Dead Man Walking! A Way of the Wicked Campaign Phase III (Inactive)

Game Master bwatford

Jalik stares at the altered body and form which now speaks of murder. Jalik tries to gather his attention,

"Changling, I like your state of mind and quick wittedness to plan such as series of events that will eliminate the King. I do believe there is merit in it; but, I believe you need a tutor to make these wishes come true old fellow. Maybe we can work this out. My wit with your... your... uncanny ability to modify yourself for the need at hand. Yes that's it. What say you?"

Etna raises an eyebrow when Hecate splutters out of nowhere "Are you all right, Hecate? Did something happen?"

Hecate grimaces, again (she's doing that a lot recently, she realises). Idiot! Take care, when observing, that you are not in turn closely observed. "Oh! Um, just something Melphael said," she replies evasively.

Turning her attention away from the elf, the girl is glad for the distraction of Erevan's question. Turning her pale eyes on him, she notes his lean form, the elegant grace with which he handled the unfamiliar utensils (a sharp contrast with her own fumbling attempts); she remembers what he spoke of, being arrested for treason and attempted murder... And an interest in Norgorber, too. Interesting. Not unpleasant on the eyes, either. Dry sense of humour - not relevant to the question, she hastily reminds herself.

"Norgorber has other titles too, does he not? Those who follow him are not all poisoners or reapers of reputation. I won't name the profession aloud, if you prefer to keep your mystery," she smiles back at him.

Jalik looks back to Paimon,

" Paimon, you should help Gabriel and I in the arming of the Northern goblinoids should we somehow break free. They are your people as well. "

Etna ignores all the talks about invasions, weapons supplies and tribes seeking reckoning: wars were not a part of her interest, and bore her terribly.
Instead, she lean towards Hecate, her hasty reply only making Etna more curious "Melphael? Was it his attempts at finding new followers? His tales of goblinoid armies? His talk about unholy numbers? That prayer in Infernal? I have to say, it's a little early for him to call us his 'flock', but he sure made me more interested in religion than in my whole life." she says friendly to the Wizard, smiling briefly to Melphael.

Erevan rolls his eyes theatrically as an equally exaggerated sigh follows. "I am not the one making assumptions, Jalik. My sense of humor may have a bit of a snarky quality to it sometimes, I readily admit, but if I considered you to be less smart than you are, I would have used words with far fewer syllables," he counters with a shrug. "Yet you, for all your intelligence, seem to allow prejudice against humans to cloud your judgement. Hopefully it will not become a liability some time down the road, though how long a road we all have ahead of us is debatable." He smiles, his smile faint and crooked like before. "And threatened? You do see where we find ourselves, yes? We do not threaten each other, not at this time; if nothing else, we have to rely on one another whether we like it or not if we are to put a plan, any plan, into motion." And then his smile widens. "But you did guess well enough, if not entirely. Let us make it half a silver."

"I never pillage and only on occasion kill," he says then, the remark directed at the tall half-orc, as well as Tkaara. "And when I did do so, little to no hatred was involved, I assure you. But I would like to think that I am a man of... how did the good fellow put it?... ah, yes. A man of varied talents," he elaborates a little further. "Now, I have not taken control of goblin tribes or human villages, I do admit. But then again, the day is still young, I suppose..."

"He does have his titles, yes," he replies to Hecate, turning his attention back to the girl. "But I am not strictly a follower, of him or any other god. Still, I suppose he would be the one whose name people like me might bring to mind or utter now and then." He smiles pleasantly. "And I thank you, dear lady, for allowing me what is left of my mystery. Secrets, after all, can be a currency unto themselves."

Jalik adds to Erevan's comments to Hecate,

"Secrets, we all have them and indeed your friend here is right. Secrets have a price and a buyer. I feel you have a big price my lady, it is your buyer I do not know yet but Sir Balin does so like you."

Jalik snickers and continues to watch the others.

Victor just shakes his head when asked for specifics about Branderscar, slumping back into his chair. "I've never been there, I've only sent people there and received the reports of their executions. And I've never seen a report for and escape."

His heart sinking Victor sighs, 'Who were they fooling?' his hopes had been raised for a minute there but then the reality of the situation sank back in. No one escapes Branderscar, and how were they to escape the royal palace. Glancing around and confirms his suspicion, he sees that every precaution has been taken, a dozen knights, solid doors, magics and more men behind every door.

Sighing he starts poking at his food again, listening to the conversation.

"Never killed anyone." he mutters and stabs a piece and sticks it in his mouth, his mood soured into silence.

Melphael responds with a sneer to those who would question his methods at the Brighttide massacre.

"You think of me stupid to comit such a crime? When I knew full well that those souls could not be claimed? Nay, it was not a act of harvesting souls, it was a show of force. Intimidation. I needed to remind the people of Talingarde what it was like to live in fear, fear is the oldest emmotion we mortals possess, and it can cause people to do very irrational things. I reminded the people that they are not as safe as they once thought. Give the nation a great sign of sadness, something to hold over their heads forever. It will weaken their spirits. Now do you see? When spreading fear into the hearts of Talingarde, it will make their spririts weaker. They won't know who to trust, brother, nieghbor, father, they could all be working behind their backs. They will realise that Mitra cannot protect them, their fear will drive them to an paranoid search for protection they can rely on. They will begin calling to other gods..." he smiles. "Even if they didn't turn to The Prince of the 9th, the point would be that they turn away from Mitra. You may think of this as small and meaningless, but you must understand. Brighttide is supposed to be the begining, an omen of what is to come. When more actions are set in place say, like Gabriel's invasion plans. When the people loose hope, Mitra will loose sway. And the Dark One will rise again." he finishes. Melphael leans back in his chair satisfied with himself.

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

Melphael raises an eyebrow when he sees Hecte's curiosity of the black speech. He leans in and speaks in a whisper.

"You wish to know the tounge of devil's? I could teach you, if I had the time. All true servents of the dark lord speak it's tounge. Plus through it, I could show you many things. That is, of course, if you'd be willing to submit yourself to his power." he says in a matter-of-fact way.

Amestri looks at Tkaara as she speaks, pursing her lips slightly. "I did not slay innocent civilians. Each and every one had colluded in some fashion so that the marriage they desired came through all while they stepped over the corpse of my love. My goal had nothing to do with the land, the number of souls, or the downfall of Talingarde, nor the downfall of Mitra. It was righteous vengeance, pure and simple."

"I am not a devotee of the First, not directly, at least. Eiseth serves under Him and in that way, perhaps, I follow Him," she continued referencing Tkaara's mention of Asmodeus. "Even the Dark Lord knows that, sometimes, 'slow corruption' is insufficient to a task and wrath and battle are the only way to achieve a goal, thus my Lady and her erinyes. Perhaps had I more subtle guidance, I may have taken a different path to my goal. On the other hand, perhaps the reason I had the guidance I did, was that there was no other path that would reap the vengeance required."

Jalik stares down the elf as if angered by his words and begins speaking in his tongue before switching to elven,

Hicarde de hidra ik fe himis aga Elfka molk IGNA, fir zi tang stevinpuss, nive Tel' quessir ier waara "cowards" yassen poldora ten' "killing" ere' i' "weak" amin ndengina lle yeste' Elf.

Melphael looks tword the hobgoblin. His cold stare penetrating the goblinblood's soul. He spreads his sharp teeth into a smile and speaks his own laugange, in an arrogent nature.

Then the smile fades away, it becomes a snarl as he begins to spit out the harsh tounge of the goblins.

Melphael raises an eyebrow when he sees Hecte's curiosity of the black speech. He leans in and speaks in a whisper.

"You wish to know the tounge of devil's? I could teach you, if I had the time. All true servents of the dark lord speak it's tounge. Plus through it, I could show you many things. That is, of course, if you'd be willing to submit yourself to his power." he says in a matter-of-fact way.

Hecate turns back toward the elf, fixing him with a stare that goes on just slightly too long. She then chuckles, breaking the tension

She then turns and faces Jalik, in Elven so that she knows both Melphael and the hobgoblin will understand.

She then continues her meal, and her conversation with Erevan. "Your mystery you may keep, but if you wish to reveal more I would be an interested listener..." She smiles again.

Melphael responds to the young wizard.

He looks to the hobgoblin, rolls his eyes, and then back to Hecte.

He smiles at Hecte, before giving Jalik a glance.

Almost growling now at Melphael Jalik fights with himself to calm down. With eyes closed he takes in a deep breath and then releases. He openly laughs before responding softly,

Before Felrin can respond to Jalik’s proposal that they work together, the hobgoblin gets into some kind of multilingual squabble with the pale-skinned elf. Is he mad? He proposes to guide me with his wit, then shows himself a fool by getting in a fight – while in chains and surrounded by guards!

Hecate then weighs in, speaking a language that sings in Felrin’s blood, and he can’t help but respond in kind, addressing Hecate and Melphael.

Felrin shrugs expressively, then sits down, listening in as Hecate continues to guess Erevan’s nature. ”You interest me, Erevan,” he comments, ”as I too have kept my nature hidden, as you know. Yet rather than skin-changing and disguise, you manage it with mild words and a bland demeanor. And our young student has seen through at least part of it, eh?”

Amestri looks at Tkaara as she speaks, pursing her lips slightly. "I did not slay innocent civilians. Each and every one had colluded in some fashion so that the marriage they desired came through all while they stepped over the corpse of my love. My goal had nothing to do with the land, the number of souls, or the downfall of Talingarde, nor the downfall of Mitra. It was righteous vengeance, pure and simple."

"I am not a devotee of the First, not directly, at least. Eiseth serves under Him and in that way, perhaps, I follow Him," she continued referencing Tkaara's mention of Asmodeus. "Even the Dark Lord knows that, sometimes, 'slow corruption' is insufficient to a task and wrath and battle are the only way to achieve a goal, thus my Lady and her erinyes. Perhaps had I more subtle guidance, I may have taken a different path to my goal. On the other hand, perhaps the reason I had the guidance I did, was that there was no other path that would reap the vengeance required."

Tkaara purses her lips as the Eiseth disciple speaks, eyebrows arching slightly into a frown of concern as the warpriest shows her dire hatred and untamed rage, but lack of control or in depth discovery that is necessary to ascertain the truth or falsity of a matter.

In addition, you say your beloved is dead, but is he? You were given his armor and certain effects. How was he killed? Was the armor dented and scarred, or pristine as though it had never seen battle? Did you receive all his effects, or just certain ones that others would believe were important to you? Or perhaps that you believe were so important to him that he would never be willing to relinquish, except from his cold dead hands? If it was so easy for them to recover his armor and items, why was it not just as easy to recover his body?

She then looks to the others sitting shackled at the table.
This is what barristers are trained to do, to seek out the truth by uncovering facts that support their position. If the courts were run entirely on emotion, then they would be a mockery. She chuckles for a moment which turns in to a short fit of coughing. Not that they are not a mockery already considering all that I have seen over the years and the ease with which witnesses, jurors and even magistrates can be manipulated.

Melphael does not share in the joke that Jalik seams to get. He kept his stare strong and menacing. He chose not to respond in the goblins language, letting all at the table hear.

"Then know your place and don't go screaming for the death of others, hobgoblin. Save that for the Mitrans. If you want to get out of here alive, then you'd best keep your views of blood and race to yourself. The humans have subjagated my race into shadows of their former selves, rather than just killing us as they do with your kind. It's better to die while holding on to your heretige, than to wither away with no culture to call your own. That is true suffering."

After finishing with the goblinoid. The pale elf turns and responds to Felrin's question.

Etna enjoys the scene before speaking.
Well, I suspected that my study of languages to have a broader field of study of the laws could have been helpful in sooner or later, but never have I thought in a situation like this.

"But switching to less serious matters...Hecate, you offend me by ignoring me!" she pouts. She closes her eyes, concentrating for a second, and then utters a long sequence of cadenced and elaborate syllables.

Paimon rolls his eyes as the table erupts into gibberish and gobbledygook. As it returns to common, the Fool goes ahead and gets his words in.

To Jalik: "They are my mother's people. They are my father's people. They are not mine. I know the language of the Orcs, yes, but knowing their language hardly qualifies me as their people. I was not even aware that the Orcs shared a heritage with goblins, to give you a better idea of my ignorance. So as exciting as it sounds, I have no desire to see this nation fall to your people. Though I do see your strengths and what your bring, I cannot condone such a... Unstructured approach."

To Melphael: "You, sir, are a zealot. As impressed as I am by your grandeur, or delusions thereof, I can see why you were caught, and will probably be caught again." he then lowers his voice. "In other words, don't reduce yourself to bickering."

To Gabriel: "I meant no offense good sir. So far you have been quite the gentleman."

To anyone else who cares: "A toast to this last meal of vagabonds? To commemorate the fact that even though we face near certain death, hope still rides strong among us thieves, murderers, and rabble rousers."

The pale elf's eyes gleam with anticipation. He pays no attention to the Fool's comment as the beauitiful ifritblooded woman uttered the words she had discoverd from her father in the black speech. He shifted in place, he could not stit still, his destiny was calling to him.

Suddenly he went still, the excitment almost was sucked within his body. He leaned back slowly and became still. He placed his finger up against his temple, rubbing it it slowly. His eyes became claculated and unfeeling.

When Etna finished her proposal, the elf's eyes became distant, almost as if he had dosed off into his own world. Suddenly, the eyes locked with Etna's and he leaned foreward, bringing his head to the table. He spoke very low and deep.

And with that, the toothy smile returns, with unholy vigor.

Jalik begins to stir at the words he does not know but more at the types of people speaking them.

"I feel something I have never experienced is near. Paimon I toast with you friend and to all others here condemned. Maybe before todays end the gods, mine Asmodeus, will provide us strength and answers to our fate. My mother and my teachings as a child in the temples of my people taught me that the creator of the stars, the planets, and mortals would one day return to bring order in the land.

Jalik toasts the others then raises a last drink to Asmodeus.

"These people, this kingdom is responsible for the destruction of order in the lands. Asmodeus, the time is now. You know I do not praise you often nor walk in the path you have created but I seek your guidance. I pray you enlighten me to the future of days."

As the table erupts into heated voices in languages he did not understand Victors eyes shifts from speaker to speaker, Jalik, Melphael, Hecate, Ferin, all seeming to admonish one another if Victor could read the body language correctly, and he usually could, though the elf and hobgoblin seemed ready to go at each others throats. Raising an eyebrow at Tkaara's point, a point he sees as fairly accurate, not all Mitrans were of Sir Balin's ilk, not by a long shot.

It was all getting heated, and messy, everyone talking over one another, the conversations going from one thing to another and back again. At least it seemed he lo longer had any of their attentions, which was good, maybe they'd kill one another, save the king and inquisition the trouble.

Shrugging at Paimon's toast Victor stops stirring his food and, putting his fork away, raises his glass. "To the nearly departed, and the fate that lies before them."

Alayne listens to the elven conversation, a language that she understands. She has passing experience with Infernal, but she has little ability to translate the precise meanings. When Victor raises his cup in mock toast, she does the same. "May the rest of us escape such a fate." She drinks the cool water, letting it parch her throat. She has no expectation that the rest of them will do more than provide a cover for her to escape and put on a new mask, but she can hardly say to their faces that she would sacrifice all of them as a distraction. Escape is a common delusion for prisoners, the idea of a grand fight for freedom being popular in songs and poems. But they have no other visages to use to gain freedom. They will be immediately hunted down and killed before they can make it out of the city. But not her. She can, with hardly more than a few seconds, shed this face - as much as she has grown to appreciate it - and gain another of her own choosing. Whatever can be done must be done before they arrive at Branderscar Prison, if its reputation is to be believed.

"You do all realize, I hope, that if the knights overhear you speaking the Infernal tongue, even if they have no idea what you are saying, you will be in for a beating as surely as if they hear you naming dark gods?" He looks amused. "Not to mention openly discussing plans to bring low all of Talingarde. I suppose I'll add my own voice to the toasts: To having the integrity to suffer, even die, for what we believe in, despite being what others have deemed 'villains'."

Fools the lot of them. Best to not get involved now. The more they take eyes away from me the better. I must survive, and not be the one executed.

Gabriel sits and waits. He keeps his eyes down staring at his empty plate.

Tkaara also raises her cup of water for a toast:
To a nation of laws. May justice be done. May the guilty suffer and the chosen be set free. May all answer to a greater power. May we all be blessed and allowed to be redeemed by those who find us worthy.

Tkaara smiles inwardly at the multitude of inferences that may be drawn from this simply toast.

"Hear hear!" boasts the Fool before drinking down his water, though to look at him, one wouldn't be out of line to mistake it for wine.

As the exchange between the hobgoblin and the elf takes place, Erevan sighs and almost conspiratorially turns to Hecate, though his words are not spoken in a whisper. "Perhaps we should ask the good knights for a ruler or two?" The rest of the discussion between several of his cellmates he is not able to follow in its entirety, spoken as it is in three or four different languages, though he does understand those parts spoken in the common tongue, as well as in elven.

"In due time, I just might," he says to the young wizard, his smile almost ever present on his lips and the words sounding almost optimistic, before turning to Felrin. "Well, I cannot change my appearance quite so easily as you say you are able to, so I have to make do in other ways. But all deceptions and disguises can be seen through; all it takes is a sharp enough observer."

Raising his cup of water along with the others, his toast is simple enough. "To survive. To survive and to thrive."

Scene 3: The crowd

As the meal comes to a conclusion the knights begin rounding you up from the table. They line you up single file and secure waist chains to your manacles to keep your hands in front of you and secure the chains to your leg shackles as well. The new chains keep your hand movement to a very minimum in front of you, you can not raise or lower your hands more than about half a foot from their primary position in front of you. You are then lead away from the dining room via a different door than that which you entered. You twist and turn through halls and doorways and up and down stairwells as if they are trying to confuse you on the layout or path you are actually taking. More than once you could have swore you walked past the same hall or picture on the wall.

Finally you come to a hall that has open windows to the left side that overlook the main courtyard of the castle. More like stone arches than windows, almost like an observation deck about five or six stories off the ground. You are all lined up to where each of you can see the events in the courtyard below. Looking down you realize what is going on. A huge crowd has gathered, by the looks of it mostly noble families and representatives from the different houses. Probably well into the hundreds or more by first glance. You also see a massive stage like fixture that has been built at one end, a throne sits upon it at a much higher level than the platform itself. Various chairs and seating places are affixed to the stage as flags fly upon it in the background.

Off to one side you see the hangman's platform, the noose already strung up and awaiting its victim. A large contingent of knights are also present, maybe about 50 in total stationed at various points through the courtyard. Looking at the scene you realize that you will not be sentenced in the official Royal Courtroom but in the open, in public, probably in front of near a thousand people that have come to witness this event. A spectacle to be put on display.

You quickly scan the crowd for anyone you know.

Before any of you can speak you each hear a voice from behind you as Sir Balin speaks up. You do find the fact that he managed to enter the area without you noticing quite uneasy.
"Nice view of the noose isn't it?" he says with a taunting tone to his voice.
He then goes into one of his speeches about fairness and open workings of the law system in Talingarde which none of you pay much notice to but then he begins to explain what is going to happen.

"You see the King finds it only fitting that you thirteen would choose who goes to the noose today, that it be the ones condemned by the law that serve the law. That adjudicate punishment to his fellow criminal. I also find this fitting as well."

He then begins to pace up and down the group while talking "The king also finds it fitting that those of you that have not been convicted of a crime that is punishable by death be excused from this vote, but not from voting."

"Each of you will cast a vote of death for one of your comrades, if you refrain from this vote then you will be considered as submitting your own name for the noose. That includes those of you who are excused from the vote. If you do not name another then you will be added to the pool regardless of your crime."

"The names of the prisoners that the king has decided to be put on the list of noose qualified prisoners is Gabriel Hale, Dr. Ottakar Wilken, Jalik Daweri, Melphael, Amestri Atezadeh, Hecate Reeve, Alayne Sokorra, Erevan Cale, Felrin Vennax, Victor Karash, Paimon the Fool"

Sir Balin then walks behind Etna and Tkaara and says "It looks like you two ladies got left off the list. Your crime may not fit death but you may wish it did when you get down in those mines. You still have to vote even though you are safe from the noose.... for now."

"I will return shortly to take your vote, for now enjoy your view and the fresh air, it might just be your last."

Sir Balin exits the hall, ignoring all comments or attempts at angering him further.

Etna grins at Melphael, before raising her almost empty cup for a toast "To either a long life, or a swift death!"

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

At first, Etna squints her eyes as soon as they reach the hall, not used anymore to the light of the sun. Examining her surroundings, her gaze drifts from the stone arches, to the hangman's noose, to the crowd below.
Suddenly, Etna froze.

A middle aged woman, a lavish hat covering her long black hairs, was staring at her, grinning. Beside her, there where a young woman with short black hair and a young man much taller than six feet.
They're here!
When the woman notices Etna's gaze, she stares at her, grinning widely for a second.
Mother!
Etna starts to shake, her eyes open wide. Her mother and her sibling had come to assist to her sentencing. Etna's hairs, that not much time before where full of gray stripes, now switched to a bright orange.
Now she's going to stand there, doing a fake crying to get those around her to console her. How I could I have forgotten how much I HATE that grin. And she was there too, during the trials! I couldn't even understand where I was, but now I remember that she was there. With that grin, that grin dammit!
With a roar, Etna's hair starts to shift around wildly, shining brightly and crackling like a live flame.
She shouldn't be there! Her place is in the trash, fighting mangy dogs for a scrap of rotten meat! 'A swift death'? Pah! One month of moldy bread had clouded my brain! I can't rest, I won't rest, I won't die until she gets all the suffering that she deserves!
Blinded by rage, Etna manages to only hear the last part of Balin's speech. "So, we have to pick ourselves who meets the noose today?" she asks plainly when the Paladin leaves.
I'm going to go to Brandescar. I'm going to escape. I'm going to burn everything that stands in my way. And I'm going to have my revenge.

The confinement of the chains makes Hecate's movements even more awkward than usual, and as they walk she stumbles more than once. She is grateful to whichever of her fellow-convicts prevents her from falling over each time.

The first thing that takes her notice is the light from the windows; wincing slightly as her eyes adjust, she is nevertheless grateful for some confirmation of what time it is. She'd had no idea even whether it was day or night.

Next, she realises from the scaffold arrangements and the crowd that what passes here for justice is going to be done in front of everyone. Everyone... Oh GODS ... The young woman hastily looks through a window while trying to remain concealed as best she can. She easily spots Jellicoe (or The Honourable Jellicoe Dalcourt, to give him his due) among the nobility; his garb and the family crest make him highly visible. She can't see his face from this distance, and she wonders what her former study partner is thinking right now. Did he come under suspicion too? Everyone knew that they were - not a couple, exactly, but... together. She hopes that his obvious goodness shone through and that any suspicions were swiftly dispelled. She's glad now that she kept her secrets from him. He wouldn't have approved and would only have tried to stop her, perhaps even threatened to report her. 

She shakes her head. My boy, you are well out of this, she thinks to herself, ignoring the fact that as a half-elf he is considerably older than she is.

She can't see her father anywhere; unlike Jellicoe, as a member of the middle classes he won't have a crest, or flag, or other token. She suspects that he is here. Wonders what he must be thinking. If only she could see him! But then, he would be able to see her. She's not sure she would want that. Anyway, she knows that he'll be wearing his barrister's face, the one that never, ever gives away what he's thinking. But does he regret his decision, to allow - insist upon - her studying at the Academy, she wonders...

Hecate hopes, prays, that her younger brother Agamemnon isn't here. He's 14, too young to see this. Let him only ever remember me as we last saw each other, she pleads with whoever/whatever might be listening. She'd had a reading week at the Academy a few months back and he came for a brief visit to Matharyn - his first time there. She remembers the times they had; buying lunch from the market for the long coach ride back; his face from the window, waving goodbye. She remembers promising to let him stay longer next time, once exams were over and she'd be a real wizard!

The young woman closes her eyes. Useless to regret. Pointless. She is where she is and that is that.

At least, until Sir Balin returns. Her heart skips a beat as he reappears silently behind her. She listens in horror to the instructions. Choose someone to die today?! Her mind goes blank. She's glad at least that Etna and Tkaara are not on the list. But this is barbaric. Alright then. She'll do what she has to. But one day, Sir Balin will regret this with every fibre of his being. She glances at Ottakar. Maybe he will assist her in locating and pointing out every one of said fibres. That would be... would be appropriate .

She grins, savagely, unaware of what she is doing. At last she has something to live for, if only she can survive today. Tomorrow can take care of itself.

Which means, unfortunately, that she's going to have to pick someone to die today. But who...?

Squinting at the daylight Victors first instinct is to raise his shacking hands to shield his eyes, only to come up short just over his stomach, the sunlight stung in his eyes and his headache, lessened by the food they just partook in, made itself known again, pounding in his head, making his ears feel like they were about to pop. Turning his head and blinking away the dazzling brightness Victor takes a moment to collect himself before stepping up to the railing and surveying the scene splayed out before them.

The first thing Victor notices is the sound, coming slowly into focus, a jumble of voices, shuffling feet and the clinking of armor, all melding together in one, a cacophony of sound, quiet individually but loud together.

As his eyes adjust to the light and focus on those below him he scans the area with a frown on his face, the crowd, the guards, the throne and wonders briefly if he knew the man pulling the lever as he takes in the hangman's platform, an unenviable job in Victors opinion, thankless and gruesome, but necessary all the same. The wicked had to be punished and the crowd had to appeased.

Scanning the crowd and counting the guards Victor again confirms that all precautions have been made, they might struggle, but if would be brief and futile, chained as they were and thoroughly lost in the maze of the royal palace. Perhaps he was to die here?

'Thomas?' Victor starts as his eyes lock on a familiar face, wearing the plate and insignia of a Knight of Alerion, as he scans the attending knights and a flush of anger runs through him at the sight of his cousin. What was he doing here? Had he come to gloat? To rub in his final triumph? The two had been rivals since the day they had met, always trying to best the other in various games. Victor had always been the victor, he thinks pridefully, his face hardening, until the day he had lost Admara, then Victor had lost interest in competing with him, grown recluse and eventually fallen ill.

The final insult had been the day Victor was rejected by the Knights of Alerion, the same day Thomas had been accepted. Victor had just turned his back and walked away and hadn't seen Thomas since. What was it? Two years now?

Drawn out of his absorption of days past by the voice of Sir Balin grating on his nerves.

Arching an eyebrow as the knight explains the situation Victor can't help but silently congratulate the king on his wicked innovations, and feel slightly surprised that the king would put his name on the list, probably against the churches wishes. Was there friction there? An interesting note Victor files away. Or was Victor perhaps over indulging on his own importance? Or could it be he was on the list at the churches instance? So many possibilities.

But this was to be a game then. Alright, Victor would play.

"So, echoing Aylene's question; Who want's to die? Or more accurately, who want's their deaths turned into a public spectacle?" 'We're all dead anyway..'

As we are marched out into the open Gabriel can't help to think to himself Why me? As he stares at his hooves clicking and clacking breaking the otherwise silence of the march.

As they come to a stop Gabriel's eyes dart around the crowd as the others. He hears the whispers and outright proclamation of "Is that a devil? Soon he notices a soldier looking out of place standing amongst the crowd. His eyes narrow as he looks closer.
No, why are they, why would they? My father and my mother here. Why. They want to see their devil spawn put to rest. Is that it? I will not let their presence effect me. They are dead to me now. I need to be strong for myself and the others.

Gabriel takes in the words that Sir Balin speaks. So we are to sentence our own. Nice twist knight. I will see you dead at my feet one day. So who do I pick. Surely they all must be looking at me as well. With the same thoughts as the masses. Lets kill the devil. No I can't think like that. I may not have made friends here, but perhaps and ally or two. So who?

As they come into the open and look upon the hundreds below Jalik watches the others. It is obvious that many of those with him look down upon family, friends, distant relatives, and long time companions. Jalik knows that amongst those below he will have none of that.

Jalik usually expresses no emotion to those around him; however, the last few days he has shown anger, madness, and his true hobgoblin ancestry. He will die soon if an opportunity does not present itself. For all his life he has been able to overcome these types of situations with deceit, trickery, confusion, and occasionally force. Today he feels hopeless.

Instead of looking below he tries to see over the near walls to the distant North. Jalik can not identify his homeland from the current birdseye view but he can see it in his mind. Closing his eyes he can picture the rolling hills beyond the Watch Wall and the 12 fortresses that sit before the Savage northland. In this vision he can see his mother sitting in the tribal longhouse aside his father, Marek, as he toasts the accomplishments of the day with the tribal leaders. He can see his oldest brother stand to accept honors, his youngest brother whipping the slaves into order as they deliver food to the tables, and his sister in the long red robes of Asmodeus worn by his tribe's clergy.

As he opens his eyes asking aloud, "Why couldn't I follow the ways of my people? Why could I not make my father proud? How did my life take me here?"

He then begins to focus on the crowd. For a second he had a vision that the gates were being stormed by warriors from the north. He could see his father and the Daweri tribe leading an assemble of combined forces in the thousands. It was made up of the great Sigarth and his Ice trolls, the Yutak people, the wild Burabarians, and fierce Naantanuk. They were winning the day until his vision broke with the sounds of humans yelling below.

He looked into the crowd amongst the many flags of the houses of Talingarde. He could remember working for many of them as they played their political games. As he peered down at the flags he could see one that had become rather troublesome for him months ago. It was the House Havelyn. Near the banner stood several family members of the house dressed in their finest wares. He could recognize one fair lady that he spent some time with but could not remember her name. He noticed she was standing next to a few other people he recognized as well.

Looking very close even leaning a bit forward he could see that the House Havelyn lady was speaking with the man that got him arrested, Geoffrey. He was the town leader that he convinced to betray the House Darius and the King. There was another they both were conversing with dressed in dark clothes and a cloak. He could see they were laughing. It was then the cloaked figure turned as if to see Jalik peering below. The cloaked man was Arek, a hobgoblin he betrayed years before. Is it possible they deceived him and this lead to his arrest and now doom. Jalik angered by the thought yelled at them below,
"THIS IS NOT THE END! I WILL GET MY DAY"

Realizing his mistake he quickly turned from the edge and protected himself from the guards expecting their retailation for his outburst.

"So, do you have evidence that all your relatives were involved in having your beloved sent to his own death? And that they then covered up that having him sent on dangerous assignments was anything other than ordinary protocol? We are talking about worshippers of one of the, if not the, lawfulest and goodest deities on Golarian.

In addition, you say your beloved is dead, but is he? You were given his armor and certain effects. How was he killed? Was the armor dented and scarred, or pristine as though it had never seen battle? Did you receive all his effects, or just certain ones that others would believe were important to you? Or perhaps that you believe were so important to him that he would never be willing to relinquish, except from his cold dead hands? If it was so easy for them to recover his armor and items, why was it not just as easy to recover his body?"

"This is what barristers are trained to do, to seek out the truth by uncovering facts that support their position. If the courts were run entirely on emotion, then they would be a mockery. Not that they are not a mockery already considering all that I have seen over the years and the ease with which witnesses, jurors and even magistrates can be manipulated."

Amestri looks at Tkaara, one eyebrow arched incredulously. "You ask me of evidence thinking that their actions and collusion would be unlikely in the society we have today, yet not more than a few breaths later you speak of the ease you have had at manipulating the system. Do you think you are the only one in Talingarde to have done so? Or that we are the only people in this country to have done or thought about what they consider as crimes?"

"As to your question, yes. It took me years to discover the truth of the matter. All of them were involved in some fashion, whether it be the collusion to put my beloved in harms way without reprieve, or to ensure my marriage to the rich patriarch. Perhaps they were thinking that their deeds were for the good of the House but not once did they consider the welfare of the individual. There was nothing, of course, to bring before a courtroom, for being slain on a mission, whatever the reason behind the assignment, is no crime; nor is marrying a widow to a willing man. Had I known barristers such as yourself existed, I may have gone that route, despite the lack of 'legal' crime. I did not have such an option, however."

"Regarding my beloved... Although I lack the intricacies of thought that may play out in your courtroom, I am not a complete fool. His armor was not only dented and scarred, but bloody and in disrepair as if he a limb were cloven from his body. Despite the damage to him, I would have wanted his body to be buried in the family plot rather than in the field, but once again, I had no say in that. I received all of his effects that he carried with him, any others, of course, had remained with me."

The emberkin takes a calming breath, forcing any impending tears back. At Victor's toast, she raises her own glass silently, although a slight frown appears at Tkaara's addition. Her frown changes to a small smile, however, as she works out a different meaning to it.

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

As they are led into the hall, her eyes widen at hangman's platform and the size of the crowd. A 'good' society indeed that come to watch the suffocating death of another human being, regardless of their crimes. She stumbles as she sees a face in the crowd. Sitting amongst the other nobles, an elderly man with a sad but determined face looks at her, his neighbors patting him on the shoulder in solace.

Father! I knew he would be here, but it is still a shock to see him again, having paused her approach, she stumbles again as she is pulled forwards by the chain linking the prisoners together. Look at how he appears to suffer! Is it the truth or an act? Is my vengeance complete, now that he feels the loss as keenly as I?

She blinks as Sir Balin's words sink into her. Her head swivels to look at him, her father now lost in the crowd. We are to choose which among us is to hang to entertain the masses? What form of just society brings such a cruel punishment to those already condemned? Perhaps those others who rail against Talingarde itself have a point. Perhaps it is a systemic issue that would bring a father to work against the desires of his own daughter...

As the convicted are led away from the table, Tkaara is once more racked with a bout of coughing. Likely the only reason she remained standing was the chains connecting her to those in front of and behind her. The long tour of the castle does not appear to be good for the former barrister and by the time that the chain of thirteen is walked onto the balcony, she is sweating profusely and nearly out of breath.

When she sees the gathered throng, any watching her, which is likely few as all eyes are drawn to the morbid spectacle of those gathered to see the sentencing, might see Tkaara's tongue playing on one side of her mouth. A moment later, it appears that she is chewing something.

By the time that Sir Balen has finished yet another monologue, her cough appears to have been completely eliminated just as it disappeared in the cell, but her outward appearance looks even more haggard that it was before. Her skin is slightly paler and she appears to be more out of breath than she had been when the chain was first brought to the balcony.

Looking out at the gathered masses, she scans those present wondering whether anyone would be present to see the how far she had fallen. First, she saw a tall man covered in a dark shawl and veil. She wondered at this odd choice of clothing to wear before the King. Perhaps it was another convicted soul's relative from far away Qadira or some similar exotic place. Looking closer, she realized that even through the thin material covering his face, she recognized the man. It was the man who had retained her to represent him in a number of matters over the past year. Strange that he would be here. Even stranger, she still could not recall his name or what she had done for him, although she was sure that it had been a fair amount of work.

After considering the strange appearance of her former client, Tkaara once more looked for anyone else she knew. There were two she hoped would be there. Actually, now that she thought about it, she hoped they were not there to see her shamed and condemned. However, before she finished looking for them, she noticed another odd individual. Was that the old crone who had cleaned everyone up? She looked again, but the old crone was not there, instead it was a tall haughty woman wearing a veil and garbed entirely in black. Tkaara shook her head at this and once more looked, but now the woman was gone and neither the crone or the tall woman was present.

After looking carefully for the old crone several more times, she again began to scan the crowd. First, she spotted two well dressed individuals at the back. It took but moments for her to focus on them and realize that they were her parents wearing the clothes they usually kept for temple. Seeing them, a tear came to Tkaara's eye. She realized that this was probably the first time she had cried in months, and definitely the first time since she had been arrested. She continued to look at her parents, silently wishing they were not there to see her sentencing. As she watched, her mother turned toward her father and hugged him, a fit of tears readily apparent from the way her body shook.

Unable to watch any more, Tkaara looked to see if any others were there, not that she expected anyone. Surprisingly, she saw three more who she would not have expected. The first was an old man, Magistrate Zeelwith. Seeing him, Tkaara gave him a happy smile. The magistrate's embarrassment was readily apparent as he immediately turned a shade of red almost comparable to Gabriel's color. Tkaara continued to watch him, enjoying the unease that it put the man under. I wonder if his wife ever found out. The trial was quick and quiet.

Next she spotted two even more unexpected attendees, surprisingly standing fairly close together, although if she had to guess, it was unlikely that either knew the other was in attendance. One was the young noble she had represented in the rape case. The other was the young girl, with her parents, who had been raped. Although Tkaara truly did not care about either, she silently wished that the noble would suffer grievous pain and suffering for what he had done. She knew he was guilty and only through her manipulation of the system had he been found not guilty.

A further scan of the crowd did not reveal any others she cared about. She saw a few nobles that she had met in court or at parties, as well as other barristers apparently here for the spectacle.
------

She then considers Sir Balin's most recent pompous monologue. Tkaara would be glad to go to Balentyne just so that she would not have to hear him any longer. Looking up up and down the chain, she considered her options. A reprieve? She would not be the one hung today. This thought allowed her to relax slightly, which also caused her to notice that her muscles had been painfully tensed while she had been examining the crowd.

I must make a choice, but whom? The devil thing from the north? The pale elf who slew a village? The mad daughter who had killed her entire family? The hobgoblin? The carnival freak? The morphing one? The crazed doctor? The young student? The murder god worshipper? The fallen inquisitor? The dark quiet one? So many, but one must be chosen. She would wait to make her decision to see if one was foolish enough to attempt something warranting her vote.

One of the knights that stand behind you on the balcony calmly mechanically and entirely without emotion walks up behind Jalik. The knight waits for his outburst of yelling to the crowd is complete and then swats him with his shield like a bug, nearly knocking him out the window. Actually the only thing that kept him from going out was the chain that connected him to the others.

The entire chain of prisoners felt the yank from the sudden event. As his head hung partially out the window Jalik could feel the blood flowing from the back of his head where the shield had impacted. The crowd below having seen what just transpired was all now fixed on the balcony.

The entirety of the crowd had mixed reactions, some calling for the creatures head, others for him to be thrown out the window to them. But they were the minority of the mass of people. Most sat quietly watching as if they were being entertained in the playhouse or watching one of the fighting tournaments that would come through town ever so often.

"Quiet, Beast!" is all the knight said before returning to his post not bothering to wipe his shield clean which was now marred with the blood of Jalik as well as what looked like a small tuft of hair.

As they are chained and led out of the room, Erevan wills himself to remain calm and impassive, reasoning that any outburst, be it borne out of fear or anger, would be utterly useless and if it proved to have any consequence of note, it would most probably not be a good one. And he does indeed manage to retain his composure, even if his smile from before has dimmed considerably if not vanished entirely. Still, he can feel his heartbeat pick up as each passing second and minute after that brings him closer to his sentence, a sentence which, considering his crime, he does not expect to be particularly lenient, a thought he knows to be a gross understatement.

Soon enough he, along with the rest of his cellmates, are brought to a hall with windows large enough to see outside. Sure enough, they are even led to stand close to these openings, close enough to see the hangman's platform where one of them is to meet his or her end in a few minutes' time. But what really draws his gaze is neither the readied noose nor the executioner waiting close by, not even the knights standing guard. What catches his eye is the veritable sea of people gathered to see the dangerous villains about to be sentenced and the execution of one of their number that will follow. It does surprise him somewhat, the bloodlust of the so called good and noble citizens of Talingarde, especially considering the fact that the crowd seems to be comprised almost entirely of members of what is called high society. 'Nobles and dignitaries and officials,' he concludes as he scans them, the thought bringing a little smirk to his lips.

He does not of course expect to see anyone he knows among them, even if perhaps one or two nobles have used his services in the past; most of that sordid business was taken care of by Rikk, who acted as an intermediary, and that one can hardly be considered eligible to be among such a fine gathering of even finer people. Thus, he is all the more surprised when he does recognize someone in the throng; Lady Isabella Oress, his last employer, the one who sent him on the job that resulted in his being branded a traitor of all things and arrested as such. With the exception of his golden eyes narrowing as he focuses on her face as best he can considering the distance, there is no other indication of the cold anger rising within him. Alas, it is to no avail, he finally recognizes, not currently, not under these circumstances. Perhaps if he survives this day and the day after... but not at the moment.

And it is these thoughts that Sir Balin of Karfeld's voice chases away, replacing them with a different kind of surprise. 'We are to choose who dies today? That is ridiculous. That is not our role in this, to play the judge as well as the convicted,' he ponders silently. 'Not our role, but it is... intriguing. Well, as long as I am not the one hanging by the time this farce ends.'

As he thinks, he is aware of Jalik shouting something, but does not pay too much attention. And then there is a sharp jerk of the chain binding him to the others and he looks up from his reverie, just in time to see the knight move back and the hobgoblin's head painted crimson, the same color as a part of the armored man's shield. He sighs ever so softly and finds himself feeling grateful for his own sense of self-control, however tenuous at the moment with what could prove to be the hour of his death fast approaching.

Felrin shuffles down the hall with the other prisoners, shortening his stride a bit so his long legs won’t make him drag the person behind him or trip the one in front. He tries to study the route they take through the castle, but the complex path achieves its intended purpose and he’s quite turned around by the time they reach the colonnaded windows that look out over the courtyard. Looking out, Felrin drily notes the size of the crowd. So we’re to be made an example to others? So typical of the Mitrans…they claim to be acting in the service of good, but hundreds will gather to watch someone die painfully.

He doesn’t expect to see anyone he knows, but a long lifetime of watchfulness makes Felrin study the gathering below and the courtyard itself. He evaluates routes of escape and scans faces for anyone he might have known years ago, who might recognize him and point out that he has literally not aged a day in many years, though it could hardly matter at this point.

His survey is interrupted by Sir Balin’s announcement. Felrin hears that not only is he condemned to die, which comes as no real surprise, but that he must choose one of their number to die right away. Though he would not have believed it possible, his anger and loathing toward the worshippers of Mitra grows even deeper and more powerful, but his chains leave him little room to express his feelings. He flicks his eyes quickly over the faces of his chain-mates, as if he might see which of them will be hanged today, then returns his gaze to the courtyard below to consider how to proceed.

He is absently watching the crowd when he spontaneously utters a name that none in Talingarde have heard him say for a generation or two, ”Symon?” Felrin’s eyes widen as he looks more closely at the man making his way through the assembly, patting some on the back, nodding graciously to others, and he convinces himself that he is seeing someone who just happens to look much like his long-dead younger brother. He thinks back on happier times with his charming brother, who would talk them out of all kinds of trouble, generally trouble that Felrin got them into.

Then the man stops to greet an older gentleman, taking both of the man’s hands in his own and bowing his head twice with a little turn of his neck in between. That is Symon! He came up with that little bow as a boy, impressed all the customers with it, and stuck with it! But how? How can my brother be here, he should be dead, or a withered ancient at least…

As these thoughts run through his head, the shock hits Felrin as powerfully as the guard’s shield struck the back of Jalik’s head. Symon has the blood of devils too! He is like me, and has not aged! He steps to the window and opens his mouth to call out, to shout his brother’s name, and stops himself. If I call him, I’ll expose him as my brother, and condemn him to death as devil-tainted! What do I do? Damn, damn, damn these people and their god!

He continues to stare down at the charming young man as he moves through the crowd, becoming more and more certain that his brother is alive and Hell-touched. He wills with all his heart for Symon to look up and see him, yet also fears what will happen if he does so. It is the hardest thing he has done in many years, but he steps away from the window, to keep his brother safe. If I am chosen to die today, Symon will see me for the first time in decades when I am sentenced and executed! Will he know me? Will he attempt to save me? I wonder if I can change my appearance enough for him to not recognize me, to keep him out of danger. But I so want to look him in the eye and have him recognize me before I meet my end…

Felrin’s desperate longing turns quickly to conviction as he considers his situation. Now, after so many years of just existing, I have reasons to live! My brother alive, my Master to serve – perhaps Symon would serve him too, or already does! I cannot die this day, or in this place. I must escape somehow. He gently tests his connection to the powers of Hell, to see if he can reach that place within himself that lets him change and do other magics that might help him escape, but in vain. In frustration, he pounds his bony fists against his thighs, his chains rattling, but he calms himself and focuses his resolve.

Once again, Felrin looks up and down the line of chained prisoners, but this time he is not wondering which of them will die. He is evaluating each one, weighing what he knows about them, to decide who could best aid an escape from this place, and who would be of least use or most likely to place them all in danger. I will escape the fate the Mitrans have ordained for me.

The entire chain of prisoners felt the yank from the sudden event.

This time, Hecate really does fall over. The sharp pull from the chain as the hobgoblin nearly goes out the window catches her completely by surprise; and the jarring shock, as she hits the floor with a thump, drives the air out of her lungs.

The glare she directs at Jalik is livid: Hecate is aware that she is clumsy, but hates having it drawn to people's attention; doubly - triply - infinitely more when that attention could result in her being marked for death.

Slowly clambering back to her feet, trying not to gasp too loudly as she gets her breath back, she mutters venomously "have you really no understanding of the concept of subtlety? You're no use to anyone if you can't control yourself. I've half a mind to nominate you right now and be done with it." The girl rubs at her arm where she landed on it.

As you continue to gaze down into the courtyard a hustle and bustle begins below as trumpets sound as a collection of twelve black robed individuals with white wigs take the stage and take their seats, six to each side of the elevated throne. You can only guess that they are magistrates or judges of some kind or another.

The courtyard seems to come to order as the figures take their seats. A man wearing the black robes with a blue stripe down each side and a white wig takes the stage and begins to address the crowd. Going over the law, crime and punishment. It is a rousing speech for the crowd as they cheer and voice their approval at times. However it is not so cheerful for all of you looking on from the balcony.

It won't be long now.....

Tkaara rolls her eyes at all the pomp and circumstance. Quietly she speaks to herself:
If I had known of this all those years ago when I began practicing law, I doubt I would have chosen this path.

Etna watches calmly Jalik's outburst, grunting slightly when the chains that constrained her were abruptly pulled. "I don't really see what benefits did that earn you, Jalik." she observes, her hair still fluttering around.
After a moment of silence, Etna glances around at his 'companions' "Well? Sir Balin's barbaric orders shocked even me, but we can't do anything about it now, can we? You've been awfully quiet, everyone: I expected finger pointing, accuses flying left and right. Time's running short, and we have to pick someone to send to the hangman's noose." she says matter of factly, a once lost determination burning now in her eyes.

"Then name one." Victor replies to Etna's insistence, "What? Were you expecting volunteers?"

Otho, Botho, Clotho, and D'Artagnan had fallen to arrows; Alaïs and Anaïs lost their heads, the skeleton in one swift blow and the mattress in many; Manar was beaten; Lady Black Eyes trampled by the panicked crowd; Paimon was knocked cold by someone's club; and the Shepherd, well, a sword was plunged into his heart and yet here he was!

The blood had flushed from the Fool's face, for surely he was looking down at a ghost, a ghost come to say his last goodbyes before ascending Pharasma's stair. But no! This was no ghost, as he moved with the crowd, and those nearest him touched him, and shoved him. He held the Columbina up to his face, the only man in the crowd dressed for a masquerade. His heart jumped, because one of the men he loved had just revealed himself to still be alive. Then it sank, because unlike Arcalia who was once Argalia, the Shepherd had not sought to have a final word before the Fool was to be burned. At the thought of this, Paimon weeps, though one would have to look up at his face to notice. He does so quietly, personally, hoping to share a tender moment with his father and brother before his demise. "I cannot die this day, there is still work to be done." he says, then he averts his eyes. He looks at his fellow prisoners, as if for the first time truly seeing them as the instruments of his escape, surely something they saw him as. He tested his chains, looked around for imperfections, and finally began to weigh the gravity of his situation.

Tkaara narrows her eyes and looks over at Victor:
Are you voting? I would suggest each of you choose, and choose quickly. Otherwise the Ifrit and I will do the choosing. We are the only two who truly have anything to lose. We are the only two guarantied to not hang from that rope. However, that guaranty is contingent upon us naming one of you. Thus, we both will vote, irrespective of whether you decide to do so. Now then, I shall repeat Etna's inquiry.

Tkaara pauses and licks her lips. Her much more silverish tongue readily apparent as she scans the room.
Who wishes to volunteer to be the entertainment for today. Speak up quickly, or I foresee ten others speaking up for you.

Melphael ginned widely at Etna and raised his, now empty, cup. He thought it fitting for such a horrid toast.

”To the death of our enemies, may they burn like pigs in hell.” he chuckled.

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

Melphael looks out onto the crowd; his eyes squinted from the sunlight. He would hold his hands in front of them, had his wrists not be shackled to his waist.

So I go from old shackles to new shackles, such variety. Asmodeus, remember my words if I die today, then let me seek revenge for you in death!

When his eyes adjusted he could see the crowd staring up at him and the gathering of criminals most foul alongside him. Most were gazing at the tiefling, not surprising, considering they’ve never seen a fiendblooded creature in their whole pathetic lives.

Some were gazing at him now.

”The pale elf!”

Brighttide will have it’s justice!”

He sneered, he cared not for their cries of justice. Then he saw her.

Natalie, she was in the crowd, and she was looking right at him. She was not crying, only staring at him, it chilled his soul. A pang of longing went through his stomach. If things had been different. He tries to reach out, but the shackles prevent him from doing so.

"Natalie-"

Suddenly the hobgoblins yell distracted him for a moment, he looked at the goblinoid and frowned with conpempt.

When he looked back to Natalie, she was gone, swallowed up by the tide of people. That was the last he'll ever see of her.

Melphael looks down and tenses in sadness, and then anger. He looks up, tears staining his checks, he stood fast. Reaffirming himself with his mission. Natalie was gone now, only Asmodeus remains.

I serve the lord of all devil’s, and I am here to do his will. I MUST SURVIVE.

"Um... I have an idea. Tkaara, you nominate one of us, and Etna, you nominate another. Then we'll all vote for one of the two. That way, no one is directly responsible for the death. What do you think?"

Tkaara smiles as the young wizard in training speaks up:
For one so young, you are quickly learning to play the game of politics. Even better, your decision, if complied with by all, could not result in a tie, as the two named would offset each other and the remaining nine could not split evenly.

With that, Tkaara once more looks around the room. Her eyes no longer bloodshot as they had been at the end of the meal.
What say the rest of you? Do you wish the two with reprieve to choose who amongst you will be the candidates for death? Or shall we all simply name one person and see who is most, or perhaps least, popular?