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The Four Holds are segregated by resources, fear, and power.
These mythic realms offer tales of heroes, revolutionaries, secrets, and sacrifice.
Horrific uncertainty has begun to plant the seeds of anarchy. A plague stretches over and consumes the starving people like wildfire. Even royals have fallen by its touch.
This world is your home.
From where do you hail?
(consider carefully and return here if unsure.)
[["...The Lush West Hold."]]
[["...The Frozen North Hold."]]
[["...The Autumnal East Hold."]]
[["...The Fiery South Hold."]]The West Hold, land of great Unicorn.
Comprised of marshy swamplands and dense forests of pine and palmetto, the West Hold’s rich fragrant land is decorated with beautiful gem-like flowers which, enticing but poisonous, mirror the culture of the West. Ruled by an apprehensive puppet Prince-Regent after the disappearance of his royal parents, the West is a place of intrigue, deceit, and enigma.
[["I am a lover and confidant to Nyseis, the Prince Regent."]]
Or
[["I am an assassin and spy employed by Councilor Reileus."]]
[["This doesn't sound like me."->You, of The Four Holds]]The frozen North Hold is the land of Hippocamp, with cities beneath the ice sheets and a vast class divide. Food is scarce in the north and The Bearing Shrines, holy places crafted to produce food for the Hold, have been greatly depleted. In response to the deadly shortages, The Prince and Lord-Commander of The Grimms, Horatio Aquilo has assembled his military might and begins a march to invade The West Hold in hopes of a treaty but in preparation for war. He has placed the rest of his royal family under house-arrest at The North’s inverted castle-capitol: Bleak Spire, with regional governance in the hands of each respective city’s Thayn.
“I am [[Robert Bianc]], a Grimm and sole heir to Richard Bianc, Thayn of Rime Hall. Although the Prince and Lord-Commander of the Grimms, Horatio Aquilo, has ordered all Grimms of the North Hold to muster, I have an exemption: The Thayns and their city councilors are to stay in their respective jurisdictions. Although honor bound to serve, a well-kept secret is that my family is no fan of the present state of the Northern Crown. The Bianc clan is a distant ancestral relation to Divine-Born Queen Isobella.”
“I am [[Jane]], a starving commoner native to Alberich, the North Hold’s subterranean treasury city. I have neither home nor family and rely on the ancient under-vaults in the cemetery district to shield me from the deadly cold. I grow tired of hunger and watching my friends die while half of the population exist in lavish leisure.”
[["This doesn't sound like me."->You, of The Four Holds]]
The fiery South Hold is home to ancient metallurgic artisans, skilled in the mystic and ancient forging of Serpentronum, an ore found exclusively in the southern reach. The volcanic lands of ash and stone have, over eons, etched deep canyons within which the eight great houses and their townships have been carved. The South is also home to two Pyrois Temples, two royal guard fortifications that station the Red Spines, and the capitol: Tephra Keep.
Presently, the Jubilee of Flame is underway at Tephra Keep. The bulk of the hold, although uneasy at the onset of sudden uncertainty, is at the capitol in attendance. The recent regional events of the past few days include the murder of a House Head by another House Head at the Congress of the Houses, mounting general malnutrition of the people by a lizard-heavy diet, and the spreading woe of sickness that seems to be more than an affliction of the body.
Times are terrible, and the Queen’s desire to hold the festival to celebrate an adoption and a marriage, is clearly a measure made to heal. Most of the people are packed tightly within the festival grounds of Tephra Keep.
You are not most people. You are:
"[[I am Idris I’Na’if]], nephew of the illustrious Nusair I’Na’if, House Head ruler of the black sand stone-cut city of Na’if in the central-east of the South Hold. I am also the newly appointed Pyre Emissary on a mission to the East Hold and not very enthusiastic about it."
Or
"I am a Shrine Maiden from the temple of Blood Stone. I did not journey to the capitol of Tephra Keep to participate in the Jubilee of Flame like so many of my holy brothers and sisters. I prefer solitude and serenity and would have found the hustle and bustle of the festival unnerving. I am preparing the temple for the scheduled arrival of The Wanderers. [[I am Noga]]."
[["This doesn't sound like me."->You, of The Four Holds]]“I am [[Trelvie, The Wanderer]]. Asleep and in love in the West Hold.”A Lady of the West, you're slightly older than the Prince Regent and have been one of his intimate companions for some time. While waiting at the central courtyard of the capitol, The Sepal, it occurs to you that the usual time that Prince Nyseis normally visits had come and gone. Ever since his parents, the King and Queen went missing, you’ve been concerned that the Prince isn’t as well loved by his people as he seems. Trouble could be afoot. He is usually so punctual.
You
[[Stay and wait. Surely there’s a reasonable explanation for his delay.]]
Or
[[Retire to your chambers]]. If he’s been detained, the reason must be severe.
The West Hold is a land of vibrancy and intrigue. Millions of shades of leafy green are punctuated by the bursts of prismatic foliage in berries and flowers. In the central West, near-to the sea is a great ancient tree from which the Capitol, The Sepal is carved and encased.
Within the tree palace are many keeps and paths, some specifically designed to disorientate the visitor to the point of madness or death. You don’t live within the The Sepal, however, you live beneath it, in the fearful district known as The Root.
You are an assassin. And there, in a dank grotto pub among thieves, smugglers, and other killers, you’re trying to enjoy a drink of sunberry wine when suddenly The Patron Royal of the assassins enters.
It is Reileus, Purpureus Councilor and cousin to the Prince Regent. He seems to be searching for someone in particular. He hasn’t yet seen you. You’re not fond of Reileus, and feel that his abuse of power with the Assassins has cost many dear to you their lives. He has been known to expect, and somehow achieve, the death of assassins after the completion of missions. You suspect he may have had your sister killed.
Simultaneously, Faye, the old woman that pours the drinks behind the bar signals to you. She seems keen to speak with you.
From your secluded and shadowed table in the corner, you:
Wave down Reileus. He’s obviously [[looking for an assassin]] and you’ll hear the reason why.
Or
Risk walking directly through Reileus’ path of travel and snake your way over to the bar to see what [[Faye has to say]].
Or
[[Sit still]], say nothing, do nothing.
You decide to stay and wait a while longer; the spring air is sweet and the night is clear. After the matter of a few moments, the song of the nightingales quiet, owls, and crickets hush. A silhouette appears near a hedgerow. He draws nearer with a cough. You know your own people well enough to know that Westerners are notorious for their enigma and danger.
You quickly
[[Acknowledge the silhouette with an evening greeting.]]
Or
[[Do your best to feign ignorance at the approach while deciding that on second thought, retiring to your room would actually be the better choice.]]
The whole of the evening seemed so bizarre. Prince Regent Nyseis has never failed to meet when arranged, so something severe must have detained him. To add to that mystery, there have been the near-constant sounds of sprints and scuffles in The Dew Keep where you and most of the Prince’s other royal lovers reside. Perhaps he chose to spend his evening with someone else. With a head full of questions and no clear path to any answers, you resolve to just pour another glass of wine, reach for a pillow book and tuck into bed. Blissfully unaware, you fall asleep and enjoy a soft heavy rest.
Your name is [[Lady Alundra]] and you have survived the night.
“Hello, esteemed Lady,” he smiles. He seems familiar and you’re certain that he’s a resident of the West Hold capitol. “You’re a consort of the Prince Regent’s, yes? Why do you linger here, alone? Don’t you know that the Prince presently sits in a [[war council]]? I thought that rumor had spread as quickly as the word of him agreeing to take a [[spouse]] and the crown.The shadowy man seemed to have had something to talk with you about. Just after you decide to quickly [[quit the courtyard]], you notice him indicating to a second individual, slightly in the distance, under an awning and obscured by shadow. It was as if indicating that you were who they were looking for.“War council?,” you asked having not heard a thing about it before that moment.
“Oh, yes. Lady! Turmoil is laying roots! With General Lysander Barro having escorted The Wanderers to the South Hold, it seems that the North Hold may be moving into our lands! I’ve heard that a few of the North’s [[Grimms]] have been spotted nearto The Peat Wastes! And then, to think of the [[sickness]] that spreads even now!” he coughs and shakes his head.
He is clearly relieved to discuss the topic of possible royal spouse. It’s almost as if he had sought you out for little else.
“I’ve heard that The Purpureus Council, those most trusted advisors to the Prince Regent, have persuaded his young majesty to not only ascend to the lofty rank of King of Unicorn, but also to choose a spouse suited to the office. You being of your station must have some insight? Are you to be our next Queen?”
The jasmine scented breeze shifts slightly. You catch a whiff of muddy notes on the air.
You measure your response:
“I am the [[only real choice]] in the matter.”
Or
“This is the [[first I’ve heard]] of this.”
Or
“I am not entirely sure but do know that I have [[no interest]] in being Queen.”
"Awful terrors of the ice-lands! The North Hold’s royal guard, they come in the dead of night cloaked in black and shadow. I would almost rather face the [[sickness]] than a single Grimm. I think they may be invading our lands! Northern scouts haven’t crossed the border in hundreds of years!
Wouldn’t you rather discuss whether or not the Prince Regent is looking to find a [[spouse]] ? That seems far more pleasant a topic."
“The sickness is everywhere. Our own King and Queen, with a full hunting party, lost to us because of the sickness. The Western army, The Satyrs, report seeing the infected roaming the swamps in search of living beings to rip to bits and consume, oh, horrible!
I would rather discuss something less disturbing. Is this the next royal [[spouse]] that stands before me?”
You muse while dragging a lock of your honey kissed hair through your golden fingers, “if the Prince is looking to wed, why shouldn’t it be me? I have given the royal Prince years of my attention and patience. I am clever enough for the crown!”
“It does take quite the trickster’s mind to fill the Unicorn crown,” he agrees while stepping to the side and sliding a look past you in assumed reverence. “A trickster’s ambition, too! And if war is at our doorstep, the new Queen may well become a window.”
“I have that ambition and know the sacrifice in marrying a Divine Blood!” you declare while offering your hand to the man, “I thank you for this talk, sir. You have given me much to think on.”
And with that, you [[quit the courtyard]].
“This truly is the first that I’ve heard of any of this. The Prince has seemed resolute in his lack of desire to lead the West, sir. I have to concur with his majesty. The role is a heavy one. I have no interest in being Queen to an unhappy King.”
“No interest?” He asks in shock. “Is it not the dream of all of the West to one day be one with the royal family of the Horn God? You’re certain that you have no aspirations for the crown?”
You contemplate.
He notices your keen attention and presses further, “With the possibility of war on the horizon, don’t you think it best that our soon-to-be King have a strong and steady Queen at his side? What if, Unicorn forgive me, but what if he falls in battle? Shouldn’t the Widow Queen be the image of exceptional character? One that embodies the one true Trickster God, Unicorn?”
After a moment’s thought, you strongly state:
“Sir, I stand firm in my words: I will not seek the crown. Thank you for your words.” [[Retire to your chambers]].
Or
You muse while dragging a lock of your honey kissed hair through your golden fingers, “Your words ring true, sir. If the Prince is looking to wed, why shouldn’t it be me? I have given the royal Prince years of my attention and patience. I am clever enough for the crown! I have that ambition and know the sacrifice in marrying a Divine Blood!” you declare while offering your hand to the man, “I thank you for this talk, sir. You have given me much to think on.”
And with that, you [[quit the courtyard]].
“No interest?” He asks in shock. “Is it not the dream of all of the West to one day be one with the royal family of the Horn God? You’re certain that you have no aspirations for the crown?”
You laugh and remark,
“None. I am happy as I am. Thank you for the chat, kind Sir.” [[Retire to your chambers]].
Or
“On second thought, you make good points. I think ‘Queen’ would [[suit me nicely]].”
The whole of the evening seemed so bizarre. Prince Regent Nyseis has never failed to meet when arranged, so something severe must have detained him. To add to that mystery, there have been the near-constant sounds of sprints and scuffles in The Dew Keep where you and most of the Prince’s other royal lovers reside. Perhaps he chose to spend his evening with someone else?
How could he do such a thing?!
You
Resolve to get to the bottom of all the unusual noise in The Dew Keep and see for yourself if Prince Nyseis has [[given your time to another]]. You step out of the chambers and into the corridor.
Or
Pour another dram of wine and [[go to the window]] to take in the evening air in seething anger.
Congratulations, sweet Lady Alundra. The path of your future is set under the Unicorn’s Crown.
The fates anxiously dream of the Queen you’ll become. There is much work to do and the times are turning tumultuous.
For now, this is the [[end]] of your chapter.
Sleep well.
“On second thought,” you muse while dragging a lock of your honey kissed hair through your golden fingers, “why shouldn’t it be me? I have given the royal Prince years of my attention and patience. I am clever enough for the crown!”
“It does take quite the trickster’s mind to fill the Unicorn crown,” he agrees while stepping to the side and sliding a look past you in assumed reverence. “A trickster’s ambition, too! And if war is at our doorstep, the new Queen may well become a window.”
“I have that ambition and know the sacrifice in marrying a Divine Blood!” you declare while offering your hand to the man, “I thank you for this talk, sir. You have given me much to think on.”
And with that, you [[quit the courtyard]].
With hungry anger, your frenzy has been piqued. The man spoke true, YOU ought to be the Queen. The Prince should clearly see that YOU are the only clear choice.
Yet, if he, like the flippant foolish man that he is from time-to-time, has given his attention to another … well, that just won’t do! You’re having him stolen from you!
You storm through the door and into the corridor.
An assassin draped in the earthy mud-toned brown of the West surprises you just as the door flies open by your own hand! You have no doubt: this was the man that hid, obscured by shadow in the courtyard. He followed you.
His eyes are striking. One is mohogany, one a shade of pure ice.
You spied past his lithe frame and witness that you weren’t the only victim of his attention. The bodies of a few of the Prince’s lovers are lifelessly strewn in the corridor.
A small blade slips into your throat.
You slump in death. This is your [[end]].
With the small crystal wineglass in your hand, you approach the window and peer out over the twinkling firefly lights of the West Hold’s capitol, The Sepal. While lingering on the fantasy of royal ascension, an unseen visitor approaches. It is the man who listened from the shadows.
With no warning, you are plummeting, having been shoved from the window of your chamber. Many branches of The Sepal Great Tree suffer your impact.
By the time your crumpled body hits the earth of the West Hold, you have perished.
Sadly, that is your [[end]].
Thank you for playing E.M. Knowles’ Eight Souls, the interactive novel experience that bridges the events of the first two books of The Four Holds novel quartet.
Explore the world and backstory to the game events in Book 1, The Yawning Veil.
Follow along the paths of the characters in Book 2 of The Four Holds series, due out late 2016/ early 2017.
Thank you for being part of the story.
Find E.M. Knowles on the web, Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, & Instagram.The East Hold is a mountainous land drenched in the autumnal hues of orange, crimson, gold, and cider. The many streams and creeks of the East cut through the land of constantly falling leaves while rushing down the coastal mountains. Fish and game are plentiful; the Eastern people are skilled bow hunters. You are no exception.
High on the cliffs, the elevated GoldCloud Castle looms over her like-named city and has recently been the scene of a royal funeral. The general populace, including you, awaits word of the conclusion to the ritual of the Princess’ sky funeral.
But who are you?
"I am a [[fur merchant]] permitted a table for selling at the Howling Hare Inn near to the towns of Plum Pond and Twelve Quail, at the base of The Climb: the winding mountain path that leads to the Capitol, GoldCloud City."
"I am an Eastern soldier, [[a Magpie]] stationed near-to the Veil and the border to the South Hold in the Eastern Keep known as Dirge."
[["This doesn't sound like me."->You, of The Four Holds]]After making eye contact, you indicate to Lord Reileus with a nod and wave him over. He is trying to hide his stature and worth under a forest green cloak and hood, but it is unlikely anyone in there thinks him to be anyone but who he is.
“Assassin?” he greets you with your occupational title as if it were your name.
“Councilor,” you acknowledge while nodding to an empty seat at your table. You are hesitant to ask his business in clearly seeking out assistance.
He studies your face for some time. A barmaid sets a crystal goblet of wine before him without word. He doesn’t pay; it isn’t surprising. He’s the type to have all things offered to him out of fear or prestige. He interrupts the sigh you didn’t mean to exhale with an observation, “One mahogany eye, one as ice blue as a Northern heart. You are [[Kiot]] , are you not?”
Kiot is your name and your bi-colored eyes added to your wicked reputation for efficiently gives away your identity. Your shadowy deeds are known as a tale of legend. Some doubt that you even exist. You’re unsure if you want to give the Councilor the satisfaction of your name.
So, while taking a sip of the sunberry wine, you:
[[nod]] “That is my name, yes.”
Or
[[lie]] “That’s just the story of a phantom that thieves tell their children to get them to behave.”
You quit your seat and start to move toward the bar, but the Purpureus Councilor interrupts your movement.
You and Faye make brief eye contact. The old woman nods in acknowledgment. What she has to say can wait.
Councilor Reileus seems a little put off by having to seek out you when surely you saw him first.
After making eye contact, you indicate to Lord Reileus with a nod. He is trying to hide his stature and worth under a forest green cloak and hood, but it is unlikely anyone in there thinks him to be anyone but who he is.
“Assassin?” he greets you with your occupational title as if it were your name.
“Councilor,” you acknowledge while nodding to an empty seat at the table while reclaiming your seat. You are hesitant to ask his business in clearly seeking out assistance.
He studies your face for some time. A barmaid sets a crystal goblet of wine before him without word. He doesn’t pay; it isn’t surprising. He’s the type to have all things offered to him out of fear or prestige. He interrupts the sigh you didn’t mean to exhale with an observation, “One mahogany eye, one as ice blue as a Northern heart. You are [[Kiot]] , are you not?”
Kiot is your name and your bi-colored eyes added to your wicked reputation for efficiently gives away your identity. Your shadowy deeds are known as a tale of legend. Some doubt that you even exist. You’re unsure if you want to give the Councilor the satisfaction of your name.
So, while taking a sip of the sunberry wine, you:
[[nod]] “That is my name, yes.”
Or
[[lie]] “That’s just the story of a phantom that thieves tell their children to get them to behave.”
After a matter of moments, a barmaid brings a folded note to you. The exchange catches the attention of Councilor Reileus.
He seems to have found what he was looking for. He was looking for you. He begins to cross the pub to your table.
You:
Quickly [[open the note]].
Or
Slip the note [[into your pocket]] for later
Kiot is your name and your bi-colored eyes added to your wicked reputation for efficiently gives away your identity. Your shadowy deeds are known as a tale of legend. Some doubt that you even exist. You’re unsure if you want to give the Councilor the satisfaction of your name.
So, while taking a sip of the sunberry wine:
You [[nod]] “That is my name, yes.”
Or
You [[lie]] “That’s just the story of a phantom that thieves tell their children to get them to behave.”
“Excellent! I have need of an assassin with unmatched skill such as yourself. The Unicorn has spoken to me. The great horned god requires that the path before the Prince Regent presents as direct and unforked. He is on the cusp of selecting a spouse to the royal crown. A vital and important thing that sets the stage for years to come. The Unicorn requires your assistance.”
In an instant you realize how this man has moved the assassins into doing his bidding. If he claims divine knowledge, it would be unlikely that any of your brothers or sisters would ever truly go against his will. He is, after all, a relation to the Prince Regent who as part of the royal family, is Divine Born, himself.
It is said that the assassins of the West are dear to the Unicorn and favored above most.
either:
You [[hold the faith]] of old near-to your soul. The assassins are champions of Unicorn, and you are a champion among assassins. Councilor Reileus, from a Divine Born family, clearly speaks the truth.
Or
You [[have no faith]] in Unicorn or any of the Steed Gods for that matter. Whatever it is that exists in The Veil, The Veil seems to have no affection for the whims or lives of the living.
Reileus laughs and shakes his head, speaking a little more loudly than you like, “always dramatic, you Root dwellers.”
To quiet him, you lift of your shoulder and [[nod]].
Of course you have faith in Unicorn and the [[divine order]] of things. The only right thing to do, as a faithful Westerner, is exactly as Reileus asks.While you find the whole Unicorn business archaic, a lack of faith, especially for an assassin is a dangerous path.
So, when a Purpureus Councilor that is related to the Western Crown asks you if you ‘are a faithful man,’ you lie and say, “Of course I believe in the [[divine order]] of things.”
Because as it’s been established, you are no fool.
It reads,
'Sister'.
You glance over to Faye who nods; she wrote the note. As you hear the footfalls of the approaching Councilor, you nonchalantly light the message on fire from the flame of the candle before dropping the burning paper into a bowl.
“Assassin? Are you [[Kiot]]?” The Councilor asks.
Councilor Reileus seems a little put off by having to seek you out when surely you saw him first.
After making eye contact, you indicate to Lord Reileus with a nod. He is trying to hide his stature and worth under a forest green cloak and hood, but it is unlikely anyone in there thinks him to be anyone but who he is.
“Assassin?” he greets you with your occupational title as if it were your name.
“Councilor,” you acknowledge while nodding to an empty seat at the table while reclaiming your seat. You are hesitant to ask his business in clearly seeking out assistance.
“I see you have a message recently delivered?” he glances over at Faye with a knowing grin. “Information trading is a premium down here, is it not?”
You raise an eyebrow, “I fail to see how it applies to our chat here?”
“I suppose that depends on the topic of the message, doesn’t it?” He extends a hand and expects you to place the note in it.
You are abundantly aware that doing anything but what he wishes could end badly.
You respond:
“There really is nothing better to do than to come down to The Root to intercept messages between random low-lives?” as you slap the unopened note into his hand with a [[chuckle]].
Or
“I make it a policy to not open messages from information dealers in crowded rooms. I have no idea what the topic is, but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t concern you,” you [[scoff]].
He laughs along with you while opening the small piece of paper. His expression turns confused as he asks, “Do you have a sister?”
With feigned disinterest, you reply:
“[[Doesn’t everyone]] in the West?”
Or
“[[No]], I don’t.”
A strange smile crosses Reileus’ face at the sound of your scoff.
“I must be looking for someone else.”
He stands, bows his head slightly, and turns to approach another assassin [[across the room]].
He is a young initiate that you trained yourself. His name is Ichibo.
He overturns the paper to show you the hastily scrawled word: ‘Sister’.
He thinks you’re clever, but hiding something.
You [[frown]] and look away.
“Must be nothing, then.” He crumples the paper and stuffs it into the pocket of the cloak.
He thinks you’re a liar.
You [[frown]] and wonder at what was on the note.
He studies your face for some time. A barmaid sets a crystal goblet of wine before him without word. He doesn’t pay; it isn’t surprising. He’s the type to have all things offered to him out of fear or prestige. He interrupts the sigh you didn’t mean to exhale with an observation, “One mahogany eye, one as ice blue as a Northern heart. You are [[Kiot]] , are you not?”You shake your head in exhaustion but are glad to be rid of him.
After a few moments, you finish your sunberry wine and, with stealth, open the note.
It reads: ‘Sister’ in a quick and unsteady hand.
You:
Quickly relocate to [[the bar]] and ask Faye what it’s about.
Or
Quickly leave the pub and take the back alleys through The Root to [[your home]].
Faye leans over the bar and whispers to you, “Love, I can’t talk here, not with that Royal hanging around. Come back later. Leda lives!”
Your sister, Leda, is alive? With anxious joy you quickly leave to return to [[your home]]. The pub will grow quiet in a few hours, you'll return then.
After leaving the pub, you take the back paths to your home. Just before reaching your windowless, mud-walled stucco quarters, the voice of Ichibo calls your name. He sounds to [[have been crying]].I’m sorry, Kiot,” he mutters. “For Unicorn.”
He slices your throat as you turn to face him.
Your scoff at Purpuras Councilor Reileus caused him to find you untrustworthy.
You have been assassinated. This is your [[end]].
Reileus nods and measures his words, “Good. I have a job for you. It’s the sort of job that qualifies as a ‘Final Job’. The Unicorn requires this great act end with a sacrifice.
Unsure, you recoil.
It is noticed, so he presses, “The assassins are Unicorn’s most beloved children, aside from its own blood. Doing that which Unicorn requests, as this thing is, is the most holy of offerings. You will have an honored place at the side of the Horned God in The Veil. You do this thing then go willingly onto The Veil in death. It is a great honor t be asked to perform such a duty.
You:
Shake your head and [[scoff]]. There is no chance that you’ll let this conversation continue.
Or
Patiently [[hear him out]].
“The Unicorn requires a cleaning of The Dew Keep, that place high in The Sepal where the lovers of the crown reside. Eliminate all with the exception of Lord Tallis and Lady Alundra: of these two I will have an agent push to find their true ambition. If they appear to have no aspirations to rule, they may live for now. Of the other residents, one will be missing, Lady Parcia, but missing for purpose as I will have her hidden to avoid harm or suspicion.
Is this a thing you have the skill to manage?
If this thing is not done in a timely manner, I will send another who will be ordered to hunt you before claiming their prize in The Veil.
You:
Pledge your blade to Unicorn, “[[It will be done.]]”
Or
Have as little intention of doing this deed as you do fear of any other assassin, but lie to buy time to calculate, “[[It will be done.]]”
Or
Stare in disbelief and [[scoff]].
“Very good.” He places a hand to your shoulder and stands. “Tonight,” he reiterates with a smile, “Very timely.”
You nod and watch him leave before eagerly opening the note and crossing to the bar where Faye is working.
“What is this?” You ask while showing her the message, ‘Sister’
“Well, Kiot, do you want the [[front room]] information, or the [[back room]] information?”
“Front room, I’m in a hurry,” you demand.
“Your sister, Leda, lives, Kiot.”
This:
Changes nothing, you have a [[job to complete]] for the glory of Unicorn.
Or
Changes everything, “[[back room]]” you quickly revise.
“What?” you ask hastily.
“Your sister, Leda, lives. And not only lives, but thrives, Kiot!” Faye offers while careful to not speak too loudly from the back room. “She travels with The Coadunation.”
“The rebellion? She joined the rebellion? How is this true? How do you know?”
Faye laughs, “How do I know? It is my business to know things like this! Someone came to me and told me that they needed refuge, he was a member of the movement, fresh joined and a deserter of the Royal Guard, Satyrs. We spoke and he asked if I knew a woman named Leda. He figured her to be of The Root. He told me that she travels with Valko!”
“Valko? The Eastern bard leader?” You ask.
“One and only. They head North.”
Hardly able to contain your happiness, you contemplate and before long, you finally say,
“I can do nothing. I have to [[serve Unicorn]] and do as asked.”
Or
“I have to do this job, then I can [[disappear enough]] to find her.
Or
“I’ll return home, gather supplies and leave right away.” you leave for [[your home]].
You travel to The Dew Keep, linger in the shadows and listen to the agent speak to both Lord Tallis and Lady Alundra.
Lord Tallis wishes to rule.
Lady Alundra does not.
After all residents retire for the night, you creep into the keep and begin the assassinations, killing one-after-the-other. Lord Tallis was shoved to his death.
When you silently looked in on Lady Alundra, she slept peacefully with an open book on her chest.
Once the job was done, you returned to The Root and went to the place that assassins go to be forgotten. There, in a stormy grotto, you opened a vein and bled out to your [[end]].
You travel to The Dew Keep, linger in the shadows and listen to the agent speak to both Lord Tallis and Lady Alundra.
Lord Tallis wishes to rule.
Lady Alundra does not.
After all residents retire for the night, you creep into the keep and begin the assassinations, killing one-after-the-other. Lord Tallis was shoved to his death.
When you silently looked in on Lady Alundra, she slept peacefully with an open book on her chest.
Once the job was done, you returned to The Root and went to the place that assassins go to be forgotten. There, in a stormy grotto, you opened a vein and bled out to your [[end]].
You travel to The Dew Keep, linger in the shadows and listen to the agent speak to both Lord Tallis and Lady Alundra.
Lord Tallis wishes to rule.
Lady Alundra does not.
After all residents retire for the night, you creep into the keep and begin the assassinations, killing one-after-the-other. Lord Tallis was shoved to his death.
When you silently looked in on Lady Alundra, she slept peacefully with an open book on her chest.
Once the job was done, you returned to The Root and went to the place that assassins go to be forgotten. There, in a stormy grotto, you opened a hatch in a stump and retrieved a small stash of riches for your travels.
No one can trick the [[master assassin, Kiot]].
Congratulations, sneaky master assassin, Kiot! You have survived the stranglehold that Councilor Reileus has over the assassins. Assumed dead, no one will even think to look for you.
You’ve set yourself to going to the North. You need to find the sister you lost.
For now, this is the [[end]] of your chapter. Travel safely.
Your array of goods are carefully displayed on a thick oak table at the wall across from the Inn’s entrance. For sale or trade, you have numerous rabbit pelts, deer hide, a trio of bear skins, and one fox pelt, as the fox population has been low and any good citizen of the East refuses to hunt a population in recovery. On the side of the spread, you have jars filled with various feathers, claws, and teeth.
Business has been slow despite the busy patronage at the bar. Most tables feature at least one person playing a musical instrument. The atmosphere is spiced with tobacco, clove, and cinnamon. The room is merry, yet a little melancholy in the face of the recent royal woes.
You wring your pink hands patiently, bracelets clank together. The barkeep, who is friendly and familiar calls out to you, “Voshi? Another ale for our huntress?” You room, drink, eat and set up the small shop for free at his establishment, the Howling Hare Inn, because you bring in the meat for the pies.
He coughs softly awaiting your answer.
You reply:
[[“A drink would be lovely, Wovo. Thank you.”]]
Or
“No thank you, Wovo. I’m [[well enough for now.”]]
Of the three fortress keeps of the Eastern Hold, Dirge is known as the most unusual station.
Ballad, at the base of the cliffs leading to the capitol, and near the southern border, deals mostly with the drunken antics of two nearby Inns, with the occasional passing traffic of The Wanderers on pilgrimage. The fortress keep at Ballad is the most active post.
Swansong, at the northern border, often deals with northern poachers and members of The Coadunation, the revolutionary movement. With the north winds blasting against the uppermost scout towers, the fortress keep at Swansong is the most inhospitable post.
But with its proximity to The Veil at the center of the lands, the fortress keep at Dirge plays host to many unexplainable and seemingly supernatural events with fair regularity. It is not an assignment for the faint of heart.
The royal army of the East, The Magpies, have a straightforward style of command rank. Captain Vale Birchbark is the senior-most officer of The Magpie and is stationed in residence at GoldCloud castle. Three Wing-Lieutenants share second-in-command duties, in charge of a fortress keep each. Several under-ranks pyramid down to the lowest: associate.
You are Wing-Lieutenant Magpie [[Ovid Alder]], active commander of the fortress keep at Dirge. In your mid-thirties, you have the distinction of being one of the youngest Magpie to ascend to Wing-Lieutenant in history. You are well-respected by your peers and known for being soft-spoken and calm, even while dark rumors follow you closely.
“A drink would be lovely, Wovo. Thank you,” you softly reply.
Wovo turns to tap a keg of ale when suddenly a man approaches the bar and demands his attention.
You raise an eyebrow at the [[possible problem]].
“No?” he finishes wiping down the bar and gives you a thumbs-up and another cough before tossing the bar-towel over his shoulder while turning to a patron. You watch him interact with the stranger and notice that his usual smile seems suddenly strained.
The patron is clearly being difficult.
You
Look back out into the room, leaving the [[possible problem]] at the bar in the barkeep’s hands.
Or
Leave your goods table and [[approach the bar]].
You turn to focus your attention back to the room filled with patrons. Wovo is, after all, a capable crusty old barkeep; surely he’s handled worse. You did, however notice that the difficult customer wore a bowler hat with magpie feathers tucked in the cap’s ribbon. You not only recognized the hat as part of the uniform of the notorious gang of thugs and highwaymen, The Harvestmen, but also noticed a small cluster of like-dressed fellows keeping keen watch on the exchange from a far corner.
You
Decide it might be for the best to [[approach the bar]] after all.
Or
Stay with your goods, but keep a close eye on [[The Harvestmen in the corner]].
Quietly and as nonchalantly as possible, you quit your table and move to the bar, situating yourself a fair distance from the transaction between Wovo and the annoyed customer. While patiently waiting, you give a glance over the man’s bowler hat and trio of magpie feathers tucked in the ribbon. You have no doubt: the man is part of the criminal syndicate The Harvestmen.
All gang members wear that hat. The feathers are used to taunt the Royal Soldiers of the East, The Magpie, while the amount of feathers denotes seniority.
You
Quietly [[strain to listen]] to the exchange between Wovo and the three-feather Harvestman.
The table in the far corner is surrounded by four other Harvestmen. They wear the customary bowler hats, dark wool trousers and coats, over flannel shirts. The trouser legs cut above the ankle bones and their boots are worn and rough.
One makes eye-contact with you and smirks.
You frown and wonder if you’re misreading the whole of the situation. Humans are the hardest animals to read for you.
You decide to [[approach the bar]] , maybe they’re just a troupe of traveling actors?
The Harvestman is hushed but clearly serious and angry, “You listen here: with Davy plucked, you’re in it with me now, old man.”
Wovo shakes his head and offers a shrug, not shaken and holding his ground, “The arrangement with Davy has come and gone, Vic. Come and gone. I don’t know what it is you’re expecting.”
You recognize the name of the notorious head Harvestman: Davy. He must have been caught by Magpie and this man, Vic, seems to be assuming control in his absence. Davy is well-known and deeply feared in the East Hold as a thug, thief, murderer and worse. His fill-in couldn’t possibly be a very nice fellow.
You
Continue to listen to the [[exchange]] without making your presence known.
Or
Call out to Wovo for [[service]] to pull him away from the situation.
“You’re going to pay the fee, old man. I’m having to go behind and tie up all these ragged ends, and your Inn is part of that project. I’m telling you I want the fee, and I’m telling you I want it now.”
Wovo replies, “The agreement was for me to give what I gave for as long as I gave it, Vic! Davy said…”
“Davy ain’t with us no more,” Vic interrupted. “You give what I tell you to or this place can’t be considered ‘safe’ no more.”
The two hold a steely glare with one-another.
You
Continue to [[wait it out]] and see where this goes. You still want to avoid getting involved.
Or
Decide to [[speak up]].
"Drink, Bar keep?" You call out.
"Wait your turn, Dove," the man that Wovo called Vic, hissed.
You look away for a moment and continue to listen the [[exchange]].It doesn’t take very long for Vic to be joined by four other Harvestmen from their shadowed table in the corner. Clearly, he brought muscle.
Quietly, you get back to your table.
Vic leans onto the bar and takes a fistful of Wovo’s linen shirt into his clenching hand, “Payment. Now.”
The four Harvestmen flank Vic’s position at the bar and stare into Wovo. Two of them draw small daggers.
The other patrons have begun to notice the tense danger at the bar. As their conversations and ballads hush, a disturbance can be heard from just outside. Outside, people are shouting and drawing closer.
The Harvestmen seem singularly interested in Wovo, who had begun to sweat and tremble fearfully.
A few curious customers leave their tables and make for the exit to examine the commotion outside, eager for an excuse to flee the Inn.
No one goes to Wovo’s aid.
In the growing panic, you…
Go to the [[exit with the others]]. Something frightening has those people outside shouting.
Or
Surely, [[Wovo will just pay]] and The Harvestmen will be on their way. You can’t get involved now, but you also can’t just leave.
Or
Stay where you are but quietly reach for your bow. You place one arrow on the table next to you and nock another, leaning back to find an [[advantageous angle]] on The Harvestmen.
“What’s all this, then, Wovo?” You call out, making it clear that the bar keep is a friend of yours.
“Shut your face, Dove,” Vic growls loudly. “You need to mind your own affairs.” With little more he turns his attention back onto Wovo.
You scowl, narrow your eyes and [[wait it out]].
You decide to leave and see what all the commotion is about.
As soon as you get out of the door, the crowd disperses in a panicked frenzy. They’re running from something.
A small boy yells to you, “Go! The sick are coming from GoldCloud!”
You had no time to alert The Magpie to The Harvestmen in the Howling Hare.
While watching the mob flee, a warm sensation runs up your back.
A Harvestman put a blade in your spine and as they leave, you slump in death, just moments after Wovo’s murder.
So there in the mud outside of the Howling Hare Inn, you met your [[end]], fur trader Voshi.
It takes almost no time at all to realize that Wovo has with no intention or method to pay those criminals anything at all.
Swiftly, you seek out an [[advantageous angle]] to assist.
You say nothing and wait. The aggression of the criminals is growing palpable. They close in on Wovo.
Whatever is being said is hissed so quietly that you can barely hear it over the confusion broiling from outside.
Vic raises his dagger to Wovo’s cheek.
You
Let the [[nocked arrow fly]].
Or
Wait it out to see if the [[threat is real]].
With one skilled shot, your arrow has struck fatal blows against two Harvestmen. You pierced the throat of one with a through-and-through hit and the arrow tip landed in the side of the other’s throat.
In shock, Vic releases Wovo and turns to see two of his men fall.
The other two take a step back and start moving away from each other. One has a dagger out, as does Vic.
You
Grab the other arrow and [[shoot Vic]].
Or
[[Whistle]] to win the attention of the three while grabbing the other arrow.
Or
Just grab the other arrow [[while staying silent]].
Your delay has caught the attention of one of Vic’s thugs. Your intense interest on Vic has blinded you to the others.
He throws his dagger at you and you take a blow to the chest while releasing the arrow into the bar.
This is your [[end]]. You came very close to saving at least your own life, huntress Voshi.
You shoot Vic but draw the attention of the others. They rush you, and your one spare arrow can do nothing but take out one more.
You are stabbed in the throat and die before Wovo, who will surely perish soon-there-after.
The surviving Harvestmen curse you while celebrating your [[end]].
You whistle for their attention as if summoning a bear to charge for a clean strike.
Vic turns to you and indicated with his dagger, “Not wise, Dove.”
Just as the other two file in a line to apprehend you, Wovo bashes a bottle onto Vic’s unsuspecting head, knocking him to the ground.
With keen instinct, you conclude the lives of the others with another solo shot.
Wovo is relieved but shaking. He coughs again, almost unable to catch his breath.
Just then a woman runs into the Inn, “GoldCloud city has been gated! The sickness… The sickness was in the Princess! She woke at the sky funeral. The sickness is everywhere! They come running down the mountain! Magpie are outside telling us to make for Tracker’s Den!”
Wovo, shaking and coughing extends a hand to you, “We’ll lock away in the back cabin, Voshi. Come with me.”
Wovo’s Inn-Master cabin has locks, whereas your chambers do not.
But his coughing has you suddenly worried.
Go with Wovo to the Howling Hare Inn’s [[attached cabin]].
Or
Go outside to [[seek out Magpie]] to explain the dead Harvestmen in the Inn, and maybe get some answers.
You reach for the other arrow while the chaos in the room obscures your presence from the other three Harvestmen.
The chaos also obscures any clean shot.
Wovo seems shellshocked, unaware of what happened or how.
After a few seconds, Vic, enraged, stabs Wovo.
Wavo crumples.
The other two Harvestmen have found you and quickly come at you from two angles.
You can only shoot one now.
You decide to shoot:
[[Vic]]
[[The one on the left]]. He has a dagger out, after all.
[[The one on the right]]. He is closer and may grab you.
[[None]]. It’s a good time to flee.
You see no good way out of the situation and as a last ditch attempt to avenge Wovo’s demise, you shoot Vic through the eye.
He slumps in death.
Sadly, the Harvestmen close in around you. The unarmed one grabs you from behind and the one with a dagger ends you.
And thus, the life of Voshi the fur trader comes to an [[end]] by the malicious blade of The Harvestmen. They’ve stolen your life and goods but at least the death of Wavo was answered for.
You take aim at the Harvestman on the left, the one armed with a dagger. As soon as you release the kill-strike of an arrow, you swing your bow around and slash at the approaching Harvestman on the right. He is knocked unconscious.
Wovo strikes Vic with a bottle and Vic crumples.
Wovo is relieved but shaking.
Just as you try to catch your breath, a woman runs into the Inn, “GoldCloud city has been gated! The sickness… The sickness was in the Princess! She woke at the sky funeral. The sickness is everywhere! They come running down the mountain! Magpie are outside telling us to make for Tracker’s Den!”
Wovo, shaking and coughing extends a hand to you, “We’ll lock away in the back cabin, Voshi. Come with me.”
Wovo’s Inn-Master cabin has locks, whereas your chambers do not.
But his coughing has you suddenly worried.
Go with Wovo to the Howling Hare Inn’s [[attached cabin]].
Or
Go outside to [[seek out Magpie]] to explain the dead Harvestmen in the Inn, and maybe get some answers.You shoot the unarmed one which causes a slight delay in thought process. Before you can react, the dagger from the other Harvestman shoves into your chest.
This is your [[end]] Voshi.
As soon as you get out of the door, the crowd disperses in a panicked frenzy. They’re running from something.
A small boy yells to you, “Go! The sick are coming from GoldCloud!”
You had no time to alert The Magpie to The Harvestmen in the Howling Hare.
While watching the mob flee, a warm sensation runs up your back.
A Harvestman put a blade in your spine and as they leave, you slump in death, just moments after Wovo’s murder.
So there in the mud outside of the Howling Hare Inn, you met your [[end]], fur trader Voshi
Going to the attached cabin at the Howling Hare Inn does seem like a good idea. Wovo can lock it up tightly and you’d be as secure as can be as he has the only key.
Initially built for storage hundreds of years ago, the stone lined walls are windowless. Wovo has made a nice home for himself there, nonetheless.
You agree and gather up all your goods while making your way back
through the bar. You will [[lock together in safety]].
You charge outside and run to a Magpie that sways slightly while watching the distance. Everyone else has fled. As soon as you begin you speak, you find that the royal soldier is infected and in a hungry frenzy, she lunges onto you, bringing you to your [[end]].That night, Wovo’s cough worsens and the [[sounds of groans and scratches]] bore into the locked door from outside.
The sick have come and linger in the Howling Hare as if aware you two are the prize behind the door.
You are woken the next night by what seems to be woeful laughter from the Inn. Wovo doesn’t wake, but he hasn’t died. He just sleeps and is turning gray. The numbers of infected have grown. You worry that the door may not hold.
You’ve kept your distance from Wovo since the incident with The Harvestmen.
You
[[Seek out the key]]. You’d like to leave right away and know Wovo has it on his body somewhere. Sadly, he isn’t likely to wake from his state.
Or
[[Craft a make-shift breathing mask]] from the goods laying around the room and make a mental inventory of supplies.
You’ve had enough of being cooped and the feeling of safety has quickly decayed into feelings of imprisonment. With little more thought, you’re off your cot and across the room.
The realization crosses your mind that the only door opens into what sounds like an Inn filled with lumbering sick.
The plague had been a terrible rumor: people fall ill then wake with incredible brute strength and not a shred of who they were remains. It’s said that they destroy, rip, and chew into living things. But recently, those rumors became sad stories shared about people that other people knew.
The sound from the Inn marks the reality, the rumors were real.
It’s very possible that Wovo, an inn-keep that can visit with a hundred people a day, is infected.
You
Kneel down beside Wovo to [[begin the search]] of the only key.
Or
Decide it may be wiser to bide your time. [[Craft a make-shift breathing mask]] from the goods laying around the room and make a mental inventory of supplies. While keeping a close eye on Wovo.
It’s a sorrowful thing, but you know the make of it: Wovo is sick. You figure it’s only a matter of time before he turns into whatever those things out in the Inn are.
If you were to make for the key now, what good would it possibly do? It isn’t as if you’d just charge out into the crowd and expect any positive outcome.
Quietly, like the hunter you are, you wait.
A little linen, a little pelt, some cured leather: you silently stitch away. Cleverly, you pull some coal from the cold, used fire-pit. After enough crushing to break the coal into small pieces, but not enough for powder, you lay the black mass between two rags of cloth. This will cover your nose and mouth and you aren’t sure if it’ll work, but it’s certainly worth the effort on the off-chance that it does. Carefully you stich it into the mask.
You smile at your handiwork. It looks a little like a dove.
You waste no time: you put the mask on.
Then you realize it: you don’t really have much food. [[You can’t stay in that room for much longer]].
You reach into his coat. He stirs at your touch.
That pocket is empty.
He is barely breathing, and seemingly in a weakened sleep state.
You begin to say a quiet death prayer to Pegasus.
Just as you reach over his body to check his other pocket, he lunges forward.
With one hand on your skull and the other on your shoulder, he snaps your neck while biting into it.
That is the room you died in. The once storage, now cabin back-room of the Howling Hare Inn.
Sadly, Voshi, this is your [[end]].
The hinge of the door moans at the stress of the sick pushing against it.
You can hear Vic’s voice. Surely, that’s Vic’s voice, somehow. He chants, “Hey, hey, hey, hey. Hey! Hey! Hey!” It doesn’t sound like anything more than an animal call.
You
Decide that you must [[begin the search]] of the only key on Wovo’s body.
Or
[[Study the door]] a little more closely.
There are three iron hinges on the door. The top-most one is nearly torn away. The supporting clips are nearly gone.
The middle hinge is useless: not attached and quakes at every pound.
The bottom hinge seems to be the one that will hold out the longest. But the door will not stay shut with just one hinge holding it on.
After examining the door, a quick look around the room shows a cot on your side, Wovo on his cot on his side, a small table in the center of the room and a fireplace. On your cot is your supplies.
You:
Produce a [[long length of yarn]] from your supplies. You can tie one end on the weak top hinge support clip and hide in the fireplace after sabotaging the door. Maybe once the door is opened, they’ll move on.
Cross to Wovo and [[begin the search]] of the only key. It’s possible they’ll stop pounding in time to save the door.
Quickly, you attach the yarn to the support clip on the top hinge. With great care you bring the length of the yarn all the way back to the fireplace and wrap yourself in a bear pelt before climbing in. You take a deep breath, ensure that you’re fully covered and [[yank at the yarn]].The heard rushes in, knocking through the table and begins to tear at Wovo.
Wovo doesn’t stay unconscious long, he begins to tear back. He is just as they are. They all sound the same, yet use human voice.
You wait. You begin to count breaths to keep your body calm and slow.
Throughout the night, the mob begins to disperse. From the number of shuffling feet, you estimated between one hundred and one and a half hundred bodies of sick.
The scent is incredible. Carrion, you recognize, but also the scent of wet earth, moss, and mushroom.
Come morning, the last one slinked away hours ago.
Amazingly, you [[survived the night]].
Voshi the huntress and fur trader, congratulations! Against unspeakable odds, your wits, creativity, and quick thinking promised survival from a seemingly inescapable doom.
You travel in search of safety and will surely find some measure of rest, well-equipped with skills, arrows, and your mask.
What you don’t yet know is that when the Magpies saw the bodies of The Highwaymen, they asked who was responsible. So few people knew much about the quiet cocoa-haired huntress, that they simply responded, “The man called her Dove.”
And for now, Dove, this is where we [[end]].
Dawn breaks and you are mulling over scrolls of paperwork in the quiet of the morning. The unusual stillness of Dirge had you awake and restless now for a few hours, already. This morning is to be the sky funeral for Princess Lavinia at Faint Drop, just past GoldCloud city and castle.
The Wing-Lieutenants are ordered to remain with their respective keeps while sending 85% of their Magpie to the capitol to help with the millions attending in mourning.
You have about a quarter of your force present at Dirge, around 200, most of which would rather be at the capitol to pay their respects to their fallen Princess. The Magpie have been fully invested in investigating her recent murder. They revere the crown that they love and protect affectionately.
While jotting numbers into supply forms, you double-check figures from the quarter-masters.
A knock drums at the door, “Lieutenant Alder?”
You:
“ [[… …]] .” (Say nothing.)
Or
“[[It’s open]],” you remark without even looking up.
Or
Grumble, “[[I’m busy]].”
Knocking again. You then overhear the Magpie outside the door, “I don’t think he’s in there!”
Another Magpie responds, “Where would he be?”
They sound worried. It might be serious.
You
Continue your silence, “[[… … …]]”
Or
Reply, “I’m here, [[It’s open]].”
Or
Sigh heavily, “[[I’m busy]]!”
“Begging your pardon, Sir. We were sent to ask if you’re needing anything for morning meal?” The assumed knocker offers.
The second Magpie, after waiting a few seconds continues where the first left off, “It’s mealtime, Sir. Shall we bring something up?”
The newer Magpie, the second one, seems skittish and won’t look directly at you. This isn’t unusual with a new associate. You could [[ask him if he’s alright]], but that would put him on the spot.
Or
You rub your slightly scruffy face and [[ponder]].
“Begging your pardon, Sir. We were sent to ask if you’re needing anything for morning meal?” The assumed knocker offers.
The second Magpie, after waiting a few seconds continues where the first left off, “It’s mealtime, Sir. Shall we bring something up?”
You rub your slightly scruffy face and [[ponder]].
“Is he not in there?” One asks the other in astonishment, “where could he possibly be?”
“I don’t hear no guitar,” says the other.
There’s a silence between them.
You give a glance over to your big acoustic guitar which you’re known to strum with fair regularly. It has Pegasus burn-etched in its body: an exquisite instrument.
You
Quietly [[sneak over to the guitar]]
or
Continue your silence “[[… … … …]]”
or
Respond, “[[I’m busy]]!”
The morning came sooner than you anticipated, which in some ways is welcomed. You haven’t been sleeping very well lately. You presume that the time is right for the funeral at the Capitol to begin and think it may be best to [[join your comrades]] left to guard Dirge in a meal in the Princess’ honor. You could go down the long spiral stairs to the ground level to share a meal with the others.
But, then you wonder about whether anyone remembered to [[feed the prisoners]]. The jailers at the keep are all away for the sky funeral. You’ve had to remind associates to see that the pair of Coadunation members in the lower cells get food the last two days and nights.
Or you could just quietly [[send them away]].
You tiredly smooth down your Wing-Lieutenant uniform coat and tug at the slightly disheveled vest under it.
While looking down to your appearance, you think you hear a voice. It could have been the pair sent to retrieve you, you think. But once you look back up you find yourself alone.
Uneasy, you glance at the bow that rests next to your desk. You take a breath in and hear a voice again, this time more clearly.
“Get away!” It rings like a whispered shout in your otherwise empty room. It’s a sound that you’re not entirely sure you heard.
Again you glance to the bow and the hip-quiver to its side. It isn’t customary to walk the halls of the keep armed in a time of peace, especially for a commanding officer.
But that voice that you think you heard has you shaken.
While bundling the stack of death notices from your desk and into a leather satchel, you:
Decide to bring the bow and the strap on the full [[hip quiver]]. It may make your soldiers uneasy, but you’re hearing voices, so best to be prepared.
Or
Shake off the feelings of fright and go to the dining hall to provide your Magpie a sense of [[solidarity and strength]].
Or
Find it all too overwhelming. You return to your desk and sink into the chair, fixing your eyes on the [[inkwell]] while thoughts play out in your head.Worry about the condition of the prisoners crosses your mind. Your Magpie are not abusive or neglectful, but those assigned to care for the incarcerated have been called away to GoldCloud for the sky funeral of Princess Lavinia.
That was mostly your fault. When made aware that you’d need to dispatch the bulk of those under your command, the way you decided who would go was based on who had family nearest to the coastal capitol. It’s so rare that anyone is in the holding cells below anyway but it’s been an oversight that’s had you groaning for three days.
You’ve had a lot on your mind of late.
You decide that you’d be the one to take food down to the captives, but realize you have to go by the dining hall first to [[collect some food]].
Or really, you could just pawn the job off onto someone else. You could just [[join your comrades]] and get an associate to check in on them once you reach the dining hall.
"No, nothing. Leave me," you reply.
Something within you feels heavy and uneasy.
You wave them off. [[Let them go on their way]]With great stealth, you lift the guitar by the neck and silently round to door. On the other side, the pair of Magpie wait patiently. With a sneaky smile, you crack the door slightly and [[strum]] an Ab major chord before a series of G minor while the door opens by the tip of your boot.
“He ain’t here, Quav,” one says to the other.
“Well? What are we supposed to do?” Quav demands. “He can’t just go missing, can he? I mean, what would happen to us if we went missing?” He pauses then quickly asks, “You don’t think he has the sick do you?”
The first Magpie laughs almost scornfully, “You know why he’s command at Dirge? Here, on the edge of the world?”
There’s a silence. Obviously Quav is shaking his head.
“Yeah, well, you’re new. I’ll tell you. Rumor is that in his twenties he was found not far from here. A Magpie even then, but had no memory they said. Had gone into The Veil, they said. He was found babbling about a woman. Can’t remember a lick of it.”
“…Why’s he in charge of anything then?!”
“Damn fine solider, and likable too! …And if the rumors are to be believed, Veiltouched … He has The Gift of Pegasus. Immune to damn near anything, I’d wager.”
Another silent pause of thought is shared between the Magpies outside your door.
The unnamed Magpie breaks the silence, “Well, alright. Don’t think too hard on it. Everyone knows it. Now everyone plus you. Let’s go down; damn ham is sure to be cold by now.”
You know the rumors well. After hearing all of this, you:
[[Let them go on their way]]. You still have nothing to say.
Or
Finally [[say something]].
Some melancholy has swept over you. It may be the lack of proper sleep, you think. You’re usually fairly gregarious and warm.
You lean back in the chair at your desk and stare at an [[inkwell]] that sits next to a stack of [[death reports]].
Many have fallen ill lately. Far more Magpies have been sick than usual. Of your 200-or-so troops left at Dirge, nearly half are in the infirmary.
“What is it?” You finally ask. Your voice is raspy yet smooth.
You hear a pair of slight gasps. You know they worry they’ve been overheard. But it isn’t in your nature to be heavy-handed or opportunistically cruel.
You opt to not discuss the rumors; in-so-far as you know, they’re true.
You soften your tone, still raspy as it ever is, and say, “Come. [[It’s open]].”
They enter nervously. “All alright there, Magpie?” you ask the nervous associate who breaks a sweat at the sound of your voice. “You alright?”
He nods quickly and stammers, “Yes, Sir.”
You watch him for a moment before sighing. The regularity of this exchange grows tiresome: different associate, same response. After a small time, they all grow fond of you. The bleak setting of Dirge can’t possibly help matters. You know it will pass, so you [[ponder]].
The inkwell seems to shift a bit. You think you’ve imagined it, until stack of papers fall to the floor.
Wind begins to flood in through your windows. A storm is approaching. This is more than a storm.
The ink collects and begins to rise. Peeking, first over the edge of the inkwell until a small column of deep black stands erect from the glass jar. It defies rational physics, and you are locked in petrified fright.
You can not move. You [[can not look away]].
the ink is taking a shape.
The Magpies are startled, “Sir?!” They salute.
You smile warmly, stop strumming, and nod at the now open door, “[[It’s open]]".
Many have fallen ill lately. More Magpies have been sick than usual. Of your 200-or-so troops left at Dirge, nearly half are in the infirmary. You really aren’t up to thumbing through the casualty notices. You’ve already read and signed each of the pages many times. Those will have to go out via messenger scout to the Magpie’s respective families. The volume of the task is exhausting. Many have died in a small window of time.
You:
Call for a [[messenger scout]].
Or
Decide that it may be best to [[join your comrades]] for morning meal after all. It is a confusing and hard time; it would be best for them to see their commanding officer standing by their side.
Or
Stare at the [[inkwell]] on your desk. You’re too tired and heavy to interact.
Your boots scrape the stone floor as you stand; you run a hand through your coffee colored hair. After tugging at the base of your vest, you pull up your Wing Lieutenant uniform jacket from the back of a chair and slip it on.
You cross to the lonely door, open it, and see no one in the top twist of the spiral corridor.
You call down in an order to attendance.
“[[Magpie]]!”
The only response is the sound of your own voice, raspy and melodic, bouncing along with walls of oak, ash, and stone.
Dirge feels so empty. It is husk with you standing at the top of its spine.
You call out again,
“Magpie! I’m in need of [[a rider]]!”
You tilt your head so your ear is situated to receive any sign of pulse in reply.
It’s irritating, the silence. Irritating and sorrowful. No one dutifully comes when you call. You reason that Dirge holds too few and you are too far removed from the dining hall to be heard.
You feel a divide in your motivations.
You can either [[slink back to your desk]] and sit in solitude and sorrow, or bundle the notices and make for the corridor to [[join your comrades]] .
Sullen and vexed, you return to your desk, pull off your uniform coat, and slam yourself down into the chair.
For a moment, your glare around the room. There is a darkness from sorrow welling within you. So many Magpies have died and your orders have been to present the deaths as mundane as possible to avoid panic throughout the hold. The Princess has been killed, and most of your soldiers have been stationed at GoldCloud. Unpermitted to truly mourn, they are there to work, to keep order.
But at least they are there, whereas those left at Dirge with you have no outlet or closure for the emotions they feel. They feel sadness and failure, you’re sure of it. You feel it too.
You sink into your chair and begin to stare at the [[inkwell]].
You travel down the spiral steps to the entrance of the dining hall. Just as you move to enter, a gate guard calls after you, “Wing Lieutenant Alder!”
You turn and notice that the guard is running to you with an extra bow and quiver, “Sir!” he reports quickly, “Sir, a large force is following a rider. They approach quickly.”
You take the bow and calmly reply, “To your post, then,” before entering the dining hall with the [[bow in hand]].
It’s too much. It’s all too much. You love your hold, The Pegasus and her people. You’re a loyal and highly decorated solider of the wing
But the death and uncertainty stacks up. People you’ve trained and fostered have died. The Princess, Pegasus born, sworn safe by the protection of your Magpie have died.
You’ve spent days writing notices of expiration by lies. You’ve been ordered to lie. There is a plague afoot and you’ve put your name on paper that claims the Magpies that have perished did so by attacks by The Coadunation. Untrue, in every word.
And thus the sentiment is spread through the grieving families: there is no grand sickness that murders indiscriminately, it is the revolutionaries that kill your loved ones. You have orders to lie to the people of The East Hold. Those in power don’t comprehend the sickness, so they deny it exists.
The largely non-violent resistant fighters have been blamed at every turn.
The twisting dread creeps over you more.
An unseen voice shouts a muffled cry, “Go.” …that could be your own voice, couldn’t it?
You grab your bow and strap on the hip-quiver.
As soon as you exit your office, you hear approaching screams.
You
Quickly [[go down]] the spiral stone stairs to where the other Magpies are.
Or
Turn left and [[go up one flight]] to the top of the keep and exit onto the battlement cross walk.
You’ve broken a sweat. Your dark brown hair, eyebrows, and facial hair seem saturated with the stuff.
Down the spiraling flights of stairs, you listen to your boots land each step.
Something is gnawing at your nerves.
It could be exhaustion or emotional fatigue: You know yourself well enough to know that when you feel, you feel very deeply.
You stop for a brief moment to collect your breath before turning to enter the dining hall.
You want to be there for your troops.
You put on a gallant, [[brave face]] and enter.You’ve broken a sweat. Your dark brown hair, eyebrows, and facial scuff seem saturated with the stuff.
Down the spiraling flights of stairs you run, you listen to your boots land each step.
Something is gnawing at your nerves. Something is approaching.
You stop for a brief moment to collect your breath before turning to enter the dining hall.
You storm into the dining hall, [[bow in hand]].
You shiver and reach for the thick door to the archer’s roost up at the battlements.
As soon as your fingers touch the woodgrain, the door seems to scream and convulse.
A gust, crisp and stormy, rumbles and emanates from the door.
Thick black ink like blood begins to ooze from the door.
Your mind considers the possibility that you’re asleep, just before you hear the scream shift into shouting, “[[Ovid Alder]]!”
The wind surges. A cyclone has developed around you at its center. The whole of the office is disheveled save your desk and you at the epicenter.
From the inkwell, the shape that the deep dark has taken begins to spring wings from its long cylindrical core.
It has taken the form of a dragon.
This horror is familiar.
This has happened before.
The dragon elongates its [[ferocious jaws]] and draws very close to your terrified face.
“Miiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine”, the sound of the beast drawing in breath hisses across your body.
You realize that this is the dream. The dream that happens so often. It is a loop and you must escape it.
You have to wake up.
You must.
You are [[Ovid Alder]].
Wake up.
Just as you move to enter, a gate guard calls after you, “Wing Lieutenant Alder!”
You turn and notice that the guard is running to you with an extra bow and quiver, “Sir!” he reports quickly, “Sir, a large force is following a rider. They approach quickly.”
You take the bow and calmly reply, “To your post, then,” before entering the dining hall with the [[bow in hand]].
“Magpie! Rally to posts! Something approaches in distress,” You bark the order.
They were astonished to see you enter armed, but doubly surprised by the call-to-arms. At once, they quit their morning meals and charge out toward the armory before diligently [[attending their stations]].
There were not many Magpies in attendance. Your force is just over 100 strong.
You go back to the stairs and climb the spiral past your office door. A roar can be heard, but the wind is starting to surge. It may be the sound of air bouncing off the walls of a near-empty keep.
“Giiiiiiive meeeeeee,” the sound seems to cry.
You can not delay to investigate. You round the top climb and exit onto the battlement crosswalk. 15 archers salute and greet you.
You grab the first pair of Magpies you encounter and command, “To the dungeon, both of you. See that the prisoners are secure and fed. Stay and await further orders. Straight there by-way-of kitchens. Nowhere else.”
They give another salute and do as told without question.
You turn to an approaching [[sergeant]].
“Sir, a rider scout has been let in the gates. She says refugees need shelter. They are followed closely by a hostile force.”
“Refugees?” You ask in amazement. “What hostile force?” You look out from the elevated perch to see scores of Easterners running along a path that connects the fortress keep of Dirge with the towns of Apple Run and Quiveret.
“The rider reports a riot of some kind at the capitol. She is very shaken, sir. In a shock, she isn’t saying much.”
“A Magpie scout? Is in shock?” You ask in disbelief. After receiving an odd nod of uncertainty from the sergeant, you ask,
“What hostile force?” You look back out to the path and notice that the thing that is pursuing the refugees appears to be people.
“Bears, she said sir.”
“Bears? Those aren’t bears.” You draw your bow and nock an arrow. It is hard to make out who is what in the chaos. Your eyes fall onto a mother carrying a child, tripping, yet going on with all her strength. You steady a breath and say to the sergeant.
“Keep the [[gates open]] for the refugees, but I need 20 head more Magpie up on this pass to keep the attackers at bay. They aren’t bears, they’re people. The people are being chased by the sick.”
Or
“[[Close the gates]]. Pull full force up here. They’re all infected.”
The Magpie Sergeant shouts out the order down along the wall, “20 up, the rest hold ground and protect the civilians. Not bears, but sick. Mind your aim, Magpie!! Close tight when ordered.”
She calls along to the archers already present on the walkway,
“Your targets are the sick, Magpie. Shoot the aggressors as best as you can.
You are very bothered by the report of ‘bears’. A shot is lined up to peel away an infected from the mother and child. You take it, and she runs unhindered.
The cries from the people turn a bit to swelling gratitude and pride.
“[[Fire on!]]” You yell down the line as the 20 requested appear and take their places.
With great sorrow, you give the order to shut out all that approach. Such close contact with the sickness can only spell sickness for those that are running to you for protection.
You can not take that risk.
The full force of the Magpies you have left at Dirge, except for the 2 in the dungeon, join you on the top walk and begin firing down onto the sick and scared alike.
You feel faint, but must be strong for your soldiers, who fire down while weeping and screaming.
Once all are dispatched, and laying lifelessly in the stormy mud, you look past the keep of Dirge, to The Veil, that place that souls go. In the quiet of the aftermath, you mutter, “Write to Captain Birchbark. All were lost. We did what we could. I accept responsibility.”
The sergeant salutes.
“Clean it up,” you painfully groan before remarking, “No. Don’t write a thing. I’ll [[go to GoldCloud myself]]. Command of Dirge is yours, Valina.”
“Sir, the refugees may already be infected!” A young associate protests.
“Mind your duty!” The sergeant demands to the protestor.
You heard her, and that concern is a real one. But still you can’t close the gates to the fearful.
You dispatch your 15th infected when you turn to the sergeant, “Go below and give the order to close when you see fit. You may have some leak in, conclude the beasts swiftly.”
The sergeant nods.
You continue:
“Have the refugees quarantined [[in the dungeons]]. We’ll sort this when the siege passes.”
Or
“Put them [[in the dining hall]], every one. 4 Magpie at the door to guard them. I’ll meet with them when this passes. Limit contact.”
The onslaught creeps on for hours. The infected are easier to spot than you thought, they amble along in the river that runs along side the road, or stray from the path in strange ways. Surely a few innocents were lost, but by the time the gate seals, all that’s left is a few pick-offs, which you leave to your skilled archers.
You turn to the sergeant as she re-appears from below. You hand her your bow and listen to the words, “We lost a few, Sir.”
“Magpies?” you ask.
She nods, sadly. There is something else.
“And the refugees?” you question, rubbing sweat into your skin.
“The guards placed in the dungeons, I think they were … convinced that the sickness was locked in with them. They set fire. It burned quickly, eating all the wood and leaving a stone shell. The fire is … over.”
You can say nothing. You just stand in heartbreak and shake your head, unable to believe such a thing could happen.
“They’re all gone, sir.”
You look past the keep of Dirge, to The Veil, that place that souls go. In the quiet of the aftermath, you mutter, “Write to Captain Birchbark. All were lost. We did what we could. I accept responsibility.”
The sergeant salutes.
“Clean it up,” you painfully groan before remarking, “No. Don’t write a thing. I’ll [[go to GoldCloud myself]]. Command of Dirge is yours, Valina.”
The onslaught creeps on for hours. The infected are easier to spot than you thought, they amble along in the river that runs along side the road, or stray from the path in strange ways. Surely a few innocents were lost, but by the time the gate seals, all that’s left is a few pick-offs, which you leave to your skilled archers.
You turn to the sergeant as she re-appears from below. You hand her your bow and listen to the words, “We lost a few, Sir.”
“Magpies?” you ask.
She nods, sadly. There is something else.
“And the refugees?” you question, rubbing sweat into your skin.
“Orders were disobeyed. Some young associates ushered them into the dungeons; they locked them in. The guards placed in the dungeons, I think they were … convinced that the sickness was locked in with them. They set fire. It burned quickly, eating all the wood and leaving a stone shell. The fire is … over.”
You can say nothing. You just stand in heartbreak and shake your head, unable to believe such a thing could happen.
“They’re all gone, sir.”
“And the young associates?”
“My responsibility for putting so much to them,” she sorrowfully frowns.
You look past the keep of Dirge, to The Veil, that place that souls go. In the quiet of the aftermath, you mutter, “Write to Captain Birchbark. All were lost. We did what we could. I accept responsibility.”
The sergeant salutes.
“Clean it up,” you painfully groan before remarking, “No. Don’t write a thing. I’ll [[go to GoldCloud myself]]. Command of Dirge is yours, Valina.”
You are dark and sullen. Angry and afraid.
That is where you chapter ends, courageous and sad Wing-Lieutenant Ovid Alder. With you on the back of your dark brown horse, quickly riding toward GoldCloud Castle to report the horror that Dirge has endured.
A horror from which Dirge may never recover.
This, for now, is your [[end]]
You sit upon Glide, your hardy dapple horse, outside of the Grimm stronghold at Troll Pass. It is cold and getting colder. You only came for a report and would very much like to ride home to Rime Hall for warm mutton and ale.
Your wolf companion, Sally, burrows into the snow while the three of you wait.
Watching the snow catch on the dimples of cut stone on the single tower at Troll Pass, you think on how horrible it must be to live there: only Grimm forts and Bleak Spire have any real elevation above the snow. You, born of privilege, have always lived at Rime Hall save the three years you trained at Dark Tower, but even then your cousin, Prince Edgar, Horatio’s younger brother, always saw to it that you had a warm, cozy officer cabin on the lower level.
You open your mouth and breathe in an attempt to warm your face from under the mouth wrap of your Grimm uniform. The garb is black as death, moleskin and furs in generous layers to combat your native climate.
Sally lifts her head and [[huffs a whine]].
You, all bones and hunger, draw your knees closer to your seated body. You’re in the memorial mausoleum of ancestral wealth and opulence not your own.
The large stone and ice labyrinth of reverence sprawls along the whole of the underside of Alberich and houses all the dead of the wealthy surnames of the region. It has, over many generations, become a place for the downtrodden to take refuge.
You are among the impoverished and have been influenced and altered by the harshness of life. You’ve held too many children at their last breaths and have known very few others to grow to middle-age.
Coughing rings through the long, twisting corridor. You can hear the near-by moans of starvation and somewhere close, yet obscured, a man is crying.
You can’t just sit there. You have to eat. How long had you been sitting there? You can’t easily remember.
Do you:
Make your way through the catacombs with intent to [[steal your supper]].
Or
Decide that the woes of the dying are greater than your hunger and stand to [[fetch some water]] for the sick from where ever you can find it.
Or
Resolve that there is more to the world than the dank necropolis under Alberich. You set off to [[find Hartly]], a man rumored to have connections with The Coadunation. You want in on the revolution. There must be more to life than waiting for death.
Finally, the large drawbridge that when fully opened serves as a stairway from a raised platform to whatever level the snow drift has reached, opens and you sigh, yelling toward the Grimm that appears, “This took this long, why? Utterly absurd. I nearly froze to my death waiting for someone to answer the damn door! What took so long?” Your birth status means that you likely outrank the Grimm that is clamoring out.
Labored from rushing, he huffs words while catching his breath, “Apologies, Sir. Truly! We heard your wolf howl, but have heard such many times on this day already!”
You know that the sounds of wild wolf packs drawing too near to settlements or forts is an ill omen.
You shiver and loudly call:
“[[Wolves howling]], you say?”
Or
“Be that as it may, why is there no one at [[the gate post]]?”
Or
“To the Sea-Steed with your complaints! I’m turning ice due to this incompetence! Bring me [[the reports]] so that I may return home to thaw.”
“Tell me more of these roaming wolves, Grimm,” you implore as your voice bounces off the snow.
The Grimm is a young fellow, maybe fifteen years of age. He gives a muffled order to another young Grimm that has come up next to him before the interloper departs. As she leaves, a much smaller one approaches the first with a saddled horse. The Grimm mounts the steed and rides out to where you wait, “Begging pardon, Sir. Thought it best to not shout. Those inside worry at what might be listening."
You nod, taking stock in the obvious nervousness and fear that quakes in the young Grimm. “The wolves?”
“Oh, yes, Sir. Pardon, Sir. We haven’t much slept well two days passing, now. Them wolves and the screaming have had a toll against our small band left here.”
Your eyebrow raises, clearly requesting more information.
He continues, “They seem to run right up to us, here, quiet as death. Then get to howling just outside these walls, likely nearishly to your big beast there,” he points to Sally who has bored her nose into a drift. “Then soon after, screaming like the scales are being ripped from Hippocamp itself. Wolves run off, chasing or being chased.”
For eons Grimms have tamed wild wolves as their post companion, so you ask: “How are the [[wolves of Troll Pass]] taking the disturbance? Surely they react to the antics of the wild wolves?”
The Grimm is a young fellow, maybe fifteen years of age. He gives a muffled order to another young Grimm that has come up next to him before the interloper departs. As she leaves, a much smaller one approaches the first with a saddled horse. The Grimm mounts the steed and rides out to where you wait, “Begging pardon, Sir. Thought it best to not shout. Those inside worry at what might be listening.”
“What might be listening?” You ask.
He is uneasy and lifts a shoulder. He looks down to the snow beneath your horse, Glide as if searching for words.
“Never mind,” you sigh. “Why is there no one on post here [[at the gate]]? There is to be someone always at the ready.”
Sally begins to dig at the snow and Glide slightly shuffles.
The Grimm is a young fellow, maybe fifteen years of age. He gives a muffled order to another young Grimm that has come up next to him before the interloper departs. As she leaves, a much smaller one approaches the first with a saddled horse. The Grimm mounts the steed and rides out to where you wait, “Begging pardon, Sir. Thought it best to not shout. Those inside worry at what might be listening.”
“What might be listening?” You ask.
He is uneasy and lifts a shoulder. He looks down to the snow beneath your horse, Glide as if searching for words.
“Never mind,” you sigh. “Have you brought out the status report for Troll Pass?”
Sally begins to dig at the snow and Glide slightly shuffles.
“We’re … well, we haven’t been left with much. It’s just the four of us but Timothy is sick now,” he doesn’t actually answer the question at all.
Aghast, you silently demand clarification with an expression of bewilderment.
“The others were assigned to march with the Lord-Commander, sir.”
You reply, “The Lord-Commander left only four Grimm to stand watch at Troll Pass? Truly? Who is the [[senior officer]]?” You can hardly believe what you’re hearing.
Sheepishly, the Grimm nods. “No answer for that, you see, Sir. They just caught something on the air and took off. Ran off with them what came a-howling.”
You scoff, “Trained Grimm wolves just decided to run off and join up with a wild pack? Just like that? Jumped off the lookout perch, did they?”
To your surprise, he nods. Wolves do not integrate with packs not their own well, if ever to your knowing. And to have leapt from that height seems like such an inconceivable action. Something is clearly off.
You glance down to Sally who has begun to dig into the snow.
“The report is coming, Sir,” the young Grimm remarks while uncomfortable with your silent contemplation.
“Why only [[four]]? Why were you left with so few wolves here?”
Or
“There is something markedly wrong with the idea that [[Grimm wolves]] would ‘just run off’, you do know that don’t you?”
Or
“See that the report hurries along. I’ll wait, but [[not for much longer]]
“Well, Sir. There was only four of us left at Troll Pass. Thems was our wolves, each that ran off into the night.”
Mouth agape, you reply, “…was only four?”
“Three now, Sir. Timothy was taken with sickness the day the others marched with the Lord-Commander to the conflict in The West. He hasn’t woken. We don’t really know what best to do about it.”
You are angered that the Commander of Troll Pass left such a small unit to man the whole of the fort.
“Who is the Commanding Officer [[among the three of you]]?”
“Sir, pardon again, … many things have come to pass lately what seems, as you say, ‘markedly wrong’. We are… well, we are in a bad way here, Sir.”
You look toward The Veil and note that the sky has darkened. A snow storm is certainly approaching.
So you:
Interrupt, “I’m just here for the reports. Here for my duty. I can not hear these grievances that should be for the sorting of your Command Officer. I am waiting for you to fulfill your duty and produce the reports, but [[not for much longer]]. Time is not on your side to stand about and weave tales like an Easterner.”
Or
Nod toward the angry clouds, “There isn’t much time for this tale, Grimm. [[Tell it quickly]] or not at all.”
The young Grimm gives a salute and bows his hooded head. He is disappointed that you offered no comfort, but too brave to remark on it. “I’ll see to the status and ride it back out, Sir.”
He turns and his horse gallops back into Troll Pass.
You wait for [[the reports]].
The Grimm begins, “You asked about the [[four]] wolves, Sir? How it was odd to have only four in a fort the size of Troll Pass in the first place?”
“Well, Timothy was before … but now, that honor has fallen to me,” the young Grimm was clearly working hard to act as he had seen others act in the past.
“What is your age, Grimm?” you ask.
“I’m of fifteen year, Sir.”
Your unseen frown extends, “How old is, or was Timothy?”
“Sixteen, Sir.”
You look again to the horizon at The Veil and [[contemplate]]. The heavy dark clouds have drawn much closer.
You should not relieve any Grimm of their post, much less at the cost of abandoning an entire fort, but your gut is strongly leaning that direction. You do have the seniority of rank to make a good argument if anyone has issue with your decision. You mull over your options when suddenly something catches your attention.
Galloping ahead of the storm seems to be a pair of riders. They could be either bandits, or allies. From the distance, you have no way to discern. Both Sally and Glide have become agitated.
You:
Tell the young Grimm to return to the fort and [[shut tight]] the doors.
Or
Tell the young Grimm to collect up the other two. “We’ll ride hard for Rime Hall and send back a priest for Timothy when the storm passes. Build a fire for his room, shut it well to keep warmth in. But we [[have to go]], now.”
The young Grimm does as told and sloppily rides back full-speed to the fort.
Sally, growls and whines yet seems far more hesitant than you’ve ever seen her.
Glide, the fine horse you’ve had since you were a child, nearly bucks you off twice.
You draw your longsword and hold it to your right.
[[Closer come the pair of riders]]. Your heart thumps so fiercely that you feel your own pulse may strangle you.
The young Grimm whimpers, “But, Sir. We only have this one horse! They took the rest for the march! Two riders on this one and two on yours: We’ll be slowed, won’t we? Too much?”
Glide begins to step wildly while you respond. It isn’t how you would want it. You wanted to get them to safety. However, you’d rather face two anonymous riders than get anywhere close to the sickness, so you urge, “Go back and [[shut tight]] the doors. If there be trouble, do not open those gates unless I stand alone at the end. The fort can withstand a siege. You will be alright. Stay clear of Timothy unless to keep him from freezing. A priest will come.”
They do not stop their speed until they are next to you; the feat appears incredible in the horsemanship.
One is a Grimm, an officer, with hood and mask deftly obscuring near all features save the familiar narrowed eyes. The other rider is a lady of seemingly high birth, draped and wrapped in layers of furs. Her face is also masked greatly by leathers wrapped for protection from the cold.”
The Grimm speaks. The [[croon]] is unmistakable.
“Is this Robert, my cousin? Greeting me with an exposed blade?”
You’re shocked, “Edgar?” He was mourned in death. Missing for far too long to survive, the whole of The North counted the second-born Prince as gone. “[[Edgar]]? Truly is that you?” you look to the woman with surprise. “What is this? You were gone!”
“I was traveling, Robert. This is my wife, Stara. Relieve that blade of whatever task you promised it.”
In amazement, you bow your head to Princess Stara and clumsily sheathe the long sword, “Your mother will … she will be … so pleased. Much has happened, Edgar. Horatio leads a campaign to The West.” You’re stammering and confusedly nod at the greeting bow of Stara’s head.
Her eyes are stunning. Deep twilight blue with golden specks and a slight band of green like a night sky. You find it hard to break your gaze.
“A campaign? Sounds like him,” Edgar scoffs.
You come to your senses, “One sick child and three others man this fort, Edgar. They have been left to mind the post. No wolves and one horse.”
You notice that the storm seems to have [[cleared]].
He sighs, “We were going to ride for Bleak Spire, but…”
You interrupt, “Horatio has the royal family under guard, Edgar,” you don’t know why you said it, but you did.
“Oh? Horatio has, has he?” He seems annoyed and shares a look with his bride. After a few silent moments, he remarks, “I’ll assume control of Troll’s Pass for time being. My brother has left it woefully unprepared.”
“But the sick lad…” you interrupt. Both Glide and Sally are anxiously on edge. You've never seen either so uneasy.
“No bother. Stara is a healer of sorts. We’ll have him back to us in no time.”
Something seems decidedly wrong. You’re uncomfortable and nervous. This royal cousin that you’ve known your whole life does not seem like himself. He was counted as dead over having been missing for more than a week.
Those eyes are certainly his, though. But who is this ‘new bride’? A healer high-born Lady? You’ve never heard the name before and Edgar is hardly the marrying type.
In response, you:
Are uncomfortable abandoning the young Grimms, but this man before you is a member of the Northern Royal house of Hippocamp and a superior Grimm officer. Besides, more likely than not if one of Troll Pass is ill with the sickness, they all are. You already warned Edgar of the danger, and are safest to just travel home to Rime Hall to inform your father, Thayn Richard, of these odd developments. [[Bow your head]], “as you like it, Prince. I’ll return to Rime Hall with this wonderful news.” There will be time to address all of the concerns somewhere out of the snow.
Or
It isn’t the safest route, but you can’t leave those four at Troll Pass without some answers. The recent tone in the North has been rooted in Edgar’s older brother Horatio reacting to the assumed loss of his sibling. The finest Grimms have combed the whole of the Hold’s snows seeking the missing Prince. His sudden appearance is just too odd. “From where does the [[Lady Stara]] hail, graces?” You ask, trying to make sense of any of it.
Or
“By the order of Lord-Commander and Prince Horatio Aquilo, Apologies, Edgar, but I have to take you and your lovely bride into the [[custody]] of Hippocamp.”
He shakes his head once as if surprised by the question, “Sir? Oh, no, Sir. No. Ain’t no wolves left here with us. We were left with four, but those four have run off.”
You reply:
“Run off? How do Grimm wolves [[just run off]]?”
Or
“Why only [[four]]?”Sally begins to back peddle first. Her head is low and a frothy growl gives every indication to you that you ought to leave immediately. Part of you is mortified that she’d growl at the Prince, the other part of you is anxiously intrigued as to why she would.
Glide reacts to the reins with some protest. She clearly wanted to gallop away a while ago.
Something in you loudly shouts that there is wickedness afoot. You know it, you can feel it, but wisely know that there is little that can be done in that place and at that time.
You [[ride home to Rime Hall]] more swiftly than ever before.
Edgar groans and shakes his head before looking to Lady Stara “Haven’t worked that part out yet, have we, love?”
You find yourself suddenly locked in [[her gaze]].
Edgar chuckles, “That is a pitty. An amusing pitty, but a pitty.”
You look to Lady Stara and find yourself suddenly locked in [[her gaze]].
Congratulations, Grimm Robert Bianc. As difficult as leaving the young Grimms at Troll Pass must have been, you’ve managed to survive a very deadly and mysterious encounter.
Glide is in the Rime Hall stables and Sally is faithfully at your shins, seemingly ready to defend you against absolutely anything.
You drink an ale at the town Inn and wait to meet with your father, Thayn Richard Bianc, who is in a clandestine meeting with a small cell of the resistance movement: of The Coadunation. You are both supporters of the revolution.
For now, you mull over how to explain exactly what happened. Price Edgar is not dead, and he is not alone.
For now, this is the [[end]].
“Um,” he shakes his head. “Begging your pardon, Sir. We, only three of us really, truly remain. There were four of us, but … well, Timothy is ill, Sir.”
Aghast, you silently demand clarification with an expression of bewilderment.
“The others were assigned to march with the Lord-Commander, sir.”
You reply, “The Lord-Commander left only four Grimm to stand watch at Troll Pass? Truly? Who is the [[senior officer]]?” You can hardly believe what you’re hearing.
“Well, Timothy was before … but now, that honor has fallen to me,” the young Grimm was clearly working hard to act as he had seen others act in the past.
“What is your age, Grimm?” you ask.
“I’m of fifteen year, Sir.”
Your unseen frown extends, “How old is, or was Timothy?”
“Sixteen, Sir.”
You look to the horizon at The Veil and contemplate. Dark heavy clouds have begun to gather and draw closer. You silently bemoan the obvious poor judgment in leaving only four Grimms, all children no less, stationed at Troll Pass. The Lord-Commander likely had little to do with the micro-management decision that led to the situation, but you can’t help but hold him responsible in your own mind.
In an effort to move along the unusual meeting, you remark, “I don’t suppose any of you have [[written a report]], then?”
He shakes his head. The scrawny horse on which he sits bucks a bit; the wind is gnawing at all of you. “No, no, Sir. I’m afraid not.”
Sally begins digging at the snow more purposefully.
You shake your head. It’s a sad event that one of the young Grimms is ill, you’d otherwise relieve them all of their post and have them report to Rime Hall. But one sick in a small group is a rumored death to them all.
You’re not even comfortable standing so close downwind from this poor boy.
Finally, you sigh and state:
“Then give me the best assessment of your situation [[in words]], so that I may better understand and report back before we both freeze to our saddles.”
Or
“I think I understand. I’ll return to Rime Hall and send a priest out to [[see to Timothy]].” You’ve seen enough and want to leave this place before the snow storm swoops in.
He hides his face under the flap of his hood.
“Sir, I am so sorry, sir.”
You have been intentionally delayed. You suddenly notice that Sally is dead on the snow. Someone has snuck up from behind and you’ve been bludgeoned.
This is your [[end]]
The young Grimm seems disheartened as if he had been expecting you to make everything better somehow. Now it’s so plainly obvious: he is frightened to his core.
Those inside are only barely surviving and staring down the sickness and impending death of a colleague and close friend.
He is hesitant to leave your presence. As you linger, Sally has uncovered something in the snow.
You are both horrified [[by what she’s found]].
Sally pulls an arm up from the snow drift. It’s still attached to a body that appears dead and rotting until it moves. It reacts to her by gripping at her fur and pulling it away from her skin and body. The arm part of a full body; it is some vicious corpse.
You and the young Grimm swiftly make for Troll Pass on your horses.
Your eyes fall on the sight: The other young Grimm are exactly like that thing in the snow.
You look back, Sally has been mauled. The storm rolls closer.
Before you can turn your attention back to the Grimms, you are pulled from your horse. To the sound of Glide’s death, you hear your skin rip.
This is your [[end]]. You are among the infected.
The world falls into a foggy haze. Your body and mind are no longer yours. You lean forward and begin to punch and scream at Glide. In terror, she bucks you away.
All living things suddenly emit a red glow.
After recovering from the fall, you grab at Sally, snapping her neck with amazing force.
You run after the horrified Glide.
You are no longer Robert Bianc. The infection within you has destroyed you.
This is your [[end]].
You come across a small cluster of children who are huddled over a dainty loaf of bread. They are sharing it as best as they can.
You:
Decide to move away to [[observe any suspicious behaviors]] elsewhere in the tombs. Maybe someone else has some food or information for the taking.
Or
Growl and yell at the children before snatching their [[bread]].
Constant uncertainty has taken its toll. You’ve survived a childhood of petty crime and malnourishment and now, in your twenties, do not see many more years of life possible in your future. An entire life of worry and sorrow have fused into a state-of-being as commonplace; woe is an unmelting iceshard. Your resourcefulness of necessity has made you clever.
You’re through with ‘The Glory of The North’, what good has it ever done you? Somewhere there is a movement that wants more good for the common people than for any crown. People, all people, brought together in unity to make life better: you long to be a part of it all.
You want to forget hunger and cold and know what it is to sleep soundly in a warm bed after a full-day of good works.
Finally, you have an idea of [[where to start]].
Alberich has been under some scrutiny of late. The Lord Commander of the Grimms, Horatio Aquilo recently announced that the grand treasury of Alberich has been suspected of filtering wealth to The Coadunation. While the Thayn of Alberich, Henry Gargrave was preliminarily cleared of any knowledge of the crime, charges against his close staff have been leveled.
A man named Hartly is rumored to be among the supposed Coadunation supporters.
The severe scrutiny of Gargrave’s investigation has sent Hartly into hiding down in the catacombs with the poor.
You surmise that as proof of his involvement with the revolution. Many do.
You have no idea where he could be or what he even looks like. Hartly is a stranger to you; you’ve never heard the name until recently.
You:
Begin to [[ask around]] about how to find Hartly.
Or
Muster the energy to have a walk, roaming to [[observe any suspicious behaviors]] down in the tombs.
You encounter a small group of children huddled around a single fist-sized loaf of clearly stale bread.
You:
Hold your hands up to signify you’re no threat and softly ask, “[[Could you help me find someone]]?”
Or
Move away from the children. They are frightened and hungry. You worry they [[may attack]] to keep their food.
Or
Hold your hand out, demanding, “I want that [[bread]]. Hand it over and stay quiet.”
Hungry and sleepy still, you wander about seeking any sign of anything to help you out of your predicament.
While looking for Hartly it occurs to you that filling your belly has become something of a priority. You’re dizzy from starvation.
At the end of a corridor, you find two branch directions with groups of people at either end.
You:
[[Go left]] toward the group that seems better fed and cleaner.
Or
[[Go right]] toward the group with familiar faces.
The hungry children are frightened. A few of them hold their bodies aggressively like wolves while defending their meal.
You:
Take one step back and leave off [[making eye contact]], “Please. I’m just looking for one person.”
Or
Take steps backward to [[leave them be]].
Or
Snatch the [[bread]] from them.
This group seems untrustworthy in their desperation. The last thing you want to do is frighten the already scared children, or insight violence.
You:
Decide to move away to [[observe any suspicious behaviors]] elsewhere in the tombs.
You steal the bread from the children, who scatter and flee in response.
While taking a bite, you sit against the cold stone wall and chew, blissful to have food in your system.
You wonder at how this tiny thing could have fed five children when you’re near done.
Glancing around the tomb, you spy that you’re not alone. Many other hungry poor are slumped against the sarcophagi and slabs and they all look to you with scorn and anger.
You stole bread from children.
Soon-there-after, you hear the running footfalls returning. At looking up to the approach, countless hands suddenly claw and grab onto you. The others from the small branch tomb hold you down while the five children shove small, sharp blades into your body.
They chant, ‘Justice’.
This is your unsurprising [[end]], Jane. You stole food from starving children.
With your eyes lowered and shoulders slumped, your posture denotes a complete lack of threat to the children.
They respond with easing their tension at your presence.
You notice that there are pockets of onlookers sitting on the floor near to the cold stone walls. They are filthy, hungry, and sick. They watch you closely.
A cough scratches at the air.
You decide to turn to [[leave them be]].
You can’t justify staying there. Nothing seems productive from lingering.
Pondering alternatives, you:
Decide you should try to wander out of the tombs to [[steal your supper]].
Or
Find a way to [[fetch some water]] for those children and sick people.
Too many have fallen ill in the catacombs. It’s known as the ice-curse, and it seems to spread as viciously as anything you’ve ever known. Some people have spoken of the sickness as just the first step in a series of horrific events for anyone infected.
You think on this while walking to find a bucket of some kind. The sick deserve some comfort, no matter how small. At least a little water could soothe their cough, if even momentarily.
It is a fortunate thing that the custom has always been that when one of your kind dies, the poor in the tombs, that the body is ‘committed to the chute’. The dead are deposited down a large ancient hole that is said to lead to a deep hot spring.
It is said that those that die with the ice-curse in their bodies come back to wage vengeance on the living. You’ve never seen that to be the case, but assume that it’s because the sickness seems to need nice, warm conditions to do any real damage.
Death nearby a comfortable fire or wrapped in wonderful furs. It isn’t a thing you worry on much: those down in the tombs are rarely given the occasion to even sweat.
The rich people are sealed in large stone boxes at death. They could be ice-curse monsters, but who would bother to check? Northerners, unless Divine-Bloods are never buried with anything more than the skin they’re born with. No riches to provoke opening a casket.
However, strange sounds have been echoing up from that hot spring pit for some time.
In a vacant back passageway, you find a decorative stone urn. It is unfamiliar black rock and filled with what seems like ancient dried flowers. Near-by is a large wooden bowl with cloth strewn across it. The wood looks like it is the same type used in ship-building.
You’ve never been here before and are quickly finding the place to be uncomfortable, eerie, and uninviting.
The width of the bowl makes it impossible for you to carry both, if filled with water.
You:
Take the strange decorative [[black urn]].
Or
Take the large [[wooden bowl]].
The ancient cloth draped over the wooden bowl seems suspicious. In your experience, any cloth left in such a way was surely used for the preparation of a body for burial. It’s an unnerving thought, and erring on the side of caution, you steer well clear of it, careful to not disturb the dust all over it.
So you reach for the unusual black stone urn. It’s heavier than it looks, smooth, and warm to the touch. When torchlight bounces off it, it produces a red patina. The only stories of master-crafted black stone with red sheen that you’ve ever heard are of the South Hold and their sacred Serpentronum. But why would there be a sacred South Hold urn (where they are known to burn their dead) in a North Hold necropolis? It doesn’t make any sense to you.
While on the topic, the long-dead dried flowers catch your interest as well: flowers do not grow in the North; they are a symbol of the West Hold. And there, within the flowers are magpie feathers. The Royal Guard of the East Hold are The Magpies.
The urn rattles when you move it. The long-dead and dried flowers and feathers do protrude from the top, but something heavy seems to be at the bottom of the urn.
While wondering what to do, you give a quick glance around the room.
You are at the end of a long corridor that had many branching paths which you ignored. You’ve never been here before. You wonder if anyone had, as this strange thing has been left undiscovered since it was first placed here, you surmise.
You [[examine the room]] with the urn still in hand.
As the wooden bowl is larger, surely it will hold more water. You reach for it and the old cloth disintegrates at your touch. It must be far older than you first assumed.
The fibers of the cloth leave a strange film on your fingertips. You try to rub it off on your tattered rag clothes, but little comes away from the grooves of your fingers.
You:
With a reflex of curiosity, you [[smell the residue]]
Or
Sigh at the fruitlessness of rubbing the stuff away and [[lift the bowl]] to find a water source.
After the slightest of sniffs, you suddenly begin coughing. The irritation to your throat, lungs, nose, and even ears is instantaneous. Your hearing shifts to little more than ringing. Balance is lost, and you catch yourself against a sarcophagus.
You glance across the small circular mausoleum and spy a slow drip leak of melt-off from the ice and snows above.
The hacking cough has you barely breathing. The ringing in your ears has the room spinning. You are suddenly very bad off. Little spines feel as if their latching to every bit of soft tissue within your body.
You:
Call out for [[help]].
Or
Crawl to the [[water source]].
You take the bowl into your hands and notice that your fingers have begun to swell. They are growing numb and develop a greenish-purple hue.
In shock, the bowl is dropped to the stone floor. It splits.
The strange and terrible shade, bruise-like moves to your wrists and forearms.
You fall. Your head smashes against the cold floor.
As your eyes begin to fail, you take in the sight of that strange black stone urn.
Fatefully, it is the last thing you saw before your [[end]].
You shout. Your voice is a bright, shrill trumpet to your own hearing. All thickness and muffling part ways at its sound. Your own words are cripplingly loud to your ears.
The pain is immense.
You have to try to crawl to the [[water source]].
The effort it takes to move at all is incredible. You can only barely breathe by this point, your vision is blurring, your skin aches.
Finally you reach the small puddle that has gathered at the base of the slow drip from the snow and ice far above. A small drink soothes for a moment, but the asphyxiation is setting in. The more you drink, the more swollen your breathing passages become.
Poor, Jane. Although you elected to do the kind and good thing, you inhaled spores of The Great Plague. The ice-curse, as your people call it, claimed you swiftly. The only wonder is if you died in such a way that the infection is made to stay dormant within you, or mutate you into a ferocious monster. If rumors ring true, were you warm and damp enough for the spores to spread and take hold? This is your [[end]].
There are no family names, which is odd. Northern tombs are often rife with declarations of accomplishments engraved on the stone sarcophagi.
This room is a plain one, with one entombed casket. Something of a cul-de-sac, it’s basically a cave, really. It’s a little natural bubble in the stone at a far-end of the architecture. Your hungry, sleepy wandering has sent you down a strange path.
Water, from the ice and snow above, drips down into a small collected puddle across the room, near the entrance. You could blindly dump the contents of the urn and fill it with water. That was the original intent, after-all.
It is a confusing and disconcerting scene. While contemplating, you turn back to the solitary grave: there is a faint marking.
You:
Having had enough of the mystery, you [[dump the urn of its items without thought]]. You’re here for the water.
Or
Hold the urn tightly, leaning close to the [[etching on the stone cover slab]] of the otherwise undecorated grave.
It seems all too much for your starving mind to focus on this weird place. You shake out the urn. The flowers, feathers, and something else cracks down to the floor.
You don’t care. You want the water.
As the water fills, you permit your thoughts to hang on the wondering of what it must be like to be important enough to entomb. When you die, you’ll be kicked down a hole. You conclude that there is something horrible to a world in which one death is more observed than the other.
You don’t really matter to anyone.
That sorrow is a heavy one.
You take up the [[filled urn]] and begin the path back. You’ll offer water to the sick, it’s really all you can do.
Your eyes strain. The room is dim. After a few moments, you can only make out that something is there, etched in the stone.
You set the urn atop the sarcophagus and cross the room to dampen your hand in the small puddle that has formed near the entrance.
Returning, you carefully wipe your wet hand across the curious spot on the stone. To your amazement, you’ve uncovered [[a crest]].
You hold the heavy urn close to your chest; water flips up and splashes you as you walk. There are moments in your steps that it feels as if the urn holds you in return: an embrace. ‘It’s an obvious hallucination’, you tell yourself. ‘Starvation and maybe sickness. Can’t be real. Urns aren’t people.’
Those sounds are coming from the pit to the warm spring, again.
Sullen and downtrodden, you decide to [[have a look]]. You just want to prove to yourself that it’s nothing. Just the gurgling of hot water far below.
You grab a dim torch from the wall and lean to the pit. You can’t see anything.
You drop the torch down into the hole, and there you see it:
Scores of moving bodies in waist deep waters far below.
You hold the urn and feel a pull. You’re yanked and tugged toward the fracas below.
You plummet to your [[end]].
There is no name, and the crest is clearly old and worn.
It is a symmetric dragon head with a sword down its length. The sword-tip rests on an opened book. So far as you know, people don’t usually use crests anymore.
It’s beautiful and solicits a surprising emotional response. You’re in awe.
After some time, you shake yourself back to reality. You can’t stand around staring at a long-lost ancient crest until you die.
You:
Grab the urn and [[dump the urn of its items without thought]]. You can’t make sense of any of what you’ve seen and you’d like to just get on with the business of getting the water.
Or
Reach for the urn and [[carefully empty the contents]] onto the sarcophagus.
The brittle flowers crack and crumble as soon as they hit the stone. The feathers fare a little better and rest gentle atop of remains of the flowers.
But, you only tipped the urn slightly. You hear a jingle from within. Something solid and metallic.
You overturn the urn almost completely and make [[two astounding discoveries]].
An iron key attached to a beautiful silver neck-chain slides out onto the flowers and feathers just as you catch notice of the bottom of the urn.
With stunning artistry, the urn bottom is engraved with the same crest as the sarcophagus as well as a name: Spiver.
The key must go to [[Spiver Manor]]: an old home in Alberich that’s been left vacant for generations. No one disturbs the place for the rumor of it being haunted with a Veil curse.
You have a manor key! By all Northern rights, so long as your claim is uncontested, you have a manor! A home!
You have a family name, if you want it! All of the thoughts and zeal swirl around you as a great cloud of comfort. You’re a little stunned and breathless, but this could mean your survival!
You:
Scoop up the urn, place the chain around your neck, tuck the key in your tunic and leave the undercity for the [[main streets of Alberich]] after traveling along a number of long winding paths.
There it is. Past all the sneers and disgust on the rich of Alberich, you finally arrive at the wide steps of Spiver Manor.
It’s ancient. The back of the building is actually part of the old part of the city’s outer-wall. The stories of the place are intimidating.
The Spiver name is part of The Old North. The tale claims that the last Spiver died of age when the Queen was a baby. Although not fond of the royal Divine-Bloods, the Spivers were seen as fairly harmless by that point. Beyond that, you don’t know much.
You, with trembling hands, slip the key in the lock.
It fits.
You [[turn the key]].
This is your home now, Jane Spiver. Fate has called to you, and you’ve answered. You now own Spiver Manor and all of the Spiver holdings in the grand treasury of Alberich.
Soon after locating the papers needed, you pulled enough funds from the copious accounts to send food to the necropolis. Ample food, and also goblets.
With a full stomach, you let your head rest in a bed for the first time in your life.
For now, this is the [[end]]. Your home is under a banner of the dragon, sword, and book, surely we will be revisiting you soon.
You don’t want to get invested in talking to the people on the right. You know them well enough to be fairly sure that they won’t know much anyway.
You turn to the left and enter a small room. The people there are strangers to you, which is a good sign, as this Hartly fellow is fairly new to the necropolis.
“I’m looking for a [[man named Hartly]],” you quietly offer.
You see a group of six people, four of which you recognize from around the tombs. You see them with fair regularity.
“Jane! You look worse for wear, my dear,” says a woman just a bit older than you. She seems more decrepit than her actual age would suggest.
“Bess. How are we?” You nod to Bess and the others that you know before continuing your words, “I wonder if you could help me find someone?”
“Well, I’m not well. You see, Grimms mostly gone. No one to ply trade with. Not really,” Bess is referring to prostitution and the fact that the bulk of the royal guard, the Grimms have been called away to a campaign. It doesn’t much interest you and you’re not keen on being harassed about taking up the occupation.
She can see your annoyance on your face and quickly revisits what you asked, “[[Find who, love]]?”
“I’m looking for a man named Hartly.” You remark.
Bess and the others grow visibly uncomfortable and motion for you to lower your voice.
“No, no. No, you don’t want no Hartly business, my sweet. If you’re looking for what you’re looking for, then he ain’t it.”
You reply:
“What do you mean, [[he ain’t it]]?”
Or
“How do you know [[what I’m looking for]]?”
“You’re looking to join up with the cause, is that it?”
You [[shrug a bit before a nod]].
“You’re looking to join up with the cause, is that it?”
You [[shrug a bit before a nod]].
“Yeah, well. All you’ll find with Hartly is a short prison term and a long death,” Bess whispers. The decay on her breath is sickening.
“What?” you ask in surprise.
“The man’s a fake, Jane,” one of the men, Jimo, remarks. “Old Thayn Gargrave,” he pauses to spit before continuing, “planted that rat down here to weed out members of ‘the cause’. He’s proving his loyalty by being bait for the old watch hound. You steer clear, now. He’s just over there across that corridor. We’re watching, because maybe it’s all too much: them coming down here to kill us off. Innocent or not, they don’t need no provocation to put a blade into any under-dweller.”
Bess nods along and [[begins to cough]].
Jimo and the woman begin to gently pat on Bess’ back. She’s sick. This much is clear.
“Jane, [[fetch some water]], could you?” Jimo asks while shifting a look around the others in the room. “Too many sick these days.”
You nod and seek out what has been asked, avoiding Hartly and the corridor across the way.
“A man named Hartly, you’ve found, my girl,” A well-fed shady looking fellow smirks from the group. The others look to you in a way that makes you feel instantly uncomfortable.
Hartly speaks again, “What can I do for you, young miss?”
You say, “I heard you’re the man to see about joining up. I want to be part of something important.”
“The Coadunation?” He asks. “I’m here to weed all that out. It’s a shame. You’d be a pretty girl if we put some pie in you.”
The well-fed men laugh before standing. They, without any hesitation, beat you to death. None come to your aid, yet many wished they could. Your heart and mind were in the right place, Jane. But you fell into Thayn Gargrave’s Trap. Hartly was just bait for the kill. This is the [[end]].
You have just been appointed the official court title of Pyre Emissary. You are the first Pyre Emissary in eons, Idris I’Na’if.
On the heels of the news of chaos in the East, and through your uncles’ close ties to the Southern Crown, you’ve been tasked with a diplomatic mission. You, who have been known to sneak across the border to the East in the past, have been charged with delivering a message of condolences at the death of the Princess of the East and a gift to her young aunt at the congratulations of her coronation.
This is the first attempt at diplomatic relations between holds in generations. The North Hold is well feared as cold and aggressive, and with the East Hold so vulnerable and the South on the verge of starvation, a relationship of mutual benefit seems possible.
You are not happy to have this dangerous task put to you. You suspect that it is penance for breaking the Law of the Land by having crossed the border previously without authorization.
Your uncle, Nusair I’Na’if is convinced that you were traveling illegally for love; a tale you told for clemency, but that isn’t altogether true. You, and your two appointed companions; Emil and Hamid (both of Na’if, or I’Na’if) traveled because you were told not to. You enjoy the Eastern food, music, and culture. Normally, you enjoy adventure and danger. But court-appointed adventure and danger doesn’t agree with you at all.
At least when told that you were to have two traveling companions, you were permitted the liberty of selecting your own. You selected those you know and trust best.
An hour hence you left the Jubilee of Flame festival at the South capitol, Tephra Keep. The revelry of you and your friends was swiftly interrupted by a brief explanation, tokens of advancement, and orders to leave immediately. You were given the official documents, royal seal, and gift then made to [[be on your way]].
The hot wind of the south blows through the masterfully etched stone corridors of Blood Stone, the temple you serve as a Shrine Maiden. Otherwise, the temple is more quiet and still than has been in as long as you can recall. A small number of acolytes, those nearest to achieving priesthood, have remained at Blood Stone with you and are likely in their chambers in solitary meditation.
You relish this rare calm and tranquility.
Shrine Maidens, unlike acolytes, are not trained at a vocation. There are no ranks and the only testing required consists of a test of the blood. Little girls of particular and spectacular attributes are administered a test to ascertain whether the Blood of Pyrois is within them. Similar boys are tested as well, but if found with divine results, the joining of the priesthood is compulsory. If a girl would rather join the ranks of the priests, rather than committing to a life as Shrine Maiden, they are permitted.
Only the ruler of Tephra Keep may undo that path by presenting a new one.
Both acolytes and Shire Maidens keep their ancestral house names until they take their vows.
Each of the children that Queen Gabija adopted, including the adoption today at the Jubilee of Flame, have the blood traits of Pyrois. If the Queen compels the testing on a boy, a boy is tested.
You are known as a Daughter of the Flame Steed. It is an honored life.
Shrine Maidens keep the divine fires, maintain ultimate order over the priesthood, and see to the everyday workings of the temples.
You are [[revered, honored, and celebrated]].“No lizard cakes. No fire-wine. No dancing,…” Hamid has been complaining about being pulled from the Jubilee of Flame festival since he first realized the he wouldn’t be able to stay for the day. “To travel for a full day and stay for mere moments…”
Emil interrupts, “This complaining. It must stop. Can we not find the celebration in promotions?” Emil is the softer of your two friends; the more calm and thoughtful. “Our dear Idris, here! Years of pushing us to go along with his fevered desires to mix with the East. And now, for our troubles which began at just before we were men, now we see the treasure of deviance!”
You offer a slight smile. In truth, you aren’t pleased with the assignment. “At least we have horses,” you remark. “[[Salido is not far]].”
You three were advised to take the straight path from Tephra Keep to the border of the East Hold. You could have arched your travel toward The Veil, toward your home of Na’if, but would have tacked on a little over a day to the trip.
Two great stone cities lie between you and the border: Salido and Magomed. But from Salido, the city you pass through each time you visit the capitol, you could take the more familiar route and snake north to Na’if. You would pass the temple of Stampede before your hometown of Na’if, then encounter Bahasin and a known opening through the border.
But you travel with an official seal, and have no need to sneak about.
Magomed worries you slightly. It is rumored to be a safe haven for The Coadunation, the revolutionary force for unity. While you support the opening of borders and co-existence with people from the other Great Steed Gods, The Coadunation’s push to destabilize the Holds by way of discarding the Divine Blood Crowns sets your aristocratic mind to dread. You don’t mind ‘the people’, but would rather not be governed by them. Your upbringing has made you more comfortable than most. You don’t really want to be caught with a royal seal by those that you consider thugs and upstarts.
But to travel the familiar path tacks on a good deal of time to the trip while pushing you closer to the great volcano at The Veil. You’ve heard frightening accounts of odd occurrences near The Veil of late. All the same, you’ve always made your way into the East by way of the city of Bahasin.
What do you do?
Continue along the straight but [[unfamiliar path]] knowing that you’ll have to filter through Magomed.
Or
Propose to cut north at Salido to travel [[the familiar]], yet much longer road.
Or
Ask Hamid and Emil what [[they think]].
“Salido is just before us,” you remark. “Beyond that is a small distance to Magomed. Magomed has a gate into the East Hold. With the royal seal we should pass with relative ease, even with the threat of The Coadunation, those hooligans.” You adjust your robes of finery and lift a chin toward your companions. “Satisfactory?”
Emil seems discouraged and offers a hesitant nod.
Hamid aggress emphatically and starts his horse moving again to [[make use of the shorter path]].
Just as all twelve of the horse hooves have moved at least once, a terrific series of screams appears to roar out of the capitol behind you.
“There is good logic to the longer path, friends. Uncertainty will turn to us at every chance on this journey. Let us at least know familiarity while still at home. We will commit to the longer path and know our way well. We will arrive to the East Hold into the village of Apple Run: we are no strangers there. This strategy is a sound one.”
Hamid groans and pouts while shaking his head. It is clear that he dislikes the idea of riding the longer road.
Emil bows his head and softly offers, “my thinking exactly, wise Idris.”
You run the back of your dark hand over your thinned, pruned eyebrows and rake away the collected sweat. Just after your nod and gesture to [[travel the familiar north pass]], a terrific series of screams appears to roar out of the capitol behind you.
You stop your horse which causes Hamid and Emil to stop theirs. They look at you curiously.
“What troubles you?” Hamid asks.
“Our route finds me concerned,” you reply while running a finger over the beading sweat on your thin dark moustache. You explain your thinking to your companions: one way is longer, but seems safer, while the other may be shorter, but likely more hostile. “What should we do, my friends?”
The southern heat is intensifying. Hamid, a larger man than petite Emil, begins to pull and fluff at his light linen tunic to move air around his body, “We are ranked now, are we not, Idris? You outrank the lowly us. This is for you to decide.”
Emil nods, “Yes, which is best for you is best for us.”
You:
Continue along the straight but [[unfamiliar path]] knowing that you’ll have to filter through Magomed.
Or
Propose to cut north at Salido to travel [[the familiar]], yet much longer road.
Or
Express to Hamid and Emil that you really do want to know [[what they think]].
Hamid speaks up quickly. Little provocation was needed, “We should shoot straight through on the path before us, Idris. Shorter should our journey to the East be. Faster to fine Eastern wine and stews. Faster to the music and tobacco and rest.”
Emil shakes his head, “On this I planned to say little. Authority has been granted to you, Idris, and the choice is truly yours. But rash is our colleague. Let us travel the path we know so well, friends. There is safety in familiarity. If given the option between two, on equal foot, I would agree with anxious Hamid: go the route given. But this is not so; there is no equal foot. A little longer is not such a hardship if a little safer.”
Through the deep-carved canyon of the roads, a sound begins to echo off of the stone walls around you. It could be cheers from the festival, although the capitol is a fair distance behind you.
Annoyed to hear the sounds that he is not part of, Hamid continues while gesturing to Emil, “You would have us journey north, north, north? North from Salido to the temple of Stampede. North from the temple to Na’if. North from Na’if to Bahasin and then into the lands of wind and dried leaves? Why would we not go Salido east to Magomed then into the East Hold? There is no sense in it.”
“We are not known in that Eastern town that lies beyond Magomed, Hamid,” Emil pauses while trying to remember the name.
“Linger Leaf,” you remark.
“Yes! Linger Leaf! There beyond Bahasin is Apple Run. A town that knows us and can provide assistance in this journey,” Emil insists. “Besides, who would be in Magomed on this day but thieves and murderers? All good people of Pyrois are there, behind us, at the festival.”
At that you three notice that those sounds of cheers appear to be drawing closer. You pause and turn on your horse, but can see nothing due to the steep roll of an incline on the sandy road. It doesn’t so much sound like cheers from this distance. It sounds like screams.
A decision must be reached. It [[falls to you]].
The inky black swirling tattoos on your rosy skin marks you immediately: you are a Wanderer. A member of the traveling scholar pilgrims that consider the whole of the Four Holds home. The calloused fingers from years of making music, auburn hair, the pink hue of your flesh, and your name, Trelvie, speak of a one-time child of the autumnal East. You’re a bright, beautiful young woman of quick wit and loving temperament. Your mind is full of legends and folklore while you heart is full of affection as suddenly you have found yourself most incurably in-love.
He is a berry farmer with a small farm South-East of the settlement of Ljdot, where the other Wanderers were camped.
‘Were camped’ as you have overslept the depart of your colleagues. There nuzzled close to your new love, Atofus, the afternoon sun wakes you with a start.
Wanderers break camp in the pre-dawn hours. They are the better part of a day of travel ahead of you.
You tumble from the floral vine hammock and fall onto your knees on the smooth wood floor below.
Atofus softly laughs. He has no idea why you’re in a panic.
Frantically, you shake your head and hands, “No. I’m late. They left me!”
While you search out your gray Wanderer robes, Aforus suggests, “Just don’t go. [[Stay with me]].”
Double-click this passage to edit it.Do you choose to side with Hamid and [[make use of the shorter path]], the straight line through Salido to Magomed then into the East at an unfamiliar town called ‘Linger Leaf’? It is a path that you’ve never taken before and Magomed is rumored to be crawling with The Coadunation.
Or
Do you choose to side with Emil and [[travel the familiar north pass]] to your home of Na’if before entering the East Hold through the town of Bahasin? The people of the Eastern village of Apple Run know you three well.
According to their expressions, the screams and shouts from the path behind you toward the capitol, concern your traveling companions as much as it does you.
It doesn’t sound like celebration. It sounds like chaos. It sounds like a riot and violence.
The South Hold has been on the brink of combustion lately. One House Head was imprisoned for the murder of another just before this scheduled festival was to take place. The Queen is holding the festival to celebrate the marriage of her son to the slain House Head’s daughter, as well as announce an adoption of a new heir. The people were already on edge when you three left.
Knowing this you still have difficulty believing that the people of the south would riot. The Queen is greatly loved.
Yet something approaches. The sounds grow in horror and proximity.
“Through Salido. Now,” you command as the three of you quickly make for [[the gates]] of the great pink sand city of Salido at a gallop.
According to their expressions, the screams and shouts from the path behind you toward the capitol, concern your traveling companions as much as it does you.
It doesn’t sound like celebration. It sounds like chaos. It sounds like a riot and violence.
The South Hold has been on the brink of combustion lately. One House Head was imprisoned for the murder of another just before this scheduled festival was to take place. The Queen is holding the festival to celebrate the marriage of her son to the slain House Head’s daughter, as well as announce an adoption of a new heir. The people were already on edge when you three left.
Knowing this you still have difficulty believing that the people of the south would riot. The Queen is greatly loved.
Yet something approaches. The sounds grow in horror and proximity.
“Through Salido. Now,” you command as the three of you quickly make for the gates of the great pink sand city of [[Salido]] at a gallop.
You want to journey the straight line through Salido.
Salido is a beautiful city. Like the other settlements of the South, it is comprised of architecture cut from the Stone Valley canyon that is carved stone edifices on buildings. A soft pink, Salido is unique in the sorts of volcanic rock and sand that comprise its vista. The multitude of bright flags that decorate the railings of balconies and roof ledges give Salido a particularly joyous feel by design.
It stands in stark contrast to the excruciating sounds that bound toward you three. Having been a festival day at Tephra Keep, it is void of foot traffic and the market stalls are closed. Salido itself is very still.
The three of you [[continue forward swiftly]].
You commit to the longer road, and waste no time with lingering.
Salido is a beautiful city. Like the other settlements of the South, it is comprised of architecture cut from the Stone Valley canyon that is carved stone edifices on buildings. A soft pink,
Salido is unique in the sorts of volcanic rock and sand that comprise its vista. The multitude of bright flags that decorate the railings of balconies and roof ledges give Salido a particularly joyous feel by design.
It stands in stark contrast to the excruciating sounds that bound toward you three. Having been a festival day at Tephra Keep, it is void of foot traffic and the market stalls are closed. Salido itself is very still.
Quickly, the three of you cut a [[quick turn north]] at the circular city center.
The various guard posts along Salido seem unoccupied. While the royal crest beaks against your chest form the chain on your neck, you call over to Emil, “Why would there be no one?”
Emil pulls back on his reigns while looking to observe the lack of the Hold guards, The Red Spines. His words urge you to stop for the conversation.
Hamid does the same.
Emil, in confusion remarks, “The festival, perhaps?”
Hamid adds, “No city would be without any guard. If even on festival day.”
You are close enough to the eastern gate of Salido to see the path to Magomed. The gate guards are not present.
So you say:
“[[Change course]]. We should travel north to Na’if. If the South is under siege, we may be moving toward our attackers to go further east.”
Or
“None of this changes that which is at hand. We must carry on [[to Magomed]], quickly.”
Double-click this passage to edit it.“North?!” Hamid protests. “You would have us run these horses further? They are fat, lazy Tephra horses! You ask too much.”
Emil nods and points his horse back toward the north, “I would have preferred this route, but now worry at the pressing threat. If you so wish, north to Na’if, we go. But given this change … truly Magomed seems most safe. The good and great Queen would never send one of Pyrois’ children into a hold that could attack us at any moment.”
“The terror comes from behind, Idris. Not from the East,” Hamid adds.
You say nothing and:
Ride past your colleagues [[at the lead to the north path]].
Or
Nod and continue through Salido [[to Magomed]].
The horses move as swiftly as possible, but it doesn’t take long to hear the closing of the Serpentronum sluice gates all over the hold.
There is a groaning of unfurling and crashing at their sealing.
Once you arrive outside of the temple of Stampede, there is no hope of continuing. The next gate before you is far too close to sealing while far too distant a ride. Behind you, both the gates to Salido and the side-path branch road gate to The Silt Fort are already closed.
A priest of Pyrois comes down the stone steps to greet you with suspicion. He is flanked by acolytes.
“What is the meaning of this?” He clearly views you three as the cause for the [[alarm from Tephra Keep]].
You strain to see if the approaching noise of shouts has a visible source. Vaguely you can make out the sight: it is a huge mass of people running toward the city.
You have no idea why this could be happening and look to your companions in fright.
“Idris, we go,” Emil remarks, urging your horse to move toward the eastern gate of Magomed.
Just as Hamid, with comfort, reaches to touch at the fine linens of your aristocratic robes, it comes to your attention, they are far braver than you. “Come, Idris. We must go.”
You are in something of an unshakable shock and the more you think of it the harder it becomes to function.
They are concerned. The sounds are drawing closer before suddenly the massive creaking of metal rumbles all around you.
“The sluice gates?! Tephra Keep would close the sluice gates?” Emil shouts.
A wide metal gate begins to close by raising at the eastern exit. It is easily surmised that all of the town’s gates are closing. The sluice gates are controlled by an ancient control mechanism at the base of Tephra Keep, and have only been known to be implemented to control the flow of lava when the great volcano of Pyrois erupts.
You search the sky and although you can not see the horizon from the low carved path of Salido, you see no evidence of eruption.
Your companions situate their horses behind your own and coax you to move toward the east gate as quickly as possible.
You regain enough sense to agree with the plan, and, with a nod, [[rush for the gate]].
You ride very hard, and demand as much speed as the horse from Tephra Keep will allow.
The Salido gate slams to a shut behind you. The groan of the Serpentronum metal, the sacred ore of the South, barks as it settles. Ahead, the road is not so long that Magomed can not be seen, but it is a good distance yet.
Your colleagues are with you, although Emil’s horse seems slightly faster.
On the south of the road, there are two feeder paths to the sea. The South Sea is stunning and seemingly endless. You’re nearing the path to the final sea access, very close to Magomed.
Southerners, as the children of flame, are suspicious of the sea. They are not boat builders and utilize the ocean access for little more than the occasional crab when starvation seems most likely.
You draw close enough to Magomed to spy a hooded figure in dark brown linen standing on the city side of the slowly closing sluice gate.
You are amazed and frightened to find [[that gate]] closing also. Although the mass of people that were behind you seem to have been shaved off.
The hooded figure is quickly flanked by a dozen like-dressed individuals.
You three are made to stop your horses just outside of the slowly closing gate.
“News of what happened?” the first figure you saw speaks. She is a [[female of soft voice]].
You feel very exposed while trapped. The three horses are exhausted and huffing, finally through with their galloping.
Taking stock of those that stand in your way, you can feel their eyes peering from under the hoods at the royal crest against your chest.
The one who first stood alone is very thin. They all are.
You are fairly certain that you’re in the presence of The Coadunation.
Time is short with the gate in constant motion. Your companions look to you for a visual cue as to how to proceed.
You:
[[Look to Emil to do the talking]].
Or
[[Look to Hamid to do the talking]].
Or
Speak [[for the three of you]].
“Pressing is the timing of this conversation, Miss,” Emil begins. “Do you mean to not let us pass into the safety of your beautiful city?”
Magomed isn’t beautiful. It’s a labyrinth of narrow paths and multi-stair passageways. Looking past the sentinels, you can see that it seems quite gray and smoky.
The smoke catches your attention. You know that the south burn their dead; they must be in the middle of a funeral. By the volume of smoke, maybe a funeral for many.
“You ride as you do. The gates close as they do. News, I asked. What news do you bring?” The hooded woman is steadfast.
You:
[[Let Emil continue]].
Or
[[Speak up.]]
Hamid is dumbstruck, “Listen! Please. If you and yours would permit us to pass… Official business, this is. Surely we could speak to your satisfaction once we are on the same side of Magomed?”
She replies, “Not one foot closer without explanation. You people of ‘official business’, what are you people doing with the sluice gates?!”
You:
[[Let Hamid continue]].
Or
[[Speak up.]]
You can not allow your companions to bear the responsibility of communication in such a deciding moment. That woman has the ability to end your lives by either imprisonment between gates, or violence. You are outnumbered and would surely expire if she so wished.
When faced with the heavy burden of what the wrong words may cost, you decide to speak up on behalf of the three of you.
[[Speak up.]]The gate is nearing a size too small to pass through, “Please! What are you doing? Why should you lock us out?! We may die if left out here!”
Coldly, she replies “This is done because you are the enemy. You have done this to yourselves, bearers of the Royal Seal. I pray to Pyrois that your death is swift.”
The gates close and the three of you are isolated on the road just outside of Magomed. The perpendicular east/west path behind you is also shut off. You are stranded.
That first day was continued perpetual chaos. The heat, thirst, and exhaustion took a swift toll. Nearby, others were locked in at various points within the sluice structure. Shouts of protests and screams of dread bounced along the canyon walls.
The second day seemed to draw on for a hundred years. All sounds quieted down, save the constant ringing in your ears.
Sometime between the second and last day you unwrapped the royal gift that you were charged with delivering to the crown of the East Hold. It is an exquisite Serpentronum bow forged with legendary Southern craftsmanship. There, at the cusp of death, you look upon it as a useless thing.
Not many days passed beyond that. This is the [[end]] for the three of you. No alliances would be struck between the starving South and the grieving East. You perish from the deadly southern exposure, thirst, and hunger.
“You of The Coadunation. No harm, friends. We travel on like paths,” you quickly offer.
Her response is swift, “What path is this that you speak, Court Official? She shouts toward you. There is interest in her voice.
You claim:
[[“With the duty of diplomacy, we travel in hopes of better relations with the East Hold.”]]
Or
[[“Unity, sister.”]]
Or
[[“The likes of you could not understand.”]]
The gate is nearing a size too small to pass through, “Kind, Lady! Please! Do with us what you will once we are on your side of this, but pass, we must! Our business is most pressing,” Emil begs.
Coldly, she replies “This is done because you are the enemy. You have done this to yourselves, bearers of the Royal Seal. I pray to Pyrois that your death is swift.”
The gates close and the three of you are isolated on the road just outside of Magomed. The perpendicular east/west path behind you is also shut off. You are stranded.
That first day was continued perpetual chaos. The heat, thirst, and exhaustion took a swift toll. Nearby, others were locked in at various points within the sluice structure. Shouts of protests and screams of dread bounced along the canyon walls.
The second day seemed to draw on for a hundred years. All sounds quieted down, save the constant ringing in your ears.
Sometime between the second and last day you unwrapped the royal gift that you were charged with delivering to the crown of the East Hold. It is an exquisite Serpentronum bow forged with legendary Southern craftsmanship. There, at the cusp of death, you look upon it as a useless thing.
Not many days passed beyond that. This is the [[end]] for the three of you. No alliances would be struck between the starving South and the grieving East. You perish from the deadly southern exposure, thirst, and hunger.
She replies as the gates continue to draw to a close, “Such things, ‘better relations’, are things that those in power seek out when those in power begin to suffer. This was not a concern before this moment? When those in power wish to get fatter, they do so on the backs of those who have had nothing for far too long.”
You demand, “To help all people, we are traveling!”
Coldly, she replies “This is done because you are the enemy. You have done this to yourselves, bearers of the Royal Seal. I pray to Pyrois that your death is swift.”
The gates close and the three of you are isolated on the road just outside of Magomed. The perpendicular east/west path behind you is also shut off. You are stranded.
That first day was continued perpetual chaos. The heat, thirst, and exhaustion took a swift toll. Nearby, others were locked in at various points within the sluice structure. Shouts of protests and screams of dread bounced along the canyon walls.
The second day seemed to draw on for a hundred years. All sounds quieted down, save the constant ringing in your ears.
Sometime between the second and last day you unwrapped the royal gift that you were charged with delivering to the crown of the East Hold. It is an exquisite Serpentronum bow forged with legendary Southern craftsmanship. There, at the cusp of death, you look upon it as a useless thing.
Not many days passed beyond that. This is the [[end]] for the three of you. No alliances would be struck between the starving South and the grieving East. You perish from the deadly southern exposure, thirst, and hunger.
She offers the slightest of pauses, clearly knowing her decision must come quickly. With a raise of her hand, she and her flanking comrades step aside.
You are permitted to enter, and do so carefully, but quickly.
The gate seals behind the three of you.
“In a very difficult spot now, Court Official,” she remarks. “Quite surrounded by those that [[do not trust you]]. How is it you speak our words, yet wear the robes of a rich man?”
“Is this so?” she questions. “You know us well enough to call out our name, Coadunation, but think us too dim to comprehend your motives? One lives under the thumb long enough, one can describe the thumb perfectly.”
“The matter is pressing and official. On this we can say no more!” You remark.
She replies as the gates continue to draw to a close, “Such things, ‘better relations’, are things that those in power seek out when those in power begin to suffer. This was not a concern before this moment? When those in power wish to get fatter, they do so on the backs of those who have had nothing for far too long.”
You demand, “To help all people, we are traveling!”
Coldly, she replies “This is done because you are the enemy. You have done this to yourselves, bearers of the Royal Seal. I pray to Pyrois that your death is swift.”
The gates close and the three of you are isolated on the road just outside of Magomed. The perpendicular east/west path behind you is also shut off. You are stranded.
That first day was continued perpetual chaos. The heat, thirst, and exhaustion took a swift toll. Nearby, others were locked in at various points within the sluice structure. Shouts of protests and screams of dread bounced along the canyon walls.
The second day seemed to draw on for a hundred years. All sounds quieted down, save the constant ringing in your ears.
Sometime between the second and last day you unwrapped the royal gift that you were charged with delivering to the crown of the East Hold. It is an exquisite Serpentronum bow forged with legendary Southern craftsmanship. There, at the cusp of death, you look upon it as a useless thing.
Not many days passed beyond that. This is the [[end]] for the three of you. No alliances would be struck between the starving South and the grieving East. You perish from the deadly southern exposure, thirst, and hunger.
Hamid and Emil are nervous but grateful. They are hesitant to make eye contact with those that surround you three.
You are made to do the talking:
“I speak your words and know your heart, sister. Wealth divides us yet [[hope connects us]].”
Or
“We are made well aware of the things you criminals whisper to one another. You have done your [[House and Hold a service]] by letting us pass.”
She sizes you up. “I am Izledo.”
You:
Offer [[your name]].
Or
Thank her for doing her [[House and Hold a service]].
“You think we celebrate service to this Hold? This arrogance of power has created many enemies for many crowns, Sir. Today you will die. Know that she who decided this is named Izledo. I am without House and without Hold.”
With that, you three are yanked from your horses, stripped of robe and riches, and bludgeoned to death. This is your [[end]].
You offer a hand toward her. Her hand is emaciated and ashen. “I am Idris I’Naif, Izledo. The Queen has tasked us with travel to the East Hold to offer condolences to a hurt people. We go to offer help and ask relief for our own hurting people.”
She nods while looking over your companions. “You are not Coadunation, yet mean Coadunation no harm?” She focuses back to you and your royal seal worn around the neck.
“We want peace and healing, Izledo. We are to be aggressive to none.”
She points to the carefully wrapped parcel that is strapped to the horse. It is the gift. “What is this?”
You:
Avoid the question while thanking her for doing her [[House and Hold a service]].
Or
Unstrap the gift from your saddle harness to [[show her]].
You carefully unfurl the lizard-skinned wrapping from the gift. It is a splendid Serpentronum bow, crafted with legendary Southern expertise.
Impressed, she nods, “This is an exquisite gift for the East. A good symbol.”
The other Coadunation members draw closer to get a look at the bow. Sounds of awe rumble from their hungry throats.
Izledo continues, “We will, in the name of unity, give you water and show you the way. We have no food to offer.”
Grateful, you begin to re-wrap the bow, “Our aim is Apple Run, I believe?”
She shakes her head “Everhearth. It is an Inn. Apple Run is not friendly.”
And with that, Idris I’Naif, you are provided safe passage into The East Hold and are led, by way of coiling secret tunnels, safely to Everhearth. For now, this is the [[end]] of your very important mission.
“Sir, I am Idris I’Naif,” you begin.
“You three are known well, Idris I’Naif! Pretty criminals of treasonous intent! All know of your deviant ways! To come and go as you please? One would think you stole that trinket you wear!”
The priest of Pyrois is clearly not fond of you, Hamid, and Emil. Many Southern Authority figures dislike the tales of the ease of your past travels and would surely not be pleased with the ‘punishment’ of an elevated station and royal seal.
But word of your advancement has not traveled as quickly as the screams and shutting sluice gates. He clearly pegs you three as the cause of the commotion. His anger is mounting. The acolytes are growing tense at the exchange.
You respond:
“Be calm, old man. With [[true purpose]] we ride. The chaos from the direction of Tephra Keep confuses us as much as it does you.”
Or
“You awful old lava-worm! For too long have you spoken to us with such rotten words! When we were but small things you would move us alone with thrown stones of anger. You [[terrible loveless beast]].”
You find it difficult to keep level-headed and calm. The screams from outside of the shut sluice gates appear locked in place at various points and distances on the path. You have no idea what would have triggered such an action, and fear the worst: the Queen must have been attacked or killed.
You, Hamid, and Emil are drenched with perspiration. The short beginning to the long journey has presented as far too eventful thus far.
“Priest, I beg of you: water please,” you give soft words and overturn your hands to try to ease the fright of the temple-folk. “Tephra Keep was generally joyous when we left. We were sent out before the Queen addressed the people. Diplomatic orders are ours.”
The priest nods away a young woman that you think you may recognize, but can not place from where you know her. “Water for the travelers,” he mutters before turning his words back to you,
“Idris I’Naif: this royal seal dangling from your neck, at the head of obvious turmoil from Tephra Keep: it is odd, young man. It is very odd.” He gives Emil and Hamid a look over [[before turning back to you]].
You have a history with the old priest and it is true that he would curtail your past youthful loitering with small thrown stones.
He cocks his head at your tone of voice.
Hamid and Emil are uneasy with the way you speak to the priest of Pyrois.
Yet, you continue:
“To find fresh water, this is what you should do. We travel with royal blessing and this recent chaos has built a thirst. Have your students find us drink,” you nod with hostility to the row of acolytes.
One of the acolytes looks particularly familiar as a relation to Cyrus I’Demai, House Head of Demai. She seems less nervous about the sluice gates and echoing sounds of hysteria than the others.
She seems less concerned with the way in which you speak.
She also seems to recognize you as well as you do her.
“May Pyrois strike you down for such demands of a priest,” she hisses. Her words appear more opportunistic than sincere. She is flat and even in her words.
“[[Water, now]],” you growl in her direction.
The priest waves acolyte I’Demai off to fetch the water you demanded before he continues speaking to you, “This hostility is undue. Never once had you been struck by a stone and yet you whine. What had transpired on the path behind you?”
You shake your head while accepting the water, “This I do not know.”
Acolyte I’Demai watches you as if challenging you to drink.
You:
Open your grasp, and [[drop the water]], urging your companions to do the same.
Or
Scoff and [[drink the water]].
The water falls to the steaming stone below. The priest is perplexed.
“Did you not just claim to desire drink?” He is aggravated; his acolytes are on edge. “Why would you do such a thing?” he demands.
A few of the young acolytes draw closer. They seem to suspect you’re dangerous and are leery.
“Answer, traitors!” The priest shouts. He is intimidating and overbearing. “Answer!” he repeats, triggering a young acolyte to [[lunge at you]], as if in protection of his priest and temple.
You drink the water. Emil and Hamid do the same. With swift onset, you feel as if you’re choking. All the blood in your body seems to be pooling in your head. Your heart pounds and fights like a fly on a spider web.
Emil and Hamid are also suffering.
The priest begins to shout; he clearly has no idea why you would react in such a way to the water: once a drink, now on the stony ground. In fearful zeal, he turns to the acolytes and remarks,
“See this? Pyrois stikes down the traitors!” Whether or not he believes it, it certainly is a handy claim of opportunity.
I’Demai, concealed from most by her exuberant and confused brethren, is grinning.
Her grin is the last thing you, Emil, and Hamid will ever see. Poison, a rare and unfamiliar weapon in the South, has been your [[end]].
Only one living person knows it happened that way.
The young acolyte, no more than aged to his middle-teens, looks up into your eyes with terror in his.
Heat begins to swell from just above your waistband. It is hot, sticky, and wet. Growing lightheaded, you break your gaze to spot the area just beneath your ribs. The boy has deeply stabbed you.
You re-examine his face, searching for answers. You do not see anger or hatred. You see a young man who felt you were threatening a person and place that he held sacred. He heard the priest call you a traitor and a deviant, so he reacted. He did a thing that seemed right to him.
You reach for the boy and slide off the horse to the dirty stone ground. Vaguely you witness Emil and Hamid lash out before they are overtaken by the mob. You, at your [[end]], surmise that they have died too.
“To where do you travel, my son?” he asks you as water is presented by the strange, familiar woman to the three of you. The priest is clearly still hesitant to believe that his temple and students are not in danger. The acolytes obviously sense his trepidation.
Before you answer, you study the water. You have instant, uncomfortable suspicions relating to that young woman acolyte.
The other acolytes are edgy.
You remember: that woman is an I’Demai. She is a relation of the House Head of Demai, Cyrus.
You are very thirsty, and so [[drink the water]].
Or
You shake your head to Emil and Hamid and [[drop the water]].
This morning you are also peaceful, enjoying a calm and quiet of which you are not accustomed.
The small pocket of acolytes that remained are in their morning meditations. The other three Shrine Maidens, all of which stayed at Blood Stone, are presumably off elsewhere in their morning duties.
You smile while gazing into a fountain: a small bubbling thing that is pumped up from a hot spring below. In the center of the fountain is the sacred statue of Pyrois: mane and tail roaring an eternal and sacred fire.
While glancing at the fire, you feel an overwhelming sense of sudden anxiety. Dread wraps around your peace like a tourniquet. Some creeping feeling comes over you [[from the shadows]].You hear a whisper. A pair of voices exchanging words.
The roar of the fire obscures the conversation. The bubbling of the water makes finding the location of the speakers difficult.
The fountain courtyard at Blood Stone is a spheric place, as if formed from a great bubble of air escaping lava eons ago. The fountain itself sets at the middle of the sphere while the far edges, floor and top have had the hand of master craftsmen etch away at architectural embellishments. There are many passages, like veins, into the core of the temple.
You search out the voices while staying near the fountain, but can see no one.
You either:
Call out for [[an explanation]].
Or
Say nothing, [[pretending to hear nothing]].“Who is there?” You call out.
There is no response.
Unsatisfied with the silence, you call again “Your voices betray you. I know you’re there. Come out.”
Your voice bounces around the stone. You appear to be alone with your echo.
You:
Begin [[looking around although worry]] at the type that would want so badly to be unseen.
Or
Quit the place altogether. It could have been your imagination. You clasp your hands together and begin walking toward the eating hall. The scent of [[spiced chai and roasting lizards]] wafts toward you.The voices seem more desperate, more frantic.
You:
[[Continue to seem to hear nothing]].
Or
Decide you’d like [[an explanation]] and call out.It goes on for a handful of moments. There is a strange nature to the event: while you would expect that whispering would occur so as to not disturb others during a time of meditation, it has scarcely ever been so quiet as to actually hear whispering bouncing around the halls of Blood Stone so obviously.
It lessens before fading out of notice. Whatever it was, it’s gone now.
You clasp your hands together and begin walking toward the eating hall. The scent of [[spiced chai and roasting lizards]] wafts toward you.You pass a pair of acolytes that seem invested in a conversation.
They place their hands onto their chests and bow their heads at your approach, “Sister Noga,” they both remark in kind greeting.
“Acolytes,” you reply with a nod of your head.
You:
Continue down the corridor toward the [[eating hall]]
Or
Ask them about [[their conversation]].The hall itself is on the outermost wall of Blood Stone. The main entrance welcomes visitors right into the dining chamber.
You walk past the long serving table and lift a hot stone cup of chai. With so many temple members gone, and with acolytes normally taking their meal before meditation, the smaller-than-usual food selection has been picked-over.
You are alone with a small pocket of slow moving acolytes.
It occurs to you that it is strange that you haven’t encountered any of your fellow Shrine Sisters, yet. Rather than sit at all, you stroll to the giant entry-way and enjoy the smooth chai.
There you stand for a long while. You’re waiting to see if your colleagues might appear. Their absence [[triggers anxiety]]“What is this you speak on, my young ones?” Your voice is calm and warm.
“Yes, this is most welcomed, Sister Noga, as perhaps you could be of some help!” The one on the left replies.
The one on the right nods but puts a hand to his companion’s shoulder and adds, “Perhaps the sister would find this talk distasteful? Boring, even? We should not wish to trouble you.”
You:
Reply, “Yes, boring. It probably is,” before continue along to the [[eating hall]].
Or
State, “The things which acolytes think and say always interests me, young ones. To me, this talk would be a joy,” and nod to them to [[speak on]]. The procession from Blood Stone to Tephra Keep, under the leadership of Blood Stone’s High Priest, departed yesterday evening. Other than that, nothing unusual has caught your notice.
You urge the [[gesticulating acolyte to continue]].Thankful for an ear, he recounts while his companion rolls his eyes and waves a hand, “You see. The odd begins with a Red Spine patrolling before escorting the entourage along to the Jubilee of Flame. The concern is not in presence of a royal guard on duty, but rather, that which she said … that which seemed to [[start all of the strangeness]].” With very little pause or provocation, he continues, “The Red Spine had been traveling from the fortress of Ash Barren, just to our west. She traveled alone, which I found strange with immediacy. I do not know whether she claimed that her cohorts were venturing before or after her, but I know she alone swayed most all the events that followed.
"Why would the high priest go to the Jubilee of Flame? That is unusual in itself, is it not? How many high priests do you think have gone from temple to Tephra for this festival? They are private creatures that do not care to stray far from their home, our priests. I clearly heard the Red Spine suggest in a strong tone that our priest attend while in the company of ‘as many from Blood Stone as possible.’”
“She suggested and he agreed?” the other acolyte asks, seeking clarification.
He nods, “This is what I tell you strikes me as a very odd start to a very off string of events, my friend! But there is more to [[this tale]]!”He lowers his voice and draws both you and the other acolyte closer to hear the words, “Then they leave just after evening meal last night. We are closer than most anyone to Tephra Keep, my friends, so a journey so near-to nightfall does little to concern me. But at the gate, she turned to the High Priest and remarked that Cyrus I’Demai ‘appreciates his understanding’!
Why should Cyrus I’Demai have any say in any temple affair?!”
“The House Head of Demai?” you muse curiously.
The more reserved acolyte nods to indicate that you are correct before remarking, “To get involved or invested in this is most unwise, I should think.”
“No, my brother, [[but there is more]]!” The first acolyte demands.House Demai is the seat of one of the eight great cities of the South Hold. Cyrus I’Demai is in charge of Demai. Despite his lofty position in the Hold, he should have no honorable need to ask a High Priest for understanding so secretly. Much less have a royal guard Red Spine running messages for him.
You know your facial expression collapses as a frown falls from your lips. This acolyte is correct: the news is most unusual.
You:
[[Choose to hear more on this]]. You have a duty to see that the integrity of Blood Stone is not compromised by underhanded scheming.
Or
[[Withdrawal from the conversation completely]]. You can not possibly know that which is between the High Priest and his associates. It is none of your concern to question it.Consternation washes over the three of you. The news is most unsettling.
A young female acolyte approaches as a secretive hush is held between you and your companions. They refuse to look at her as she offers you a chai with a kind mention, “The morning meal is nearly gone, Sister. A drink for you before none remains.”
You offer a lift of your chin, this young acolyte is always so pleasant and wishing to please. You know her well, and accept the hot beverage.
She scuffles off [[with a wave]].You can’t possibly participate in humoring rumors about the High Priest. Acolytes are known to do these things from time to time. The path of study and faithful discipline lacks entertainment: stories develop, unease runs wild.
You bow your head and excuse yourself to the [[eating hall]].
The acolytes seem embarrassed and wish you well.You begin to quietly creep over to a pillar. All of the pillars in the room cast deep shadows to the passages; the distance that you can see is limited.
The sound of scuffling sandals catches your notice. As you turn to study the direction of the noise, a blunt crack lands against the [[back of your head]].You crumple to the floor. All that you can see is bright shots of light before darkness. Your ears ring, but can hear well enough to identify the voices finally.
A pair of Shrine Maidens, your sisters of faith begin to [[weep and panic]].The place on the stone floor where your cheek landed begins to pool with hot, sticky blood. Your nose fills with the scents of iron and sulphur.
One speaks with palpable anxiety, before the voices of the two mesh into each other, “No! What have we done? What have we done?”
“You have, not I! Why would you strike her so hard?”
“Oh, sister Noga!”
“She must have heard.”
“She’s going to die!”
“Leave her! We have to go!”
"What do we do?"
“If she heard, … [[sad, but this must be]]. We must go! Now!”They were up to something, you know. An accidental death is still a death and so here your life concludes, Shrine Maiden Noga. A strike a little too hard from a frightened hand has spelled your [[end]].The small cell of acolytes have gone.
A few more have turned up, it must be nearing mid-day meal.
The food items from the morning meal have not been cleared; nothing fresh has been prepared.
Your sisters made the morning preparation, yet have [[not been back since]]?You force a smile of apology to the acolytes who, although confused, do not mind so much as the day is a leisurely one.
Looking down into the empty stone chai cup, you sigh and begin to move toward the cooking pit.
When suddenly, chaos seems to erupt from the direction of the massive entrance. From the direction of the nearby capital, the site of the Jubilee of Flame, [[Tephra Keep]].Eyes wide, you reach to set the empty stone cup on a table, but misjudge the distance and it crashes to the floor.
The acolytes in attendance begin to rush the entrance at the spectacle. As the approaching screams grow, other acolytes flood into the eating hall from other parts of the temple.
They spill out into the outer courtyard.
You:
Call them [[back in and try to calm]] the situation.
Or
Follow them [[out into the courtyard]].They don’t listen. It’s obvious that the screams are coming from scores of people that are fleeing Tephra Keep in horror.
Now a creaking comes: the sluice gates that divide and protect the cities, forts, and temples from harm, are beginning to close.
The eating hall is fitted with a pair of gates. One to lock in the outer courtyard, and one to lock the eating hall from the rest of the temple. The design was created to make a safe area for the temple members to withstand a long stretch with food and water.
Blood Stone is otherwise situated with it’s back to the black sands of the bleak, sweating sea.
You stand between the only two sluice gates; it is the safest place in all the Temple.
As long as the acolytes stay within the courtyard, none will be locked out.
But where are your Shrine Maiden Sisters?
You:
Have to stay where you are. You have a responsibility to [[protect the young acolytes]].
Or
Have to leave the safety of the eating hall to seek out the other [[three Shrine Maidens]].In an attempt to gain control of the situation, to step up onto a courtyard table and demand, “Back to the hall!” As your words escape your mouth, you see the massive number of runners coming your way.
The gates are drawing closer to closing. You will have to save as many as you can, but know that they [[will not all make it]].You can’t leave them, they’re panicking at the sight of Southerners screaming in fear.
In an attempt to gain control of the situation, you step up onto a table and demand, “Back to the hall!” As your words escape your mouth, you see the massive number of runners coming your way.
The gates are drawing closer to closing. You will have to save as many as you can, but know that they [[will not all make it]].Blood Stone, hollow and silent, is like a tomb. All of the remaining acolytes seem to have made it to the eating hall before the gates closed.
There is an eeriness to the quiet; the muffled shouts behind you fade as you move away from the gate.
Your sandals scrape along sacred floor. You feel watched, and for the first time in the temple, unsafe and vulnerable.
You hear no sign of any living thing, but [[call out in desperation]]. Jumping down from the table, you run to the entrance and begin to yank the acolytes back into the eating hall. Their presence in the courtyard will surely limit the amount of people [[who can enter]]. Most have caught on to the concept that they need to stand back to accept the refugees.
People begin spilling in, the courtyard is packed as some filter into the hall.
The gates are nearly closed.
You:
Have time to see about the missing Shrine Maidens, but will be unable to get back until the [[gates re-open]].
Or
Stay with the [[refugees and acolytes]].You quickly leave the scene of madness, the tightly packed mass of refugees and acolytes, and slip out of the inner sluice gate just before it closes.
You vow to find the [[three Shrine Maidens]] and shutter at the prospect of a long lock-out. All of the supplies for survival are found in the eating hall.It seemed like the right choice. Really, it was the most honorable path, to stay where your duty dictates.
But sometimes fate doesn’t care about right and wrong.
The food and water hold up well. The chaos came from the assassination of the beloved Queen. A week has passed and in that time you’ve learned that of those Blood Stone took in, a few were sick with the plague, many more now. [[Including you]].The skin on your hands began to slide off from the muscle. A cough never really seemed to hound you, yet for many others it was debilitating.
Your senses began to fade. Your thoughts were foreign and indecipherable.
The last thing you did was to chew on the foot of an acolyte with no idea why.
Whatever you’ve become, for Noga, this is the [[end]].“Sisters?! Noga seeks you! Speak, please!”
You are greeted with your own echo and [[nothing else]].You haven’t seen them all day and worry about their fate. Looking up at the hall of sleeping chambers, you wonder if you might have better luck down in the holding cells.
You:
Climb the stairs to the [[sleeping chambers]].
Or
Descend the steps to the [[underbelly holding cells]].You grow fearful. Blood Stone has never seemed so foreboding.
Whispers seem to slink past your ears.
The climb of the stairs is proving too horrifying.
“Sisters?” You call from the mid-way point of the steps.
No sound comes.
You:
Continue [[up the stairs]].
Or
Think better of it and [[descend to the cells]]. It’s too quiet for anyone to be up there, anyway.Down the tight spiral stone steps you go. The cells are rarely used now, but have a long history as the preferred method of discipline among other High Priests.
“Sisters?” You call out.
A pair of voices [[reply]].“Sisters?” You whimper while stepping [[onto the landing]].You can find no strength to go any further up, and so change directions to the [[underbelly holding cells]].From out of nowhere a young woman appears.
You don’t know her.
She seems terrified. She seems hunted.
Before you have a chance to speak, she shoves at you and you crash down the stone stairs, falling to your tragic and violent death. This is the [[end]] of you, Noga.“Noga! We are here, dear sister!” One proclaims.
The other cries, “In the cells! Down here!”
You quickly run and come upon the shocking sight of two Shrine Maidens in a [[pair of cells]].“What is this?” you demand. “Who did this to you? Where are the keys?”
The younger one whimpers, “Sister Amma has put us here. There is a I’Demai hiding in Blood Stone. She helps her! They put us here!”
“Sister Amma? Why would she do such a thing?” You ask.
The other [[Shrine Maiden responds]].“We found the I’Demai, last night. There was a Red Spine seeking her. Sister Amma hid her away. We agreed to that, this is true. But wanted to question the I’Demai this morning! We were dutiful and did our morning tasks, us two, but Sister Amma was nowhere to be found! When we finally found her, she said that the I’Demai needs help, but the I’Demai is a criminal: a dangerous one! She speaks of assassination of the Queen and capture of The Wanderers. She blames Cyrus I’Demai for many grave acts! She must be stopped! She has poisoned Sister Amma with these lies!”
Just as the Shrine Maiden finishes her words, you are grabbed from behind by four hands and shoved [[into a cell]].As soon as you can recover, you turn to see Sister Amma and a young woman, the I’Demai.
“I am so sorry, Noga,” Amma says. Her soft voice is truly apologetic. “We will come back.”
“I mean no harm,” The young woman begs, “I need help. The Queen is in danger. My uncle… Cyrus I’Demai… he had Wanderers, many Wanderers trapped at Demai.”
“We will come back,” Amma repeats while the other Shrine Maidens scream in protest. “We saw you at the great fountain, but did not know if you would believe… [[we will come back]].”But they never do come back.
Days pass and you three rot with no food or water.
The more the other Shrine Maiden speak, the more Amma seemed right. The young woman in Amma’s care was sincere in her fear while your sisters, in their hatred, were narrow and blinded by the faith that a house head would never harm the crown.
It begins to make more sense: all that chaos from Tephra Keep.
The girl was like a frightened animal. Why behave like that unless hunted? Why hunt her unless she knows a thing about another’s wickedness.
You [[grow weak]].In the last moments of your life, you reach for a stone and etch at the floor next to your body.
‘If the queen dies, Cyrus I’Demai and Wanderers lost.’
This is your [[end]], Shrine Maiden Noga. At least a message lives on locked away with your body.The talkative acolyte closely watches her retreat before deeming her distance far enough to continue without unwanted ears. Quietly, he whispers on, “The Red Spine was looking for a fugitive. An I’Demai fugitive.”
The other acolyte interrupts as if he had heard this news from his friend a few times today, “So then why empty the Temple? Eha? Why tell only the High Priest? This makes no sense!”
You nod toward the talkative acolyte, somewhat in agreement [[with the other’s skepticism]].“What is there to not believe or understand?” The talkative one asks with exasperation. He turns his attention directly to you, “Your sisters? Where are the other Shrine Maidens?”
You don’t know. The realisation concerns you. [[You sigh]].“Keep it in your mind, sister. It’s all very odd.” The talkative acolyte bows his head as they both depart.
You nod, mulling over the information [[before turning to enter the eating hall]].The hall itself is on the outermost wall of Blood Stone. The main entrance welcomes visitors right into the dining chamber.
You walk past the long serving table with the hot stone cup of chai already in hand. With so many temple members gone, and with acolytes normally taking their meal before meditation, the smaller-than-usual food selection has been picked-over.
You are alone with a small pocket of slow moving acolytes.
The mention that you haven’t encountered any of your fellow Shrine Sisters, lodges in your mind. Rather than sit at all, you stroll to the giant entry-way and enjoy the smooth chai. That young acolyte had much to say, so much of interest, your unhappy thoughts turn to conspiracy.
There you stand for a long while. You’re waiting to see if your colleagues might appear. Their absence [[triggers anxiety]]The one on the left is eager to include you in their conversation while the one on the right sighs with a shake of his head.
The left one speaks, “On the topic of the odd night, we were speaking, Sister.”
“This last night?” You ask curiously.
They both nod as the one on the right remarks, “Nothing, Sister. It is all probably nothing, yet my friend here thinks odd things are afoot, you see. He is one to be humored when he gets a thing on his mind.”
The left one grows visibly flustered and gesticulates, “It is odd! From [[last night]] to today! Strange happenings!”Double-click this passage to edit it.8 Souls of The Four Holds is an interactive novel experience that bridges the events of the first and second volumes of E.M. Knowles’ novel quartet The Four Holds.
The events and characters of the game serve as a backdrop to the vast narrative presented in the lands of The Four Holds. While knowledge of the novel series enriches the playthroughs, the interactive novel was carefully crafted for the enjoyment of anyone. Please note that the game depicts death, grief, violence, and difficult moral decisions. Player discretion is advised.
Thank you for playing,
-EMK & Despoina Games
Please enjoy and enter, [[You, of The Four Holds]].