DM Barcas - Kingmaker: Eye of the Cyclops

Game Master Isaac Duplechain

A Time in Varnhold, Part I
6th of Neth, 4712 (early morning)

Verik’s eyes snap awake in the candlelit small room, his hands close to his weapons. It is early as usual, before the dawn. Another day to do the Master’s appointed works in Varnhold, restoring and renewing what has been lost. He sits up from his rather bumpy and stiff mattress and works the sleep out of his eyes, then rubs a sore shoulder through his chain shirt. He always sleeps in his chain shirt now, and has donned the full plate every day since his arrival. I really must plead the case to Absalom one day soon for a sustenance ring…now I see why Knesh jested all the real Bankers and Justicars had them…so much to do to waste time on the frailties of sleep and nourishment…

Verik gets out of bed and dons a serviceable tunic and breeches as well as his cloak to ward off the chill in the room, the low embers of the fire doing little now to sustain warmth. He kneels on a threadbare rug and prays to the Master and his directed surrogates to sustain his prayers with potency, answering his calls for the blessing he may need for the day. The eleventh day since the battle with the corrupted valkyrie and the return of Varnhold from the umbral plane. In his heart he hopes to receive a vision of Axis and the golden towers as he had once before, but he knows that is mostly hubris on his part, and the vision never reoccurs. Still, his power has grown since the battle, his ability to channel the pure energy of the positive plane stronger and more controlled than ever before, the answering call of new prayers now open to his mind. Verik may be no Archbanker Vinodragov in such callings of divine potency, but he is fully realized now as a Banker should be. The time moves swiftly with his callings sure, though by its conclusion he utters a special prayer to the Twins that he gave his weapons the namesake to, Casil and Sulda Whitestag, hoping the pair of young men are doing well in whatever new tasks the Master of the First Vault would see to them.

With morning prayers and obediences fulfilled, Verik steps outside his room to the revitalized town hall that he occupies a small part of, now the central hub of the reclaiming and revitalization of Varnhold. Several Varnholders man the front doors and windows, watching the grounds outside in the square and across to other well-lit buildings that have been reclaimed in the heart of the town. Others sleep on pallets and cots in the main open rooms and hallways, finding security in proximity to each other. As the Banker checks his “Twins” of sword and hammer on his belt, he looks over to where two younger boys sleep on cots right outside his door. One boy is named Renn, the other Tavin. Both orphans from the ’Vanishing’ as many of the survivors call it now – whether their parents died from the plague, the rise of the undead upon the living, or the culling of the valkyrie herself, is unknown. In many respects it really doesn’t matter, only that these boys are orphans from the Vanishing saved by good fortune and the kindness of their surviving people. By the third day both Renn and Tavin were helping to write correspondence letters for Verik (somewhat badly but no matter) and acting as runners to the other Founders and surviving leaders as they worked to clear the inner portions of the town. Verik pulls up a blanket on Renn, who clearly was sleeping fitfully, and lets both boys sleep as long as they can. With a nod to the guarding watchers, he has them pull aside the crossbar to the main doors and steps outside.

The center square of Varnhold, site of the battle of the fallen maiden and the sundering of the umbral orb. A small stone has been erected at the center of the square, with Verik’s open-faced helm there where he first consecrated it after the battle was over. He does so twice daily now, once at dawn and once at dusk. A warding to weaken and ward off undead that have risen, though truth to tell it has been many days since a real threat occurred in the inner circle of the town. Yet it bolsters the survivors, giving them comfort in its consistency and thought of permanence. The Banker completes the morning’s consecration of the town square and adjusts his eyes to the slow light of the dawn that is about to creep over the mountains to their east, welcoming the warmth and light on what appears to be a fair day of weather, albeit colder now. Snows are seen in the upper reaches of the Nomen peaks and the Tors closer by, the Brevic winter well on its way. Another factor of time that works against them as they try to prop up Varnhold before another calamity comes calling.

In the distance around and outside of the square, Varnholder men and some women of the pre-dawn watch see the Banker and wave to him silently, both watchers of other reclaimed buildings or those manning the makeshift barricades of the “first line” that they hastily erected within the first two days. That was essential to their initial survival, to where they could rest and not fear an abrupt assault by hungering undead from unknown quarters – even mindless and undirected they still posed a threat to the survivors of Varnhold. From there they methodically pushed out, bit by bit, house by house, street by street. By the third day they had cleared the “first line” past the town square and the adjacent buildings for a solid block in all directions. By the fourth day they had expanded it to encompass a nearby watchtower and armory to secure more reliable weapons and armor for those fit to use them, as well as to link up with another group of survivors to the east that had been holed up in a large two-story tavern and brewery. By the fifth day they had erected the “second line” to encircle the old market bazaar and several shops that could be scavenged for the surviving inhabitants. Regrettably, they did not have enough surviving Varnholders to erect a third barricaded line for the town, even though the Founders ensured most of the roaming undead were discovered and destroyed. Instead, they worked on opening up a corridor to the north gate by the following sixth day, with volunteers heading out along the northern and western roads to Restov and Dragonswatch respectively. A counterattack by a zombie horde lost them control of their second barricade line and gave them two days of reversals and hard fighting, but the horde was eventually corralled and eradicated, with no massed activity since then. By yesterday they had scoured and cleared the sprawling mansion residence of Lord Varn himself, hoping to find survivors there but to no success. This would mark the eleventh day of their efforts to secure the town.

Despite the presence of the four Founders, the efforts to cleanse the town was simply too great. They needed numbers of forces. They also needed food and critical supplies for the survivors, some four score now in number. The granaries and storage warehouses had been broken open and fouled by diseased vermin, unfit to risk consumption. They needed help from Newhaven, but it was still days away with the threats of the Pitax-Mivon war and the few Newhaveners establishing a secured road from Dragonswatch to Varnhold that the wagon drivers would risk traveling. Rumors of the ’Vanishing’ had already reached the lands of Newhaven, fear slowing down the rescue effort immensely.

Yet despite all of this, Verik knew they simply had to keep trudging along as best as they could, performing acts of progress no matter how incremental or mundane, giving the Varnholders faith in progress and above all tasks to accomplish that kept their minds off of the true horrors they had suffered. Every day they recovered bodies, documented their identities and descriptions as best they could, performed final rites and then burned them in funeral pyres. Every day they selected buildings and streets to clear and cleanse. Every day they patrolled the twin barricade lines, checking and rechecking them for safety and security. Every day they went on missions to search and destroy the undead infestation, or to lure them into a prepared ambush zone for eradication. On and on the days went. He was astounded and impressed by the survivors’ tenacity, and that inspired him to do everything he could do himself. For the Varnholders as well as the Founders of Newhaven, there was no withdrawal possible, no retreat or quarter given.

On this morning of the eleventh day, Verik decides to try out a new power bestowed to him, the instructions conveyed to him by the orsheval that spoke to him in his vision. He selects an upper tower balcony of Varn Manor that is in the distance and just within the prescribed range of his abilities, clearly seen from his position in the town hall square. Rubbing his hands together and rehearsing the steps the orsheval imparted to him, he utters the invocation while visualizing a ball of light form in the distance at the tower balcony, even while infusing his own body with light, encasing him. The light grows brighter and brighter around him, the aura building. When he can no longer contain it and the last words of his prayer are uttered, Verik wills himself to move to the distant ball of light upon the balcony, understanding somehow that his light and that in the distance are one and the same. Then it happens. A flash of light, a shift and suddenly Verik finds himself looking outward from the balcony atop Varn Manor, staring back towards the barricaded town square where he was but a moment before. He did it!

Yes! A momentary sensation of exultation rises within him, the joyous glee of travel in ways he once never thought possible. I cannot wait to show the others this…I feel certain I can take at least one or two others with me as well…hmm I wonder what Aleza would think about this? Hopefully I’ll get the time to see her again and tell her about my vision of Axis…has it only been a fortnight since I saw her last? I wonder if she knows my birthing date is only ten days from now on the sixteenth... The Banker ponders these and other pleasant thoughts for a time as he looks out from the balcony to the north, clearly able to see the edge of town and the road leading northwards in the early light of dawn. Something in the distance, however catches his eye, causing him to suspend his idle thoughts of fancy and peer closer for verification. Dust along the northern road, caused by several objects that could only be a train of wagons with horses and other beasts of burden. But from what? A supply train for a hostile force, or a relief caravan with supplies and aid? Logically they were coming from Restov, so he could not say for certain.

”Well I suppose it’s time to take on Cobblehoof’s wings for scouting early and sort this out,” concludes the Banker. It was doubtful anyone had seen this yet, for the other tower they had secured did not face north to the road. Verik knew Borodin would be disappointed, for the Aldori spymaster preferred to take the daily scouting flights from Verik whenever offered, enjoying the soaring in the air nearly as much as he did. Oh well, let us hope this proves good tidings and not another day to mark a battle… Casting his more familiar prayer to construct brief shimmering wings in homage to Cobblehoof, Verik steps forward and takes to the air to see what comes to Varnhold from the northern road...

28 Calistril 4713

Varnhold
Dawn breaks over Varnhold, spilling sunlight over its wooden walls. To the survivors of the Vanishing, as they have begun to call it, this comes with tremendous relief. To the brave settlers (called opportunistic by some), it validates their decision to move to Varnhold. The disappearance and death of all but a handful of the inhabitants still weighs heavily upon the town. Some call it haunted, others cursed. The intact houses and buildings quickly filled with settlers brave, greedy, or foolhardy enough to look past what happened there. Some of the survivors bitterly called what followed a disgrace to the memories of the dead, but quickly new Varnholders arrived to take the place of the old. The settlers arrived in waves in the months that followed the Vanishing, as word traveled to the surrounding nations of what occurred. The population grew from dozens to hundreds back to thousands in just a few months, until nearly every building was back in use. The township has had to build several new buildings to accommodate the surge, which has finally slowed as word has returned that the free property has been distributed fully.

Many settlers came from Brevoy and Restov, as the tensions between the houses continued their ever-increasing dance. A marriage proposal between a niece of Lord Orlovsky and King Noleski Surtova failed to get the consent of the king, incensing Orlovsky and causing his departure from New Stetven. Rumors swirl that Lord Lebeda sent his daughter Ellana to disrupt the proposal, but the common political wisdom holds that the king cannot choose either the Lebedas or the Orlovskys and will eventually have to marry Nadia Lodovka as a compromise. The arrival of a bitter winter put aside the political machinations for another year, but many feel that the rivalry between Lord Orlovsky and Lord Lebeda will soon come to a head. Both the houses – and most of their allies and bannermen – have been increasing production of their arms and armor, waiting for the other side to make an aggressive move. The king has been able to keep the feuding lords from calling for war, as he and his father have done for a decade since the betrothal between Jemini Lebeda and Zander Orlovsky fell apart.

A few more Galtans arrived, but the bulk of the new arrivals were from Mivon. As tense as relations are between the kingdoms to the north, the warring kingdoms to the south have caused far more destruction. Pitax’s sudden invasion thrust deep into Mivon’s territory, marching to the outskirts of the city itself in a matter of weeks. With Berrin Myrdal mustering the armies of Newhaven to prevent a concurrent invasion of Newhaven’s southern border, the nation has had a close opportunity to watch their neighbors at war. Pitax’s armies marched across the riverlands quickly, taking keeps and bridges quickly from the retreating Mivoni. While many of their troops are the traditional phalanxes of Pitax, King Irovetti seems to have been able to augment their numbers with clockwork soldiers and golems. Mivon holds no standing armies – like Brevoy, their original homeland – but rather relies on the swordlords to muster their armies. In the first several weeks of the invasions, the swordlords had little answer for the unliving troops and little ability to organize its defenses. The Mivoni consul, Raston Selline, and his second-in-command, Gaspar Tellick, led a volunteer army to meet the Pitaxians outside the walls. The sudden sally caught them by surprise, giving Mivon a sorely-needed victory and enough time for the swordlords to muster their armies in full. Pitax settled in for a long siege as winter fell upon the campaign, controlling the western river and much of Mivon’s prime farmland. Many of the residents of the conquered villages fled north to Newhaven and Varnhold rather than live under the thumb of King Irovetti.

Verik Jarrow, Banker of Abadar, woke up two hours ago. His morning constitutionals left his body flushed with exertion, but his mind has been tested the most over the last four months. The sheer amount of abandoned property and its distribution has taxed his ability to organize to its fullest extent. When he realized the extent of his challenge – and the regrettable fact that he would have to stay in Varnhold for the foreseeable future to properly probate an entire town’s possessions – he sent for as many of the Clerks and Initiates that he could spare to pull from the Bank of Sanctuary. Anya Amitel’s talent for cataloging and organization made her invaluable in this task, leaving Old Eben in charge of the Bank in his absence. Verik has happily watched her guide Lem Bodkins and Mihai Akarius, leading them and the four Initiates through her expertise, freeing him to his own work. The arrival of his protégé – after the first hard month of scourging the city free of the lingering undead – brought some much-needed happiness to Varnhold, as she announced her betrothal to Willas Gunderson and requested that Verik marry them in Gozran.

While many of the refugees and settlers arrived in Varnhold, they seemed to expect that they would receive a share of the abandoned property simply as a matter of course. Verik quickly disposed of that idea, telling each new settler that they would have to earn it through work – as if they should expect anything else from Abadar. Each day, he sorted through a never-ending line of people, determining how they would earn some share of the great deal of abandoned belongings and buildings. Some he put to work as builders, others as guards, others as farmers, others still as clerks. For those who merely wanted to settle without taking some of the property, he gladly encouraged them to negotiate employment with the large number of new traders and merchants who arrived in the city looking for opportunity. The arrangement with the settlers is temporary and based on the fair market value of what they received from the discarded goods.

He reflects on his fortune as he steps onto the snow-covered courtyard outside the town hall. The stockade and the buildings inside have become the hub of activity and decision-making in Varnhold, and a de facto Bank of Abadar. While Anya and the rest of his Clerks have been invaluably helpful, he is most thankful for Aleza Bellavieu. His heart had ached when he had to pen a regretful letter explaining the need for him to stay in Varnhold through the winter, wanting nothing more than to continue the magical evening from before the Vanishing. He had hoped that she would understand and not pick up with one of the many suitors – but his heart soared when she arrived a week later. She had scoffed at the idea that they would be apart for that long, and scoffed again that he had neglected to consider her talents. With such disarray in the town, they would need a logistics expert to properly bring the needed resources and distribute them as necessary. She utilized her existing network of trading partners to bring in the sorely-needed food and furs, bringing relief to the survivors and settlers alike through the hard winter. Her presence, of course, also had other positive aspects, he thought to himself with a dopey smile and reddened ears.

He can barely feel the cold thanks to the cloak he had so lovingly enchanted years before, but he knows that the winter had been bitterly cold outside his bed. He tracks through snowfall up to his ankles, taking care to watch his step. An unexpected patch of ice slipped him up a few months prior, and he swears that he can hear some of the men snickering when he passes. With his mind so intently focused on his footwork, he doesn’t notice Arkady Zeitsev has already arrived in the courtyard for their meeting and nearly bumps into him.

Their first meeting had been terrible for Verik, but likely far more terrible for Arkady. He can scarcely imagine what it would feel like to return to your home, only to find such a calamitous state. The man had been leading a caravan in a wide arc from Varnhold to trade with the centaurs, then up to Restov and back home – but when he arrived, his home and his life was gone. His wife was one of the so many fallen, but Arkady’s child had survived. Verik had discovered later that he was the man’s ultimate employer through his interests, which made him feel even more terrible. Perhaps it is that sense of responsibility – or seeing his terrible discovery firsthand – that has made him keep a much closer eye on him than any of the other citizens of the town. He has watched with empathy and sadness as Arkady dealt with the horror and grief of his loss, even petitioned Archbanker Vinodragov to come help him commune with the spirit of his wife so that they might find her body and restore her – but she would not. Verik has tried to think of any way to salve his pain, but ultimately knew the task was beyond him; perhaps it is not past another who feels an unknowable rage and channels it for the good of Newhaven.

Meanwhile, Nikolai Rogarvia rides in through the northern gates. The last few months have been fruitful, as he has had to travel their nation recruiting new soldiers. With so many warding off the potential of an attack on the southern border, it leaves their northern territory undefended from the envious lords of Brevoy and Restov. Verik has been able to supply some soldiers from the settlers arriving in Varnhold, but it is his responsibility to ferry them to Dragonswatch and train them to be a real army. Even with Gladcoin’s help, they have had trouble mustering enough swordsmen to potentially defend themselves on both fronts – and now they have an additional city to defend. He growls in anger to himself, causing a few townsfolk to hurry away. He makes for the town hall where he and Jemini cut down the valkyire, wondering what the priest wanted from him and if he had enough soldiers to make this trip worth his while.

Outside the southern walls, Evie Damyanov has stopped entirely. It has been some more than a year since she had set foot in Varnhold, much less any city. The wild lands were hers. She spent months now with the centaurs, feeling more at home with their nomadic tents than the cities of man. The task given to her by Maegar Varn was to treat with the centaurs, act as a liaison between their peoples – a task at which she had excelled. She had learned more about nature from them than even her uncle, even though the centaurs always mocked her for only having two legs. She has grown quite fond of them, and they her. When Zander Whitestag, the Warden of Newhaven, found her in the centaur’s sprawling range, she was sad that she had to leave them.

Erdija of the Nomen Clan, rode with her the entire way back from the Nomen’s steppes to the gates of Varnhold. The centaur warrior looks over at Evie with sadness on her face. ” Er du sikker på at du må tilbake til de menneskelige lander? Komme tilbake med meg, jakte, være gratis! Du vil ikke være i stand til å se stjerner eller ri på slettene.”

Zander glances over, maintaining the stoic quiet of their trip. He had explained what happened in Varnhold, but not what Aylene wanted from her. He is a withdrawn man, but she senses a deep respect for the wilds in him – likely why he also spent so much time in the wilds. ”She is staying in her father’s house, I think.” He makes no attempt to explain the circumstances or the political effect of the disappearance of Baron Varn, and for that she is thankful.

Checking in next with Jemini, Elsir, and Borodin back in Sanctuary!

Evie had grown accustomed to Zander’s silence throughout their trip and is surprised when he finally speaks. ”Do you know what she wants of me? It’s okay if you don’t. I’m sure I’ll find out when I get there. I was just curious.”

She then looks to her friend before Zander has a chance to answer. She has the same sadness in her eyes as the centaur warrior. ”Jeg vil savner det åpne rom og selskapet men jeg prøver å se på dette som en ny, og kanskje kort eventyr. Jeg har ikke vært til en by i lang tid, men det er fortsatt stjerner å bli sett hvis du står på vollene... selv om ikke så lyst. Det tar litt å bli vant til.“

She then looks down to the big cat plodding along by her side. ” Jeg vet hvem vil savne wildlands enda skjønt.”

She gently pats her companion on the head and gives him a comforting smile.

”Forgive me warden. I interrupted your answer. Do you speak sylvan? If not, I will make an effort to speak common with my friend. As you know, I haven’t been in the towns a while and have spoken nothing but sylvan for months. I don’t want to be rude.”

Despite Evie’s reputation as a loner and a “wild child”, Zander has noticed that she seems very easy going and caring, almost gentle even. Nothing to show that she is a deadly hunter and expert tracker.

28 Calistril 4713 | Sanctuary

The winter wind blows hard on the doors of the Founder's Hall, but the fires keep the castle warm enough to ward off the chill. Jemini Lebeda sits at her usual spot in the table, though only one of her fellow Founders is in attendance in this meeting - Kesten Garess, her longtime friend and the chief diplomat of the fledgling nation. It has seemed to her in the last few months that Newhaven is the only island in a sea of chaos. To the north, her father is locked in a struggle for power with Lord Orlovsky. His letters have grown more alert as of late, written in their family's unusual code. She had been looking forward to a visit from her parents over the winter, but the tension in Brevoy kept them from departing Silverhall, the seat of their power. She finds herself wishing again that she could convince the feuding lords - all six of them - to make peace and present a united Brevoy against the threat of Choral the Conquerer. Unfortunately, as the daughter of one of those lords, her motives are suspect to Lord Orlovsky and his allies - who have been petitioning the king to name Newhaven part of the kingdom (and thus demand its taxes). Fortunately, the Rostlanders have kept that demand from passing through the king's lips - but perhaps one day that will have to come to reckoning.

She would have visited them, but Newhaven has offered its own set of challenges over the icy season. With so many of their troops massed on the border of Mivon and Pitax, bandits have taken advantage of the roadways. Nikolai has swept through a few times while out on his recruiting missions, but still more come along the plains between Varnhold and Sanctuary. She reflects for a moment that Varnhold is now as much part of their nation as Sanctuary, glad that they were able to invoke the marriage of Aylene Varn to Berrin Myrdal before Restov could snatch the city up and put another hostile nation on their flank. For her part, Aylene had responded surprisingly well. Within a day of learning of the fate of her father and her hometown, she took the mantle of responsibility and officially consented to the annexation of Varnhold. She and her infant son traveled to Varnhold to assist in its rebuilding as its governor. Jemini could tell that Aylene deeply missed her husband and mourned her father, but remained strong for the survivors and ever-growing number of settlers.

The presence of Pitax's troops outside the walls of Mivon has slowed the number of settlers somewhat, but many continue to make their way from the besieged city to Varnhold and Sanctuary. The war between the longtime neighbors has much of the nation worried that it will pull Newhaven into battle - either as an ally of one of the combatants or as a victim - or spark a larger war between the ever-envious warlords that control the various River Kingdoms. Touvette's "lord protector" makes Irovetti look reasonable and peaceful in comparison, and there are a half-dozen self-styled warlords nestled in the riverlands that could take advantage of the situation. Jemini sent out overtures to both King Irovetti of Pitax and Consul Selline of Mivon, hoping to broker a peace between them and settle the region. At first, they both refused, sending Kesten back with nothing to show for his trip. She sent him back, this time with an offer of a merchant mission just for them to come to the table.

Kesten sits exhausted, stroking his beard. In the five years since he arrived at Oleg's trading post, he has grown it out and shaved it off a dozen times. Each time, he has declared that he will keep his face in that state, but he grows restless after a few months with or without it. He started growing his beard out before his first trip south to make the offer of the peace summit, and now it fully covers his face. He explains the terms upon which he and the warring cities agreed so that they could meet and try to negotiate a peace. "They each demand to be allowed an honor guard. I negotiated it down to twelve guards apiece in the castle proper, and five hundred each camped on opposite sides of the city. We have to escort both armies up and ensure safe passage for them through our lands, of course. They insisted on hostages, of course, to be released upon their safe return. I will act as the hostage of Pitax, and they insisted on Oleg for Mivon."

"I made sure to ensure that Irovetti understood that he could not bring any of his metal soldiers. They're unsettling things - they don't need to eat or rest, or else he would have had to break the siege on account of the pressure on his supply lines. I couldn't tell if they can make decisions on their own or if they follow someone's specific orders. Gearsmen, Irovetti calls them. He said that he built them all himself." Kesten looks at her with serious intent. He is almost a decade older than her, seeing her as a younger sister even though they hail from different houses. "I worry that if Irovetti conquers Mivon, he will turn his gaze onto us. And if he has more of those gearsmen, we will be hard-pressed to defend ourselves."

---------------------------

Down on the shore of the Tuskwater, Elsir Tel'ran sits inside the Harborage House, simply watching Borodin Loginov in total quiet. For some time, Elsir has resisted a detailed analysis of the man wrenched from his own timeline. What he and Willas had discovered in the possible future - growing more divergent daily, though he can't tell if that is good or bad - was challenging enough to the principles of the inviolate nature of time. Interviewing Borodin about every memory, every detail yet to come, could do irreparable damage to the time stream. When Elsir received Borodin's encoded letter, he had been intrigued beyond measure and perhaps beyond his own sense. It was enough for him to take his leave of Berrin, still guarding the border.

The war between Mivon and Pitax has bothered Borodin for months on two accounts. First, he was born and raised in Mivon (and his four-year-old younger self is there now), but he remembers no war or siege. Second, if there was a shift in the timeline, what prompted it? From what Elsir had explained to him years ago, the timeline from which he was plucked is the one that would have occurred if not for the unintentional changes since their return. (Elsir had gone to great lengths to explain the dangers of an intentional paradox, going so far as to impress upon him that it might destroy him entirely if the paradox is serious enough.) However, unless there was some sort of ripple effect with their actions, King Irovetti would have no reason to change his own timeline - and thus Borodin deduced that he must have some sort of knowledge of the timeline. At first, Borodin thought that Irovetti had figured out what happened from Elsir's submission to the Pathfinder Chronicles, but he had discarded that thought. It might have something to do with Halarouth's mysterious disappearance and illness, but the previous spymaster left no sort of firm evidence that might help. Thus, he turned to Elsir for his expertise.

The elven wizard has been staring at him in some sort of trance for more than two hours, with not a word spoken between them. "Tracing the time motes," he had called the task. Borodin simply stays quiet and lets the Pathfinder do as he will. He looks over to see Willas Gunderson sticking his head into the meditation room. As the only other person to actually spend time in the future - Borodin's timeline - Willas might have some insight, if only he could turn his attention to the task for more than a few minutes. He has been giddily planning his wedding to Anya Amitel, one of Verik's subordinate Bankers, and spent the first few hours of Elsir's return telling him all about it. Elsir had smiled with bittersweet sadness, happy for his friend but remembering the still-fresh pain of losing his own wife to old age. They had eventually all been able to get to the meditation so that the chronomancer could shed some light on what the invasion might mean for the timeline. He rubs the Dragonmark on his arm, the burned memento of his original time.

Varnhold - Southern Gate | Evie Damyanov

Zander shakes his head. It has an almost-comical effect on the large stag's helm that he wears. She has heard the stories of the Stag Lord and the reputation that he now holds, but seeing the helm of the bandit king is something else entirely. It must have been truly frightening to see as he terrorized the countryside. The man who wears it now is gentle, in his own way. "I don't know what she wants. She simply sent me to find you. It wasn't my place to ask. I was going to send one of my Wardens, but she asked that I deliver the message personally. It must be important." He turns his back to her, taking off the helmet and affixing something else on his temple. He turns back around to her, showing his face once more. "I do speak Sylvan - but I prefer Common."

Erdija lets loose a sharp laugh. "Common! A silly tongue for a silly people!" Her protestations aside, Erdija's facility with the language of humanity has grown dramatically over the last year, to the point that she no longer struggles with the nuances. As she taught Evie a great deal about hunting and living in harmony with the natural world - and the way of war in skirmishes with the other centaur tribes - Evie taught her a great deal about humans. Their friendship blossomed naturally, especially when Erdija told her of her desire to lead the tribe after Korak Kaag, chieftain of the Rashkala. They traveled far and wide as the tribe rode across the plains, even going to the vast skeletal remains of an unbelievably massive linnorm. The location is sacred ground, she had explained, and the same site where the humans of Newhaven had convinced her people to ally with the humans against Hargulka. They made a strong impression upon her and the rest of the centaurs, so that she felt as if she already knew the Founders of Newhaven herself. Erdija had insisted on accompanying her to Varnhold, and Evie suspected that she wanted to see the humans again. Erdija, of course, made no such admission, but Evie knows her better than that.

28 Calistril 4713 | Sanctuary

Jemini leans back, an unpleasant tendril of chill creeps in from the side - a sign that the winter had bite. Fortunately her cloak inured her to it as much as the fires, both in material and magic.

The meeting with Kesten Garess was purposefully private. Not just out of necessity - most other notables and Founders weren't at hand after all - but also due to the nature of the discussion which covered some of Jemini's concerns with the growing tension in Brevoy. "You know that my father, Lord Lebeda, has warned me to stay wary of the Orlovsky machinations at court. For the forth time their petitions to annex Newhaven have stalled; I would not be surprised to find Elana in part responsible for this. But it stays a relevant question."

Kesten, his salt-and-pepper beard offering more than just a hint of his progress in age, nods but adds, "At least with Nikolai Rogarvia and our growing military presence the words 'protectorate' have fallen off the table."

"You have to wonder, Orlovsky and his allies are obviously not poor; but perhaps their old money is being spread a bit thin with a long-lasting stalemate. Preparing for war without engaging in it is just as costly as the war itself. They must realize that getting taxes from Newhaven bolsters not just their coffers, but House Lebeda and its allies too. Should they not worry that if we were to be annexed that Newhaven would in some sense extend Lebeda's holdings?"

"Perhaps they plan to, ahem... adjust the leadership of Newhaven; even if only to replace a couple of key positions," Kesten's face suddenly darkens with realization, "I must insist you accept a personal bodyguard -"

Jemini waves aside the notion almost as quick as it is raised: "Newhaven is not ruled by a single person - especially not me - we do not have the resources to allocate such a bodyguard to each of our inner circle, which you'd have to receive too then, by the way. Besides," she chides, "up to now only one man has been able to kill me. And that turned out for the better too." Back to the matter hand, her voice switches back from the jovial to the business: "I'm more concerned that the petitions are the wool that is pulled over our eyes. At this point they're mostly going through the motions and perhaps laying the foundations for the future with their obvious efforts. But what are they doing behind our backs? It's far too quiet in a real sense."

She looks over the documents in front of her, "Unlike this. Pitax and Mivon. I wonder if it should be troubling or reassuring that they both denied parleying for peace initially. With Pitax knocking at their gates, Mivon has every reason to want them to desist. Unless they feel they had the upper hand somehow."

Kesten nods, "Consul Selline could be aptly described as a man that sits in the middle of an elaborate web. He's a very well-informed man; where Irovetti is quite in love with himself and his schemes, Selline is subtle but no less effective."

"Agreed. We will have to worry what their true motivation is for coming. Though it pains me to think of it that way, I doubt either is truly coming here with the intention of making peace. Before we can broker a peace then, we may have to nullify their true objectives. I can imagine that Pitax may make a move against Mivon in Selline's absence - especially since they have those... 'gearsmen'. I don't believe Selline's desperate enough to come here only with peace in mind; but I cannot fathom his motives. Any idea?"

Evie casts a quiet look to her companion. It’s not necessarily a berating look, but not one of agreement either. ”You were not so proud to learn it and have kept my company for months now, despite me having only two legs. Each group has its own manner of silliness sometimes.” So as not to anger her friend, Evie gives her a smile, a quick wink and then does something entirely unexpected. She shoves into the warrior’s horse body, right into the left shoulder with her own. The shove isn’t fierce, but it has enough force behind it to throw the centaur off a pace or two. The centaur shoves right back, almost forcing Evie off her feet. It seems rough but both women are smiling. It reminds Zander of when he’s seen horses jostle each other about in the field, playfully shoving each other around, trying to throw the other off-balance.

Evie and Erdija give each other a few more shoves before regaining their steps next to the warden. The cat, who had temporarily given up his place at his master’s side when the play got too dusty, comes back to pace beside her. The next moment…or maybe just the next question…is, again, unexpected.

”That is a truly impressive helm warden. I can only imagine the weight of it. Have you found that it suits you? It seems a bit impractical for one that ranges….but perhaps it serves many purposes.”

If a common person were to ask such a thing, it might come across as obnoxious or, quite possibly, offensive, depending on the mood. Yet, coming from Evie, it seems almost innocent. He has a sense that it isn’t entirely a question asked just to keep up conversation. Something about the way she said “weight”. Maybe he’s reading too much into it and it is sincerely just a question, but there’s really no sure way to know.

Varnhold, Central Courtyard of the Town Hall

The High Cleric of Newhaven, holding onto his hat but losing a journal and three scroll cases to the snowy ground in the process, huffs irritably as he stoops down to retrieve the fallen items. He fixes an eye on Arkady Zeitsev, internally wondering how he missed the man’s presence so completely in the morning light of the square. Moves like the shadows when he wants…actually he moves with a step similar to Borodin…or Morai-Thrune. Darkly brooding eyes too like Thrune was – that’s a thought to make my blood run cold! At least he is reliably punctual when he wants to be somewhere… Verik carefully sets his stack of books and scrolls firmly to the crook of his arm, his chain shirt and southlander cloak briefly smoothed with a now-free hand. ”Master Zeitsev. I see you have kept our appointment in mind, the very first I shall see today. Let us proceed to my receiving offices then.”

Walking grimly and without idle chatter into the town hall, the Banker greets several men and women who have already arrived to work for the benefit of Varnhold: scribing, administration, cataloguing, arbitration, contracts, assessment of property and finally fees and taxation – all are handled as is possible in the town hall of Varnhold. As he walks through the main rooms and down a guarded hallway to a set of stairs leading upwards, he cannot help but think how much is being done here now as a real Bank would manage. He has no illusions of formally turning the heart of the town to a true consecrated Bank of Abadar, even though the square itself is still consecrated thrice daily upon the helm and stone that he blessed immediately after the fight to free Varnhold from the Vanishing. Perhaps something more akin to his first Bank, or the solid edifice currently found in Olegsgrav under Junior Banker Thomas Quiss. Yes, something sturdy and aiding in the defense and not too grand…I believe there is enough of a following to warrant it…whenever I get back to Sanctuary I must have Galen Laviil draft up something exquisitely proper from his mind’s eye… Verik nods to a single Oathsworn Abadarian guardsman that salutes and opens the door to what have become his “formal” offices in Varnhold. Hot tea and chilled pure water have already been set on a side serving table.

Over the next few minutes, no words pass between Verik Jarrow and Arkady Zeitsev, soon seated across from each other at what passes for Verik’s formal writing desk. The Banker makes a great motion to set each book on his desk just so, the scrolls unrolled and a fresh vial of ink opened with good-quality quills set to the side in proper fashion. He opens a journal up to a prepared page marked with ribbon, briefly cross-referencing a passage with a page of parchment. Arkady cannot help but discern something is different about this meeting than those prior with the Banker, a greater tension in the air than what normally passes between them. Finally, he looks up and stares at Arkady with a steady gaze. The tone is distinctly admonishing.

”What am I to do with you, Master Zeitsev?”

Verik taps the open page of the journal on the desk. ”Here a charge of disturbance and incitement to assault, leveled against you just after Vault Day in early Abadius.” He flips several pages back and taps the same journal. ”Here, nearly the same charges with three newcomer men you thrashed a fortnight ago in this month of Calistril.” The Banker then holds aloft a parchment and says, ”And now just three days ago, another set of charges! Each time you spend a night in the jailhouse, with fines levied against you in each case.” Verik clasps his hands together and leans forward from his side of the desk to make his point. ”Had this been Newhaven Law, the third offense would have landed you a harsher penance in the public square stocks or hard labor clearing ground. Yet Varnhold Laws, such as they are, view disorderly behavior and fighting that leaves no lasting injury with much greater leniency than Newhaven. Hence, why you are here with eighty-five crowns in fines levied against you, and not in the stocks with over three-hundred.”

”Yet you cannot pay the eighty-and-five levied against you, can you Master Zeitsev? For you have no income, no means to support yourself or your family that you have chosen to employ for yourself.” Verik taps yet another parchment that is rolled up. ”I have it on good account from many of the shop merchants and stall vendors that you have either bartered or sold most of your possessions of value from your home, and now have little to nothing left but bare walls and rooms. I hear rumors that friends of your servingwoman Gytha give her food scraps and leftover meals to keep your household fed.” Verik holds out an unsealed letter from a pocket that bears the key seal of Abadar. ”From Olegsgrav I have discovered you have an immense debt owed by you to rather unsavory sorts there – unsanctioned by the Bank of course – whom do not take kindly to their moneylending investments left without return! And what do you do about this, Arkady Zeitsev? What do you do to see to the affairs of your house and your family name?”

Verik starts ticking off offers with fingers upon his hand. ”Let me see now. I offered you commission with the newly raised militia companies as a senior man, but you refused. Since you are surly and generally unpleasant around others but said to show great skill in the wild, I offered you an invitation to meet with Warden Whitestag and the Newhaven Warders, but you refused. I arranged a meeting for you with Swordmaster Kharkarov to join his Free Company, and not but two days later he...” …he tells me he would rather run you through with his blade than speak to you ever again… ”…he was very put out with your manners, to say the least! Though I have NO intention of reconstituting poor Master Weyam’s caravanning interests and am myself in private ventures of breeding horses and making wagons, I still offered to stake you for your own outfitting to a larger consortium, yet you refused me because you can no longer bear to be out on caravans! Very well, ‘stay here then as you have a keen mind and work in the town hall on contracts and issuances’ I said! Did I not say that Arkady? But. You. Refused. Me.”

Throughout the increasing tirade of logic that Verik puts on him, he can see Arkady sits there like stone, impassive and immovable to his words. Unflinching. Uncaring. What Verik was doing wasn’t working. The reasoning never had worked. He just could not fathom that kind of loss and what it leads a man to do. Well. Perhaps in light of his feelings for Aleza, he can understand the loss. Yet Verik knows he is guided by his faith in Abadar, even in death. That, and dealing with grief through hard work. Yet Arkady Zeitsev had neither the faith to sustain him, nor the hard work to keep his mind occupied. So he stayed idle in Varnhold, refusing all hands to help him, descending deeper into the spiral.

It was coming to the end of it now, with one wild chance left to reach the man and somehow pull him back from the darkness eating his soul. That the man reminded him in some odd ways like Taisper or even Nikolai was unsettling. That the man could go the way of a Morai-Thrune or more urgently the way of Willard Pharn was frightening. Unlike Verik and Taisper, they had no shared ties to the Master, no ties of blood or family to draw upon. His cousin might have been the one to defer to, but his current life of relative peace and self-reflection in Sanctuary was something Verik would not risk disrupting. Even Kabula with his ties to the man could not shake Arkady loose from the maelstrom.

So that left it to the choice of a man who understood true pain and darkness of the soul...but a mistake in first impressions such as with Kharkarov would end it before it began. Verik first had to crack the man’s walls, throw him off-balance and reach some rawness to allow his spiritual wounds to seep open. It was a risk though, he knew. Now or never Jarrow…just keep an eye to the open window in case you have to retreat that way across the square to the far balcony.

”You know what I think, Arkady Zeitsev? I think you do not want a letter of employment from me. I think you want me to sign you a death warrant. Well. I won’t do that for you Arkady Zeitzev. You’ll have to go out and get yourself killed in your own way if that is what you truly wish. At which point I will then dispense with my burden for your house by paying for your son to be shipped off to Sanctuary, to Madame Ryton and the Keyhouse – the finest orphanage in all the River Kingdoms. Oh yes! There he shall learn his letters and numbers and a useful trade to ply, I assure you. Yet young Zus Zeitsev will have much to reconcile - knowing in truth that his mother died to protect him, while his father died a coward of life, dying to abandon him to the winds. I shall write the truthful account myself for him to read when he comes of age. Eh Arkady? What say you to that?”

Varnhold. The private offices of Banker Verik Jarrow. 28 Calistril, 2713.

Verik's final words hang in the air between the two men for a long moment, Arkady comfortable in a fine chair opposite the Banker. Dark eyes watch Verik - they have not wavered throughout the reprimand. There is no outburst from the man, nor any show of anger as the list of grievances is pronounced. He well knows the extent of his own irresponsibility, and appears to feel no shame in it. For a time, there is no reaction at all save for a whitening of the knuckles where his hands grip the arms of the chair.

When he finally stirs, it is to pull a heavy pouch from a loop on his belt. "I have your gold. I sold a wagon," he says, the words nearly drowned beneath the sound of clinking coins as he tosses the leather sack onto Verik's desk. "If that will be all?"

He straightens in his seat, rises as if to go, but pauses. A grimace, a half-shake of his head, and as he falls back into the chair he wears the look of a man who has resigned himself to a foolish course of action.

"You know my friend Kabula, Banker Jarrow? May I call you Banker Jarrow?" There is an edge to Arkady's tone now; it is a mockery of politeness. "He cautioned me to speak to you as little as possible. To pay my fine and take my leave," he sneers, "But he has always said that I scorn wise counsel. You think to enrage me? Banker, I am already enraged. Your will be done; thank the gods." His voice raises slightly as he goes, the words coming faster.

"First you bade me join your newly-minted militia. It's a foolish man who volunteers for a uniform, and moreso in Varnhold, but men in the throes of grief are often prone to foolishness so you tried your hand. You next decided it would be simpler to just be rid of me, and tried to quietly banish me into the service of your Warden Whitestag but, knave that I am, I would not cooperate. Reluctant to leave my son's side in his hour of grief? A great moral failure, to be sure." The widower clicks his tongue in feigned disapproval of his own behavior.

"Your invitation to meet with Master Kharkarov might have been an attempt on my life, Banker. He's every bit as unpleasant as I, though your well knew that. Touchy, too. Inside five minutes' conversation he had shown me steel. Could we but have agreed on the terms of a duel, one of us would have died that day. Unfortunately I've no great fondness for swords, and he was reluctant to engage me in a bout of pugilism. Many men are, when it's to the death. Something about beating the life out of a man with your bare hands..." He trails off, but manages a smile, shaking his head. "Few men have the stomach for it. I think no less of him. And you can well imagine that he was no more eager to engage me with wands."

"Your attempt to put me back on the trail was salt in a fresh wound, your invitation to preside over citations in your temple of law an insult. So what would I have you do with me, Banker?"

Arkady's booted feet are both on the floor as he leans forward to look Verik in the eyes, his words coming quiet and slow now, fury rasping thick in his voice. "I am a student of the arcane with a knack for violence. Give me work that suits my skills, help me raise money to see my son safely from this gods-forsaken village," his dark eyes narrow, and he finishes in a menacing whisper: "Or preside over my many fines and stay far from my other affairs."

Varnhold - Lamashan 26th 4712 Early morning.
Even though he was thoroughly exhausted Borodin slept fitfully. Over and over he dreamt of the fight they barely survived. His blade was too slow…. He was burdened by his armor….. His mind fractured from too many options….. His unconscious mind finally decides, You must focus on one thing if you are to be a proper master. You and your weapon must be one if you are to conquer those that would destroy your way of life.

Something tugs him from his sleep. He opens his eyes to Verik prodding him from a distance with his booted foot.

Varnhold - Lamashan 30th 4712 Early morning.
Borodin awoke with a start as was custom. Hand already on his blade, ready for battle. He slumped back on his small cot and closed his eyes for a moment. His bones ached. So much so that he was reminded of his future-past. All of his friends, family, gone. The endless skulking and eventual fighting with the Dragonlord’s troops. He pushes the unwanted memories away and moves to a sitting position ready for another day of clearing undead. At least it’s good practice. he thinks to himself.

It was true. Gruesome as it was, there was something about actual combat that you just couldn’t get with sparing. He found that in the last few days he felt more comfortable without his armor. He felt faster, more sure in his foot and bladework.

He buckles his war belt and walks out of the building into the main courtyard. He makes a mental note of the spells he wants to cast this day and starts to practice his forms. The concentration on arcane formula while cutting, thrusting, and parrying is enough to set the incantations firmly into his mind.

The Magus is just finishing his routine when Tavin runs up and hands him a note. The boy reminds him so much of Ronan. Hopefully he exists somewhere in time, not in the one Borodin remembers. Shaking the past off, he looks down and a hastily written note from Verik. ”You should be aware that we have discovered survivors that were holed up at the Slinging Pixies.”

For the first time in a while Borodin grins in mirth. ”Excellent. Thank you Tavin.” Borodin had been concerned about his contact in Varnhold. He finishes Verik’s note. ”As it turns out, the proprietor managed to secure her tavern before the hordes of undead took that part of town. In heroic fashion, Natasza Valusek saved not only her own life but those of everyone in her tavern as well as a few families that lived and worked across the street.”

With that bit of good news, the Spymaster of Newhaven makes his way to the barricades to clear more of the undead threat.

Varnhold - Kuthona 2nd 4712 Late morning.
The Banker of Abadar and the Spymaster of Newhaven sit atop a watchtower, watching as Karkarov rides out the North road on his usual patrol. Against his better judgement, Borodin is scheduled to travel back to Sanctuary to conduct badly neglected business.

As the last of the dust from the patrol disappears on the horizon Borodin remarks ”I don’t like it Verik. It’s like having a fox guarding the henhouse.” When his comment is met with silence, he continues ”While I am confident that you can handle yourself, it has occurred to me that you don’t speak Aldori.” His friend looks at the Spymaster incredulously. ”Are you having fun with me? There is no such language as Aldori! Do not think me the fool.”

Borodin chuckles a little at Verik’s retort. ”No no no. I don’t mean literally. I’m talking about the nuance and character of these “Swordlords”. He says with an obvious bit of sarcasm. ”Look. You’re too nice, even when you’re trying not to be. If you think he’s done something extra ordinary, just make it seem like you expected nothing less and just grunt an approval. Don’t go all flowery on him with praise. Just think of him like a spoiled rich child and then treat him like you were also a spoiled rich child and you should get along just swimmingly.”

”You don’t have to worry about me Loginov. I’ve held many a formal meeting and can handle myself just fine, thank you.” replies the Banker.

”I will miss you too my friend. If you need my services, you know where you can find me. If not I shall see you in a month or so.” With that Borodin leaves his friend to his thoughts as he watches the Northern horizon.

Abadius 4713
With the help of Elsir, Borodin re-forges Augur into a cold iron weapon and divulges himself of his mace and bow. He also requests Elsir craft him two pearls of power, one 1st level, one 2nd level.

Sanctuary – Calastril 9th 4713
Damned if Halorouth Callmanov didn’t leave Borodin with a mess when he left his post as Spymaster of Newhaven. Borodin had accepted more out of duty than a sense that he would be good at it. Just because he was literate and had a pretty good wit did not necessarily make him a master at his new craft. At least old Halorouth had some sort of network already established which eased the burden a bit.

One thing that the old Spymaster couldn’t do was to establish good contacts in Pitax. This was due to King Irovetti. The man was a megalomaniac to be sure. But just because he had delusions of grandeur for his city state did not mean that he was stupid. Contrary enough, he was quite adept at rooting out spies or anyone that spoke ill about his decisions. Rumors and stories abound about how he not only executed any offenders, but also their entire family.

This made the news Borodin received today all the more special. He had been cultivating a few contacts serving in the king’s army. One, Narseo Lanzillo, was a single man with no attachments. He was easy to buy off. But the other two, and officer named Leandro Blasi, and a sergeant named Soccorso Calderone, had families they were worried about which prevented them from committing. No longer. The influx of peoples from Pitax and Mivon fleeing the fighting was a perfect cover. He was able to get both men’s families smuggled through the Narlmarches and to Candlemere Lake. From there it was an easy trip to Sanctuary. With the knowledge their families were safe, both men agreed to supply Borodin with much needed information about the lunatic king. Halorouth, eat your heart out…

Sanctuary – Calastril 28th 4713
Borodin had been meditating for hours now. Willas kept sticking his head in the room to see if Elsir had stirred from his trance. His anticipation for his wedding day was definitely affecting his work. The man out of time smiled. He had been in love once, so very long ago. No matter how long it’s been, he can still see her face. Katarina with the sparkling green eyes and long lustrous auburn hair. The thought that somewhere in some reality, he might be with her still and be happy at that was enough for him. He was lucky to still exist according to Elisir.

And now, with the fighting between Pitax and Mivon, the possible repercussions of his very existence here and now was enough to make his head hurt. But now something was different and it was up to them to figure out what.

A subtle shift in his vision was enough for Borodin to realize Elsir was done with his “Tracing”. He looked up and could tell the elf did not have that “Thousand yard stare” any longer. His stomach growled and Borodin realized it was past midday. Food would have to wait a little longer. ”Well Elsir? What do your arts tell you?”

Sanctuary | The Founders' Hall

Kesten leans back in his chair with a typical shrug. "Give me Brevoy any day. I understand the scheming, the plotting, the attempts to get an advantageous marriage match. Our families are trying to improve their station or prevent another from improving their own station at the family's expense. Some even have the best interests of the common folk under their protection in mind when they plot. Still, they're predictable most of the time, and it's created relative peace." He taps the table, pointing at a map that he's laid out of the battle positions of Pitax and Mivon. "On the other hand, I don't understand these kingdoms at all. Hopefully Borodin has had some success at finding some sources, because I find it nearly impossible to predict what either Irovetti or Selline intend. Irovetti is half-mad, vain beyond all reason, but brilliant as well. He hungers for power and worship, I think, but his actions seem to have little reason beyond that. He's just as likely to abandon Mivon and march upon us as he is to keep the siege. He seems to thrust himself to grasp the most slender of advantages, even if he is the only one that can see it. Selline is worse, in some ways. He plots and he schemes in the middle of a vast web of information - not that it gave him warning of Pitax's attack. He is ruthless and clever, and will find a way to maximize his advantage by waiting for the right moment to betray a trusted friend. Do not let him pretend to be a fool."

Kesten traces up the pathway between Mivon and Sanctuary. "Berrin will escort both armies at once, keeping our own forces in between them, up the coast. The good Baron will have to keep the peace between them and keep them from skirmishing then and there. Once they've arrived, hopefully their true motives will reveal themselves. Perhaps they simply want a chance to preen in front of one another and an audience. Akiros will have quite the challenge on his hands to keep their assassins from finding their targets. I assume that both will try to gain an alliance with us - but both are unreliable and traitorous allies to have. If there was a way that they killed each other to the last man, I would stand back and let it happen."a

Varnhold | Southern Gate

Zander looks at her for a few moments without saying anything. "It belonged to the Stag Lord. People have been looking at me like I am a monster for years. Under this illusion, I am scarred by fire. When I wear his helm, it feels for a moment that it isn't me that they fear. The monsters that lurk in the wilds - the trolls, the lizardmen, the vicious creatures that prey upon travelers - have grown to fear the helm. In some ways, it is more of my true face than this one." He looks down, quiet again. The sudden burst of words is perhaps more than he said during their entire trip. "Perhaps we should move." He seems almost desperate to escape the conversation.

Erdija leads the way through the gates, despite the strange gazes of the guards. The walls are the same height as when Evie departed to treat with the centaurs. Apparently Varnhold did not fear invasion from the south - or at least thought that they could ward it off without relying too heavily on their walls. Dozens of tents and wagons huddle south of the walls waiting on their chance to enter. A few of the children - thin but not terribly malnourished - stop their snowball fight to gawk at the centaur and the leopard, both of which are exotic sights. Erdija cannot help but look amazed by the human town. She looks back at Evie, intentionally feigning contempt. "Their enemies know where the town is. What will they do when they bring warbands? Humans are strange! So many of them, rooted so permanently! Why do you return to them?" It is plain as day to Evie that Erdija is truly impressed by the size of the town.

Varnhold - at the town hall (Verik's office)

Temple of Law an insult...why you...prideful...and churlish to boot! He shows more discipline than I thought possible however under the circumstances...it might work if he can hold his tongue and commit in full to it... Verik does not respond to the man's veiled threats in kind or seem to get agitated by them, but merely withdraws the pouch of coins upon the table back to himself, picking up the bag and weighing it in his hands a brief moment. He sets it down and to the side of his desk before speaking again, his hands clasped before him. "So you have some discipline and control if you desire it so, do you Arkady Zeitsev? Good. Yet you speak of violence as if a dear friend and seem to embrace it at times as if your cloak and shield. I have no doubt you are capable of using violence to suit your ends, as these arrest accounts clearly show. But to what purpose? You may regard the likes of Swordmaster Kharkarov as lesser to your own methods of violence, but I assure you I have seen - and know those firsthand - whom have dealt with it in ways that are much greater than your own."

With a flourish Verik withdraws a clean sheet of parchment, dips the placed quill within the fresh ink and begins to write upon it, taking on a dismissive air to Arkady. "It is precisely because of Alderman Kabula that I keep taking these meetings you know, for I could have easily dispensed with compensation for your losses in a more straightforward manner. Yet I continue to hold out my hand to you, only for you to snarl and slap it away. I shall not offer you employment in the Magister's tower of Newhaven, despite your arcane talents, because he does not need to..." ...take on another project of a man that could fall utterly to darkness and betray us as Willard Pharn did... "...he does not need to put up with your pride and morose behavior as I do. Yet there is a possible position for you that has come available to me. One where your talents may be better suited."

Looking up briefly from his parchment writing, Verik looks at Arkaday with a fixed stare and says, "I offer my hand once more to you, Arkady Zeitsev. I shall not do so again after this."

Nikolai has never prayed to a god. Certainly not to any one god. He remembers crying out to any god who might listen as Choral rent his blistered flesh with iron claws and left him to heal. He remembers those nights of drunken sullenness—sleepless nights where he looked up to the rafters or stars long after the men he raided with had passed out in a tangle of wooden benches and whores. In those days he prayed for a violent end. A battle that would bring him satisfaction against his tormentor, or bring him the release of final death.

He'd never believed in an afterlife, never believed in justice, never believed in anything but fear and misery and pain and violence. If Nikolai had a god in any but the last years of his life so far, that god was death itself. And his only prayer was to welcome that god into his home to stop his strong heart.

Afterlife. Gods. Justice. All things he believed were real now. Whether by his own eyes, or by the unrequitted love he bore a woman of action and justice, or by the evidence of his banker friend's conviction, now Nikolai understood those to be real things. Things to be pondered. Things to be reckoned with.

As his massive steed bears the burden of the great warrior to the gates of Sanctuary, he cannot make himself choose a god to pray to. There is too much. Peace in Pitax. Healing in Varnhold. Justice in Brevoy. Judgment for Choral. Soldiers to accomplish it all.

He feels his mind returning to that familiar place, even if for an instant. The habit of hopelessness that was his pattern for two dozen years before Jemini killed him.

Death for me.

He grimaces and chides himself inwardly. All that he and his friends have done. Even just to look men in the eye without wanting to kill them, that was a miracle by itself. It is a rare thing these days the Dragonlord returns to his daily deathwish. But the press of trouble against he and his friends, against a nation that adopted him, forgave him, and fought with him—that sometimes brought those old feelings back; sometimes the coward in him rose up and begged for death.

Find a fight, and die in it. You've earned it. You saved more people than you ever killed.

He pushes back the inclination, recognizing it as habit rather than any haunt or spell. Still, it attempts to break through his thoughts.

Death is inevitable. You more than anyone. If you aren't dead, you're struggling. If you aren't struggling, you're corrupt.

Nikolai pushes it away again, but his mood remains dark. He has soldiers to recruit and an army to train. His birthright begs him to increase his dealings with Brevoy and teach the "nobility" there that unity is the path to survival. A war to the South has armed men begin escorted through the lands he is charged to protect.

Yet the Banker insisted he put all that aside and come to Varnhold immediately.

Nikolai looks into the gate and sees the bustle of a struggling people working hard to rebuild. Even months later they barely speak. He has heard that some children have not spoken a word since the Vanishing. The soldier in his appraises value in that—a squad of mutes might make an effective advance force, if open war came to Newhaven.

The man in him wears the sadness like a cloak over his hopelessness. The dank armor is heavier than his elven chain.

Chain that belonged to someone thought immortal. And pried from a tomb invaded by hags. Death or suffering, Stag Lord.

The self-appellation ruffles him. He spits and sits up straight. He goes by another name now, a name conferred by honor and gratitude instead of fear and loathing. The contrast does not rescue his, mood, but he sits taller in his saddle. He sees the sky, open and blue, and the final yards of road laid out before him.

A watchman approaches the horse, respectful of its strength and mindful of Nikolai's gruff demeanor on the road. "Dragonlord. Banker Jarrow expects you after you settle your quarters. He says he has saved the heavy things for your shoulders."

Nikolai tightens his lips and looks past the gate again before turning over the reigns and dismounting his horse. He collects a pair of saddlebags, a backpack, and the red-scaled scabbard that houses his trademark blade. His greatbow is the last thing to retrieve.

"Tell the Banker I am here, but my shoulders are still sore from carrying him through combat." He doesn't smile, but he knows his friend will take the joke.

The watchman is not so certain. He looks up to Nikolai's seven feet and nods nervously. "Yes, my lord. I will tell him."

Evie glances to her friend and gives a knowing smirk but temporarily ignores her in order to finish her conversation with the warden. She knows once they get further into the city and closer to their end destination, any real conversation will stop. It will quickly become stilted and political, full of undercurrents and innuendos. More eddies than a stream. And all of it valuable and worthless at the same time.

She makes a snapping sound with her fingers and then speaks in a language the Zander doesn’t readily recognize, despite having travelled more than most.

”Daha yakına gel. Yanımda kal.”

He sees though that the leopard immediately closes distance and stays very close to Evie’s side. She gives him a quick pat on the head.

”Her şey yolunda. Huzursuz, ben de.”

“Thank you for sharing your truth with me warden. Perhaps one day I’ll have the honor of seeing your true true face. I’ve seen those monsters that you speak of, and more, but you don’t seem at all like any of them."

The hunter tries to keep her voice steady as the group makes their way through town, but it’s difficult. The walls, the crush of people, the sights, the smells. It’s overwhelming. She unknowingly touches the head of her ax, holstered in a sturdy leather belt at her side, and fidgets a moment with the small hawk feathers tied onto a thin leather strap that hangs from a small braid in her dark hair. I remember why I was thankful to leave this place. There is no peace, no simplicity. Everyone rushing about all the time.

”As for you…” Evie takes a deep breath and looks to Erdija. ”I return to them because I am human and because I was summoned. I’m hoping the reason is a good one.”

She looks around to see how the city has changed. ”We are a funny lot. Always trying to group together, feeling safety is in numbers. Although, I don’t think that worked out so well here.” Evie looks at the thin children and the bustling adults waiting for their chance to begin anew. ”But then we start again. I suppose it’s both our strength and weakness. We get knocked down and then get back up, over and over and over, without fail. Our permanence allows our enemies to always know where we are, but it also allows for some of the things humans consider beautiful and favorable. They don’t have to go for leagues to have things like art, permanent temples to the gods, taverns, or established markets. It’s all in one place.”

Evie smiles to herself knowing that her friend’s reaction will inevitably be something negative and stern. It’s the only defense Erdija has against curiosity and bewilderment.

Varnhold. Town Hall - the private offices of Banker Verik Jarrow. 28 Calistril, 2713.

"I should hardly call violence an old friend, Banker Jarrow," Arkady says with a chuckle at the back of his throat. "It has rather more in common with a cousin who visits often. The sort who is generally unwanted and boorish, but occasionally enjoyable when he is drunk." His brows lift, looking for something - agreement, perhaps? Understanding? Either way, he presses on.

"You must have surmised, keen as you are, that I lack the temperament of a proper arcane scholar. I am a man better suited to practical applications of the arts, whether arcane or martial. So let me be clear, Banker: if we properly understand one another at last, then your next and final offer interests me a great deal."

Settling back into the chair, he lifts one foot to rest it on the opposite knee. One hand absently brushes dust from the hard leather of his boot, but soon his gaze returns to the man opposite him. "I believe you, if that matters. I know that you have seen otherworldly evil, faced unknowable violence, and prevailed."

His lips twist into something not quite a smile, and he shrugs. "I suppose I am something of an ingrate. You and your fellows are likely the reason that my son lives..." He can admit that much, but adds neither an apology nor any words of gratitude. ...though you were too late for my wife, are the words he fights to hold back.

"So if you believe you have some use for me, some role to which I would be well suited, then you will find me open to discussion at the least. Though I do not wear uniforms, do not mark tallies or collect fines, and decidedly do not get along with Kharkarov, I think you may find that I do have some use."

Varnhold | Varn Manor

Zander holds his tongue as he leads Evie and Erdija through Varnhold. Evie can tell that the place is different since the Vanishing. The people here are not the rough-edged settlers that she met while passing through the first time; they are hopeful but incredibly worried. From her experience traveling this corner of the world, she can see multiple cultures mixed together here in Varnhold. A handful of Pitaxians bicker with Mivoni refugees, the result of years of tension and current war. Brevic settlers mock their distant cousins from Mivon, reminding them of their ancestors fleeing Brevoy in cowardice. The Galtans seem happy to arrogantly remind everyone of their culture's superiority. Every so often, she spots a rough-and-tumble Varnholder that survived the Vanishing. She even sees the occasional kobold, though the humans seem to uniformly treat them with contempt. They are all citizens of Newhaven now, but they seem intent on bringing their homes with them far more than the early industrious settlers - most of whom are culturally homogenous. Erdija seems far more pleased to be amidst the commotion and tumult of argument and bickering. "Great art! Great beauty!" She points out a man passed out on the street, drunk on ale, and a handful of women of ill repute loitering outside a brothel. "I see why they are liking it here!"

It doesn't take them long to navigate the town and make it to the home of Aylene Myrdal. They had met a few times before, not long after her father founded the town. Evie came into Varnhold to occasionally trade and buy provisions that she could not forage for. She and the fiery noblewoman were fast friends during those trips - back when she was still Aylene Varn. The men of the city had chased her relentlessly, entranced by her beauty and vigor - but none had captured her heart. Evie was shocked to learn that Aylene had finally fallen in love, returning to the news one day and learning that the wedding was in a matter of days. She had rushed to Sanctuary, arriving midway through the celebration. It was a day of great joy, even though she only got to speak to her friend for a few moments amid the speeches and drinks. She enjoyed briefly meeting Aylene's husband and his friends, whose exploits she had heard. Barrister had happily played with Aylene's thylacine Reggie while she ended up speaking with Jhod Kavken, a wise cleric of Erastil. When the night ended, she slipped out of the city and returned to the wilds.

A few months later, on a return trip to Varnhold, Baron Varn had asked her to act as his liaison to the centaurs - and there she remained, almost as part of the tribe. She migrated with them over the months and years, learning their culture and listening to their boasting stories of fighting an army of trolls to help their human allies. All those nights under the dark night sky with stars as far as the eye could see... She had been paid by Varn, but it was an extremely rewarding experience in its own right.

Now, it is a very different Varnhold she walks into. Baron Varn is gone. Varnhold remains, but its people are gone almost entirely. Aylene's husband leads an army elsewhere. Aylene has had to assume the mantle of leadership. Evie and her strange band of comrades arrive at the manse where Baron Varn lived. The wood-and-stone building is half a castle, though it seems somewhat haphazardly built - as if the impetuous baron had started an addition, only to abandon it for a new idea soon after. A pair of guards - sworn to Abadar, apparently, if the keys on their belt are any indication - open the doors to let them in, apparently expecting them. Erdija has to hunch a bit to avoid hitting her head in certain spots as they follow Zander. He knocks on a wooden door that features some strange Mwangi mask, presumably belonging to Maegar Varn rather than his daughter. "Aylene, I've brought them."

They hear a shushing sound from behind the door before it opens. Aylene comes out, quietly closing it behind her. She looks exhausted and a few years older than last Evie saw her, but she is still every bit the fiery woman she recalls. "Quiet! The baby is asleep," she whispers to them. "Don't you have some boots to sneak around, or do I need to send you to Verik for a spell of silence?" She ushers them all to the front room before stopping to greet her old friend. "I'm glad that he was able to find you, Evie. I'm happy to see you," she says with a smile and a hug.

Evie gives Aylene a tight hug and kiss on the cheek and then holds her out at arms-length to look her over. ”Domestication has not been kind to you my friend! You look exhausted. Each time I come back, more has happened with you. Next time I return I feel I will see you with two more children in tow with you sitting in the matron’s chair of your own keep.” Her comments are openly in jest and said with a broad smile on her face, but she turns more serious. ”But I do suppose congratulations are in order on the birth of your child. Boy? Girl? I should very much like to hold the little one when it’s awake.”

Evie thinks back on what a difference there is between the rearing of human children versus centaurs. There is little coddling with the centaurs. When the foals are able to walk, they are up and moving with the group. If they are severely deformed or unable to get up and move around within a certain amount of time, the tribe grieves but the foal is left to the elements. Yet with the harsh realities come fierce love and protection. Woe be to anyone or anything that comes between a centaur and their child. They invite not only the wrath of the parents but the entire tribe. Having witnessed it firsthand, it is not a pretty sight. Human children are so much more delicate and the parents so doting. Despite that fact, it doesn’t prevent Evie from feeling joy at the thought of holding a small child. Their innocence is powerful and soothing and their lives can hold so much promise.

Evie then puts a gentle hand on her friend’s arm. ”I was very sorry to hear, though, about this place and its people. You, undoubtedly, have your hands too full with business and sorrow. I will do what I can to help.”

She pauses a moment and then starts suddenly, as if clearly remembering something that she’d forgotten. ”Oh! Forgive me! I can’t recall if you’ve met Erdija or not. She’s an accomplished warrior of the Nomen Clan and their spokeswoman of sorts. She’s been interested in seeing the city for some time now and escorting us through the wildlands afforded the perfect opportunity.”

”Erdija. This is my friend, Aylene Varn, acting regent of Varnhold. Or at least I suppose that would be the proper title. I’m not entirely sure.”

Varnhold - at the town hall (Verik's office)

”Very well, Master Zeitsev.” Verik stares at Arkady a long moment, as if both looking through him and past him, weighing some measure upon the scales in his mind. Finally, he nods. ”We would all do well to find our true purpose and our calling. We Abadarians have a fond saying – ’This Can Help Us All’ – and I should like to subscribe to that principle where it concerns you. Still, what I offer shall not be an easy road, rest assured on that.”

Finishing a scribbling of writing with quill to parchment, the Banker rolls it up and sets it in a waterproofed leather scroll case, methodically tying the end down and sealing it with wax, to which he presses his own Newhaven signet ring into for recognition as his personal seal. Once concluded, he hands the scroll case over to Arkady. ”There. An introduction shall be arranged for you, upon which your new employer may very well demand to see that as proof of my direct dealings with you. That is, if I am not available to offer the introduction myself. Any questions you have may be asked at that time. In the meantime, please make sure you can be found at your residence…or leave word there in the event my party inquires for you while you are out. Good day to you, Master Zeitsev.”

**************************************
(a short time later, at Verik's office...)

”Yes yes, watchman. I understand the meaning by Lord Rogarvia and hold you no poorer for the speaking of it. You may go, knowing your observations at his arrival are appreciated, as is your conveyance of his words to me. I shall inform the watch captain of your prompt service.”

The watchman salutes and leaves shortly, with Verik mulling over matters at his desk in the makeshift office. Shoulders are sore indeed! Wait until I push this upon him...if he thought me a schemer in years past, what will he make of this? Hmmm…perhaps he will welcome the addition on its surface merits and not take umbrage, for his elder man Gladcoin is stretched to aid him in rounding up recruits as it is. Riiightttt…and I am more likely to see a sky-city from old Shory appear over the mountains before Nikolai Rogarvia takes on such a burden without question or complaint! I’ll have to not rush it out on him all at once though…he’s stubborn and will need to be shown the paths to pick the ‘right’ fork on his own...

With a slight sigh and shake of his head, Verik, stands up from his desk and goes to a locked chest, opening it with one of his golden keys at his belt and withdrawing a fine-looking bottle of Taldan Fire-Brandy, one of the last from his private stock sent from Sanctuary some months ago. He hastily throws a cloth over it so as to not seem unseemly, straightens his cloak and his hat, and walks out of the office to meet Nikolai Rogarvia at his Varnhold residence.

**************************************
(a short time after that at Nikolai's Varnhold residence...)

”…and unfortunately with the signs of the Spring’s thaw already upon us in the Tors of the Levenies and the Kiravoy River, I’m afraid the lure of men to other work opportunities overshadows the recruitment efforts here in Varnhold itself, down to a mere trickle. Perhaps four-and-twenty men have enrolled here to be trained up since you arrived last.” Verik takes a sip of the fine Taldan brandy, admiring its quality as he pours a small glass for Nikolai in turn. In some areas of Avistan it would be rude to take the first sip of a fine liquor before the one it was offered to, but Taldan custom saw this as a requirement – what with their propensity for poisons in both the liquor and the glasses it was poured in. They therefore used Nikolai’s glasses and Verik took the first sip as was custom. Of course, Taldan nobility practiced this custom often by proxy with a pair of poison-tasters, but that was an absurd notion here in the North…at least anywhere south of Restov or New Stetven.

Taking another sip and letting the fiery liquor wash down the back of his throat, the Founder and High Cleric of Newhaven decided to take the first move on the kingschess board that he needed to play to get Nikolai to accept his notions. Best get on with it… Verik takes a third sip and then says with as much nonchalance as he can muster. ”Still, there is good news that I am sure you would be pleased with. For one, the two full companies of the Varnhold militiamen that you brought in early Kuthona are now fully equipped with capable crossbows – I hear from the officers that their practice in both drills and maneuvers have proven fruitful in that regard. For another, I have found you a capable man that has both a keen mind and keen eye, one that you can use in your efforts to find and raise more worthy men to the Newhaven and Varnhold companies. A ‘Master Zeitsev’ by name…quite capable…yes indeed! A former caravan master and knows his way around a brawl or so I am told…good with numbers and a ‘small’ knack for the arcane – though you would need to set the terms of payment through your own Office of the Enforcer the funds will be dispensed out of my own coffers as High Cleric, so it should not impinge you in the slightest! Good news wouldn’t you say Nikolai? Can’t do it all by oneself you know!” Verik downs the last of the brandy in his glass with a gulp and smiles a vacuous smile at him.

Nikolai's Sense Motive 1d20 + 13 ⇒ (18) + 13 = 31

Nikolai looks into the absurdly small wine snifter, swirling the brandy around. The big man has no desire to appear pretentious, but it is common for merchants in Brevoy to focus on the wine in order to consider a bargain. He practices the gesture clumsily, knowing Verik understand he is learning diplomacy.

Slowly...

Nikolai pushes the snifter toward the table's center. The brandy is too fancy for him. So are the words of his friend.

"Verik, the men and women at the banks are loyal to you. They compliment your leadership when Gladcoin visits, hoping their words will travel on his lips to me, and my lips to you. So it won't surprise you that soldiers talk, and that talk reaches the ears of other soldiers. When you summon me off course to report that recruiting in the East is slow—something I already know by courier and by raven—I know you have something else to tell me. It doesn't take long to get a few good men to tell the Queen's Enforcer why the search for good men takes rear saddle to the Banker's whim."

When Nikolai sits up, he can look some standing men in the eye. His shadow from the candles behind him falls to cover the small table of his quarters. He reaches up with his hands and tries to gesture, but he feels confined. It only adds to his irritation. He has to drop his elbows to the table before he can speak.

"I know about this magic user. This caravan guard who looks for fights. If you'd found me a good man, maybe one with ties to mercenaries in Brevoy, or with a rogue company from the River Kingdoms, I could see the value in bringing me here. But you're dragging me here for a man from Pitax? Doubtless either his friends are busy making war already, or he has no friends."

Nikolai stands up, filling the tiny house with his torso. Verik had arranged a larger house before, but Nikolai insisted on sparse quarters. Not only could the people of Varn have the abandoned state houses, but Nikolai did not want to feel at home somewhere else. His home was Sanctuary, if Jemini was there, or Dragonswatch where soldiers sparred and trained, or it would be Brevoy when he claimed his birthright. A tiny hovel to sleep in while he worked was fine.

He gazes out a narrow window now, at the calm of the dark street outside. He generally ends his disagreement with insults or a alf-joking threat. But months of watching Gladcoin sell men on their obligation to a cause has changed the barbarian.

"Do you know what a soldier with no friends, no purpose, and no will to live is, Verik? It's me when you first met me. Not so long ago I shared my pain with everyone I could stick a sword in. It took the lot of you and a miracle I still don't understand to save me from that. And it has been slow. According to your new friends, a day may come when we learn I haven't been saved at all."

He turns and narrows his eyes. His look is harsher than Verik has seen in a while. "Even today, you think to sell me on this boy to rid yourself of his inconvenience. You are mindful of that black future and still don't trust me. So why would you foster him to me? Is that what our soldiers need to see? A struggling savage yoked to a sullen brawler? I don't like your method. Not at all."

He goes to stand by the hovel's door, but does not open it for Verik. He leans against it instead. "You know full well that I spit on talk of my lunatic future. You know also that I fear it. If you can't speak to me plainly of your game here, I'll leave for Brevoy tomorrow. Alone."

Jemini inclines her head sideways, her hair falls along - a frame to her face - her eyes distant as she ponders. At length she disagrees, "I think you're embracing the plots and intrigues of Brevoy as a companion. We've both grown up in it, even participated to greater and lesser extents. It is a well established game; and we have been apt players - or perhaps more accurately: suitable pawns in it. But that does not rid us of the real fear of a hot war. A war that can erupt at any moment to put an end to the cold war that has been running for decades. It could be a war that permanently scars the River Kingdoms and leave little more than a husk. I don't want you to think you can be complacent, the same old games, the same old smiles veiling the machinations underneath. It may seem to be a game, but it is a game of nations that may bring about the fall of many thousands - and still: most of the top players are playing to win."

A moment of frustration brushes her cheek with flame. "So greedy. And so blinded by their greed."

She sighs. "But in turn, that also suggests that had you grown up in Mivon you'd be comfortable with the way of life, established in the police state, perhaps even trusting in the wisdom of your Lord Selline. Perhaps the rhetoric of Irovetti would have pulled you into his cause. The truth is that our lives have been to a large extent been shaped by who we were born to and how we've been raised."

The paladin retraces the pathway Kesten had outlined. Deep in thought she places tokens of progress and position that map the days of march. "No. That won't do." She points out a couple of strategic valleys. "The temptation to setup an engagement between the armies is too great. Let Berrin know, the armies of Pitax and Mivon need to travel at least 4 hours apart, including camps. They should not come close to visual range of each other. Furthermore, we need to worry that everything leading up to this point is an elaborate ruse. Even if only as a temporary truce, they may have plans to combine their forces against us. If too close together they have Berrin and our army surrounded; they could annihilate our most experienced soldiers and eliminate our General and then be right on our door step."

She looks up at Kesten, "It is best to assume that Irovetti and Sellini are both playing The Game too; but their pawns are steel and armies."

Sanctuary | Founder's Hall

Kesten seems grimly pleased in Jemini's cautiousness. "You're right. It'll be best to assume that it's possible that they mean to betray us. We would outnumber them, but not by much - and that assumes that they'll be sticking to the agreement. I'll keep our ships on standby so that they can make an immediate withdrawal if necessary and return to Sanctuary. We'll have ample warning if they try to send any naval forces into the lake. Perhaps we should ensure that Nikolai and whatever force of mercenaries Verik managed to cobble together to bolster our forces." He returns to stroking his beard. "It will take a few weeks to get everything into position. You'll want as many of the Founders here as you can get. I'll send word to everyone so that they know to return to Sanctuary."

Varnhold | Varn Manor

Aylene smiles with radiant joy despite her exhaustion and grief. "A boy. We named him Maegar, after my father - but the two never met." Her face falls for a few moments. "With him gone, responsibility for Varnhold has fallen to me and Berrin. It's nothing that I wanted - no child wants to lose a parent. All I want is to have my son, my husband, my father, my people all safe and happy. But I have this weight instead. I sent for you because I want your help to take some of this weight from me." She stops to wipe a tear away, letting a tiny bit of the emotions show.

It's a few long moments of quiet before she speaks again. "Berrin has to lead the army and I have to lead Varnhold, but I want to know that we have a representative - someone to stand for us, stand for my father, stand for everyone who died here. I trust Jemini and Verik and even Nikolai, the whole lot of them, but I want to know they have the help that I wish that I could give. I want someone to help them kill Vordekai, the lich that caused the Vanishing. His stronghold is in the mountains somewhere, deep in the centaur lands. No one is as well-suited as you are for helping them track Vordekai - and maybe even finding my father, if he's still alive. Will you help me?" She stares at Evie, desperate for some semblance of control over her situation.

”Yes…well…I suppose that was disingenuous of me at that.” Verik muses at both Nikolai and his words to him a moment. He caps the fine brandy bottle and sets both it and his glass aside on the table. ”Shall we start again? With water.”

The High Cleric of Newhaven stands and without preamble walks over to the small cottage’s serving area, pulling out two stout mugs of fired pottery from a small cabinet, then rummages through the cabinet and a nearby table for a ceramic pitcher. He finds one and sniffs it guardedly, turning it over and tapping some dust out of it before deciding it is suitable enough. ”Do you know that despite the hard edge of some of your words Nikolai, I find what you have just said to be most remarkable. The Nikolai Rogarvia of before Hydra’s Bridge would not have been able to remark with such candor, let alone the man nearly four years ago that appeared at the anniversary of Stagfall. I daresay even if he had, the Verik Jarrow of nearly four years ago would not have been able to receive them. I find that gives me hope.” Verik sets the pitcher upon the table and uses his prayers to quickly channel crisp clear water into it, pouring both mugs full and then sitting back down, tasting his first as is Taldan custom. Nikolai has come to see the facial expressions of the Banker as relatively easy to read, and it seems he is weighing something in his mind to say, something seemingly important.

With another sip of the water, Verik sets his mug back on the table in front of him, and speaks again in an earnest but calm tone of voice. ”There are two conversations that stem from your words to me, Nikolai. One was born out of the aftermath when my "friends" as you call them - Elsir and Borodin - entered our lives. Sparked in my mind that very night when I decided I would not act the coward and run away from Newhaven and whatever that glimpse of the dark future showed us all. It gave me a lot to think about, between you and I. It took shape in my mind throughout that summer well over two years ago, waiting for the right time. It is about you, Nikolai. About Jemini. About me…and all the rest of us.” He shrugs and shakes his head slightly, though it seems to be a self-criticism. ”I should have sought you out before now, somewhere these past two years after Hydra’s Bridge, but we all had a realm to govern, cities to raise and armies to train...I admit I was all-too willing to put it off…another mistake on my side of the tally journal. I am prepared to have it now, if you are willing, though it is not the urgent pressing matter when compared to the other topic, and it can continue to wait until a time and place where we would not be bothered by other distractions.”

”The other conversation has to do with Arkady Zeitsev, and why I have called you to Varnhold. Of why I believe you are the only man I know capable of adequately dealing with this man besides my own cousin. Of why I cannot help this man, despite my best efforts. Of what I fear for Varnhold…and for Newhaven…if you do not hear me out on this. It is both the urgent and pressing matter that should not wait. You doubt my motives and I understand that given our history, but I would use the Truthtelling upon myself if it would put your mind at ease as to my reasons.”

Verik clasps his hands in front of him, looking simply at Nikolai with something of a wry smile. ”I leave it then to you to decide, Nikolai. Whether to have the one conversation, or both, as you prefer.”

With Aylene’s words about no child wanting to ever lose a parent, a small pain enters Evie’s heart. It’s not a large one, only a splinter really, but one that is wedged deep enough to never be worked out. It’s one that will always cause her pain even if it no longer brings tears to her eyes.

You’re right, Aylene. No child should ever lose a parent until all are old and grey and pass with Erastil’s blessing. But it doesn’t always happen that way, does it?

The memory is always there, mostly buried, sometimes not. The men coming into her village, flying banners that reflect the colors of the lord in charge of them. Colors, her uncle later told her, that showed who the lord was loyal to. Colors that showed he was loyal to House Orlovsky. Evie never saw the lord himself, only his soldiers. The hearts of the men and women in her village, even though they never openly proclaimed it, belonged to House Medvyed. That fact and the place where their village sat was a problem for this minor lord. He wanted to expand his borders. He needed a show of force, a show of his capabilities and strength. Unfortunately, the flexing of his muscles just happened to kill both her parents. Evie remembers the men marching in, burning things, cutting down people. She remembers her father trying to fight back with the other hunters to no avail, and her mother hiding her under a cart, tucked towards the back so no one could see her, telling her to be as quiet as an owl, then running to help others. She too was cut down as Evie watched. She remembers trying to fight off the scavengers the night after the soldiers left, and the night after that. The scavengers got some. She got a permanent scar on her arm as a lifelong brand of the moment. But what could she do? She was only nine. She guarded her parents until her uncle came back. She washed as much of the blood off as she could, wept over them until she couldn’t, made them look presentable until they could be buried. Two days? Three? She’s never really been able to remember how long it was. Her uncle loved her like her father and her mother. He loved her every day since the day the two of them buried all the dead. His was a heavy burden, too, and their lives could have been very different.

Despite it all, though, she harbored none any ill-will, save the un-named lord. If she were to ever know his name and come across him, there would be no conversation, no question, no parlay, and no venom. There would only be a single killing shot from her bow.

So, yes, if there was a chance to bring her friend’s father back to her, she would do it.

With a gentle touch to Aylene’s face to wipe away any remains of her tears, Evie gives her answer.

”You don’t ever do anything easy, do you woman? A lich! Is that all? That’s what you called me out of the wildlands for? You know anyone short of me or my uncle would never be able to help you. And you know I’ll do it for free.” Evie gives her an easy smile and a fierce hug. ”My only cost to you will be provisions and snuggle or two with your child before I leave. There will need to be some negotiations along the way, of course, with some of the tribes, but that shouldn’t be too treacherous. I’ll lead your friends, perhaps get in a whack or two of my own against this lich and, Erastil willing, find your father and bring him back to you.”

Varnhold | Varn Manor

Aylene returns Evie's smile, pleased with her acceptance of the difficult task ahead. "You don't have to do it for free. You'll keep a share whatever you find, be it gems, gold, weapons. My husband came to the Stolen Lands with nothing more than a battered sword and a charter to explore - and now he has a title, a hold, an heir. I'm asking you to put your life in danger, not for a mere favor." She sits down, letting the weight depart from her shoulders. "I'll set an appointment for tomorrow with Verik Jarrow. He's a cleric of Abadar, which I know won't bother you. He was one of the original Founders that explored the Stolen Lands and slew the Stag Lord, along with my husband and Zander here. Once they find a lead by which to locate the lich, you'll go with him and the others in my stead. I don't think you got a chance to meet the others at the wedding. Honorable, one and all."

We've hit the risk when we have multiple threads that need to come together; they move at different paces.

Verik's words seem earnest enough. Nikolai knows the man means well, at least in his own mind. The big man takes his hand off the door frame and moves back to the table. Turning one of the sturdy wooden chairs backwards, he sits and looks at his friend before reaching out for the mug.

"You don't need a spell to tell me the truth, Verik. Where I once stopped listening past a few words, I have now learned you aren't a good liar. You have no desire to lie and I have no patience for it. We once again arrive at the same place from different directions."

He takes a sip of water and swallows the resentment of the last few minutes. The baptism has silent meaning. A new beginning to the conversation; the acknowledgement that Nikolai appreciates the offering of water instead of alcohol, and that Verik knows to pivot from brandy to water instead of ale.

"Sell me on this boy first. If we get past that, we'll have this talk you've been putting off."

(a short time later...)

"...and so with at least some shred of insight into his own predicament I think, he accepted the prospects for a final offer of employment. I handed him a sealed letter in my own hand to present in an introduction if needed, and instructed him to be close at hand to take a meeting. And that is the extent of it to-date."

Verik holds the empty mug in his hand as he finishes relating the short history of his dealings with one Arkady Zeitsev, as well as the reasons for the man's morose behavior...at least as Verik understands them. The silence in the cottage is ominous; the cleric sits at the table with a marketed frown upon his face, struggling to give the proper words as to why this tragic tale of a single man so loosely linked to the Banker's enterprises truly matters to the Founders of Newhaven. He does finally speak after recalling something disturbing in his mind, relating his concerns as best he can to Nikolai.

"I...fear...what may come of this man, Nikolai. What it may mean for us and for Varnhold. I have no proof on this point, but in his grief that the wife does not wish to return to him, the man's heart is turned to darkness and desperation. The parallels to Willard Pharn are unmistakable to me. Who is to know if that one has not already tried to reach out to Arkady in dark and disturbed dreams, grasping at a fool's chance to restore what cannot be restored? Yes, the parallels keep me restless on some nights, Nikolai." He waves his hand irritably in the air for emphasis. "I have talked at length to Alderman Kabula - his closest friend by all accounts - and even he cannot get through to him. Nor the son that he must love, but abandons to misery in his own grief. Furthermore, the man is smart, cunning, dangerous. He has thrashed a handful of men in separate incidents who were foolish enough to cross him in places of nuisance, but though unproven I believe Arkady Zeitsev truly sought them out, provoking the violence to appease the darkness in his soul. In that I fear his appetite will only grow stronger here, ripe for the picking by one who preys on dark dreams."

With a dissatisfied grunt, Verik pushes the mug farther along the table as if it displeased him. Then he shrugs and says, "I cannot help this man, Nikolai. I have tried, and I have failed. I have helped counsel and advise stubborn men before - most notably Berrin in that first year after Stagfall, and my cousin Tasiper of course. Taisper comes to mind in one who has a...a darkness that cannot be stamped out, but must be understood and contained, channeled even to greater and enlightened purpose. But he and I are both of Abadar, and furthermore bound my ties of blood and family. So while I can see the signs of a darkened heart that struggles in the balance of Weal or Woe, my means of aid have no hold in this case. There is only one other that I have seen this affliction, who understands the darkness that takes hold in a man's heart and has felt the depths of pain and knows where that can lead. That is you, Nikolai."

Verik spreads his hands and adds, "Otherwise, I sit here and wait for the hammerstroke to fall. I am a lawful man, as you well know. By the Laws of Varnhold, I cannot imprison the man...and even if I could I fear the provocation would push him to the very blackness that would seek to use him as a weapon against us. Given his intellect and his apparent resourcefulness I suspect that if he did turn, it would invite a second Doom upon Varnhold before I could understand what was happening here."

The notion that Nikolai might mentor a man in pain catches him off guard.

"Verik...I am no counselor. I can scold a man for being a coward. I can dispatch a man who gives in to darkness. But I have my own—"

The words choke in his mouth, his throat filling with them as he shuts them off. Nikolai realizes that whatever his excuses, he is afraid. He thinks of the Nikolai that might one day vent his rage and sorrow in the nation he helped build. He thinks of this man who has lost everything.

I must learn not to fail good men. He is not the first. He will not be the last, thinks the big man.

"I have my own demons. Literally. And if someone did not help me, even give her life for me, I could be this Arkady Zeitsev." He let's his course correction hang in the air. Though it's clear Nikolai is changing his mind, the big man remembers to pause before announcing his decision—a trick of negotiation Gladcoin made him practice.

He sighs. "Alright. I will take him to Sanctuary for the summit there. Then I will resume my travels to Brevoy and bring back men to train. If I do not trust him by the time I return, I'll leave him there. You can make arrangement for his boy's care while he is gone, and should he not return?"

He waits for Verik's silent nod, grateful the priest doesn't beam at having convinced Nikolai to bear this burden. "Very well. Send word to the boy to meet me here with horse and provisions at first light. We leave for Sanctuary with no honor guard."

Evie smiles to her friend. ”You always make me smile with your notions, dear friend. Gold and gems I could maybe use, but what in the known world would I do with a title, a hold or even an heir? None are of any use to me. And everyone’s lives can be in danger every day, depending on situation or station, and most don’t even know it. Life is for living until it’s done. Erastil will watch over me.”

For being told that she is going into the mountains with people who are close to strangers in order to fight a lich, Evie appears remarkably unfazed. Despite being close and fast friends, Aylene’s never been able to completely read Evie. In situations where she should show visible fear, she doesn’t. She’s seen her temporarily shaken on the odd occasion but her composure is quickly recovered. Her demeanor is always casual and relaxed, even amongst dignitaries. So, Aylene would expect nothing less of her friend, regardless of the circumstances.

”You send me a message when you have a time and a place for me to meet with your banker. I believe I do remember him and some of your other friends. It should be interesting meeting up with them again. In the meantime, I think I’ll try and show Erdija around until plans are set. If you can’t find me, just follow the people pointing at a centaur or the strange cat.”

22 Pharast 4713 | Sanctuary | A Summit of Peace

Two days prior to the peace summit, Sanctuary swells with hundreds of visitors, along with a thousand soldiers from the two hostile nations camped outside its walls. Several of the noble houses of Brevoy have sent their own representatives to monitor the negotiations; Ellana Lebeda, Toval Golka-Garess, Zander Orlovsky, and Nadia Lodovka all arrived with their retinues to represent the interests of their houses. Archbanker Vinodragov arrived with similar intentions. The summit between Pitax and Mivon has attracted many tradesmen and merchants to cater to the nobles and the wealthy. Every inn and villa is completely full; many of the citizens of Sanctuary have taken to renting space in their own homes to those who were unable to secure a lodging.

The Founder's Hall has almost the full quorum of the Founders for the first time in several years, as the leadership of Newhaven discusses the challenges and opportunities before them. They have had to bring forth an additional table to accommodate the sheer number of representatives. Only Kesten and Oleg are missing from the meeting, along with the still-slumbering Tandlara. Twelve sit around the two tables, looking at the list of issues they still need to cover. Jemini Lebeda sits at the center of the main table in her high-backed wooden chair. The rest of the Founders claim seats of their own: Verik, Berrin, Elsir, Borodin, Akiros, and Nikolai sit at the main table, while Svetlana, Taisper, Jhod, and Zander sit at the smaller table along with two newcomers. Evie Damyanov sits for Varnhold at the request of Aylene Myrdal, while Arkady Zeitsev accompanies Nikolai. Moonlight streams through the windows to brighten the hall beyond the magical continual flames that line the walls.

Oleg Leveton, prior to leaving to act as Mivon's hostage, instituted a nominal entrance tax to the city in order to help alleviate their costs. Svetlana reads aloud from the ledger that he meticulously prepared before departing, filled in with the information gathered from the tax collectors. "Thus far, we have collected one gold piece from each passage of a non-citizen into the city - except for those of nobility, as they should pay far more over time. The vendors and tradesmen have paid out 820 crowns. They are also aware that we plan on a tax of one-twentieth of their sales upon their exit. Based on the number that have come in, Oleg predicts that we should be able to afford the costs of the summit and may even make a small profit. He wants me to warn you that keeping the armies active has strained the budget greatly. Many of their families have come to me with worries that they will remain in deployment long enough to delay the plowing and planting season."

Berrin cocks a grin and leans over to Verik. "The men have their own complaints about missing the plowing season, if you know what I mean." It seems that nobility has not stripped him of his crude humor. Even the late hour and the grim events in Varnhold the previous winter have done little to make him more serious.

Akiros Ismort clears his throat with a bit of a glare at Berrin from his cloudy eyes. "We have the difficult task of keeping the peace in the city. It is difficult enough at times, considering the number of people living in Sanctuary - but a thousand visitors is quite the challenge. I've had to hire additional guards on a temporary basis. The jail has been full almost every night. Bokken's latest creation has led to an even greater number of drunkards than usual."

Jhod interrupt him by rapping the table. "What do you expect? Thousands living cheek to cheek! If you can walk down the roadway and you are unable to name a single person that you see, you've divorced yourself from the community. What follows is crime and discord, as everyone works for themselves instead of the community." Taisper and Verik share a glance of annoyance at Jhod's continual insistence of the superiority of villages.

"As I was saying," continues Akiros, "in light of what occurred last year in Dragonswatch and Varnhold, I have my men under strict orders to immediately and proactively investigate disappearances and rumors of disappearances. With so many additional people in the city, it is hard to keep track of it. I will have Captain Dumanov coordinate with your tax collectors to keep a list of those who have exited the city. There are a few potential disappearances that we have been investigating, but I'll keep the council appraised of the situation. So far, we've been able to locate several thought missing, and I'm not prepared to declare that anyone has disappeared yet."

Zander quietly gives his report as well. "I've got Wardens in every direction. We shouldn't have a repeat of Nikolai's trial. We'll have warning if anything comes our way en masse."

Borodin can't help but interject after Jhod's remark. "Living cheek to cheek indeed. I have it on good authority that the Calistrans have become acquainted with all the new arrivals. By all accounts I believe they are making sure the community stays intact."

He continues before Jhod can compose his thoughts to retort. "I have reliable informants in both the Pitaxian and Mivonese armies. If there are any treacherous plans, we should get fair warning and be able to react accordingly."

With his own smirk evident at Borodin's remark upon Jhod's endlessly tiresome barrage of ignorant blatherings, Verik clears his throat and addresses the Founders after Borodin finishes his turn.

"All jests aside regarding the Calistrians and their propensity to foster acquaintances, I have word from Dinarda that her chosen will be monitoring events from their...ahhh...unique perspective here in Sanctuary, and will inform us of any serious trouble brewing - Evelyn Dinarda may even be here now, though she was not in attendance at last night's All-Faiths Conclave session. Similar assurances were stated to me directly by the current "Superb Brewmaster" of Cayden Cailean - he will have followers at all the inns and taverns, informally keeping eyes on the more lively areas of the eastern district and the foreign quarter of the southern district, and also have their Heroes' Hall open to any that need shelter or assistance."

Verik starts quickly leafing through parchments arrayed before him, scribed reminders to himself of the Conclave meeting the night before. "Let's see...the All-Faiths Cathedral shall be fully staffed by all participating faiths at all hours, a haven for any citizen or traveler that needs guidance or assistance there. Second Sword Taborr shall instruct his Iomedaean Blades to help man all city gates under Akiros' watch command - I'm certain you've already received word on that point Akiros. Merciful Priestess Farin of the Dawnflower will have her followers patrol the main streets of the city in community watches, guiding any sick or injured to the Asylum of Peace and aiding the City Guard as desired. Other faith leaders shall have their temple doors open for aid: the Shelynites under High Priestess Shandara at the Sphere and Rose, the Irorians under Ascended Brother Keveran at the Irori Monastery, and the Pharasmans under High Sexton Lena - both at the sanctified graveyards and with her midwives assisting Doctor Atago's healers at the Asylum. Even he of the Everbloom has sent me a missive that his followers are keeping a close eye on the Pitaxians and Mivonese camps, in case they seek to try malicious mischief. Emissary Lumari of Alseta has even offered to check any door or gate that the Founders deem important."

Leaning back in his chair at the main Founder's table, Verik taps a large closed tome twice for emphasis and adds, "The Bank's efforts for this occasion are well documented, though I shall not bore this council with those details unless demanded of me." Putting his hands back behind his head in a display of smug relaxation, the Banker cannot resist the urge to call out his political enemy to task once again. After all, Jhod started it by opening his mouth when he should have kept it shut. "As far as the Erastilians go, however, to aid Sanctuary and help with the needs of Newhaven, I must report they do little or nothing at all. The good patriarch here failed to attend the All-Faiths Conclave session, as he often fails to do. Nor did he send a surrogate on his behalf. I must conclude that they do nothing to help in the current situation."

"Or perhaps Kavken you sent your missive by arrow but missed the mark, and it landed out in the Tuskwater," sneers Verik at his one-time friend of so long ago. "Perhaps that is what you wish to offer as an excuse to this council?"

Evie sits back, watching the fireworks, as it were, erupt between two former friends. A slight sadness fills her heart. All the times she was at Whitehart, she only got Jhod’s side of the story, but she still knows that they were good friends long ago.

If this is what civilization does to men, I am reminded why I’ve chosen little part of it.

She is also reminded of her distaste for human politics and how droll it all is before it turns tragic.

Yeah…this isn’t good. I’ll lose my mind if I have to listen to all this all night.

”You gentlemen sound like a bunch of old washer women in a squabble throwing mud at each other.“

Evie doesn’t give pause long enough for anyone to interject. ”Time and life are precious. I have no idea what in the vast stars I’m here for other than to represent Varnhold, but this ridiculousness will get us nowhere.” Despite her remarks, she’s relaxed and confident and addressing the men as if station holds no value for her and never will. ”Let’s assume that no one over here at the children’s table is offended by the time-wasting barbs being flung around at the big table there.” She makes a small wave of her hand towards the Founder’s table. ”And let’s also assume that no one is offended by the lewd references being tossed about either.” Seemingly no one has been left out of Evie’s observations. ”So if we need to get back on track, how ‘bout we go on out, take a breather, throw some punches, get some drinks and move on.”

Evie seems almost done with her admonishment, but much to the distress of some, she keeps talking. Perhaps being in the wildlands with the centaurs has made her bold. Perhaps this is just her way. No one here knows her well enough to know and she doesn’t seem the least bit concerned about what any of them might think about her. Maybe that is what fuels her boldness. ”Oh, and Banker, we’ll get along much better in the future if you don’t continue to drag my god through that washer woman mud. And perhaps if our faith felt welcomed a bit more in your meetings, a representative would attend. As for you, Jhod, Erastil’s sway wanes when a community grows past a certain size. It doesn’t disappear. It simply has less hold. But there are communities within the city that can be fostered and nourished. There are still farmers around the city proper that will always need Erastil’s blessings. The wardens that guard this place still need to be watched over. Those people that remain true to him will always be true. Other faiths gain power in his absence for better or worse. Not everyone can or should worship our father. Towns the size of this one are always in flux, like the seasons. You needn’t worry.”

28 Calistril 4713:

Sanctuary | Founder's Hall

Jhod clearly grows angry at Verik's words. Even with Evie's mediating calmness, the cleric of Erastil stands up with fury in his eyes. "We do what is necessary to aid our villages. We don't sit and plan out how to help in endless meetings - we actually help people! If I thought that it wouldn't be just useless blathering, maybe I'd send someone! Unless the meeting would be interrupted by your paid thugs to rob the hard-working, all under the guise of collecting more and more taxes, of course! We - free men and women - shouldn't have to register our faith and beg for your approval, Banker." Jhod's accusations have worked him into a fit of anger at Verik, with each sentence punctuated by a pointed finger. Years of acrimony have clearly poisoned the relationship between the two, perhaps beyond repair.

The door opens with a loud creak, breaking the tension before anyone can respond. A small figure shuffles in through the door, weighed down with a tiny set of clothing of fine quality, with a long blue cloak dragging behind. The leader of the kobolds bows to them. "Jabber ape-all-oh-jiyes for being late. Sorry Banker Jarrrrrrrow!" The small enclave of kobolds has grown in the last few years, aided by their remarkable fecundity. Some of the citizens have lodged complaints about their numbers, but Jabber's leadership seems to have kept them from stealing things or causing too much conflict. Still, if their population continues to rise in the safety of Sanctuary, the Council will have to come to some decision regarding their future. Jabber pulls out a chair and plops himself in it, loudly scooting it forward by jerking his whole body to move it forward.

The whole time, Jhod remains with his jaw fixed and fury in his eyes, not backing down from Verik. He barely pays any attention to Jabber, except to briefly roll his eyes in irritation. The rest of the council looks back at the two of them, waiting for a response. Akiros has never liked the conflict between the two of them, but he maintains his difficult-to-read countenance. Berrin doesn't seem to understand what, exactly, the argument is between them - but if push came to shove, he would back Verik with his vote, especially after their friendship has mended over the last few months in light of Varnhold. Zander, as ever, has nothing to say. Svetlana, much like Evie, simply wants them to understand the other and stop fighting. The ancient Elsir has always seemed above such petty arguments. Taisper, on the other hand, gives Verik a look that the Banker does not want to see; he worries that Taisper has deemed Jhod a threat to the faith of Abadar.

28 Calistril 4713:

22 Pharast 4713:
Sanctuary | A Summit of Peace

Borodin can see everyone in the room tensing for a possible escalation of hostilities from the once friendly priests. ”Gentlemen! Please!” The Spymaster raises his voice a little higher than he wanted but it gets everyone’s attention. ”I think we can agree that the both of you have the best interests of New Haven in mind. What may be lost on you is that your methods are both appropriate for the different types of communities we have here. Jhod for the more agrarian villages, and Verik for the more cosmopolitan city of Sanctuary.”

He lowers his voice and continues. ”If we don’t stop quarreling with each other and these armies decide to invade New Haven, they will not discriminate on who they will wipe out. So if we can get back to the agenda of orchestrating this much needed peace agreement, then perhaps we can get back to searching for the crazed undead lord bent on all of our destruction.”

22 Pharast 4713 | Sanctuary | A Summit of Peace

Arkady slouches in his seat at the "children's table," the appellation drawing a sardonic smile from his otherwise impassive features. Even this mirthless twist of the lips fades quickly, however, gone long before Jhod's outburst. His dark eyes track from Verik to Jhod and back, and though he does not straighten in his chair, his hands ball into fists beneath the table.

Jabber's entrance creates the briefest lull in the tension, and in that instant his attention flits to Nikolai, alert for some sort of signal. His brows jerk, his lips draw slightly downward, but almost immediately his eyes return to the late arrival. A kobold. And why not? Surprises at every turn. He leans forward in his seat, nodding at Borodin's words, his attention following the speaker.

Once the spymaster has finished, Arkady clears his throat. "I took the liberty of evaluating the Callistrian contingent, and found them... Thorough. Perhaps next I might fall in with the Pitaxians? Play on our common heritage, subtly dig for their true purpose in agreeing to the summit?" A brief pause as his eyes find Borodin and he adds, "No doubt their officers have found a place to congregate, and no doubt you know where that is?"