8 | Hero Points 1
Focus Points 3/3 | Spell Slots (1st - 2/3) | Class DC 18

---

Armen feels a little electric tingle as Myrthe's fingers brush against his. He looks into her eyes, and for a moment, the last three years of cold indifference and deliberate avoidance disappear. He remembers well that mischievous glimmer in her eyes, that subtle teasing in her low, smooth voice. She had been so intriguing, so enticing, and the fact that she'd shown any interest at all in him, this lonely, awkward, gangly musician who seemed to repel everyone around him with his morose attitude and gloomy outlook, had been so unexpected and exciting. The taboo nature of it--him a noble Lotheed and her an elven servant--had only added to the thrill.

They'd each insisted it was merely a casual arrangement. For Armen, that had been a lie borne of uncertainty and a fear of having his feelings rejected. For her, it had clearly been the truth.

The memory of that first time seeing her after months absent any contact only for her to greet him coolly and then coldly turn away brings a wave of resentment and hurt washing over him. He looks away from Myrthe and turns to Hrotha and Greyrose, distributing her offered blades.

"I'll search the lockers," he offers, striding over to them a little too quickly to hide his sudden desire to put distance between himself and Myrthe.

[DoNotFearToTread]

 

Hrotha Vinmark

---

HP: 19/19 | AC: 15 (18 arm/20 shl) | Fort: +7  Ref: +6  Will: +6 | H-Points: 0 | Languages: Common, Orc, Celestial

---

Current Conditions: None

Active Abilities: None

 

The Power of a Quick Snack

"Egyszerűen váratlan."It's just unexpected. Glancing between the elves as they exchange words in an unfamiliar tongue, Hrotha becomes keenly aware of how uncomfortable it can be to have a conversation occur around you and not understand a word of it. She shifts quickly out of the Orcish she'd been using as she addresses Iris further, stepping aside to let Armen pass her toward the lockers. "Nobody really speaks it in Taldor. Do elves usually learn the orc tongue?" Maybe they do. They live like...forever. Maybe it is stupid to ask, and her neck warms against the rise of potential embarrassment at having asked the question in the first place. Iris' offer of the cheese sidetracks those concerns instantly.

"Oooh!" Hrotha accepts the offered cheese, flipping the knife in her other hand and paring off several slices with it before handing back the remaining wedge. She offers slices to each of the others before perching on the edge of one of the beds and chewing carefully on the slices that remain in her possession. Of course she is hungry. She's pretty much always hungry, given her active lifestyle and orcish metabolism, and while her mother has cautioned her to not indulge her urges in public settings this feels like a pretty big exception. If they're all facing death in some mysterious, teleporting nowhere place she may as well do it on a full stomach.

"We all saw the badges, right? I mean, they glow and then we're here? But do all the badges do that or is this Martella's work?" She has little chance of working out the complexities of magical transposition and she's well aware of that fact. Posing the question to the others is more a way of keeping the topic alive than actually hoping for an answer. Wherever here is doesn't seem to be a place people have made use of for a long time, so it feels unlikely Martella would have done this purposefully. Still, until minutes ago she wouldn't have believed anyone could try to kill the entire senate so what is and isn't likely feels pretty loose now. Swallowing the last of the snack, she sighs a contented breath and smiles the first genuine smile she can remember. Pushing herself back to her feet, she straightens out the hemline of her shirt and nods to Iris.

"Iris, right? You have a kindness to you. I am less anxious now, and grateful." Stepping toward the door, she pauses to watch Armen busy himself at the lockers. Likely empty, but maybe they'd fall upon a stroke of uncommon luck and find them brimming with supplies. She looks back to Greyrose then, to see if his search uncovered something of interest. They would need to press forward, and she'd be ready when they chose to do so, but for now it feels nice to simply breathe.

OOC Details

N/A

 

Edited February 21 by DoNotFearToTread (see edit history)