DM Barcas - Kingmaker: Rivers Run Red

Game Master Isaac Duplechain

"Hush, you." she cuts him off with a finger pressed against his lips. "I've been raising him this long, I can handle things. You should rest. Go lay down. Or go for a swim, something to get blood flowing and cool you off. You're on fire." She presses the back of her hand to his forehead. Taisper doesn't feel feverish, necessarily, but his skin has the ashen shiny quality of those with the flu or similar ailments.

"I...wait, did you just...did you just literally tell me to go jump in a lake?" Taisper's tone is mock-serious. One of his eyebrows is raised and he's smiling broadly.

"Well, more like 'step carefully', but yes." she laughs back at him.

"Hahahahaa! Okay, you're...yeah. That's a good idea, actually. I can practice. I can work on things." Taisper stands up slowly and puts on a loose-fitting tunic. He grabs a slightly-battered book and heads for the door. As he's about to leave, Ilyana stops him.

Erdija accepts the gift from Jemini with an appreciative nod. It is of greater quality than anything that she wears. "This acceptable gift. You are safe during trip to and from summit. Come now, we ride." She turns around on her four legs and stomps her hooves. The other centaurs do the same, then the war band shoots off like a bolt flying out of a crossbow. The Founders must spur their own horses to keep up, with Nikolai and Jemini having to scramble to get back to their horses. They ride swiftly through the hills, avoiding the rocky outcroppings and passing over the land. The centaurs move through the terrain as naturally as the Founders walk down the streets of Sanctuary, while their guests have difficulty keeping up the galloping pace.

After a few hours of the hard riding, now with the moon beginning to rise above them, and the centaur warband stops. The horses stop as well, glad for the break. Even the strong Valnyr and Kydal seem fairly tired after keeping up such a punishing pace for such time. They are at a mesa, a good fifty miles past the point that they met with the warband. They are on the more gradual side of the Tors of Levenie now, with the mountain range's towering heights looming to the south.

Led by the warband, they ride along the base of the mesa until they meet up with a trail that loops around and leads them upwards. As they near the mesa, it appears that they are at a centaur village. The nomadic half-beasts live in canvas huts shaped like long triangular tubes. There are a few hundred huts scattered over the large mesa, with plumes of smoke coming from several. A few centaurs mill about the village, eyeing the humans suspiciously. Most of the centaurs awake at the hour are male, of ages varying from late teens to elderly. They greet Erdija's warband in Sylvan, in a tone welcoming them back but expressing concern about who they came back with. Some small centaurs - children - follow the humans, pointing and gawking at them.

Erdija leads them to the largest hut on the mesa. Pulling back the canvas door, she beckons them to enter. "Your horses will drink, eat outside. You come, meet chieftain." As they enter, only Nikolai has to come close to ducking at the large entrance. A male centaur, most likely Korak Kaag, rises up on his legs from a bed of furs next to a quietly-burning fire. A female centaur remains laying on the furs, swollen in pregnancy. (Her human torso shows no signs of the pregnancy, but her equine body is unmistakably with child.) They speak in rapid fire Sylvan, and Erdija hands him the cloak.

The centaur chieftain introduces himself in Taldane, with a stronger grasp on the language than any other centaur they have met. "Welcome, Jemini Lebeda of New Haven. You and your guards are my guests. I thank you for your gift. What brings you to summit here?" As he speaks, they note his strength and virility. He is a powerful centaur with broad shoulders, a full beard, and a dark brindle coat. His weapon - a large two-handed hammer that looks better-equipped for a giant than a man - stands next to his furs with its handle facing upwards; it remains within easy reach should they break the truce.

"Taisper, my sweet, are you sure it's a good idea to read? Won't that make your headache worse?" Ilyana loves her husband dearly, but knows he doesn't have a lick of common sense. That's what growing up a "golden boy" in a city like Alkenstar will do to you. She thinks. Then, more charitably; Well, and also growing up with a bad head being made worse by a bunch of horrible church men and women...

Taisper looks down at the copy of the Azvadeva Pujila he's "borrowed indefinitely" from Verik's personal library. His smile broadens. "No...no, I think I'll be fine. This book, honestly, I know I've told you how much I'm getting out of it, well...I think it's the fourth most helpful, wonderful, beautiful thing in my life right now." He winks and heads out the door.

Ilyana snorts and rolls her eyes. "Ugh. So silly." As the door closes, though, her face breaks into a radiant and indulgent smile. She shakes her head and sets about preparing dinner.

Jemini's relatively small frame is thoroughly eclipsed by the centaur - but her presence is palpable, even bright, it is obvious that she is at ease in the room. "I thank you chieftain Korak Kaag - your welcome eases my heart and brings a smile to my face; I hope to find a better future for both our people - and our children - here. But before that... if I may impose on your hospitality - we've had a number of difficulties arriving here and are road weary. Irori teaches to overcome one's limitations, but a hungry and thirsty body won't listen to its master's mind. Can we discuss matters of import over something good to eat and drink?"

Korak Kaag stamps his front hooves in response, similar to how a demonstrative Qadari merchant might use his hands. "Of course! I believe our hunters brought some bison today, freshly slaughtered and cooked. Wine, as well. Come out to the main fire and we shall discuss it." The chieftain leads them out after whispering a goodbye to his mate. He leads them to a large bonfire in the middle of the village, standing at least a dozen feet high, with dozen of long logs stacked around a central point. It provides light and warmth for the collected centaur that stand around it. They move aside as Korak Kaag leads the humans to the bonfire. A skinned bison revolves on a spit held over an open flame near the bonfire's outer edges, tended to by an older female centaur.

He speaks to her in Sylvan, and she begrudgingly pulls out a sharp blade to cut each of them a piece. She hands each of a piece of the hot meat, still dripping with juices. She directs them to skins (made of an animal's bladder, most likely) filled with wine, so that they might drink. Much to Verik's horror, there are no utensils or plates, nor tables or benches. "Eat, guests, and we will discuss your presence here." The centaur chieftain's booming voice carries far and wide to the village, with a number of curious onlookers creeping out of the tents and huts to take a look at the human visitors.

Borodin is sitting cross-legged on a tattered, stained rug near the center of his hut. Eyes closed, he meditates on his combat forms and the magical patterns that coalesce into the raw energy that waits for the right gesture or word to unleash itself. He lets his mind revolve around the possible combinations like Vasili taught him. ”Keep you mind clear. Focus on the immediacy of your blade, your balance, and your enemy’s center. Learn the patterns but do not let them constrain your actions. You must transcend them in combat.”

”You summoned me Cog?”

"I did. Borodin, these are Elsir and Willas, Pathfinders from long, long away. You will go with them. When next you see me, you will not know me. Pathfinders, this is Borodin. He is sometimes mirthful, but is a good warrior all the same. I trust him, which says more than any of you here know. Now. The three of you will wait outside. Borodin, leave me your pack." As the three men exit, The Cog places his hand gently on Borodin's shoulder, knowing that to startle a warrior such as him could be bad for one's health, even here in his sanctum.

With Elsir, Willas, and Borodin waiting outside, The Cog rings for another young assistant. After they have assisted him in a certain task, he prays. Then, steeling himself, he walks out to meet the Pathfinders and his soldier. The young assistant hands Borodin his pack.

"Gentlemen. Let us go for a stroll. It is time I spoke with an old friend."

Borodin grasps Cog’s hand carefully and hands him the well-worn but supple haversack. Once Cog has positive control of the pack, Borodin flips open the large main flap for him and steps back.

After a few moments of awkward silence, Cog emerges. Borodin moves up to help his blind savior. With Cog’s hand on his shoulder, Borodin takes the subtle cues of his grip and the two lead the Pathfinders on to where only Cog knows…….

Studying the new arrival with piercing blue eyes, Elsir slowly looked the rough and ready man up and down. The way he carried his blade showed that he had skill in its use and the fact that it appeared clean and well oiled despite the generally worn appearance of his equipment led Elsir to believe that he would be useful if this trip that the Cog planned would lead into violence.

Piercing eyes suddenly twinkling, Elsir frowns thoughtfully. It's best if we know each others abilities however should we need to rely on each other in the immediate future. Willas here Elsir nods Is skilled with both blade, magic and song. I myself specialize magical foretelling and theory. What about yourself?

Borodin shakes both their hands in turn. At the mention of Maegar and Berrin Borodin realizes this acquaintance was from some time ago. He nods in acknowledgement.

"When it comes to the Dragonhall, the best offense is to be stealthy, and surgically remove your opponents. If that is our goal tonight, let me lead the way. Something tells me however that we will not be doing so."

Quiet, as is his wont, during the meal Akiros finally decides to go do his part to aid in the negotiations and speaks more than he has in the past few days altogether.

Moving up to the warband leader, Erdija, without preamble he says "I have always considered myself an excellent rider, and more, Kydal and I have honed our communication to the point that often, most especially during battle, it seems we move and act as one. Yet I must admit, in all my years, I have never seen anyone 'ride', or perhaps 'move', I should say, as do those of your tribe, Erdija. It brings me to wonder, then, are your skills with the bow, while in movement, as impressive? To indulge my curiosity, would you perhaps agree to a friendly contest?" He then taps above his milky eyes "Since the Goddess has chosen to 'bless' my eyes, I fear I cannot compete on targets beyond a short distance, yet within ten paces or so, I do believe my accuracy should at least be the equal of yours" finishing with a friendly, yet slightly challenging smile.

Standing there near the towering bonfire and awkwardly holding a hunk of hot meat in his metal-backed gloved hand, Verik stares in near horror at being directed to the shared animal skin bladders with what most assuredly is warm wine. Perhaps some other fouler substance like fermented milk. It gives him the sweats just thinking about it, and he involuntary wipes the sweat from his brow with his other hand. No, the sweats are from being close to this obscenely large fire! Why do they do they need a fire this large? I need to find a...UGH the meat is dripping down my arm! Sure enough, Verik realizes too late that the meat's hot juices have now run down past his gloved hand and in between his plated vambrace and the quilted sleeve underneath, soaking it with unseemly meat juice. And it is hot too, burning his skin. He clutches the meat tighter but tries to swing his arm downwards, reversing the flow, but gives up after he realizes the action is futile. Several of the savage centaurs look at point at him with smirks upon their faces.

This is just going swimmingly. I must get away from this dreadful place. Why am I here again? I should have stayed back with Taisper and Jhod...arguing on droll arguments would be far preferable to this. Making a gruff excuse to check on Giles to no one in particular, he ignores the bladders of filth and walks towards where he thinks the horses are, making a mental note to channel pure water for his consumption later. And perhaps a bath. He is sore from their frantic pace to get to the mesa, worn out despite his physical training. It occurs to Verik that Giles needs to be unsaddled and groomed properly, for clearly the steed was not used to such exertion either. Strangely enough, the tasks of grooming and attending to his horse had a satisfying and calming effect upon him, something he could not have said when he arrived north two years ago. How much of his habits and notions would change - would be changed - when all of this was done? Verik was not certain he wanted the answer to that unspoken question.

The Banker of Newhaven turns past an elongated tent and stops short when he sees that Giles is being "attended" to already by several centaur younglings, though each standing taller than Verik is now by a clear head or more. The younglings treat Giles with clear affection, but Verik's military saddle, saddlebags and blanket are all haphazardly tossed onto the ground around them, with other centaur younglings looking through his possessions. One beats on his iron cooking pot, another is dragging out his once-carefully stowed tent with ropes strewn about like some angry collection of tangled snakes. They now look at Verik with a mixture of question and defiance.

"This...these are my things Nomen centaurs. They are not gifts and should not be all strewn about like this. If you want to trade I should be willing, but you must..." His voice falters dejectedly as he realizes that most, if not all of these centaurs have no idea what he is saying. "Nevermind. I shall redress it later with the chieftain." Verik takes an angry bite out of the meat with his mouth, only to find that it is still hot and burns the inside of his cheek.

After walking the group through the swamp for a bit, The Cog stops at the edge of a small lake, indistinguishable to Elsir and Willas from any other of the seemingly infinite lily-choked bodies of water in this drenched and gods-forsaken place. He signals Borodin to stop.

"You asked about the sword, Pathfinders; it is here. I took it from my cousin's place of safe-keeping as the building burned to the ground in the fires that took our city, as one world gave way to another. Instead of risking that blade falling into the wrong hands, I brought it back here, where its original owner lay dead at the hands of my cousin and I, and plunged into the same watery grave. If you want it, you are welcome to seek it, but I will warn you; swords and corpses aren't all that lurk in these waters." He smiles mirthlessly. He knows Borodin is not afraid of the Things in the water, and suspects the Pathfinders won't be frightened off, either, but he is interested to see which wins out in Elsir's heart; the desire for knowledge, or the desire to keep going to get to their still-unknown destination.

"..."
"..."
"...no? I confess I am surprised, but to leave the sword where it is is perhaps the most sensible attitude to have. come, we'll continue."

The Cog and Borordin continue to guide you all through the swamp until you reach its edge and enter a somewhat marshy field. The sky is mostly blue, you are almost surprised to see, with high and wispy clouds dulling the sun's force somewhat, and a few grayish clouds scudding along closer to the ground. There is something ominous in their appearance, though it's tough to tell exactly what. A well-fortified city is in the near distance. You appear to be headed right for it.

As you get closer to the city, it's clear the guards have spotted you. "Be strong, pathfinders, and don't y'all worry, for we are going to visit an old friend of mine! He is someone with whom you will be happy to converse! And then, after that, there will be a short journey for you, and much to consider before you take your next step. Before we go, I ask only one thing. Here, stop for a moment. Look at me."

The Cog brings the party to a stop and steps back from the broad-shouldered Borodin. He holds his arms out, and then opens his tunic a bit to show his scarred and still-bloody chest. Reaching up, he pulls the bandages from his eyes. Before the three hale warriors and scholars stands what is clearly the shattered shell of a man; his hair is thin and falling out, his forehead and face grimy and creased and scarred. His eyes have both been -- it looks like -- gouged out, probably by something blunt, and the wounds are infected and running with viscous yellow pus. Veiny red lines run out from each socket. His neck has cuts all over it, his chest is still lined with a thousand cuts from whatever self-flagellation he earlier underwent. His clothes are filthy and worn and threadbare, with mud and blood and other grime patching their hand-hewn roughness. He is a testament to a ruined life, to madness and defeat and despair. He is the cog.

"Remember me when you meet me, pathfinders, Borodin; remember me when you meet me." With that, the cog replaces his bandages and pulls his shirt tight once again, and drapes himself in his cloak.

The guards are almost upon you.

Taisper stands in peace and tranquility on the edge of the small lake outside the city. His hands are before his heart. His skin is flush and smooth with the elasticity of youth. His hair is full and long and shiny and pulled back in a single braid, his golden eyes focused straight ahead, lit both from reflected sun and inner fires of faith. He is cleanly-shaven and muscular in that wiry way of naturally slender people. His clothes are new, sewn by his wife from fine bolts of sturdy cloth newly arrived from Druman merchants, and fit him quite well. His good, quality shoes hold the ground as he suddenly dips down into a basic fighting kata. The moves are still mostly foreign to him, but he moves with the dexterous strength of a natural athlete, and one well-trained since a very young age. This is to say; while these particular movements are yet foreign to him, movement as an art, as a science, is not.

Taisper's focus is absolute, and so the first tenet of the Master of Master's teachings comes rather easily to the young inquisitor. The strange, fluid, elegant movements of Irori's beginning physical process, however, most definitely do not. Halfway through the third kata, Taisper can't remember whether to spin or kick, tries to do both, and succeeds at neither. His legs tangle and he falls flat on his rear end like a newborn learning how to walk. For a moment his eyes flare, but then he lays on his back and laughs, shaking his head at his own cockiness. "Don't get ahead a' yourself, Stozs, sheesh."

He stands again, perspiring lightly, feeling more gloriously alive than he can ever remember. He thinks of all the things he loves so much; of his wife, of his house and city, of his -- well, not strictly his, but, you know -- his son, of all that he has learned. He pushes everything back and focuses on his ki, a small smile lighting his face as he begins the kata again. He is a testament to the power of love, and the power of being forgiven, and given a second or even third chance. He is Taisper Stozs.

A steady increase in centaurs marks the chieftain's loud proclamation. Jemini waves to some of the more courageous young that don't dare approach but still don't want to miss a thing. "Thank you, mother," she offers in gratitude to the old centaur who tends to the spitted bison. Slightly awkward she passes the greasy hot meat back-and-forth between her hands, until she finds a part is cool enough to handle - then she tries a first bite and a warmth comes to her face as she enjoys the meat with obvious relish. Slightly charred, crispy fat - thick enough to still yield a softer center that is greasy with rendered fat - that on a deeper bite gives way to a supple and juicy meat. Jemini nods in enjoyment, the meal immediately soothes over aching muscles and revitalizes.

When she is through most of her piece, far enough to be able to handle something else as well, she fetches herself a skin of wine. Unlike the spitted meat, the content of the skins isn't of immediate enjoyment. The liquor is barely palatable at first swig - uncomparable to Bokken's ambrosia - but the tart-bitter drink with a slight sweet afternote offered a valuable counterpoint to the meat as it cut through the heavy handed fats.

Returning to her seat, Jemini grins at Korak Kaag and lifts her wine skin in his honor: "To our generous host, Korak Kaak, and the health of the Nomen!"

At the approach of the guards, Borodin quickly moves himself up between them and the rest of the party. The thought goes through his mind that Cog could probably kill them all in a few seconds, even in his current condition but it doesn't stop his actions.

Ready for battle...ready for blood, he stands still and waits for a response.

Nikolai sits beside Jemini. Part of him is at home as the tribe passes win and meat about with close-knit revelry. But part of him is wary. In the days when he would host such feasts, the Staglord would drink until the company of mercenaries and lickspits was tolerable to him, then he would join the revelry by picking someone to fight. No one ever came close to beating him, except perhaps the ale. Nikolai did not look for sport in those days. He always picked someone who had slighted him or whose loyalty the men doubted. The beatings he gave them reminded everyone who their host was.

Nikolai drank wine in small amounts tonight.

He could not deny this scene was different, though. Families of centaurs clung together. Archers congratulated one another on good shots rather than taking the loser's last silvers. He saw differences where he might have been to drunk or too sore to notice before. In that moment, he let down his guard. He looked at Jemini.

She ate the bison like a hardened warrior. But she drank demurely, careful to keep her wits and pace herself. She sat as a guest, but her presence was commanding. A young centaur foal brought her a hairpiece with arranged feathers. Nikolai watched as she placed it in her locks, letting the hair fall behind her pretty face....

He looked at the ground. Anxiety pumped blood through his veins as he realized what he was doing. No. No. No. No.

It was an odd sensation, not unlike the proverbial butterflies. He could feel his heartbeat quicken. He was enamored and ashamed at one moment. It felt like the battle rage was taking him, but he sat staring at his hunk of bison, afraid to look again. If she caught him.... No. No. No.

He looked up to Korak Kaag as Jemini toasted him. He raised his wineskin high overhead, hoping the gesture would disguise his distraction.

He had to do something. He would get lost in the noise and stare again if he didn't direct his attentions somewhere else.

To our host! he echoed the Queen's toast. To peace, and to freedom, and to friendship!

No.

Erdija doesn't answer Akiros at first. She seems to be thinking over his words. She sees some of the younger centaurs engaged in impromptu archery shows, but does not seem to desire to join them. Perhaps it is her being diplomatic. "Now time for talking. If chieftain wants show - competition - of skill, we have show of skill after talking... With riding, you and horse are two, should be one mind and one body. Horse does what you want, not what is natural. You must trust horse to move, as horse trusts you to direct." She grabs his reins and drops them derisively. "Not needed. Do not use. Horse knows what you want. You know what horse wants?"

As they feast, Korak Kaag downs an entire slab of bison. The juices run down his beard as he noisily enjoys the meat. He raises his skin of wine when Jemini and the others toast him, and returns it in kind. "To our honored guests! You have enjoyed the food and drink of my people, and honored my tribe with your gifts. Bring forward your proposal to me, so that I might consider it."

The guards of Dragonhall rush towards the four men, blades drawn. Willas puts his hands up and sputters incredulously at the Cog. "This was your plan? What sort of plan is 'get captured'?" He looks over at Elsir. "I hope you've got a better plan, or that our impending doom means that we'll get zapped back."

The guards approach cautiously, scanning the surroundings for an ambush or a trap. "Throw down your weapons!" One of them calls out with a demand. "Do it or be killed!"

With a laugh, the Cog holds out his hands to his sides. "I carry no weapons, though I am far from unarmed. When one has the Word of God at his lips, he is never at a disadvantage." He holds his hands forward for shackling. "But, if you feel better about it... Hehehe." The guards shackle them one by one, carefully and meticulously. They search each of the four prisoners one by one, taking care to not miss a single thing. It takes a while in the morning sun, but they are thorough.

When content as to how secure the prisoners are, the guardsmen walk them forward. A single one of them leads the way, while the rest walk behind the prisoners to prevent them from doing anything foolish. The walls of Dragonhall loom before them as the guards guide them through the heavy portcullis gates that separate the city from the outside. Additional soldiers keep a watchful eye from the top of the wooden walls while they enter. As they march through the city, shackled and captive, the group of prisoners looks around. The city marches onwards, though the morning activity appears forced and without spirit.

For Borodin, it is the first time he has stepped foot in the city proper outside of a mission in several years. The city seems even more beaten down than before. When he first arrived from Restov, the city bustled with activity constantly. Tens of thousands of residents lived in the booming city, which more than rivaled his home city. After Choral conquered the city, it broke the spirit of its people. Those few thousands who remain simply force themselves to survive in captivity for another day. Every so often, the Resistance would score a victory against the Dragon Lord - but his soldiers keep a powerful grip on the city and its residents.

They arrive at what was once Castle Sanctuary. High stone walls protect the keep, with a heavy main gate that looks more than capable of withstanding a heavy siege. From their closer vantage point, they can see that men riding relatively small dragons patrol the air of the city. They fly into and out of the apex of the castle, where they have some sort of dragon aerie set up. The guards - now numbering a dozen, having added a number at the entrance to the city - lead them into the castle through the gates. The one who appears to be leading them is a young man about the same age as Borodin; he has tattoos on his face in the Iobarian style, but his facial features are clearly of local descent. He approaches the front door of the keep and speaks to the guard there. "We have prisoners to present. One of them says that they are friends of the Dragon Lord, but they're clearly members of the Resistance. I am certain that this one," he points at the Cog, "is the leader of the Resistance." The guardsman at the gate nods in recognition and goes in without a word to notify their liege of this new development.

The Cog shakes his head in casual disdain. "LEADER?! Hahahahaa! You will never catch our leader, fool. But no matter. After I speak with your Lord, no more of your tomorrows will mean anything anyway." He smiles beatifically.

Elsir snapped out of his meditation as the guards approached. He had become focused on the words of Cog and the enticing promise of knowledge about the black blade that remained in the bog. Glancing at Willas, Elsir shrugged. Cog was clearly mad. That much was obvious, but he seemed methodical in his madness. Perhaps the man did have a plan. He had indicated that it was so. Still the idea of surrendering to the vassals of the Dragon Lord left a poor taste in the wizards mouth. Again, it all came down to knowledge. Elsir felt so out of his element then even now, he was unsure of how to calculate what determining factors might play a role in the events to come, let alone the events that had passed. Elsir felt adrift on the seas of time without a compass or map to guide him. One thing however was for certain. He would think carefully before he decided to peer into the future with a linked mind again. He had gotten far more than he bargained for out of those events.

The fact also remained that Elsir owed more then a shrug to his friend. Normally Elsir would wait. He had always considered patience his strongest quality. For a human, waiting might seem torturous, for Elsir it was a chance to be at peace. Still the man deserved his words. Be patient, Elsir said quietly. If you recall our deaths did move us towards the next part of a time stream. This seemed to be the ending point. Perhaps a death would return us back to where we came. Or.. it might not. Its hard to say.

Her eyes momentarily closed in revelry she utters, "May Sarenrae guide my tongue". Cast honeyed tongue

She addresses Korag Kaag directly, but her voice is clear and carries easily to all. "Chieftain Korag Kaag, I come to you seeking allies and friends - that is the purpose of my visit. Where the Nomen can look back on a long history and proud tradition - the nation of New Haven is but young, its years can be counted on the fingers of a hand. The nation was not founded as a symbol for expansion, but to protect - a force of balance to keep hot heads and hearts from civil war."

Her eyes narrow a little as she gets to the more harrowing part of her explanation, "There is some measure of success in that mission - no outright war has been waged as of yet. But our exploration of the untamed lands revealed that far greater powers are at work here, powers so great that no one people can hope to overcome their deadly peril. Perhaps your tribe knows of one Choral the Conqueror. A being of immense power, commander of a host of dragons; he laid waste to all these lands centuries ago and has been thought deceased. Unfortunately, our efforts have revealed that he is returning - not long ago we've had to fend off an army of dragons and men, a mere fraction of his total command, and it cost us dearly."

She pauses just a moment, "Wherever we turn, we find tell-tale signs of his hand. Sometimes subtle, sometimes brutal. I am trying to unite all who offer me their ear into an alliance strong enough to oppose Choral himself. Recently word reached us that a troll king is trying to bring others under his sway in a crusade against humans. Perhaps he acts independently, but I fear that he too may be manipulated from the shadows by Choral or one of his minions. I hope that I can sway the Nomen into an accord with New Haven instead. We offer trade and the promise to come protect these lands when you call for aid - and ask that the Nomen rally against our enemies in turn."

Diplomacy, roll 1 1d20 + 16 ⇒ (10) + 16 = 26
Diplomacy, roll 2 (honeyed tongue) 1d20 + 16 ⇒ (10) + 16 = 26

Well. Okay then.

Borodin risks a glance back at Cog and wonders why he agreed to ever join the resistance. 'Really Cog, that was your plan? If I wanted to kill myself I could have easily just self immolated. No..., obviously he knows something that we don't. He just acts so damn crazy sometimes it's enough to...well drive someone crazy!'

Standing well off and away from where Jemini addresses Korak Kaag and the others of his tribe, Verik watches the proceedings impassively, sipping from a clean waterskin from his own packs that he has channeled fresh water into. He notes the position and bearing of his friends, of Berrin and Akiros, who seem to be taking up the spirit of hospitality by these Nomen Centaurs, each in their own way.

She speaks like she is a ruddy Queen sometimes doesn't she? Hmmm...good speech but perhaps a bit skyward over the heads of these 'scholars' so not sure the message is understood. Still, she inspires doesn't she? But what can she possibly hope to solidify in terms of treaty or trade? This is all platitude...we're certainly not in the need for a trade of mare's milk! Ha! Verik smirks and hides his smile in a long pull of water, careful not to dribble it all over the ground. He shifts his stance and winces at a deep pain in his shoulder, still wearing his full plate though he longs to remove it after the journey today. That's going to be sore tomorrow. Can't let my guard down now though...as I am but a 'guard' to our 'queen' here eh? What a mockery. Though best perhaps that these simpletons know less the fact that Newhaven's General, Marshal and High Cleric all stand with the First I think.

Of course, he cannot help but glance over at where Nikolai stands just nearby Jemini, watching her intently with an expression that can only be considered intense. As if struggling to say something, but knowing he should not interrupt. Well at least he knows better than that by now. I suppose that is progress of a sort. Verik grunts to himself and shakes his head slightly, taking another pull from his water flask. Her 'Champion' ready for whatever-it-is that he takes offense to for the day...insufferable cur. Yet he believes in her all the same, doesn't he? Fine wines and twenty years...bah! More like fine rings wrapped around separate long lovely fingers by the time she's done with all of us!

Verik looks around at the other Nomen centaurs, gauging a reaction. So strange these creatures are. Sentient certainly, but little more value than Varisian nomad wanderers. Human or centaur, vagabonds are vagabonds. Well, except for the Harrow deck readers. So odd. Maybe I can glean more from this exercise by understanding what they think is important...besides obscenely large bonfires and stealing my goods! He utters a prayer in Celestial to Abadar as quietly as he can, putting hand to key and then to forehead, seeking enlightenment.

Casting Comprehend Languages to overhear reactions to Jemini's speech by the other Nomen speaking Sylvan, 50 minutes duration.

Zander reads the two missives again. One, a large wolfpack of large wolves, the other, he has a little more trouble with, from a long distance, a two-headed troll? Must be an Ettin....or the unfortunate spawn of an ettin...not good in either case.

He puts pins into his map denoting date and direction. Both in the south, both moving northwest, toward the proscribed path he helped lay out for the other Founders.

Well, they can leave him here, but that does not mean he is entirely out of touch. He has not received any official news, but that has not worried him, as those travelers faced down multiple dragons just recently. But he set two Wardens to trail them none the less. They are to track at a distance and report only in the event of disaster or needed rescue, otherwise they are to observe the after effects of the groups passing, and see what might scurry back into the light.

It was not until today he that he became concerned. Negotiations....with centaurs even. While that last part sounded interesting, this was Jemini's work and his work was here...until we can just locate where the Trolls are coming from. Too many councils, ambassadors,...and negotiations. Even his office gets to be too much. He grabs the stag helm off the desk, dons it, and heads for the keep, safer than his walking the streets....if his mind is conflicted.

He nods to the the staff that wish him a good morning, but he makes his way quickly through the structure, up to the ramparts. The only open place in the city, besides the gates, where he can get above and away from the responsibilities, if only momentarily. But even here that is not entirely possible. The dark cracks between the stones grow a vibrant moss, a moss that has appeared since the dragon shed so much blood up here, as did Zander...both of us....it gives him a grounded connection....up here.

It is ironic that this momentary shirking of responsibility, inspires those down below, when they look up and see the silhouette of the White Stag above then, on the look out for danger. Silently staring to the south.....looking at unseen trolls and silent towers.

Before he sets off back to his tasks, back down the steps in the Keep and the Town, he pauses to look west. Zander contemplates riding amidst centaurs on an endless plain. A much better existence than the paperwork the Founders have left for him this morning....much like yesterday.

Erdija doesn't answer Akiros at first. She seems to be thinking over his words. She sees some of the younger centaurs engaged in impromptu archery shows, but does not seem to desire to join them. Perhaps it is her being diplomatic. "Now time for talking. If chieftain wants show - competition - of skill, we have show of skill after talking... With riding, you and horse are two, should be one mind and one body. Horse does what you want, not what is natural. You must trust horse to move, as horse trusts you to direct." She grabs his reins and drops them derisively. "Not needed. Do not use. Horse knows what you want. You know what horse wants?"

Smiling calmly, Akiros nods and replies "Yes of course Erdija, it shall be as you say, and as your chieftan wishes. As for Kydal, there is no other living being who I trust more. We are indeed one in mind as well as body. He looks down at the now hanging reins and chuckles softly as he begins to remove them while continuing to speak. [b]"And you are correct, these trappings are not needed for either Kydal or I. I suppose they are just habits of the past I have not yet rid myself of. I thank you for your reminder."

Korak Kaag listens to Jemini's words thoughtfully, giving them his full attention. When she finishes, he nods slowly. "I speak for my tribe, not for the whole of the Nomen. I see that your kingdom is one that does not seek violence with me and mine. We have had dealings with humans of Varnhold who seek to settle in our sacred lands, but you are not like him. We seek peace, not war. What quarrel have we with this Choral, or with troll king, or with you? We have none, and we seek none. We desire the same things that you do: peace, freedom, the right to live and hunt and raise our families as we please. You say that if the Nomen ally with you, we must protect each other. If we call for aid when the Varnhold humans press again into our lands, do you turn your back on your own people to help us? If another tribe does not agree, do we join you in fighting them? I do not see, and I do not understand, why such an agreement would be of interest to us. It seems that it would make us all less free."

The rest of the centaurs - the families he speaks of - are gathered around watching the strange meeting between centaurs and humans, despite most of them not speaking the langauge of the negotiations. Korak Kaag looks over to them after he finishes speaking, considering them and their needs as a people and as a tribe.

A few tense minutes pass in front of the keep of the castle as the guard passes along the message. The remainder of the guards remain at attention, not giving their prisoners any sense of complacency. One of them shushes the Cog when his occasional muttering gets too loud, but they are otherwise quiet. Every so often, one of them will look with dread at the front door - as if hoping that it will never open, revealing the horrors inside. Several minutes later, the message-bearing guard returns. "The Dragon Lord gives them leave to enter." He moves aside, letting the group of guards and prisoners enter.

They enter the stone keep and look around. The original wood has been entirely replaced with stone except for around the support beams. Great tapestries of a red dragon battling with great armies decorate the otherwise-barren walls. A great fire roars in a fire pit in the center of the room, giving the place a smoky, hot haze reminiscent of Hell. There are neither benches nor tables in the large room. A staircase leads up to the second floor of the main keep in the back of the room, but the room is dominated by a raised throne with a figure upon it.

The throne appears made of melted gold, molded into the form of a chair. The occassional gem flashes in the firelight, embedded in the throne's melted gold. Sitting atop the throne is a hulking figure of a man. He holds a flaming sword across his lap, showing no apparent discomfort from the fire. He stands as they enter, looming over them with his terrifying figure. His body is thick with muscle where they can see his skin - but his entire body seems to be covered in some sort of living chitinous armor. The armor is dark red, like looking at fresh-spilled blood in the dead of night. He wears a helmet that seems fused to his head; it isn't clear where he and his armor are separated. The helmet gives him a decidedly draconic appearance, with his own red eyes burning through the small slit and only his mouth and chin showing underneath.

Besides the guards and prisoners, there are only two other figures in the room. The first is a strikingly beautiful woman wearing an elegant dress that does little to hide the fact that she has only her right arm. Her left is severed above the elbow, an ugly scar of flame marring the skin of her arm and her left side. She sits with perfect poise, yet somehow seems utterly defiant and disdainful of the man on the throne. The other figure in the room is a piteous man wearing a jester's outfit made of religious robes of Abadar. He looks over at the prisoners with glazed eyes, seemingly settling on the Cog. His dulled eyes flash with some long-lost recognition. He makes a strangled noise, opening his mouth like a fish to show that he has a tongue that was cut out.

The guard who showed them in kneels in front of the throne, as do the rest of the guards. His voice echoes through the empty room as he speaks. "I kneel to the Dragon Lord, first and favored son of our Great King, Choral Rogarvia." The other guards echo his words dutifully. The woman does not speak. He turns his head to the prisoners and snaps, "Kneel before the Dragon Lord, Nikolai Rogarvia, and his consort, Jemini Lebeda! You as well, Verik Jarrow, unless your god is planning on giving you your tongue back with which to praise the Dragon Lord!"

Okay, the scene is set for everyone to interact in the future!

The Cog has not stopped smiling the same irritating, utterly daft and beatific smile since they encountered the guards. In response to the guard's demands, he speaks, and his voice is clarion and calm; "I kneel to no one, especially not traitors with blood-soaked skin like your so-called dragon lord. Besides! We've no time to stand on ceremony; I have brought guests! Honored guests from far, far a-when, who needs must take counsel with the Stag Lord." Inclining his head slightly towards the two pathfinders and Borodin, the Cog says "Gentlemen I give you Nikolai Rogarvia, whose treason and faithlessness brought ruin to this land. Remember him well when next you meet him, you three. Remember him well." The Cog then turns his voice back on Nikolai. "So mighty you claim yourself to be, yet for all these years I've eluded you, harried your supply trains, destroyed guards and their barracks, and kept morale low for your soldiers and kept travel unsafe. And it will continue, Stag Lord, for as I destroyed you once, so I will destroy you again, and again, and again, as many times as necessary."

Zander rubs at the dull throbbing in his temples. The afternoon drags on in a rotating facade of attendants and pages, reports and signatures. Those waiting on him are divided by his style, some are shocked at his brusqueness at getting to the heart of an issue, but others appreciate the efficiency.

Although not enjoying himself, he does a good job. He asks pointed question of applicants, cutting off the 'long story of it' as farmers and traders cycle through to make their worries known. Although direct, he is never mean or condescending, and he ensures they are satisfied that the scribe has accurately recorded his or her intent before moving on. He holds off on any large decisions, letting officials know that most of those matters will await a fuller attended Town Hall....he refused to use the word Court.

Finally comes the time Zander is notified that there are no more applicants, and he bolts up from his chair. Before he leaves, he calls in all the attendants and pages, and thanks his little Wardens for their hard work today. He half-smiles when he sees some of the older servants roll their eyes, but the younger set seem to appreciate it.

He then heads back to his barracks and his real work. He receives any updates that came in during the day, sets the evening patrols around the city. He changes his official trappings for more comfortable leathers and then makes his way to the stables.

The ride helps to partly clear his head. Zander comes upon the lake and sees someone ahead on the shore. He reins in and circles around, before he recognizes Taisper. He circles back, but then sees Taisper in some sort of meditation. Circling again, his horse whinnies in irritation, "Crap, you think I'm doing this on purpose?" He finally decides and angles away from his friend not wishing to disturb him, but figuring damage is already done and Its a big enough lake.. He rides down to the shore about 100 yards away, and quickly dismounts. He places the Stag Helm upon the ground, looks over toward Taisper and pulls his headband off as well. Kneeling upon the pebbly shore, he puts his head in the water and yells, really yells, emptying his lungs in a swarm of bubbles.

Refreshed through the action and the coolness of the water, he replaces the headband upon his wet bald head. He takes a moment to catch his breath before getting to his feet. Zander picks up the helm but does not put it back on, he instead hooks it on his pommel as rubs his horse's neck as it munches on the abundant lakeside vegetation. He gives the horse a few verbal clicks and a weak tug on the reins to get it to follow him as he slowly walked, allowing the horse to continue eating as it walked. He angles himself back up the slope, give Taisper room if he wished it. He knows Taisper has reasons for disappearing often, just not what those reasons always are....but he did not suspect this is what he did with himself....But then again, he probably didn't know I come to scream at the fish.

Borodin looks at all those in the throne room and takes special notice of the two maimed individuals. Obviously they crossed Nikolia in the past and are now paying for it. His focus shifts to the "dragon lord". He had never seen him this close before. Definitely an imposing figure with his grotesque armor but to Borodin, he didn’t seem as frightening as all the stories made him out to be.

Borodin snaps back to the present and keeps an eye out for opportunities to strike all the while hoping the Cog has something to get them out of this crazy mess.

The pitiful wretch that was once Verik Jarrow moans as he falls to his knees and prostrates himself before the molten throne of the Dragon Lord, his hat tumbling off to the side of him as he does so, revealing patched areas of balding scalp amidst sections of greasy grey hair that have not yet been worn or torn out.

Even so, the pathetic creature turns his head to the side and squints back towards the captives at the entrance of the hall, stealing another glance at the four men that stir up some memory from a long-departed age. "Cc-cc-ooooooooo..." is all he manages to utter, before he cuts off in a strangled choke and once again buries his face to the floor in fear.

Present Jemini will hold her thoughts a bit in case somebody wants to add to the negotiations. As an aside and explanation: once things turned sour in the past, Darkest Jemini began inflecting more and more on her oracle of lore development.

'Ah. Thank Sarenrae! The promised time has come.' Jemini studies the arrivals intently - her insights have grown sharper with time, the way spectral possibilities manifest to her eyes is more defined, more intelligable than in her younger years. Countless tales, songs and histories crowd her mind; and banked with her robust and mercantile upbringing she now possesses a broad spectrum of understanding. Her captor, Nikolai, doesn't want to reveal overly how the land is suffering under his rule - but he is keen enough to appease Jemini with tomes on elsewhere and elsewhen. 'Let us see, guide my sight beyond sight, Irori.'

The spirits a jumble. Verik, oh poor Verik, his appeasement of Nikolai is transparent as ever. But he's excited, in turmoil to hide his thoughts. Just how much can he recover from the ruins of his mind...

The spirits show near no deviation. The Cog... no... not today. Today he resembles Taisper again, more than in a long time. Has his insanity overwhelmed him entirely... no... not by a long shot. In spite of the way he has been corroded, now more than ever he sees not only the purpose to oppose, but a resolution. An end to his endeavors.

The spirits waver. Uncertainly reach out. Weapons drawn. hmmmm... yes... this one would kill me if he could. He must be one of the Cog's wheels. He is trained well, both in mind and body - but he does not understand how far he must still go to reach me. And... he is worried. Taisper - the Cog - must've not told him what is going on. A pawn? If that is the case, then maybe it is the others that are relevant in this scene.

Spirits...? No a chain. This one is tethered to this one... this one...

Jemini stares, for a moment her eyes widen, before she reclaims the calm of an undisturbed pool, no ripples on the surface. Bluff to conceal, horrendously high bluff check.

Elsir. Elsir! He is younger than when we met. How...? The spirits... the spirits...? They... only come - they never go. He isn't here while being 'here'. He is the focal point in this, and there is nothing he can do to avert it. How much will rely on his eyes and thoughts today?

Jemini's eyes narrow slightly.

Diplomacy Aid Another: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (3) + 8 = 11

Looking and pausing to allow others to speak, Akiros finally clears his throat and steps forward. After a small nod to the chieftain he begins "Great Korak Kaag, as those who knowme will attest, I am not a man of many words. I have always preferred to allow my actions to speak loudest for me. However, sometimes, words must be said. You say you and your tribe seek peace, and this is right and good, as it is for our people as well. Yet when Evil seeks to conquer and destroy, men, and Nomen, of peace, must go to war. War is coming to you and your people Korak Kaag, whether you seek it or not. Your choice now is which side you fight on. The side, of good, of peace, or the side of evil and destruction. Know this as well, should you choose to ally yourself with this Troll king, or Choral, who likely pulls his strings, you will never know peace, for they will turn on you the moment you are no longer valuable to them. For that is the nature of evil. It is a hard choice you must make, great chieftain, yet even fo a man whose vision has been both blessed, and cursed, by the Gods, your choice seems most clear." his milky white eyes staring directly into those of the big centaur.

Akiros pauses here and then glances at Berrin before continuing [b] "As for your problems with Varnhold, there are some others among us who may have significant influence in stopping them from trespassing on your sacred lands. I shall let them speak of such things though."

As he finally finishes his piece, he nods once again and steps back.

Perception: 1d20 + 19 ⇒ (4) + 19 = 23

Lord Dragon, Elsir quietly intoned, bowing as Elsir might to any other lord of the lands before rising up and taking in the room before him.

Patience, patience had always been the elfs strongest quality. The ability to endure under difficult circumstances and persevere in the face of provocation.

Resisting the urge to smile, despite the bleak, darkened world around him, Elsir kept his face passively mute. Instead he quirked his head to the right to take in the banners arrayed on the walls, the beautiful yet bleak one armed woman who looked at him with shock, the pitiful wretch who was once known as the High Priest, and the Dragon Lord, Nikolai Rogarvia.

It would seem.. Elsir said slowly placing his hands in front of him and touching the tips of each finger together. That rumors of my death are greatly exaggerated. Looking at each of the darkened reflections in turn, Elsir remained standing. Lord Dragon, Consort and Lebeda and Priest Jarrow, I have come a long way to bring you a message, and one not meant for the ears of lessers. Elsir intones, glancing back at the guard who announced them. Will you hear my words? Will you listen and consider with the same intensity as you did once between when you both stood before a looming throne that stretched up before a skull faced moon before the shrouded queen?

Raising his hand to forestall any rash actions, Elsir nodded towards the man who sat upon the throne. Now is the time for conversation and not rage. You can't win this conversation with that sword, Nikolai. If you strike me down, I shall become more powerful than you can possibly imagine.

The insolence of the Cog once burned inside Nikolai, but not today. As the elusive rebel offers his threats and guarantees his victory for the hundredth time, the Dragon Lord sneers beneath his scaled helm.

Your words are but a wish for judgment and death, Abadarian. You know well you live because Jemini wills it. Her friendship toward you is your only boast. See that you speak truly to your friends about the things they see.[i]

[i]He steps away from the golden throne and swings the flaming sword down. Dragonsbreath cleaves into the precious metal almost effortlessly, sizzling the edges of the gold as the flame burns white hot.

Turning, unarmed but for his size and demeanor, Nikolai looks to Elsir, his eyes showing recognition.

As you see, elf-friend, I do not fear to speak any more than I require a blade to end Taisper's sad quest for closure. Discuss with me what you will, but know that your magic and foresight have failed you once. Those you bring with you should be cautioned...you do not know my mind. You do not know the vision of Newhaven I was given had I made war against the Conqueror.

He advances on Elsir, lowering his neck to search him eye to eye. If you bring news of Choral's defeat from wherever you came from, I will hear of it. But you are a stranger in these lands, and you must also listen to me.

He takes a step back, eyeing the strangers Taisper the Timorous brought with him. If you speak, you speak here and now. Indicating the Cog with a nod of his horned helm, he continues. There is no one here lesser than him. Speak, and then hear the truth from the man who has preserved what little we all have left.

He turns for another step towards the throne, then looks at Jemini. His face fills with longing. He even seems weary for a moment. Then he points to Verik, standing there in soiled green and red, with scarred lips and a broken nose. Be careful with your tongue, though. If you offer senseless criticism, or speak disrespectfully to your Queen, you will end up like him.

Nikolai Rogarvia, the Dragon Lord of Newhaven, turns to face Elsir with eyes that glow like hot coals. He folds his thick arms, and waits.

"Hhhhhheeeeem. Hhhheeem?" Verik raises his head and mouths the sound, nodding at the effect. He says it a third time, suddenly scrambling to his feet away from the Dragon Lord. He points to himself, his eyes wild, but never looking towards the Dragon Lord or his Queen directly.

The beatings come harder as the guards shout at him to be silent, but it only causes the wretch to moan even more loudly between gasps of air, his face pressed to the ground but his body curled up into as much of a ball as he can manage, his arms and legs underneath him.

****************************
Deep inside a cold and endless ocean of darkness with the taste of ash, a flicker of light flutters in the distance. It has seen this flutter before, this illumination, all too faint and brief. It used to know light, to feel warmth, to taste sweet. No longer. No longer does it move towards the light, only to have darkness swallow it again in silent laughter. It thought better to be in the cold chill of the dark ocean, to drift in darkness, to be swallowed by its immensity. To reach for the light only meant searing pain, heat and terrible pain. But in pain and heat and light there was knowing, too. Knowing as it once had. Sometimes it wanted, it sought, but the flicker of light would be gone. No matter. Back into the darkness, the ocean, the ash. Better that way.

Until now. The light fluttered stronger, steadier, closer. Something was different. It didn't know what, nor why, nor how. The light fluttered and flickered as it always did, but then didn't go out like before. The light became a ball. Something beyond. Warmth was there. Pain was there too. Different. It felt.
****************************

Despite the continual thump of the beatings upon his back, a hand twitches underneath, then moves to his pants. A tear of weak stitches. The hand clutches the haft of a dragon's claw, found and hoarded long ago. Polished and cleaned like nothing else he had, sewn in and forgotten. Until now. Metal could be discerned and found, but not this, the claw of those who were now all too common in this place. It wouldn't puncture armor, not with the weak stroke of an old decrepit man. But armor or scales wasn't its target, wasn't why it had been cherished and kept. No, there was only one target suitable. The claw would pierce silk and satin, pale skin and pumping heart. Oh yes it would. His grip grew tight on the claw, even as the beatings continued. He embraced the pain, welcomed it to make him alive. Just one chance for the blood to burst forth. Oh yes.

Nodding slowly, for the words man did have merit, Elsir bowed his head in thought. What vision was it that Nikolai had been shown? What had turned him away from the path he had walked on from his current place in the world? Would the man reveal it? Would it matter? Perhaps.. Perhaps..

Sighing, Elsir gestured to himself and Willas. You are right of course Nikolai, the future if always in motion, and foresight has failed me before. But I came to this moment for a reason, and the longer I am here the more sure I am of what that reason is.. It is hope. Letting his arm drift out place to take in the scope of the stone walls, Elsir placed the full force of his intelligence to the matter at hand. Nikolai, Jemini.. think back for the moment to the summer of 4710 AR, when your group led an expedition to make contact with with the massing troll army. Before Berrin died at the hands of Nyrissa fifteen years later in 4725, before I died while fighting the lich, Vordekai in 4713 and before you turned to Choral. What if.. in that summer you knew of this future? You knew of the path that lead you to this destination? What choices might you have made differently? Shaking his head, Elsir sighed. What I suggest is radical yet also possible. If I returned and told your past selves of this future, how might we have prepared ourselves for the conflicts ahead? Glancing at Willas, Elsir sighed again. What I am suggesting goes against everything I know or have been taught about the manipulation of time. But I can't see an alternate. If I don't act then this is the future that is more rather than less likely to come about. A future where Berrin and I are dead, where the people live in fear and the city that was once a sanctuary has become a prison. Gesturing back the to Jemini, Nikolai and the poor wretch Verik, Elsir shrugged. I am offering you the chance to be forewarned and forearmed. I would be giving you years to prepare for the events that are now at hand. What I am offering is nearly priceless.

Taisper's eyes snap open at the sound of hooves. He smiles on seeing the White Stag. "Oh hey Zander, man, how are you? How are your duties? What's new in the woods?"

His face still, The Cog listens intently to the exchange between Nikolai and Elsir. It wouldn't be long, now...

Atop the mesa...

Diplomacy - Aid Another 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (12) + 5 = 17

Berrin looks a bit uncomfortable when Akiros subtly prods him to join in on the conversation. Words aren't his forte - stabbing and drinking are his favored pastimes. He clears his throat and tries his best, for the good of the nation. "My wife is the daughter of Baron Maegar Varn." He drops this information with little by way of preamble or preparation. "He and I are quite close. If I ask him to make peace with you, will you accept it? I guarantee on my honor," he says while ignoring Verik's near-silent scoff, "that I can convince him. What natural barrier do you desire as the recognized border of your lands?"

Korak Kaag seems to regard him with a tense glare. He addresses Jemini directly, "You bring my enemy to my lands? Any kin of 'Baron' Varn is no friend to the Nomen."

Berrin steps forward between him and Jemini, hand ever so slightly towards his blade. "Chieftain, I don't need her to speak for me. I came here with friendship, not as an enemy. Until just now, I didn't even know of the conflict between my father-in-law and your tribe. Regardless, I'm not from Varnhold - even though I am related to the Baron and consider him a friend. I wandered a long time through this world, fighting for whoever would give me enough gold to drink and enjoy the company of women of ill repute. Back then, I'd tell you to find a new home for your people if you couldn't hold it in war. It wasn't until I came to Newhaven that I found a home. These people," he says while pointing towards his friends, "are my tribe. I understand the value of having a home, a place to call your own now. When I give you my word that I will convince Baron Varn to recognize a border of your home, I want you to understand that I mean it. So, where do you want it to be?"

The centaur chieftain seems to begrudgingly accept Berrin's explanation. He rubs his beard thoughtfully. "If his people do not cross the river east of Silverstep, we can live in peace. Tell him, though, that these lands are our lands. Any human settlements south of the river will be burned to the ground. Leave tonight to seal this agreement, and I will sponsor your queen in the summit."

Berrin whistles for his horse, who trots up quickly. "You've got yourself a deal, with one change: give them a month to get the word out. Deal?"

Korak Kaag nods sagely. "You have an agreement. You have my word that no human settlement will be raided or razed for one month - but I expect you to return with Varn to agree to this deal in person."

Berrin gets on Valnyr's saddle, pulling himself up quickly and ably. "Absolutely. It won't take me long to arrive there. Everybody - I'll see you back in Sanctuary after I get this taken care of. I'll send word back for my wife when I hit Varnhold that I won't be returning with you, so that she doesn't worry. Until next time..." He offers a rueful smile, giving Verik a meaningful glance before he starts off down the mesa to ride northwards.

After he leaves, Korak Kaag turns back to Jemini. He offers a hand to her, in the style of humanity. "I make no promise of rejecting the troll king or joining you in battle against this Choral, but I will support your bid to speak at the summit of centaurs in two days. You are free to make camp with us until then."

It seems that you have forged an agreement with Korak Kaag to sponsor you at the full summit. If no one has any objections, we will move a few days forward until we make it to the summit in a day or two. If you have anything you want to write about making camp with the centaurs, please do.

Verik holds up a gloved hand to Berrin in departure as he guides Valnyr out towards the edge of the village. He returns Berrin's glance with a simple nod of understanding, for nothing else needs be explained or clarified between them. He watches stoically as Berrin rides off until gone from view, and then sighs slightly and turns to look on at the proceedings.

The handshake between Korak Kaag and Jemini raises an eyebrow - not one of derision but more one of surprise. Looking past them over at Nikolai in the firelight, Verik fancies that the man has his face puckered in the look of one who has eaten a handful of bitter grapes, though truth to tell he can't really make out his reaction from this distance. After about three or four choice barbs and insults come to his mind that he has no intention of actually saying to Nikolai directly, Verik smirks to himself and moves off in the direction of Akiros.

Verik pours a drink of fresh water from his own waterskin into his tin tankard, feeling the accursed heat from the bonfire even at this distance, and then offers the waterskin to Akiros. "Well now, that was a speech succinct and well-said my friend, as I would expect from an Iomedaean. Now that last part was risky and none-too-subtle by my ears, but it looks like you spurred Berrin to heartfelt words and action at just the right moment. Well done." Though Verik is not showing exuberance or excitement at the tentative agreement that they have forged with the centaurs, it is nevertheless clear to Akiros that Verik's praise of him is genuine and not laced with sarcasm.

The Darkest Timeline...

Willas shifts uncomfortably, looking back and forth between the terrifying Dragon Lord and his friend. Would the Dragon Lord leap at the opportunity to turn back time? He might, or he might believe that this horrible future is preferable. Only time - ironically enough - will tell. He is surprised that Elsir is able to make the argument. Usually he's the talkative one. But Elsir's argument is just what he would expect from the elf: succinct and well-reasoned. Logic is one thing, he thinks to himself, but does Elsir understand human ambition and pride well enough to find any sort of agreement with Nikolai? If the massive man wanted to kill them all, he could likely do so without even a try. Even if they were armed and not restrained, they would likely all be dead in moments if he so desired. One does not become an iron-fisted despot without the strength to back up one's desires.

"If I may," he adds to Elsir's words, "I don't know if you remember me. No one seems to have mentioned whether or not I'm dead or alive or anything. I suppose that's the nature of things. It pains me to see this city like this - but we can change this, I think." He catches Jemini's eye, begging her with his gaze to add her words to theirs. "Things can be put right."

26 Gozran 4710

Jemini, Nikolai, Verik, and Akiros spend two days among the centaurs. They are given a tent of their own to rest, and are cautiously watched by a number of the warriors. The centaurs hold a contest of bows at Akiros's request during the day. The half-blind oracle has no chance at long distances, which is the preferred style of centaurs, but he holds his own with them at shorter distances. The centaurs show off a bit - whether as friendly demonstration or subtle warning - with their circling, retreating bowmanship. Whichever side the centaurs are on in a war, their bowmen will be deadly skirmishers because of their unparalleled speed and accuracy.

As soon as the sun rises on the second day, the whole tribe packs up their tent. They quickly and efficiently load up all their meager possessions into wagons strapped to the youngest adult members of the tribe. It appears that they have significant practice at quickly moving, as nomadic tribes often do. It takes them no time at all, and they are quickly marching to the southeast. The Rashkala ride quickly and en masse.

The centaur tribe (and their human guests) ride all day with a few quick stops. They do not travel at the same brisk speed that Erdija and the scouts used to bring the Founders to the tribe's camp, but they still maintain a quick pace considering the elderly and youthful centaurs have to keep up. In the afternoon, they arrive at their destination: Linnorm's Grave.

The site called Linnorm's Grave is visible from miles and miles away. It is true to its name: an absolutely massive skeleton of a linnorm rests half-buried in the grassy hills. In life, the linnorm must have been the size of a castle, as large as any dragon ever recorded or told of in myth. In death, its skeleton - bleached white by centuries in the sun - serves as a sacred meeting ground. Korak Kaag explains as they ride that centaur blood cannot be spilled during a summit of the Nomen tribes at the Linnorm's Grave, and that this rule extends to any sponsored guest of any tribe. This is an ancient edict, and breaking it would be tantamount to sacrilege.

The other tribes appear to have already arrived, with their numbers camped all around the skeleton's outer area. Korak Kaag points them out as they grow closer. The Magrat - the ally of the Rashkala - are camped around the tail, on the west side of the skeleton. The Kolga, Cangarit, and Ganghash tribes are camped together around the skeleton's sides and head, with the Ganghash between the former two to keep them from infighting.

As they arrive at the Linnorm's grave, the skeleton looms over them. The creature's bones extend up well-over twenty feet or more in the air, with just as much below the ground. The creature's skull is on the opposite side of the Rashkala's camp next to the Magrat, but it looks to be large enough to fit a dozen men in its maw. Even centuries later and from the opposite side of the skeleton, the massive teeth are each larger than a knight's shield, and each sharper than a steel sword.

With the Rashkala unpacking their tents and setting up for the summit, Korak Kaag beckons to them. "We are nearing the start of the summit. Wait here until I tell you to come. Leave your weapons and your armor outside the sacred ground. Do you understand?" Content with their nods of agreement, he hands his weapon to his pregnant mate and strips off his armor. Devoid of arms and protection, he rides slowly into the linnorm's rib cage.

Korak Kaag and the chieftain of the Magrat roam into sacred ground together, begrudgingly shaking the hands of the three other chieftains. They speak quietly amongst themselves in Sylvan for the better part of an hour, arguing at times and stamping their hooves frequently. Finally, Korak Kaag raises his hands to the others, and to the hundreds - thousands? - of centaurs watching them from the surrounding area. He speaks in Taldane, not Sylvan. "We have agreed to negotiate in a common tongue. I sponsor the champions of the human nation of Newhaven. The five chieftains of the Nomen agree to hear their petition. Come forth, champions of humanity!" Translators repeat his words to the audience of centaurs in Sylvan.

As the four humans, alone in the midst of centaurs, stride forward into the skeleton's sacred area, the chieftain of the Cangarit steps forward. His Taldane is not quite as crisp, but he is quite understandable. "I choose Hargulka, king of trolls, and companions! Chieftains of the Nomen agree to hear words! Walk forward, Hargulka!"

The troll king steps forward from behind a group of the Cangarit centaurs. In the setting sun, Hargulka stands to his full height. His height and strength are incredible, dwarfing even Nikolai easily. He stands ten feet tall at least, with massively muscular arms - each as long as thick as a tree trunk - that end in huge, sharp claws. His mouth holds sharp tusks that appear fully capable of rending a human into pieces. The troll king carries himself with an air of danger, but his eyes are the thing most remarkable about him. He sizes the four humans up from afar with canny eyes that burn with intellect and ambition.

He is accompanied by three champions of his own. First among them is a hag, causing Akiros to clench his teeth in the memory of his last run-in with one of her kind. Her onyx skin glistens in the sunlight, and she wears a mask made of skin stretched across its face. Her skin seems burned and healed, bubbled by ritual and flame - much like Nikolai's once was. A minotaur accompanies Hargulka, with huge, curling horns and a powerfully-built torso. He seems a strange inversion of the centaurs, with the head of a bull and the body of a giant. The minotaur wears no clothes, but has a pelt of thick, shaggy fur over his powerful legs and hooves. A second troll also walks with them, but his appearance is bizarre. He has two heads, both of which have hate-filled eyes over yellow fangs. The two-headed troll has a long, angular body that seems too thin and too long all at once. His clawed hands drag along the ground, leaving a trail of small gouges from the incidental contact. If he stood to his full height, he would be far taller than Hargulka, but he carries himself hunched.

Hargulka and his companions arrive at the center just as the four human champions do. He sizes them up, settling on Jemini with his sharp gaze. He opens his mouth, demonstrating a deep voice that seems to cause a rumble deep in the chest of all those who hear it. "I am Hargulka, and I seek allies to join my empire. Humanity has left us alone in the wilds for many years, but now their covetous gaze falls upon us. They see our kind as monsters, as obstacles to be overcome in the pursuit of their imperial dreams. Why should we stand by and do nothing while they proclaim themselves the rulers of our lands? Their nation calls our homeland the "Stolen Lands." Stolen from whom, and by whom? We were here before the first Taldan settlers! It was they who tried to steal the lands from us! Have you not seen the same, brothers and sisters, as the humans encroach upon your lands? Have your tribes not shuddered in fear under the thought of living under the yoke of human rule? You - we - will be slaughtered, or we will be slaves. Humanity is not willing to exist in peace, not while we have something that they covet. Side with me and my followers in an alliance, because your very survival depends on it!"

I am going to lay out the rules for the skill challenge in the OOC thread. Suffice to say, Hargulka is surprisingly eloquent.