Quest I. Vox Populi, Vox Dei [Priskil marked + Torc]

[Tarot]

Chapter I, which takes place on the eighty-first day of Summer in the year five-hundred and eleven After Valterrian. So you would hear the tale of Priskil, the goddess of radiance, and those who rallied around her. Hers is not an easy story to tell, and certainly her trials have stifled far more eloquent quills than mine; but I shall try to render justice to the worthies who stood by her side when no-one else would. Let us honor the thought of those who lived and the memory of those who fell. More woman than goddess in spirit, Priskil surrounded herself with noble, though often troubled, souls. Their talents were irrelevant to her. She did not choose them based on gender, race, abilities, or social status. Those who brought the light of hope into the world came from every walk of life, and scattered to the four corners of the world. No matter what roads they may tread, however, Priskil was never too far away. She had no messenger but herself. She was always there when it made a difference. Discreet and efficient, she was never without the word that rekindled hope when hope was lost. Rarely did Priskil herself appear with a request for her chosen ones. But on a certain day roughly five centuries after her lover's heart had been snatched by the world's greatest wizard in a manner most treacherous, she came asking for a favor, please and thank you. How long is five centuries? Long enough to most mortals, a sliver of time to a goddess. Yet they had felt like five million years to Priskil, and her heart ached no less than on the first day. “I would ask that you follow me home, if you please,” said the goddess, making herself known to each and every one of her marked. Her guise depended on the person, and was designed so as to attract the least attention to her. Priskil was fond of dressing like a flower seller, a temple handmaiden or even a tavern girl. It was jokingly said among her followers that she knew the menu of every inn and establishment in the world, and she actually came close. She sometimes took up the armor of the Syliran Knights to appear among their ranks, when it couldn't be helped. She was fortune teller, nondescript traveler, shepherdess, and many more. She started contacting every person with her marks at daybreak. By sunset she was done, for her speed, if nothing else, had no match in the pantheon. Those with important business on their hands were excused, as well as the sick and wounded, and those who needed the utmost secrecy on their current quest. Everyone else, she thanked and wrapped in a spiral of swirling light as soon as they were out of sight. Most marked of Priskil knew that taking people with her as pure light was taxing upon the goddess and upon the Watchtower system on which she anchored herself for this power to take effect. Today must be a special day in more ways than one. There was only one who didn't have her mark and still received her visit. His name was Torc Ironwood, maker, and he lived in Wind Reach. To him the goddess bowed her head a little and said words of thanks after simply flashing into his chambers. “Kelwyn have told me, Master Ironwood. I would take you to my home and introduce you to my friends. They have stood in my name more times than I can count, and any decision I make concerning the present situation, I will make with them.” For many a friend of Priskil, this was the first time visiting home. Those who came from the south immediately felt the chill of Talderan climate on the edge of fall. Their journey lasted no more than a few seconds of kaleidoscopic tunnel lights, and they emerged on the other side slightly dizzy, but unharmed. They might feel like they had shrunken, though, because the trees all around them were of the Talderan variety, and tall beyond belief. They stood in a secluded clearing in the middle of a wild forest. An old Watchtower lay there, just another pinnacle amidst the trees, and not even among the tallest. Another building rested right next to the Watchtower, not nearly as tall. You could call it a temple, or you could call it a home, or you could call it a barracks. It was all that and more, and the goddess herself would show each visitor inside. The building was at least two centuries old, but the Order of Radiance maintained it constantly. The tiled floor was always clean and running a finger on the antique furniture passed the dust test. Pictures of past friends of Priskil, with captions indicating their names, dates of birth and death, and deeds done in life, gave warmth to the walls. There were kitchens and dining rooms downstairs, and bedrooms on the three stories above. As well, other rooms had been outfitted for training sessions and the Order had been assembling a growing library on the most disparate subjects. While extremely useful, these rooms were mere accessories next to the One Hall in the center of the ground floor, where Priskil led each one of the marked. There, past a set of double doors, sat an enormous round table where the Order of Radiance gathered. Chairs were arranged around the table as well as against the walls; there was no furnishing aside from that, and the room was so wide its reverberation could be called an echo. Priskil would escort each person to the doors and then excuse herself as she vanished to collect the next guest. The people in the room paid little attention to Priskil: there was no greater proof of familiarity with someone than being completely at ease with their appearance. But, with the exception of the Zagaria regulars, the marked people did not know each other for the most part. By the end of the day there would be hundreds of faithful in the room. Some ventured outside or upstairs to read a book or get some food from the kitchens. Some just plopped down on a chair and dozed off: while a huge round table might convey knightly images, a majority of Priskil's marked were anything but. Elderly scholars and young urchins stood side by side with noble warriors. Mostly people mingled, and exchanged theories on the nature of the summons. No-one knew much at all, except Torc, of course. But Priskil told him to wait for her before sharing anything. On this night the future of Aquiras would be decided.

[Xalet]

Xalet had been in the middle of training when it had happened. Then again, when was he not? Sergeant Irine Braklin knew how to make herself a strong squire. A literal strong squire. The akalak often found himself carrying out some strange laborious task, one that ended quite similarly every time, with his muscles feeling like a well whipped jelly and his feet about to fail him. The task of the day involved heaving a large sandbag over a wall, climbing over to retrieve it, and then tossing it up and over the opposite way. The necessity of it was apparently to get an injured ally over an obstacle and to safety, of course with the various ways the sandbag was hitting the ground after it was unceremoniously tossed over, Xalet had his doubts.

Sergeant Braklin had said earlier that this day felt like it was going to be a momentous day, and for that reason had Xalet sample some of her newest nutritional supplements. It was a liquid. Or, at least it appeared to be in liquid form. With a deep green tone, the squire understood there to be some various parts of protein within it, along with broccoli and wheat grass. She had said something about peppers, but he felt no burning in his throat and rationalized them to be the 'non-spicy' variety. There was a certain texture to it. He imagined it to be much like drinking mud after a fresh rain.

Sometime inbetween "warming up" and "exhausted" the lady had come to him, her wardrobe reminded him of a stable hand. Her request had Xalet dropping that sandbag upon his own two feet, trying in vain not to appear so surprised. Of course he accepted graciously and followed his Goddess in a way he could have never imagined.

The floating plethora of lights were beautiful and almost nauseating. The way they moved, the speed, the sensation had that strange sludge-like shake working it's way back toward Xalet's mouth, though luckily he possessed the willpower to keep it down. When the travel came to a stop he felt the world continue to spin for a moment before it righted itself. The way it righted was enough to make Xalet dizzy a second time. As large a man as he was, his surroundings felt imposing in a way that wasn't easily definable by an akalak.

He soon found himself inside of the building, stunned enough by the entire event to keep his words completely to himself, if he even had any to share. Others were there, though none that he recognized. The young, the old, the big and the small. His worn out second-hand platemail, the very same training armor he wore during all of his training and exercises gave him pause before entering, but all those about him looked as if they could give no mind what the akalak came clothed in.

[Torc Ironwood]

Torc had been searching for answers every since meeting the god of fate. ‘Creation doesn’t say sorry. Creation is shameless.’ Torc had gone over the meeting a hundred times… nay a thousand in his mind. There had been plenty of sleepless nights as he laid there looking up at the ceiling in complete darkness stripping away the layers of himself. One word to define him, one word to bring him understanding of what was in his core self. He didn’t know the complex word that could explain Lhex, but he had seen it. Infinity, thousands of choices whirling in a chaos forming order and fate. Lhex’s power came from defining himself and creation of that core. Choices brought outcomes, fate couldn’t be cheated, and yet it was from your choices that created your fate. Would he have killed Torc and made him a dung beetle…of course he would have! It was part of infinity, to Lhex there was no difference between the two, only a need for one or the other. Yet for Torc creation wasn’t without effort, it was done with hard work and thought. Torc brought forth his idea with struggle, through fire and pressure. Good and bad existed as he created, but they fell away second to struggle. Did that mean he looked for shortcuts? Or that he only used his gifts for good? Torc creation was just and therefore it made him just. He couldn’t have been any other way, except for a just and honorable man, because that was how he created. Lhex had warned him if he should betray himself, betray his creation he would die. It was so strange to hear the truth, but Lhex was right if Torc wasn’t creating he wasn’t happy, he wasn’t connected to the world, his being needed the struggle of creation to grow. He had step forward into madness and had come back with a recipe for a new heart. The night that Priskil came, she was the form of a young girl. The yasi had always come to Torc asking for stories, looking for comfort, looking for praise, looking for justice in an unfair world, and Torc began to realized why they had come. They had seen creation in him, and were asking to be created in a new way. The lessons he taught, the stories he told, the praise or comfort given was to help mold them. He gave it to them to help create and develop their true selves. So he turned in the common sleeping chamber, he shared with other blacksmiths and metalsmiths. He actually enjoyed the closeness of multiple people sleeping together, and since the Inarta didn’t mind women and men in the same sleeping chamber it quickly became nothing for Torc to see a woman getting ready for bed. He was laughing and joking with another smith wearing nothing but his pants when Priskil came to him. He looked down with a smile, and it was then that he saw the divinity in her eyes. As strange as it was he picked up the goddess like a child needing a hug, and told the blacksmith he would be right back. Under the pretense of consoling a child he walked from the room to a storeroom to set her down. They both knew it had been necessary, so for the first time since the meeting of Lhex he didn’t apologize for making sure nothing looked amiss. As Priskil talked Torc simply nodded his acceptance. There was no longer a need to be anything else but accept the task. Lights began to swirl, and for a moment Torc allowed himself to peel away as they traveled to feel with the most basic part of him. Creation swirled around him, radiance that divided distances came from sources to the point where they were traveling from. Like a swirling world of magic and existence they jumped from beam to beam traveling in existence of Djed. Priskil seemed to encapsulate Torc surround him as the jumped back and forth. The different colors swirled about because they were coming from different objects, and for a moment Torc understood, he would never be able to accomplish the same task as her, but he understood what Priskil and Aquiras had done. They had created a road network of light, yet without a god of travel or roads, the network had fallen into chaos. Priskil could navigate it because she understood all light and bent the light in the correct way. Aquiras could have traveled through it because he understood where all roads lead to, but if Torc had entered a watchtower he would become quickly lost in the roads of light. For a moment, Torc wanted to let Priskil pull back and allow the creation in him to understand the energies, for an idea of a compass had began to form in Torc’s mind. The compass would find the source of the light to the nearest watch tower. However, Torc went back to her embrace and slowly his mind went back to the task of creation of Aquiras heart. Torc entered the home of Priskil for the first time with the goddess. Torc walked amongst the people, bare chested in nothing more than Inarta work pants. The cold from the northern reaches made his skin stretch and his muscles pull tight. One of the Zagaria regulars was kind enough to offer a shirt, but they soon realized that they had no man who was as big as Torc. He smiled and thanked the man saying that he was sure the hall would heat up from all of the people. Torc talked to the people, not lying to them as to their guess on why they had been brought here, but not telling them everything he knew either. Soon enough they would know what he had done, and without their help the heart could never be created. So Torc did his best to understand the people he would be working with, he wanted to know their passions and devotions. This was a time of hope for Priskil, and he wanted to know if they would see that, or if the selfish would only think of themselves. Torc walked over to the Akalak in worn plate mail. The man stood at seven feet tall which was a strong contrast to Torc own height of five and half feet. Yet, if Torc was any judge of muscle tone, he realized that the both of them probably weighed the same. Torc had often been picked upon in his younger days for his height, but when he started bending raw iron rod with his hands, bullies began to such up quickly. Smiling, Torc walked up to Xalet and spoke in his gravelly voice, “Looks like that armor been through a beating, but from the straps and buckles it’s in good repair. Did the smith have let out the chest and length of the breast plate for your size?”

[Xalet]

Xalet looked to the side and then cast his field of vision slightly downward. "An Isur?" he immediately thought to himself. The usual physical attributes the man had were quite apparent due to his lack of a shirt. His voice reminded Xalet of one of the Knight Sergeant's he had met, a bit coarse and deeper than his own. Xalet's figure would suggest some sort of echoing mountain moving vocal capacity, but more often then not the akalak spoke in quiet, even reserved tones.

"He did. Most of the plating was made for human dimensions. You've an eye for armor." Xalet responded. Those of Isur blood were known for their metalworking skill, a talent that certainly deserved pride and recognition. The only reason the akalak had any knowledge of the process regarding his armor was due to being present during the re-sizing so that it could be done as expediently as possible. "It has been with me for sometime, but continues to dutifully protect." Looking down at that metal suit he recognized that due to some of the notches, gouges, scrapes, and dents in the plates no amount of buffing would give it the brilliant silvery glow of a sworn Knight's. That as it was, he was proud to have it, and couldn't fault it's construction. Still being in one piece with no broken or missing appendages spoke volumes of it's craftsmanship.

"I am Xalet, squire to Sergeant Irine Braklin of Syliras." he added, that being his typical introduction. The last part involving 'of Syliras' was hastily made part of the standard statement, due to his clear understanding that he certainly wasn't within the walls of the castle any longer. Removing his gauntlet he extended his hand in the customary handshake he learned during his upbringing in Sylrias, finding it inappropriate to salute without knowing whom he was speaking to. Only when the gauntlet came off was it apparent Xalet, just like the others present, had recieved his mark from Priskil. It was also apparent his hands were quite worse for wear, covered in cuts and blisters in various stages of healing.

Something else edged upon the back of Xalet's mind. Ever since he had recieved his mark, regardless of his will to do so or not, he could feel immediately when other person bore the mark of Priskil, much as his Sergeant did. From this man before him, he did not see or feel any such thing. It was very curious.

[Amarhyl]

Amarhyl had been undertaking her usual tasks on this particular day. She was sitting alone in the Stone Gardens of Syliras, journal open on her knees, quill in hand. She was working on a new pattern for the shop; this one was proving to be her best creation yet. An intricate design of swirls and lines, not unlike the embroidery hemming the cloak on her back. She noticed the presence of another and glanced up, confused. The woman was watching her silently. Amarhyl had not heard her approach, which was odd; footsteps usually carried well in the Gardens. She hurriedly closed her journal and stuffed it in her bag along with the quill before standing up. There was something... familiar about this woman... And then it hit her. It was the same figure she had seen all those years ago, back when she had earned... The girl immediately traced her fingers over the vortex pattern on her left palm. It was Priskil. The Goddess had come to her again. She had not changed at all, or rather she had remembered the guise she had taken before. A young woman, appearing to be a traveller of some sort. The smiling face was identical to the one Amarhyl had seen 14 years ago. All she could do was nod at the gentle words. Almost immediately the lights surrounded her. They were both beautiful and terrifying. Though the travel lasted mere seconds, Amarhyl was reeling for a little while afterwards. As she shook herself back to lucidity, she felt the chill of the area, and was thankful for her warm velvet cloak. The young girl entered Priskil's home alongside the Goddess. Not a moment after they had stepped through the doors she was gone with a smile and a farewell. Amarhyl was completely overwhelmed. One minute she was quietly working and the next, she was here, in the home of a Goddess surrounded by strangers. She felt incredibly small, and made to back off into a less crowded section of the room. In hindsight, it would have been best if she had walked like a normal person, rather than actually stepping back. 2 steps and she had collided with another, exactly the scenario she had wanted to avoid. Turning, she had to look up to see the face of the man; her 5'2" frame meant she was much smaller than most of the people surrounding her. The man had been speaking to another, even taller man, and Amarhyl flushed. "Ah, I... I'm sorry!"

OOCJust in case it wasn't clear, which I expect it wasn't, she stepped backwards into Torc.

[Jilitse]

Jasa'lah was right after all. Jilitse's trip to Yahebah proved to be a spiritual endeavor. For a Nuit who had lived so far away from pulsers and civilizations, she was quick to become accustomed to the way of life in the land of the Burning Sands. She bore the scorching summer days, wore Benshiran garb, learned about Yahal and his People. Somehow Jilitse could not bear to understand why Sagallius left Yahebah in the first place. It wasn't the best place in the world, and many of the people were slaves to the Eypharians, yet here in their own city they stood strong and remained faithful. Many of her questions have been left unanswered - why are Benshirans outcasts in the magical community, and why do they regard magic as a bane to mankind? Her friend - she allowed herself to call Jasa'lah a friend - warned her to keep away from her magic. Without magic, Jilitse was nothing. Or perhaps she was everything. After all, all day and night she had begun to recollect pieces of herself. She begun to realize that the very life Sagallius must have turned his back from was the very same thing that would renew her faith and trust in herself. She had heard a few teachings from Yahal, most of which Jasa'lah enthusiastically shared with her. He was a renewed man - Jilitse met him as a man-boy sorely disappointed in himself, no money and no confidence. Jilitse was surprised when his family forgave him for his transgressions. The pursuit of money was greed, they said, maybe they should have given more faith to Yahal. After all, the God delivered their kind from the Valterrian, what was a few years of drought? Maybe they should pursue a different trade, perhaps it was time to move to a different land. They made Jasa'lah repent - he returned their mercy with three times the effort. He had been going to the Temple everyday eversince, offering sacrifices and praying fervently to Yahal. Jil, who eventually bought her own tent and stayed as a guest with his family, accompanied him most of the time, as far as the temple guards allow her. "Temple handmaiden," she would usually chide Jasa'lah. The man's father was more fortright, as he claimed that their great grandfather was a priest, whose footsteps Jasa'lah may follow. If all else fails he could return to the life of a nomad farmer. "Perhaps it is your calling," Jilitse said to him once, "maybe you are to be the sower not of wheat and barley but of faith and trust in Yahal." Jasa'lah family was cautious of Jilitse at first, but they eventually warmed up to the Nuit, after hearing her tale about Priskil - the censored version, of course. She gently grew into Jasa'lah's own faith and willingly learned some of their customs. They understood her want to relearn faith - the explanation Jasa'lah advised her to present to those who asked why she was in Yahebah instead of claiming to be after Sagallius, which eventually became a part of why she was in Yahebah. She was learning faith through Jasa'lah. Maybe the Benshira was right about their meeting fated, after all. And then fate tug smartly at her strings. That day she was waiting for Jasa'lah outside the Temple of Yahal. She did not expect that her faith would be called upon so soon, so she was being her usual indifferent self. Her head was wrapped with a simple two-toned veil, the blue and the gray complementing her light blue eyes. She wore loose Benshiran clothes, hence she was covered except half her face and hands, one of which was wrapped in a bandage. She wore an azure cloak, the color of the sky near twilight, over her pearl grey outfit. She could claim to be a Benshiran Nuit, though she could speak very little Shiber. She blended nicely in the crowd this way, received less stares, heard less "prayers against the undead". It came as a great surprise when one of the temple's handmaidens called her by her name - it was an outstanding voice in the crowd: soft and familiar. "I would ask that you follow me home, if you please." Something in her stirred, the Goddess' mark on her hand pulsed in recognition. She looked back, Jasa'lah would be worried if she went without any warning. She requested the Goddess to wait a while, and on perfect cue Jasa'lah was on his way out of the temple. "Jasa'lah!" She happily waved at him. A mistake. She never happily waved at him. "Jilitse?" Jasa'lah acknowledged the presence of the handmaiden but looked at the two of them quizically. "I was invited for a pilgrimage. I may be gone for a while." "How long?" Jil threw a look at the disguised Goddess. She received a resolute stare, but no clues. She answered, "As long as it takes." "This is so sudden, but I think I understand." His face showed that he didn't. "Steel you faith and find your strength. I hope that you will find water for your thirsty soul and a shade for your weary heart." He reached out for her hand with the mark of Priskil. He knew what lay beneath the bandaged hand, and squeezed it very gently. He wished for Jilitse to one day carry the mark proud instead of concealing them underneath strips of cloth. Jilitse smiled through her eyes and nodded her goodbye. The man was becoming more and more of a priest everyday. *** The feeling was awfully familiar. The first time she went through the watchtower system, she was nearly dead. The experience of floating in space was something she will never get used to. And then she was in a totally different place. Home was not the twin golden doors she expected, but a place terribly cold. Wasn't it summer? The Nuit took in everything around her. She felt miniscule among these trees. The cold bit through her clothes, and she had to pull her cloak closer. It was a good thing that she was fully clothed, or else she would be at the mercy of the Talderan climate. Priskil was still ahead. And so was a watchtower in the middle of a clearing. Though she had ridden one with Priskil before, it was Jil's first time to see an actual structure. She kept a picture of the place in her memory. This was Priskil's home, she told herself, and no doubt this would be Zagaria Watchtower, the headquarters of the Order of Radiance. The Nuit eventually found herself being led by the Goddess among others, the lot of them Priskil's own friends. Not one of them was a familiar face. She flew her eyes, blue orbs fluidly jumping from one place to another. There was time to memorize all the names and faces. It was instinct kicking in. These past few seasons she had acquired a knack for observing people and memorizing their names, locking their personalities in her endless brain bank. Today was a day unlike any other, though to keep things simple, it reminded her so much of the Reacquaintances in Sahova. She felt it so, knew it so. Everyone's faces told different stories, different expectations. What was she doing here and why was she called upon? She stared at her hand, at the mark underneath the cloth, the sign of Priskil's friendship. It had warmed her and the people around her, she had called upon its blessings occasionally. If Priskil needed something, anything, surely she wouldn't have called upon a frail Nuit? She kept to herself, not wanting to talk, not finding any need to engage in conversation. Still, it was hard to keep to yourself when everyone was going about and meeting people and recognizing and shaking hands and welcoming and talking. She avoided people who tried to make small talk, but despite her best efforts she had been offered one or two handshakes. Manners dictated that she be polite to those who spoke with her. At the end of it she had memorized nearly everyone's names and faces - there was almost a hundred of them, and the numbers were still increasing. The light of the Goddess in each and every one of them beamed within the room. The Nuit then wondered what manner of circumstance brought all of Priskil's friends and followers together. Slowly, she walked around the room, listening and eavesdropping. People kept on saying various reasons, giving a myriad of speculations. She decided not to come up with her own conclusion. A quick sidestep, too fast even for a Nuit. Someone was walking around backwards. From the corner of her eye, she observed the girl with a sideglance. The young woman seem to have bumped into an Isur, she could tell, as he had the same arm as Ialari Pythone. With him was a Syliran Knight, or squire, she couldn't tell, but the armor and the face was familiar. She may have come across this man when she was still in Syliras, maybe he was there when it happened. She quickly tried to push the memory of Stitch away. But she was unsuccessful. Where was he, and was he not coming?

[Torc Ironwood]

“Well met, Squire Xalet!” Torc took the knight-in-training hand and gave it a firm shake. “The only reason why I noticed the change in the armor, was if you look at the light about mid breast and mid stomach you can see the grain structure stretch and expand. The smith must have used that as a starting point to smooth the metal down and up, during the upsetting process. Makes sense after all, can’t hammer out a whole breast plate in anything less than 60 days, and that’s if you know what you are doing. Torc Ironwood took up smithing in Wind Reach, after traveling to your fair city…” and for a moment Torc paused, bits and pieces of the journey, meeting the Wind Oak, and the lost of Sharn came back to him. Whenever he had thought about the past year, the earring around his ear seemed to tingle. Though it was nothing fancy, just a round cylinder carved from wood that held the image of a oak leaf, it had been a gift from the fallen god, Sylir. With it, Torc could understand any language spoken and with a little bit of effort he could even began speaking it faster than any normal person. Still the price of the gift had been paid in blood by the lost of his faithful companion. For a brief moment Torc’s hand squeezed a little tighter from the pain he felt over Sharn’s lost, as well as, the guilt in losing him in the water. Torc let go of the Xalet’s hand, “But my friend that is a story for when I have had way too much to drink and a fire to warm the bones. So it seems that everyone here has a theory or a guess as to what is going on? Personally, if I believe in gambling I would start a pool on the wild guesses. Got an opinion on where the smart money should…. Ouff!” Torc bounced a little as a tiny girl backed into him. For a moment, the bare chested half Isur grabbed the twig of a girl to steady her. As she turned around, he heard the same words that had he had spoken many times. Torc laughed with a low rumbling sound, a smile crested his face and he tipped his head softly to her. “Little flower, I might not be as tall as this tree next to me, but you can still stub your toe on a rock in the forest. Either way, the name is Torc Ironwood…” He looked up at Xalet and then spoke, “From Wind Reach, this is Squire Xalet.” Torc waved his hand to him, “And I was just asking him, what reason does he believe Priskil would hold such a gathering for? Perhaps you would like to join our conversation and voice your own opinion?”

[Xalet]

Xalet was totally lost. Torc talked circles around him in the ways of armor. In fact, it dawned upon Xalet that realistically all he knew about armor was how to wear it correctly. Never had their been much need to study it's actual creation process, which apparently was very involved. Of course like every other man who had to spend some time in the forge, getting repairs done or acting as a courier for orders of equipment from the Knights he had seen some shaping and hammering here and there. That's all it was to him, a few quick glances at an art that had more depth then he originally suspected.

"Sixty days..." did it really take that long? What a process, Xalet felt almost embarrassed that his armor had reached the state it was in considering how much effort went into making it. Soon he rationalized it away however, that was the price of something crafted with the intent to get in-between a man and death.

Watching Amarhyl stumble into Torc was almost comical. It was like a leaf blowing into a wall. A tiny blonde female leaf. Xalet couldn't help but smirk hearing the Isurian blood's comment of a rock in the forest. "Good day, ma'am." he responded after being introduced. Xalet had taken time to himself to think about the reason for their gathering, but could only come up with two conclusions. Xalet had never been a part of any gathering such as this and had little experience to draw from, but given how important the circumstances appeared, it was his best guess to say, "I can't imagine anything precisely, but given the scope of all of this, perhaps something has happened involving he whom the Lady cares most for." His second guess involved an impending global doom, and considering the content of that theory, he decided to keep such a depressing thought to himself.

[Amarhyl]

The girl was thankful for the strong hands that had reached out to steady her. If they hadn't she most likely would have fallen over, from overbalancing, or by trying to hurry away again as fast as possible. As it turned out, hurrying away was not going to be happening any time soon. Once she had turned round, the small girl had found herself within the space the two men had created, thus being well within conversation range. And it seemed that the two were more than happy to include her. She nodded meekly at the man's comment. She felt ridiculously tiny next to the pair of them; the second must have been at least seven foot tall! After she had been introduced to both, she gave a polite little smile. "My name is Amarhyl." She listened carefully to the words then spoken by both men as a discussion over the nature of the summons ensued. Her own opinion? Truthfully, the girl had no idea why they would all be summoned to such a place. It was either an incredibly good thing, or an equally bad thing. The Goddess would surely not go to the trouble if it were somewhere between. The taller man - Xalet - voiced a theory she thought could be plausible. Aquiras... surely it was to do with him. The one Priskil loved. She paused before giving her response. "I think, perhaps that you might be right." She nodded to Xalet. "I cannot think of another reason as to why she would call upon her marked." She had no idea what could have happened to Avalis, but she was growing even more sure that was the answer.

OOCMy browser reset itself just before I finished this. So this is a retype, apologies if it's a bit rubbish.

[Jilitse]

The girl's words echoed in her head. "I cannot think of another reason as to why she would call upon her marked." Her marked. Jilitse then realized what Xalet had noticed earlier on. She did not feel the Goddess' blessing on Torc, which was the most curious of things, as she felt the power of the light magnified with everybody else's presence. Torc Ironwood was outside of that chainlink. Slowly, she fluttered her eyes around, and she caught a number of questioning eyes staring at Torc as well. Did the Isurian half-blood not feel the stares? Or maybe he knew exactly why they were. So, why was she here again? It is considered courtesy to come when your Goddess requested you to follow her. Faith, perhaps. A little pro-activeness never really hurt anybody. And Jilitse found herself doing her best to imitate Jasa'lah's accent. Her Common was touched by the accent of a Benshiran - imperfect, but passable for the untrained ear. "Hello," she greeted the trio. The scent of undeath lingered by. She faced Xalet first, extending a welcoming hand. It was a lady's handshake, gentle, and hopefully Xaelt would not crush her hand. Jil felt for the connection, one marked to another. She nodded to Amarhyl as well, giving her the same handshake, letting the presence and spirit of Priskil connect their souls. She spoke to Torc, but was introducing herself to the three of them, "My name is Jilitse. I came from Yahebah." She already had a fake name suffix should they be too smart to ask, 'from the tents of Aalom of the sons of Rapa'. She waited for the others to introduce themselves as well, before finally extending a handshake with Torc. Jil remembered her handshake with Ialari - proper and firm. Nothing. No spark, no feeling of camaraderie. She let her cold touch linger on his skin, waiting for the last moment to feel the blessing of Priskil upon Torc. There really was none Her unblinking eyes bore into Torc's in an attempt to read his face. She had seen Jasa'lah lie about things, conceal his feelings with a smile and hide his thoughts with a straight face. Torc was a pulser, and pulsers submit themselves to instantaneous emotions. She explained, "I overheard your discussion. There is no doubt it is the same discussion elsewhere." She held out a hand and waved it to the whole room. She spoke in a monotone, voice filled with what appeared to be nonchalance, "But, there is a 5% chance that you are," to Torc, "the reason why we are here." Her eyes did not falter, and tried to meet Torc's gaze. Of course, Jiltse was a Sahovan Nuit and Sahovan Nuits had a peculiar sense of cunning. She did not want to win through deceit, but this was the way she had learned to do things in Sahova. In Syliras. In truth, she believed that there was a 95% chance that Torc Ironwood was the reason why they were here. Else it'd have to be Aquiras, just as Xalet and Amarhyl had surmised. Or maybe both were tied in a tangle the Goddess herself wished to announce to her followers. She really did not want to pry if her intuition was correct, but at the very least she wanted to know from Torc, "You don't have the Goddess mark, do you?" She had a level stare, non-threatening, just two dead light blue eyes made of question marks. Her statement was neither a question nor a statement. They fell in between. She was sure the towering Akalak and the small lady would be able to tell as well. Curious. Very curious. "Worry no more, I will not require you to answer that which you cannot." It was almost mysterious, how she acted, with half her face veiled and her eyes displaying little emotion. "I have a guess. But my guess is just as good as yours, right?" To Xalet, to Amarhyl. And then to Torc, "Right?" Everybody was playing guess-why-we-are-here-right-now. She could be alone, lost in the crowd. And yet, she chose to be - no, she wanted to be - in the circle with the odd-man. The one with no gnosis.