Open The Rising Dawn (CITY WIDE QUEST)

[Cassidy Finch]

Velvet wasn't an impulsive woman; what little freedom of action she had, she'd always used carefully. It was unusual for her to do anything without thinking it over a little first. Still, as she stepped out in front of Siriana, the former slave had few doubts about her chosen course of action. If she didn't find someone to help keep her away from the all-seeing eyes of the Ebonstryfe, she'd surely be found and, if Sevris meant his words, killed. The thought, instead of striking fear into her heart as such a threat typically would, instilled within her a new resolve to stay alive. Doubtless, Velvet's straight and proud posture--quite unlike what a slave would dare exhibit in public--put the other woman on edge, for her hand reached for the blade that hung at her side. Expecting such a wary response, Velvet raised her hands up in a gesture of peace, making certain her slave brand was very visible. Before Siriana could speak, the slave blurted, "I heard you talking about freeing the slaves. Could I help?" This seemed to surprise the woman, for she paused for a few ticks, regarding Velvet. After her eyes flicked to the slave brand that had been seared into Velvet's hand, Siriana lowered her blade and took a step closer so they could converse quietly. Over the next few chimes, Velvet vaguely related her tale of escape and the attack on the temple, leaving out the details of the attack because it was clear that Siriana already knew most of it, though she certainly didn't look too happy about it. "I was hoping I could come with you," Velvet finished anxiously, hoping Siriana would assist her. Siriana flashed a brief smile and nodded, "If you help us, we can offer you protection. We will help ensure you keep your freedom." The rebel's words sent a strange feeling coursing through Velvet's body. Hope, She realized, a smile playing at her lips. Until now, her hope for escape had been based on desperate determination and the need for a very hefty helping of luck; now that someone was willing to help her, it didn't seem so unlikely anymore. Velvet would get out of this, and she'd do it without giving up her freedom. "I'd help you fight Rhysol himself if it meant I wouldn't be one of these anymore," Velvet said fervently, flourishing her slave mark in front of Siriana. She meant it, too; there was very little Velvet wouldn't do to find her way clear of slavery, chains, and everything that had kept her tied down for so many years. "Ervis has gone to take out the CEB," Siriana declared, apparently deciding that Velvet really was willing to risk her life for this, "And it is our job to free the slaves. The others will secure the boats at the shipyard and we will meet them there. We may have to fight our way there, but if we're lucky, Ervis will have distracted them by then." With that, the rebel set off with Velvet in tow, her blade gripped tightly in hand. The slave knew that the small knife was useless in her hands, but its very presence felt reassuring. The weight of the weapon gave her a sense of security that she welcomed; if she questioned it, the feeling would surely flutter away and leave her terrified. Siriana and Velvet didn't speak much on the way to the slave market; both too occupied with their own concerns to spare any time for conversation. Upon arriving at the market, they were confronted with a melee, one to which Siriana and her blue companion contributed a great deal. They were a dangerous team, covering each other's weaknesses and complementing one another's strengths with lethal skill. The slave stood for a moment, watching them. The battle around them was nothing compared to the deadly precision with which Siriana and the Akalak hewed down the opposition. She found it oddly beautiful, in a dark, grim sort of way. Fortunately, no one deigned to cut Velvet down while she stood gawking; she was clearly no threat, so both sides ignored her, even if it was only to defend themselves against more skilled opponents. Velvet blinked a few times in stark astonishment as Siriana burst into light, the brilliance a tangible presence around her. It flowed with her movements, and seemed to strike fear into some of the men fighting around them while others gazed at it adoringly. For her part, Velvet was uncertain what she felt. It was a sense of peace, of wellbeing and tranquility; why did she feel that way? Generally, any blatant displays of magic disconcerted her, though she'd blessedly seen very few of those, but this made her feel comfortable, safe. Like being wrapped in a protective blanket. The woman was struck with a desire to touch the light for a foolish moment, but she forced the urge away. The former slave didn't doubt that the light was completely safe--she wasn't really sure how she knew--but she knew that she needed to help free the slaves. All at once, the world crashed down on her again as she looked away; the blood, the death, and the screams of the dying filled her senses. They didn't scare her now, however; Siriana's magic had done its work, and Velvet knew she could be of use. The danger was no longer as intimidating as it had been before, and the slave hastened about, helping guide those who didn't know the way to the C.E.B. Oddly, Velvet felt more alive than she ever had before, rushing about through the death and the carnage to reach her goals. She was balanced on a knife edge of emotions; tension, excitement, fear, and foolish bravery flooding her senses. The adrenaline pumping through the former slave's veins helped her be more decisive, shouting directions to baffled slaves until she was hoarse and guiding those too weak or young into the care of stronger slaves who would guide them safely to the C.E.B. Whenever someone would come at her to silence her--permanently or otherwise--Velvet would dart away through the fray, using years of experience blending into crowds to her advantage. Through it all, Velvet kept within eyesight of Siriana. It felt as though the light wreathed around the rebel was Velvet's only anchor to courage; whenever she felt fear or was faced with danger, the woman had only to look into the light and her fear dissolved, revealing the steely determination underneath. Velvet slowly began to feel pride in her work; she found that helping the slaves escape was worth the danger she was facing, even if she had begun to help only because of her desire for freedom. Her actions were an affront to the very ideals that every slave holder's life supported, and with every slave freed, it felt like she was winning another small victory against slavery and the evils that came with it. This wonderful feeling did even more for her courage than Siriana and her magical light; a lifetime spent fighting against her masters' control helped her, allowing her to make decisions where the other slaves could not. The hesitation she'd felt earlier that day did not come, and with every passing moment, Velvet found that it became easier to give orders to the other slaves, using their conditioning to help them reach safety. To think, the cruelty the slaves had suffered was now being used to get them away from those who had caused it. The irony of it both stung her soul and curled her lips into a smile.

[Tanjun Vorot]

The girl saw how the fighting broke out and felt a little dejected. Mass fights like these weren't her thing. She preferred to just fight in a narrow alley, where she could utilize her superior reach thanks to her glaive. Besides that was that it was easier to dodge a blow by using the wall as a push-off point for a backflip. Luckily for her was that the men only noticed her the moment the fight actually started. Unfortunately for them was that they made a mistake by thinking she was nothing more then a little girl carrying a glaive, assuming that she didn't know how to wield it. "Ey little girl, this is no place for kids, so go home and help your mom or something.", one of them said, before giving her a shove as he moved towards the fight. The remark, about her being a kid and little girl, completely pissed Tanjun off. "Little girl? Kid? I'm already fourteen, so don't...... call.. me a LITTLE GIRL.", she started to shout as she then thrust her glaive through the man's back, before he was able to turn around. All he did was stare in disbelief towards his chest as the tip of the glaive had pierced through the front. Not even a single sound came over his lips as the weapon got yanked out of his body again. Before his body hit the ground, the girl swung her glaive and chopped off the unfortunate man's head. This commotion had drawn the attention from some of the other fighters and seeing how their comrade went down and then had his head removed, they couldn't believe it at first. How could a girl of such a short posture wield a weapon of that size as easy as she did? Yet it didn't take them too long to charge at her. Tanjun immediately fell back into a narrow alley. It wouldn't matter with how many they'd come at her there. Only two could reach her if they could get past her glaive. Getting past that thing and hurting Tanjun would prove to be really difficult as she just flipped backwards each time they managed it. The girl managed to get past their defence only a few times, mostly because they got lured away too far from the plaza and thus lost the boost of morale from Siriana. Those ended up in nicking them at their legs or arms. These injuries were nothing more then nuisances to these fighters. Tanjun saw that she didn't have a chance to actually really beat them, not even in the alleys, so she just turned around and started running, relying on her superior knowledge of Ravok to lose them in the small alleys and canals, which eventually worked. Her zigzagging through the streets, jumping over the canals, using her glaive as a pole to give her that litte extra boost, payed off. "Now I gotta get back and see if there are some targets which might be interesting for a bit of fun. Those guys just now weren't. I couldn't hurt them enough to stop them from fighting.", she pouted in her thoughts. It took her a long while to get back again, only to see most of the fight having died down. All of the slaves were gone, save for the few that lay dead on the ground amongst the many guards and Rising Dawn members. Much to Tan's dismay, there weren't any live targets anymore. She would have to go to the shipyard if she wanted to at least have a chance on at least one victim. "Petching people, couldn't they at least leave their wounded? I wanted to have some fun!", she shouted as she started to run towards the shipyard.

[Antar]

Antar felt his body trembling, his vision shaking. There was a nasty dry taste in his mouth and it sounded like someone was doing a tap dance inside the inner recesses of his skull's brain cavity. If he didn't know any better, he would say he was hung over. But he knew it was a lot more than that. For starters, being drunk normally did not include bandages over one's arms, and bloody rents from close strikes of talons being closed and scarred over. Where was he? What could he do? Was he recovering? Was he able to recover? What happened to the soldier who assisted him? Such a shame to let anyone useful like that die off. Perhaps if the man survived he would be useful in the future? Cracking an eye open he scanned the room, only to silently curse at the realization his clothes had been changed, his gauntlets were no where to be found, his kukri and gladius unknown in their whereabouts. At least he had left his bow back with Shai. But what about? He smiled as he noticed on the night table a set of worn, slightly ash covered set of unmarked prayer beads. That was good. He wouldn’t be completely unarmed, it was just a question if the soot from the fire marred the beads true purpose in any way. Noth opened his eyes fully to reach for them, only a second later to drop them in his lap as a konti woman began shoving bread, and water into his mouth. Even the joy of his prior observance had been stripped away as the moment passed; anxiety overwhelming his memories as his thoughts turned inward. Antar nodded, remembering the words from his teachers. ‘What is the most valuable weapon in one's arsenal?’ It was an old question, one Noth could answer in his sleep. 'Information.' his thoughts voiced immediately. It was something he craved to know. Something desired to crave. Who was this 'mistress?' Was she part of the ebonstryfe or the Black Sun? Did this bode well for him either way? Opening his mouth to comment, the healer seemed to shush him once more as she noted her mistress was about to arrive. That wasn’t much useful information and any form of delving into the matter with any further questioned was met only by another sip of water and more bread. Mentally sighing, Antar began to eat, slowly allowing his fingers to pass over the smooth beads, the clacking of ornament setting a ritual tone to soothe his mind as he began to try to meditate and order his thoughts. Beyond that, he was still. Just sitting up in bed and resting as he catalogued the present. The iron tang was still within his mouth, his thoughts and focus still seemed a little hazy, but he was currently not seeming to be in any immediate danger of losing life and limb. Of course the rogue's sense of paranoia had to at least raise the fact that in Ravok, nothing ever was what it seemed. When the konti’s mistress arrived, Antar would merely nod respectfully to them and wait until he was bid after being spoken to. oocNot much I can do here. If you need anything changed V, Please pm me.

[Inoadar]

Inoadar swallowed hard and stepped inside the C.E.B. building. Driven not so much by desire to come to terms with the old man, but by the opportunities to gain documents and files. Information was money, information was power. And, right now, information was waiting to be snatched up wholesale by enterprising men like himself.

The old man, who he assumed was Ervis, had not answered or showed himself. Inoadar hoped it was because he was too busy to bother with a "minor detail" like himself and would not interfere with his efforts to grab a few drawers' worth of ledgers and deeds. He knew that capitalizing in the future on information that would be held to have been destroyed by rebels today, would be a delicate matter, but he would figure out a way to collect from behind the scenes.

He thought he heard noises from the behind the open door at the back of the front room, so he went to the desk. Everything was locked. He went into the side room and saw a promising row of filing cabinets...all locked...Shyke! He was about to pull his thieves' tools from his coat and then realized the man likely to have the keys was lying dead just outside the front door.

He turned to go back into the front room so he could exit the building when he heard noises. He grabbed a hat tree and ducked behind the door, holding the tree so the door would catch on IT, rather than him, if someone were to kick the door open, and waited a moment to listen.

[Valerius Nitrozian]

While Valerius had been quite impressed with how quickly the Ebonstryfe stepped in, that changed as he noticed that most of them had stopped pursuing the fleeing Rising Dawn and just attacked the nearest enemies instead. The situation was getting more and more chaotic. Valerius didn’t appreciate chaos, at least not that kind of chaos. Couldn’t they see what was going on? Well, apparently Rhysol had decided to leave it up to him to find out where the Rising Dawn were going. His attention was momentarily diverted by the fact that the Temple had stopped burning. He sent a prayer to his god, and then he continued his (hopefully unnoticed) pursuit of the Rising Dawn, still taking his slaves with him. Judging by the way the rebels reacted to slaves, they could come in useful, in a number of different ways. As he noticed the arrival of the two women, the Nitrozian hung back a little and listened to them. They wanted to free the slaves? He couldn’t let that happen. He looked back at his own slaves and then he pointed at one of them and whispered, „Find a few members of the Ebonstryfe and tell them what we’ve just heard. If you do as I say, I will reward you and might even free you in time. And don’t you dare to think of allying yourself with them. People just see you as an escaped slave and kill you when they find you.“ Having said that, he continued to follow the group to the slave market. He did not join the guards as they tried to keep the Rising Dawn from freeing their slaves, but remained in hiding. He had little to no interest in confronting the women, the Akalak or their friends – he valued his life – but hopefully the fact that he had sent his slave to alert the Ebonstryfe of their plans would make a difference.

[Crismento Miren]

A painful scream stole Crismento’s attention away from the stranger. A quick look towards the source of the noise revealed a man killed in a peculiar way just outside the entrance. A work of magic it must have been. And if that was truly the cause, it meant that Ervis had already skipped past him, and apparently past the stranger as well. The man appeared equally distraught by the new development and forwent any further game of words between the two of them in favour of the C.E.B. investigation. Cris waited just a few moments for the dark-haired man to walk away before pushing away his ravosala further down the canal. This boatman character was far too interesting for random people, it seemed. Awkwardly zigzagging the boat he reached a turning and with a couple of unsteady pushed with the pole managed to move around it. He then quickly escaped the pilot’s blood-stained coat and after hastily folding it up threw the clothing aside. Once on the shore the swindler made his way to the C.E.B. His steps slowed down as he was nearing the entrance and finally stopped completely when he saw the killed man again. Crismento’s confidence wavered when he looked over at the spike of rock rising from the horrible wound. Slowly and quietly he slid to the side of the doors. What was he to do with this wizard? The crazed old fool seemed to be ready to slay anyone he came across. If they met, there might not be time to weave a web or to dance a dance. Might be barely enough time to plea for mercy if it came to that. And that dark stranger… Acting all suspicious, the blind fool. Who’s game was he playing? Did Ervis had an ally or an enemy in there? And what was Cris to be? The wet shirt clanged to his back when he leaned against the opened door. It appeared this scene was getting just as dangerous as the chaos back at the temple. Perhaps the con artist had misjudged coming here. High risks reap high rewards, but only when you’re not left with a pillar of earth running through your chest in the process. Still his caution was shushed for a brief moment while he gathered the remaining drops of courage to please his curiosity. Listening for any sounds of danger that would shoo him away Cris carefully leaned sideways to peer inside.

[Verilian]

The scene at the slave market was over almost as quickly as it had begun. Siriana made quick work of the most threatening of the guards and, seeing this, most of the others followed the golden rule of hired goons and ran away when they saw there was no chance. They all understood quite well that there was no profit in being dead, and not one of them thought they stood a chance against the courageous Rising Dawn members if they stayed to fight. As soon as it was all over, Siriana called out. "Get those slaves freed, and then let’s get out of here. To the shipyard, all of you!" Siriana and Harrol led the charge to the shipyard, while a few members of the Dawn stayed behind to round of the remaining slaves and gather the wounded. Velvet was approached by a young slave girl, broken chains still shackled to her bruised wrists. The girl was in tears, confusion plain on her face. She didn't understand what was happening and was afraid. "Take her to the docks," one of the men shouted at Velvet as he led a pair of equally confused slaves away from the scene. "And hurry, Siriana is waiting." Aislin was also being taken to the docks. She and the bodies she was trapped beneath were going to be loaded onto a barge and dumped into the lake after they were a good distance from the city. Normally when somebody died they were simply tossed into the nearest canal, to be consumed by the ravenous ever hungry fishlore entry for these fish coming soon that lived beneath the surface of the lake. Normally these fish were not dangerous to the living. Perhaps it was Rhysol's protection, or perhaps they just didn't like to eat things that could fight back, but the fish only fed on corpses and trash for the most part. However, with so many bodies, it would attract them in massive numbers and that could prove dangerous if anybody accidentally decided to go for a swim. Not to mention it might attract other things, deeper in the lake, that fed on the fish. Inside the C.E.B. Inoadar had only a few chimes to look around, just long enough for Cris to sneak up to the door and get a nice view of the action. Inoadar had called out to the old man, but received no answer. Whatever the mage was doing in the back room, it was distracting enough for him not to respond. It did give Inoadar a few chimes to look around, but just as he was turning away from one of the file cabinets he felt the heavy pressure of a large, flat disk of stone slam into his chest and send him flying back against the wall. The stone lifted him off his feet, but when he hit the wall, he did not sink. The mage stepped out into view, holding a hand out and keeping Inoadar and the stone firmly in place. While the outside of it was solid, the innermost portion was still pure res, allowing the mage to maintain control over the object. "You are not one of us," the mage said, "And I am not so willing to trust random strangers as our beloved leader." The stone pressed harder against Inoadar's chest and he found it difficult to breath. The mage took a step toward him, coming into full view of Crismento from the door. He was a rather wild looking man, covered in strange talismans of bone, hair, and other materials and carried a staff that also seemed to be carved out of bone. All these items were covered in strange glyphs and symbols. The stone pressed even harder, and Inoadar thought he might have felt a rib crack, before suddenly it eased up a bit, allowing him to sink until his feet touched the ground, though it still held him against the wall. "What are you doing here? Why did you follow me, and why should I spare your life?" Meanwhile, at the Shipyard, the members of the Rising Dawn had managed to procure a pair of large water gliders to quickly transport the members and freed slaves to the shore. Not all the Rising Dawn would be going, there simply wasn't enough room, but they would make as much room for the slaves as they could so that all of them could escape. Velvet would be one of those slaves, hopefully, but the girl she was leading was causing problems. Half way there she tripped and scrapped her knee, causing her to bawl at the top of her lungs and refuse to get up. And as if that weren't bad enough, Velvet spotted a pair of armed men rounding the corner of one of the walkways with a large cart full of bodies in tow. As all of this was going on, Antar found himself waiting in anticipation for whoever the mysterious "mistress" might be. The konti seemed more than a little afraid of her, and he might be wondering if he should also feel afraid. And she had every reason to be afraid, as Antar would soon find out. When the mistress entered the room he recognized her immediately. In fact, there were very few people in Ravok who would not recognize her. "Antar Noth," the Voice said as she entered the room. "It seems that you are the hero of the day." The konti who had been attending him immediately fell to her knees. She was nothing but a slave, and she knew better than to look the Mother of Ravok in the eye, or even anywhere near her eyes. The Voice completely ignored the girl, walking right past her and to Antar's bedside. Surprisingly, she had no armed escorts with her, no guards, not even a servant to accompany her. The Voice did not need such things, there were few who could harm her, and in the privacy of her own temple she didn't need protection.. ..usually. "I suppose I should reward you. I could heal you, here and now, if you desire. You can walk out of here with a clean bill of health, no worse for wear.. but that will come in time anyway, if you are patient. Perhaps you would like a boon, some token of my appreciation, a treasure to help you along your journey? Or gold? What is your wish, Antar Noth?" AislinAislin, due to your over usage of magic (partially my fault >.>) you will suffer overgiving until the end of the coming winter. Aislin will have a strong desire to use her hypnotism magic whenever possible, even if it isn't necessary. Furthermore, about a third of the time, the magic will have a completely random and unexpected result, often mimicking the use of your Chaon. This lasts until the end of Winter 512. Once spring is here, you'll have fully recovered. AntarUnless you accept the Voice's offer for a clean bill of health, you will suffer the following effects until the end of Winter 512. All of your reimancy spells have a high likelihood of going out of control. Also, Antar will randomly have painful convulsions and seizures, often happening at the most inconvenient of times. You can ignore all of this if you accept the Voice's offer to heal you, but then you won’t get any other reward.

[Antar]

Even that which was within him felt restless in her presence.She was certainly charming to say the least as she spoke.Possessed of an elegance of few words, and the ability to impart words of wisdom. And a countenance like no other. He had expected a member of the stryfe, or perhaps a member of the black Sun to try and subvert him. Not the Voice herself. For the first time in his life Antar was deathly afraid of this presence in the room. And it had nothing to do with magic or skills. But everything to do with sensing a nature that could match or even exceed his own ruthlessness. No disrespect intended but this reminds me of those old street-games. You know, the one where you're talking to someone and have to pick a response lest they break your legs: and you know if you say another option then the three they give you you'll get in trouble?" Drawing a deep breath he continued. " The first option is always kind of the easiest to say, 'I'm pretty sure there are Gods. I just think they have a really warped sense of humour. At least I hope so, for how in the world would one put up with someone like me.' You just better hope your tormentor has a sense of humor. Otherwise, they'd probably do something horrible to you. Useful if you need to provoke a reaction for them to come close enough to get at. But otherwise the most painful and stupid path. Which is why ther are other options you know. Option two would be, 'I try not to bother the Gods, and hope they'll do me the same courtesy.' This one is kind of a live and let live principle, probably the safest. Though I tend to modify it with, 'until one crosses me. As an addendum, I don't usually seek favor with anyone from on high, it's not my place too. If they wanted to know me, they'd introduce themselves. Which then leads us to option number three of course;'Nope don't want to believe in them, cuz good sense, good weapons, good armor, and better skills is a hell of a lot more reliable than divine intervention. Of course, these responses would only come into the play if one holds sway to the idea that no matter what level you are on, be it ant, or insect, god , or alvina, or some beggar in the street, that there will always be a form of life far beneath you and a form of life or energy far above you as well. Which makes one wonder why some seem to gather power to themselves if it is to be able to overcome their station, or rather their circumstances. Yet if taken by this perspective its a wonder if even the gods should deign themselves to consider that they could raise even an ant to walk beside them. Or if other beings above them would raise them to a greater power? It's all fascinating to ponder." Antar cocked his head to the side and slightly smiled, "Which would your response be? Do you believe that gods even have gods that are above them? Or conversely, would they even care about a little person like a human? Which option would be best? Or would you choose a fourth option and risk speaking about a new point of view? One of your own design, your own perspective? I can assure that I am confident enough in myself that I would at least make the attempt. I think I have talked enough now. My wits still somewhat addled, yet perhaps clearer by my ordeal. My own personal answer for the question would be: Yes, but I'd only deal with them out of necessity." Antar paused a moment, "In answer to your original question of being healed: I believe I am well enough to know that there is clearly something wrong with me. Do you know what it is? I'm sorry, the answer is coming to me now, I seem to be suffering many side effects of overgiving though perhaps teeter near the cusp of recovery due to your." He nodded over towards the konti, weakly finishing, "servant. At least physically. Mentally, and magically there seems to be something still off that it seems... is..." He paused a moment, his brow etched with befuddlement before he weakly finished," hampering my ability to hold a conversation with you. And believe me, I think a conversation with you would be fascinating. Still, I am tempted to seek your perspective, as I realize I now never asked the original question. You know, the question that those people on the streets who want to break your legs would ask, 'Are there such things as gods to you? Not that I'm saying you wouldn't believe their aren't gods, of course you do, being who, you know , who you are. I'm just relaying what those people on the streets would ask." Antar's voice , hoarse with effort faded back into silence as his cool gaze merely met the woman's own. Just gently gazing, as his mind tried to focus his eyes upon her own. Matching her gaze for gaze. Perhaps waiting as if her next words would shed some clarity to the confusing haze of his exhaustion. Taking a deeper breath, the physical effort to marshall his concentration and bade off lapsing back into unconsciousness might show this woman the depths of his current struggles to keep his attention upon her. It was difficult to talk like this, but that was to be expected. His ability to focus was impaired. At least he was trying, amidst the chaotic tangents of his mind forced him to blurt out something, "On a side note I'm very hesitant of wishes, I had a horrible time with the last godly relic or connected figure which offered almost to grant them. Usually the cost is worse then actually doing things on your own. He struggled to sit upright. "I guess what you could say, is that I'm in no position to ask for anything save your goodwill and mayhaps if you so desire it, friendship." He lowered his voice slightly to mutter, "No matter what I do which might tick you or Rhysol off in the future," before resuming his prior tone," Anything else in these regards serves no purpose or lesson for me to learn. The rogue in me, a year or so ago would have even been so bold to simply ask for a kiss upon the cheek of motherly affection. But that would be liable to anger you, and I do so hate to see a beautiful woman upset. Though if you felt so inclined of your own free will to do so, I would not deign to stop you. So the last part of my answer, to the question you did ask and not the question asked by those in the streets who play that game, besides asking you for your goodwill and friendship, would be to simply ask you to do what you think is right while I do what I think is right, and ask you a most important question instead of deciding for you. Simply, is there anything you might need of me, anything I might do for you as a humbly born child of this city to help further in this... time of crisis?" What he didn't disclose in his mind was that he probably would do something if it was asked of him. Merely on a case by case basis, provided he could be convinced enough that it was a necessity. He just silently included such notions in his prayers , sending a brief feeling to Tanroa, Akajia, Morwen, and yes even a little to Rhysol, that the Lord of his City's chosen woman in front of him wouldn't tear him apart piece by bloody piece. He wouldn't have taken any money from an ebonstryfe leader here to convert him anyway, Shai's notion of finding her kid was worth beyond that weight in gold. No matter how attractive a gift was though, he wasn't really worthy of it in his opinion. The Voice should know that, while he did not have a grudge against any of the black sun or the ebonstryfe he was still pissed off for some sons of the stryfe members who killed his little sister. Revenge would come in time, but that was too menial for broaching with the current company. But he had really done nothing worthy here to garnish her notice. The woman must honestly have better things to do. Of course, there was an interesting tidbit going through the back of his mind. The Voice had the ability to heal the damage in another from overgiving? That skill might be useful to learn, if it was learnable and not a divinely granted gift. Was such a lost art? He dismissed such musings as irrelevant. Perhaps this woman would torment him for failing to gather his wits completely? He certainly hoped not. He was trying even if he was rambling a bit. He just hoped she couldn't read his mind or something like that. Though that could be a blessing in disguise. Since waking up it was awfully cluttered in there.

[Inoadar]

Inoadar had set the hat tree back, convinced that the noise was nothing, and returned to the filing cabinet. He remembered that he was going to check the pockets of the dead clerk and turned to exit the room. Instead, an impossibly surprising impact hammered him into the wall behind him. The suddenness, power and lack of any obvious source of the attack was almost as much an affliction as the pain itself.

Anticipating the drop to the floor following the impact, he gasped in shock as the thing, a simple disk of stone, bore into him with enough force to counteract his weight. The mage he had assumed was still in the back room suddenly stepped into view, making some remark about being unwilling to trust strangers. Inoadar tried to push himself up to wriggle over the stone, but it just ground into his torso even more. His shoulder opened with a trickle of blood and a sharp pain heralded a cracked rib. He grit his teeth, feeling stinging sweat run into his eye, and stopped fighting the crushing force trapping him.

He looked up, hoping to display defiance to his captor, but the haggard look of arcane insanity nearly robbed him of resolve. The wizard was an icon, an exemplar of every exaggerated superstition attributed to mages gone mad. Runes and glyphs, bones, feathers, some little horrors that may have been shrunken heads added to the creeping uneasiness of the man. As if the unsettling display of ready willingness to apply deadly aspects to his djed-wielding were not enough.

Inoadar thought back to one of his father's lessons, drilled into his impressionable young mind by the time he was eight. 'When death comes for you, greet it with respect. It is one thing even the gods fear. Rise above it and the gods will take notice.'

Inoadar had since rejected the gods, so he neither expected nor desired their notice. But perhaps this man would respect him if he showed acceptance of his position. And respect sometimes opened doors to other options. The pressure abated somewhat, allowing his feet to touch the floor. He took a deep breath but made no further move to escape the hold. He realized the man was speaking and focused on his words.

"What are you doing here? Why did you follow me, and why should I spare your life?"

"I already announced to you what I was doing here. If you do not believe me, why have me repeat myself? I followed you because I knew you were coming here, and assumed you would clear any resistance so I could pursue this same intent which I already announced. I don't see why "trust" should even enter into it. There was no deal struck, no promise made. I was fighting my way through our mutual enemies, when I heard you and your "beloved leader" babble information where I could hear. Information of key interest to me. I did not betray you, did I? Why should I be made to pay if you and your leader are careless enough to discuss strategies where a "random stranger" like myself can hear?"

He paused to gauge the man's attitude towards his answers. The man's piercing gaze did not waver, but he said nothing, so Inoadar continued. "As for why you should spare my life?... Because then I will be indebted to you. This may seem a small matter, but consider. I survived the melee with nothing but weapons scavenged from those who attacked me. I instinctively arrived in the right place at the right time to overhear you and your leader, undetected, I might add. I had the sense to assume you would reduce my opposition here. And I have the same enemies as you. Would the Ebonstryfe have put a bounty on my head if I were not of sufficient capability to cause them such grief and yet elude them?"

Inoadar hoped that the emphasis he put on the words "same enemies as you" would be read in the subtle manner he intended. There was clearly no love lost between this man and his "beloved leader", who he assumed to be the "Siriana" he had heard named in the overheard discussion. If the mage considered her an enemy, Inoadar would certainly be willing to adopt his viewpoint.

[Aislin]

The stench of bloodied flesh was overwhelming. The constant inescapable forcing the Chaon's nostrils to redden and flare as her neck creaked with her first attempt at twisting her long swan's neck. Tousling her raven colored hair, although failing to shake the stench. As it repeatedly infiltrated her sense of smell, the whore could not help but be roused, albeit rather slowly, but just enough to recover enough of herself to regain control of her body, and make it of any use in the situation that now presented itself to her. First, her fingers furled, her nails drawing across the tops of her palms. Etching thin lines of white which soon faded from the sight of her pale flesh. After a time, she allowed them to uncurl, before repeating the process over and over again, trying to grab the attention of the men taking care of her particular cart of dead bodies. But being as engrossed as they were in their own work, or perhaps their conversation of each other, they did not seem to notice that one of the corpses had sprouted life anew. Frustrated with that, she forced herself to blink, trying to bring back a portion of her formerly lucid mind. The strength that once rested behind her voice. "I never died, fools," Aislin managed in scarce above a whisper. Her voice cool, as though she were a snake. "Take me out from under these bodies. Get me out of here," she went on, her hypnotic djed weaving itself into her words so as to help in her escape. Her fingers flexing. Now, it added after a few ticks as if for an added effect, as one of the men finally noticed the trembling of her hands, after having looked down to the thought that he had heard something strange. He pointed to it, and then, eased his finger against the center of her palm. It was warm, and crusted with dirt. Aislin could feel the grime pressing against her smooth flesh as her fingers coiled around it, as though she were a baby practicing its ability to grasp at things. "Pull me out," she managed to say a little louder. "Not dead," she added. Startled, the man began to pull bodies off of Aislin, slowly lightening the load, until there was no one's weight pressing upon her chest. Relieved, she pulled in her first true breath as her eyes blinked unhappily as the light of the sun poured into them. Stinging her a little, melting the ice. "What the petch is wrong with you?" she asked the startled man, not bothering to thank him as she stumbled to her feet. Her legs trembling a little as they struggled to regain the fortitude to support her weight. "Piling the living alongside the dead?" she asked, as she tread towards him, the folds of her simple attire fluttering angrily about her ankles as her eyes hardened. Her pupils becoming two dark, smoldering coals. Flickering with a hint of a candle's flame. The man seemed too horror struck to speak. Perhaps he could sense the mark of Rhysol upon her ivory blades; somehow. With clenched teeth, the Chaon waited, her hands balling into fists as the man continued to say nothing to her. What a useless old oaf, she thought to herself, as her eyes grazed over him, committing his form to memory, so as to get back at him sometime later, before she stalked off, back towards the brothel which had become her home. Her head throbbing the entire way. OOCAnd so I make my exit. Enjoy the rest of the thread everyone. Also V, if this is a problematic exit, please tell me and I can edit.