TWO's Mythic Kingmaker: Fey Winds Blowing (Inactive)

Game Master The Wyrm Ouroboros

The Free City of Restov
Rostland, Brevoy
Wealday 1st Calistril - Oathday 2nd Calistril, 4710 AR.

In Calistril, it doesn't matter where in Brevoy you are; it's cold.

This morning's sun broke bright and icy in a crystalline blue sky, traditional for the last official month of winter; while snow may yet be in the offering between now and late Pharast, most of the heaviest falls are behind the city. The Swordlords and the nobility of Rostland are making final preparations for the party - or rather, The Party, to give it the emphasis it requires - on the morrow, which brings a very welcome flow of silver and gold from the coffers of the rich to the coffers of the not-so-rich. Even the bootblacks and torchbearers can look forward to a night of money-in-the-pocket, re-primping a lord's footgear or lighting the way for a carriage (or a handful on foot) from The Party to one of the countless post-Party soirees already scheduled.

The added influx of adventure-hungry swordsmen, land-hungry farmers, fresh-faced journeymen, power-hungry noble scions, god-hungry fanatics, and blood-hungry plotters has swollen the city's eighteen-thousand plus to well over twenty thousand; while the farmers have been welcomed readily by the chamberlain Oskar Vorwilde, the leaders of the rest have undergone interviews by both Vorwilde and Sir Nikita Alexeyevich, the Royal Captain of the Guard. You too have had these interviews, alone and with the rest of your group, now you wait nervously like the rest of the two- or three-dozen adventuring groups, some of you packing the inns of the town full, some of you getting clever and renting a townhome for yourselves and your minions, and some among you in the barren, snow-mounded fields just outside of town, pallisades erected to keep at bay hungry wolves and desperate bandits alike, housing not just yourselves but hundreds of farmers, mostly alone but a few families, in singles and groups ranging from strict order to a mish-mash of chaos.

Many of the farmers will be headed back home by Starday or Sunday, having gotten the promise of funds or transportation they need, to gather together their meager households and head south when the warmer winds blow in four or six weeks - in time to get there and break ground, not so soon that the ground will still be frozen. Others, mostly craftsmen of one stripe or another but almost all of them either journeyfold fresh out of their apprenticeships or those needing a new start, will wait for spring as well. Some few - vagabonds, or those who have been already turned out by landowners or mastercraftsmen, or the sharp ones who know that 'first established, best established' has been a watchword for millenia - will undoubtedly travel with the new king and his baggage train as they advance to the nearest safe haven (likely Nivatka's Crossing or Oleg's Trading Post, but some suggest that Chalm has cut a deal to temporarily establish himself in Fort Serenko) and begin tromping through the average of two feet of snow (and drifts varying from five to twelve feet in height) to start poking around and seeing what troubles can be stirred up, then quelled for good. The Stolen Lands have an even worse reputation than pretty much all the rest of the River Kingdoms; it is, bluntly, the most lawless area of them all. While others confidentially hint that Chalm will march deep into the Kamelands immediately to establish himself on the Tuskwater or Candlemere, this seems unlikely at best.

For the most part, though, everyone is still here in Restov. Who are you, and where are you staying??

Wealday 1st Calistril, 4710 AR.
Late morning.

Today is the day. Today, invitations to The Party are being sent out across the town, to those of political and military acumen who have stepped up to ask to accompany - to lead - the spread of Brevoy's culture into the Stolen Lands, to take risks and subdue the land so that the farmers and farriers that follow will be able to live and farm and work in peace, without risk (or at least at much lower risk) of getting spitted on some bandit's sharpened stick, or burned out by some goblin pyromaniac. Sure, The Party (perhaps 'The Royal Party' would not be out of place, eh?) isn't until tomorrow night, but you really do need forewarning if you're going to attend this sort of society bash. Granted, the people who knew they were going to be going - you know, the nobles of Rostland and all - basically got a month of preparation time, which is what you really need. Or you need to be obscenely wealthy, but hey - nobles usually are, eh?

What getting invited means, however, is that you've been accepted - that you (along with an undefined number of others) will have a hand in developing vast tracts of land, civilizing bandits, turning monster lands into ... well, whatever it is, it'll be happening soon. Shortly, even, because at your group's interview they told you that the decision as to whom would be accepted would be posted publically at noon today, and it's already ten-thirty.

Hey, maybe they'll give you a copy of the list of those accepted ...

It was, Amavin reflected, probably not exceedingly smart to have hired a room at an inn. For one thing, privacy was a pain in the ass, ever since Ishana had name dropped who she was to everyone that asked.

It wasn't as if she was really trying to keep a low profile though, but darn was it annoying catching looks that ranged from admiration to cold blooded calculation - honestly, it almost wanted someone to long for a permanent invisibility spell Amavin thought, idly walking down the corridor. She had charmed the innkeeper into finding a private room where she could bathe and do her hair, while Ishana had sought to make amends for the night before by using her Create Water cantrip to assist in some bathwater. Not altogether sure if she would get an interruption by someone with a matter that needed her attention, she quickly cast Obscuring Mist, before washing her hair, settling it in the latest fashion, and then making liberal use of a prestidigitation spell to carefully dry it out so it wouldn't frazzle. Amavin had bottles of perfume to complete the effect, but usually saved those for special occasions, preferring instead to mimic an effect with a second prestidigitation for a quick and easy solution.

With her appearance sorted, Amavin strolled out, spotting Ishana at the predetermined location. Amavin had always disapproved of Ishana's rather casual attire - the girl could smarten up when required but too often persisted in close fitting clothing.

"Please don't make me regret this Ishana, but today I think its best if you roam the city on your own. Regrettably, I'll probably have to socialise for today, and it would serve me greatly if I knew who I had to socialise with - and I'm sure you could assist me in that."

Amavin paused for a moment, before the hint of a smile appeared. "Also, you have a penchant for causing trouble, and I'd like an opportunity to plead ignorance of any of your schemes, just do me a favour and don't cause irreparable damage and I'm sure everything should be fine."

Ishana listened obediently to Amavin, before heading out the door. Ishana knew that actually gathering information wasn't her strong suit, she relied on people to come to her - therefore she decided to stop by and talk with a few select individuals from Amavin's camp, members of the congregation all, most of them knew Ishana personally and were therefore happy to help.

Pondering her options, Ishana met with Adriana, Noelia, and Aurashi - three of her most accomplished information gatherers. With a knack with appearing to share a somewhat personal connection with Calistria, even Ishana treated Adriana with extreme respect, despite effectively teaching the girl the ways of the priesthood. With a natural gift for learning who the major players were in a particular region, as well as various customs that might be useful, Ishana found herself relying on the seer often for a spark of insight into anyone's personal motives, and she was keen to rely on this now.

Noelia however, didn't rely on personal knowledge, gained from experiences or divine insight - instead she excelled into flitting through the city, picking up the gossip. Ishana didn't give Noelia any sort of time limit, merely asked her if they could learn anything relatively useful that might assist Amavin in diplomatic relations.

Adriana Knowledge on customs and major players (add +3 if Planes, Nature, or Religion): 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (14) + 7 = 21
Noelia Gather Information based off Adriana's knowledge (if any), looking for secrets or rumors relating to who Adriana might be aware of: 1d20 + 15 ⇒ (10) + 15 = 25

With the meeting effectively over, and Noelia sent out on her way, Ishana decided to view the sights of the city on her own. She was selective where she walked, sticking to area's where duels were most common, attaching herself to small crowds and acting as a casual observer. She knew Amavin would disapprove - she hated it when Ishana looked for combat, but Ishana found it the best way to blow off some steam, and besides, she enjoyed fleecing someone who believed she was an easy or vulnerable target.

It was mid-morning, with a good bit of time before the party, and Azrael knew he needed to do something more with his appearance than simply wearing appropriate clothing... Dressing up and putting on airs wasn't exactly in his wheelhouse, but he was confident he'd be able to pull off the appearance at least, if not the manners as well.

He strode out into the street, heading to the artisan's quarter to buy jewelry to match his planned attire for tomorrow's gala event. Since he intended to dress as befit his faith, his clothing would be red and black, and he shopped for jewelry in gold, garnets and onyx... rubies and black opals were a bit out of his price range. Still, the 'look' would be appropriate for his station.

He followed up his shopping trip with a self-guided tour of the city, lunching at a food cart, enjoying the meal of rabbit and rice in a pasty shell. It was filling and tasty, and he hoped it was really rabbit and not local city rat or cat, as some folks might hint at.

When he returned to his quarters that evening in the rented rooms he shared with his friend Hareth and his other companions, he carefully put the jewelry away in a safe bundle and stored it under his shirt. While he trusted his own people, he was not so trusting of the other renters in the rooming house as much as he might.

Hareth was already back at the rooming house when Azrael returned and he greeted his friend with a wide smile.

"I've sent several folks out and about in the city to see who is here and attending the party tomorrow night. It should prove useful to know who will be there, who the movers and shakers are. We can expect they will start filtering in later with their reports - perhaps some time after dinner. Since they will miss the evening meal here, and might need to grease a few palms to gain the information they need, I distributed a bit of coin among them to fill those requirements. As for me personally, I spent the day crafting more arrows for the trip ahead should we be selected. What have you been up to all day, my friend?"

While Adriana can give Noelia some pointers on who to ask about, the latter is mostly on her own. Restov's official double-handful of nobles may all be in the city at this point, but the city is swollen with Rostland nobility that owns (or often rents) a domicile in or near the city. The most wealthy, of course, possess land within an hour or so sleigh's ride from the city, and these are certain to be at the jewel of the parties on Merrymead, that widely-observed holiday every 2nd Calistril when the last of the autumn alcohol is distributed. Sometimes it's even free.

Though dozens of nobles are sure to be invited to the party, it is likely that only the most influential will be there; hobnobbing with a future neighbor head-of-state, getting a chance to gain an 'in' with his potential court -- the worth of these things cannot be understated, and the chance cannot be passed up. More than just the nobility, though, are the Aldori Swordmasters of the various schools, Aldori, Northern, and Southern. They, too, are very likely to have a presence at the party. And of course there are those who have come to aid Chalm tame the Stolen Lands; the final selection is yet unknown, and the announcement is slated for 1st Calistril, only the day before the party.

Those amongst whom Noelia circulates, though, are speaking about a certain handful of people ...

• Requiem of Wolves, a pair of adventurers who, it is said, recently belonged to a larger group - whether they left the group or were kicked out is up for some debate;
  
• Dáma Katerina Karbashewsky, Swordlady of one of the Northern Schools, a hatchet-faced woman with a subtle turn of both mind and wrist;
  
• The Steel Fist, five noble scions of Houses Medvyed and Garess with a number of servants, sycophants, and hangers-on;
  
• Vitez Aleksy Maslovaric, an influential member of the Maslovaric family, one of the cadet lines of House Khavortorov;
  
• Rytier Stanislav Khavortorov, Swordlord of another of the Northern Schools, one of three most significant Khavortorov leaders of the dueling schools; and
  
• Baruneta Nadyushka Tyshchenko, a local noble, entitled in her own right yet unwed at age 35 despite still being a stunning beauty.
  

Aramil awoke with a stretch to the sun streaming into his face. Looking out the window, he saw it was mid-morning. When was the last time I had a lie-in like that? I must make time to do it again. Getting out of bed, he pulled on his comfortable clothes and began studying his spells for the day. Once finished, he donned his armor and belted on his dueling sword before strolling down to the common room. Though not terribly crowded, he found Porablum sitting at a table and moved over to join the Gnome, saying, "Good morning. I'm surprised to find you still here."

With a snort, she replies, "Well, it was either me or Kennet, and I though the boy would have a fit with his impatient waiting. I sent him off to spend time with some of the other valets here so he might relax a bit. Bolys and Kartok are checking everything to make sure we have all the supplies we need. Carsava and Eldara are making sure the wagon is ready to go and fitting runners to it, and Calaida went to look through your father's maps to see if he has any from the River Kingdoms."

Raising an eyebrow at Porablum's summation of the people who had chosen to come with them - and the two he convinced to do so - Aramil smiled and said, "It sounds like everything is running smoothly. Now, I imagine I'm keeping you from taking advantage of performing in the various inns. So, I am awake, and I am going to eat breakfast - although it's more likely lunch at this point. Don't let me keep you, and keep an ear out for anything you happen to hear."

Porablum gets up and leaves the inn, while Aramil notices Amavin emerge and share some words with Ishana, before the latter woman also leaves. He waves the former over and says, "Good morning, Amavin. Are the accommodations to your liking?"

Porablum left the inn, shaking her head. Honestly, I swear he'd have somehow manage to trip over his own feet if not for me. Still, he was a good friend, and she knew she could trust him to have her back.

Since they were in Restov for a bit, she was excited to perform at the various inns in the city. People always came to see a bard, and also were likely to loosen their tongues. Besides, she could always use a little more coin.

Noelia immediately returns to Amavins "camp" or residence, but does not go straight to Amavin, preferring to speak with Adriana again now that she had a collection of names, hoping she could learn a little more.

Ishana meanwhile, is still out roaming the streets, secretly wanting to find a fight somewhere. She has no real direction in her wanderings, but eventually ends up in Riverside - while she expects Amavin might have meetings with the nobility, she wanted to see for herself how the poorer people lived.

Amavin smiles warmly as she spots Aramil and heads over, before making a face slightly at his remark.

"I guess you can call the accommodation fine - I mean really, I shouldn't be complaining since it beats sleeping in a bedroll on the ground - but its just so loud. Seriously, you hang out on the road for so long, you forget just how noisy cities are, I guess you could say that I'm a little rattled until I get used to it again."

Amavin pauses, signalling for a non alcoholic drink (like say, water), which she sips while glancing around the room. "I don't see or hear Porablum anywhere...I assume you did what I would have done and set her out on a scouting mission?" she inquires.

Adriana, Noelia, and Ishana

Unfortunately, Adriana doesn't know oodles about many of them, just pretty much the same sorts of basics that Noelia picked up. While she knows little about the pair that make up 'Requiem of Wolves', she knows bits and pieces about the others.

Katerina Karbashewsky is indeed the mistress - meaning leader, as 'Dáma', Lady, is the Brevoy way to refer to a female knight - of one of the Northern schools, who has been climbing in popularity - or, rather, policial acumen and influence, thus making her one of the Swordlords of Restov. She and Stanislav Khavortorov (Rytier is also an indicator of being, basically, a recognized Swordlord) lead different schools and are thus in frequent opposition, though some salacious rumors suggest that in private, they are far more, err, unified than their public faces would indicate. Stanislav, however, has supposedly been disapproving of the entire Stolen Lands venture from the start.

Aleksy Maslovaric ('Vitez' being like 'Sir') is a portly, middle-aged man whose influence stems more from his coin purse than from any social grace he possesses; he supposedly owns half the slums in Riverside, and half the brothels by the Fire Gate. Baruneta Nadyushka Tyshchenko is his arch-rival if ever there was one, a woman of beauty, grace, and style whose finances are moderate but who always seems to be at the best get-togethers, and whose opinion carries weight amongst many of the upper-crust women of the city - and thus, in a way, of their husbands.

The Steel Fist she's heard about, that group of four young men (and one young woman) of Medvyed and Garess, but she doesn't know much more about them than Noelia's discovered.

Ishana, however, will discover that though conversations tend to die or at least grow guarded when she (with her whip on her hip), she can at least get a general sense of how things lie in Riverside. Trash fires slowly burn out old barrels, or tripod-stand wrought-iron baskets hold more difficult-to-get wood, while people who have something to sell (or need something to buy) huddle around them in three or four layers of clothing, trying to stave off the bitter late-Abadius cold. Shoddy stalls sell shoddy food, while considerably less legal exchanges of goods take place just inside the mouths of alleyways. Taverns serve watered-down ale and wine, thin-tasting stuff purchased nonetheless for worn-thin coppers because there's nothing else in the offering, and grilled or roasted meat is sold ... and best less questioned what kind of meat it is, because 'cat' would be the good answer.

But there are sword-schools every few buildings, and dueling-sword-clad bravos aplenty in the streets; Ishana will 'have the opportunity' to see no fewer than three of the acrobatic fights of the Southern Schools on her stroll through the district.

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Calaida and Kennet
Calaida, unfortunately, isn't finding anything; either Aramil's parents have utterly ignored the Stolen Lands (possible), or there's simply little real information available for the area (equally possible, if not moreso).

Kennet, on the other hand, is right where he needs to be, and with 'his people', as it were. And don't let anyone tell you that servants are absolutely upright; they gossip like clucking hens about each others' people, just offering comparatively little (enough for the rumormill to keep working) on their own people. He returns with a nice bag of information on some of the nobles and Swordlords said to be invited to the Party, as well as several other groups who have applied to accompany the new King of the Stolen Lands.

Of the nobles:

• Dáma Sasha Kopernik, a slim tall sword of a woman with long black hair, leading one of the Northern Schools;
  
• Rytier Żytomir Lebeda, another Northern School Swordlord, said to be cast-out from his family;
  
• Dáma Dashen’ka Sobecki, a spitfire dancer of one of the Southern Schools, whose martial competence is as top-notch as her political agility;
  
• Baruneta Nastya Wasilewski, whose lands are in the north of Rostland and who is often received (and well-received) in the court at New Stetven.

Of the groups:

• The Emerald Eye, a handful of adventurers with assistants and a veritable army of hirelings and followers who (it is said) are trying to use Chalm to gain resources and experience before delving into the Emerald Spire;
  
• The Shivering Exiles, refugees from Mendev led by three nobles, all looking to find a new home;
  
• The Jade Legion, five adventurers from the East, possibly from Tian Xia itself;
  
• The Grey Torch, a grim and organized group of Pharasmin who, it is said, are pursuing a lich into the Stolen Lands;
  
• The International Businessmen, transport experts who have been operating throughout Brevoy, but who have been invited by Chalm to handle his baggage train;
  
• The Steel Fist, five noble scions of Houses Medvyed and Garess with a number of servants, sycophants, and hangers-on, who are so impractical they've about as much chance of making it as a pitch-made torch does lasting all winter;
  
• The Silver Star, a sextet of rangers with particular expertise against those cursed with lycanthropy; and
  
• The Iron Rod, a militant order who have had numerous petitions to establish a monastery-school turned down by Noleski Surtova.
  
• And you people, actually, which means that Kennet has had to trade a few tidbits to keep the information flow alive ...

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Porablum

Though people aren't as shy, as it were, about talking around Porablum as they seem to be around Ishana, the gnome bard has ... something of a different problem. Between one thing and another, she just isn't finding out much information.

The first thing is the fact that her songs are coming out peculiarly clear on the day, feeling to her like a scintillating, life-giving cascade of late springtime sun in the midst of the low grey clouds and the brownish mucky frozen slush that fills the streets; it's making people stop to listen, to yearn for the warmth amidst this muddled bleak greytime, and filling her hat with quarter-bits and half-bits of copper, just about five gold's worth.

The second thing is that she doesn't feel quite ... right. Look, every gnome past the age of fifteen or twenty knows about the Bleaching, and usually well before that point. Every gnome past the age of forty or so is engaged in a quiet, unspoken, subconscious war against the peril of that state. Today ... despite the sodden, half-frozen boots on her feet, despite the way Porablum can almost see shadows trying to stealthily creep into the very flames themselves, today feels like ... like ... like it's her birthday, and a brand new carnival just came into town, and her favoritest aunt is finally going to teach her the secret recipe for that apple turnover she loves, and her papa is going to show her that knack he's got for disarming with a rapier.

Today is just weird. But hey, she's five gold richer, right?

Amavin glances up from her chat with Aramil as Noelia enters the room, having headed straight to her superior after learning all she could. Seeing as Aramil is familiar with Noelia, Amavin feels no need for introductions, and listens patiently as Noelia relays the information she was able to learn.

After absorbing the information, Amavin grants Noelia a smile and appreciative nod of thanks, before turning to Aramil. "What do you think of this information? It's certainly useful, especially at the party learning who is who. Unfortunately, I doubt it would be much use before the party, I'm not a martial warrior, nor a noble, therefore I doubt any of them would have much to do with me. You might have better luck though, with your skill with a blade - the swordlords might find some respect there".

Ishana spends no small amount of time lingering, watching three acrobatic fights. She doesn't impose herself on the fights (although she will if someone offers / asks / challenges), and is content to observe. She reflects that if nothing else, she probably stands out enough in the crowd for someone to remember her observing, which could open up opportunities later on.

Reflecting that she might as well work her way around the city, Ishana swiftly moves through the district, before heading north-east, up past the Fire Gate and heading towards Northern School territory.

The fights she sees - and, from the conversations happening around her, the fights she hears about - all center on the dueling sword. The tenor of attitude you've picked up in the Free City suggests strongly that it's only going to be those with a rapier or Aldori dueling sword on their hips that'll be considered open to a challenge; a whip-wielding Calistrian is, in effect, beneath contempt in that regard.

The area around the Northern schools is far less downtrodden and considerably more sedate; while the duels Ishana saw in Riverside took place right in the street, the one duel she witnesses around the Northern schools is taken to the nearest dueling platform, and though the swordplay is clearly excellent, it is missing the twirls, flourishes, and flamboyance of the Southern Schools. Perhaps that's the key - the students of the Northern Schools, being already in possession of at least moderate wealth, do not have the pressing need of attracting a patron.

People in the area, however, are either less circumspect about their conversations, or else the subtlety of the blade-play makes it easier for Ishana to lose interest in the weapon-work and have more interest in the conversations around her. What she hears is mostly about the Northern School Swordlords, but a couple of the groups looking to join up:

• Rytier Davorin Sloboda, the oldest Swordlord retaining his position, which means that he's undoubtedly dangerous with both a blade and a word;
  
• Rytier Stanislav Khavortorov, whose rivalry with the (unidentified) Khavortorov Swordlord of the Southern Schools is apparently very friendly - and familial;
  
• Rytier Żytomir Lebeda, who spurned his family's distaste for the Aldori schools and trained like a demon to achieve his current rank of skill and influence.
  
• The Steel Fist is also on everyone's lips, as apparently this quintent of Medvyed and Garess scions has been impressing people with the money they have available, as well as their good taste in how they spend it;
  
• The Companions of Armgaard, a quintet of gnomish adventurers who have recently arrived, but have already turned peoples' heads with their flamboyant presence.

Aramil prepares to answer, but just as he does, Kennet comes in. Aramil waves him over and, since Amavin would already be familiar with him, asks him what he found out.

After he gives his report, Aramil nods and says, "Well, I wish you hadn't needed to tell others about us, but everything has a price. Good job, Kennet, and thank you for your work."

Turning back to Amavin, he says, "Well, I'd say we have quite a list of people we could investigate. You might have some luck making inroads with the Shivering Exiles. Knowing what we do of Lord Chalm, I suspect he would allow them to join him so they could find a new home. The Jade Legion may also prove interesting, if only to assuage curiosity about their origin. Though you may not be a noble, I suspect we have enough prestige you could gain audience with some of the lesser nobles, as well."

Finishing his breakfast, Aramil says, "You are correct about my investigating the Swordlords, though. We seem to be finding out quite a bit about the Northern Schools. I wonder if they might be looking towards the new nation to establish themselves as the dominant form of learning in the new country. Something to investigate, to be sure."

He stands and says, "I shall wander to the Northern Schools and see if I can learn anything. I will return in the evening."

Donning his fur cloak, Aramil leaves the inn and turns towards the Northern Schools to see what he can find out.

Amavin ponders her options for a moment as Aramil leaves, before deciding that meeting an adventuring party might be a good starting point. She would have common ground, and if need be, she could then work her way up the chain of social hierarchy. Rising, she leaves the bar in search of an attempting meeting.

Ishana, aware that the day was drawing to a close, decides to move further into the city, having seen many of the outer districts. With the day winding down, she takes a relaxed stroll through the city market district, spending a couple of hours roaming before returning to Amavin's location if there are no further engagements.

Aramil
Although it does seem - several times - that some bravo or another might step up to Aramil and invite him to one of the platforms to test out his skill, between one thing or another such a challenge never quite manages to materialize. Something of a pity, perhaps, but on the other hand, it prevents you from wasting your time ...

... or perhaps it doesn't, because during your several hours of trying to 'knock on doors' as it were at the various Northern Schools, you're informed that either a) the school's master is out, b) the school's master isn't seeing visitors, or c) the school is closed to those not students at the school.

What a waste of time ... though you could visit your parents ...

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Ishana

Unfortunately, there are so many names and such for Ishana to remember, she has a hard time picking any more up. But it's a relatively nice day. Or at least it isn't snowing. And she can buy a few tidbits, right?

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Amavin
Tracking down the Jade Legion is considerably easier than Requiem of Wolves; people talk more about five people so very, very different from themselves, as compared to a pair who seem intent on keeping themselves out of view. In fact, nobody seems to know where the latter are, but you'll be able to find the Legion in their rented 'lodgings' down in Riverside - a trio of rooms, two bedrooms and a common area, in what likely used to be a nobleman's townhome.

"Well, at least it isn't outside one o' the gates," philosophises their 'landlord', an obesely fat man with pox scars on his face and an open sore on his neck. "Keep to themselves, they do, allus speakin' that gibber-gabber talk they have. Can't figure one from the next, 'cept the ol' feller with th' beard. Been here most of three weeks, now. Paid good silver for the month, too," he adds, having grunted his way up the narrow and steep stairs before you, then down the few feet of hallway to smack his hand on the door. "Oi in there, summat to see ya!!"

There is silence for a long several moments, and then the door opens with a swiftness that makes the landlord jump (and that's a lot of flesh to jump), exposing a single sallow-skinned individual crouched in what you are reasonably certain is a stance to quickly draw the tassel-decorated sword in his hands. He (or she; you can't really tell) looks between the rotund man and the somewhat-taller beauty behind him, then speaks in a heavily-accented baritone. "You go."

The landlord shrugs (and that's a lot of flesh to shrug), and starts to laboriously turn around. "Guess they ain't acceptin' o' visitors, ma'am," he says, starting to gesture you away, when the accented voice now behind him says, "Not her. Just you."

The landlord looks surprised, but after some awkward maneuvering (which he tries to keep polite, but he's a very fat man in a very narrow hallway, and the peculiarly-skinned presumably-a-man-by-the-vocal-range doesn't seem to want to allow the landlord in), he is finally past you and heading down the stairs while you're still there. The green-and-white-clad man, who stands a little shorter than you, has not changed his position a bit. "We ... do not know who you are. What do you want?"

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Hareth

While it will take Hareth's participation, in part as a 'central clearing house' sort of thing as he and whatever others stroll around / hang out in Red Table Square, the most populated open space in the city. While there are several mobile kiosks selling ready-to-consume hot food and drink, the city does not allow any immobile (much less permanent) stall to be constructed. Announcement boards stand at either corner of the large edifice to the north, the Temple of Adabar, and in three days they are liable to be all but mobbed with interested citizens, if the Mayor doesn't get the bright idea to have an iron-lunged herald call out from the Red Table the names of those going with Chalm. During the afternoon, however, Hareth and crew can manage to extract additional information. Undoubtedly, the names of all the nobility invited to the Party, as well as names and information of those who have come to put their names in for the expedition, is circulating somewhere in the crowd at one point or another ...

• The Bronze Seal, various noble scions of House Khavortorov territory. The four leaders of the Bronze Seal are rumored to be far more tightfisted with their monies than the Steel Fist - and far more prepared to walk out into the wilderness at the start of Calistril;
  
• The Nighthammers, six followers of Sarenrae of assorted skills but unified in devotion to the Dawnflower and the idea of redemption;
  
• The Nightshroud, said to be four devotees of Kelinahat, but little else is known about them;
  
• The Cenobitic Order of the Silver River, a very large contingent of monastics said to have come over the mountains from Iobaria, now camped outside the Fire Gate;
  
• Zámoždom Duchovný (Zámoždom the Clergyman) and the Brilliant Sword School, a cleric of Sarenrae and the entirety of one of the Southern Schools, one which never officially had a single Master, but of which the non-swordsman Duchovný is the de facto leader;
  
• The Swords of the Legion, said to have been non-paladin crusaders who, on their way up the 'Crusader Road', decided that improving the lands and societies leading to the Worldwound was a better use of their abilities;
  
• Voice of Mountains, a very reclusive druid and ranger pair who are said, having spoken with the chamberlain and captain of the guard, to have walked back out into the wilderness and disappeared; and
  
• The Frozen Flame, a group of eight mages looking to establish a school for elementalists.

Amavin doesn't know the appropriate gesture of respect tge man would closely identify with, so she inclines her head in a gesture of respect. "My name is Amavin, perhaps you have heard of me, or perhaps not. I represent a group of adventurers much like yourself, and considered it possible that we could easily find ourselves attending this dinner at the same time. Therefore, I guess you could say that I was a little curious, and wanted to at least introduce myself - after all, strange as it might seem I suspect I might have more in common with you than several nobles that are almost certain to attend."

There is silence for a minute or so, tension practically humming in the air, until something in his attitude changes. The knife-edge tension eases back, and he slowly eases out of the immediate-draw position, though the scabbard of his tasseled-hilt blade is still held in his left hand. The bow he gives is exquisitely subtle, something the snobbish courts in Cheliax and Irrisen would probably kill to be able to decipher. "Please," he says in that heavy accent, gesturing a small movement of welcome with his sword-hand, "come in."

Inside, the room is not only sparse, it's run down; paint and plaster peeling, molding around the ceiling and floorboards cracked or in many places missing altogether (probably burned for fuel). Nonetheless, the equipment they possess seems to be of excellent quality; a large bowl-like frying pan glinting like silver, a couple decorations that look like silk, hung on knives driven into the walls.

Tactically arranged until you've been in the room for a moment and they close the door behind you are four more people beside the swordman. The one behind the door, who'd opened it and who is now replacing its 'lock', a cord looped over a dagger driven into the frame, is armored up in what looks to be lacquered green wood; a polearm with a slim scimitar-like blade at its top is in their hand. Further back gehind the door, another person, young-looking and heavily robed but appearing otherwise unarmored, watches you with eyes that look a little too large to be real, a few slips of rice paper bearing peculiar runes in their hands.

The fourth is the 'bearded old man' the landlord spoke of; he too wears voluminous robes, and was leaning against the wall couple steps in from the door; he thus gets a clean view of Amavin's profile and, as she passes, her backside. Though it is in a language completely alien to you, the snickering laughter that follows his comment (and the doesn't-even-have-to-look backhanded smack by the door-opener) betrays his comment as definitely being salacious.

The fifth and last member of the group is moving even as you enter, practically flowing across the room and back to the frying pan; she (or he) was carrying a wooden implement, kind of like a fork without the tines carved out, with which he (or she) begins to push around whatever is inside the frying pan, which she (or he) sets back onto the fire. This one says, in a Vudran-accented voice that's almost a thrill to hear, "We were just making something to eat. Would you like some? It would only take a moment to add more cabbage and bean curd."

Amavin raises her eyebrows at the tactical positioning, and at the obvious tension in the room - clearly, these people were not expecting social calls, and didn't relax their guard easily. Pointedly ignoring the 'bearded old man', Amavin considers a response. Ishana, being the slightly more paranoid one, would probably have declined, fully aware poison is far too easy to slip into food, but Amavin reflects that a rejection would be extremely rude and offensive - besides - an acceptance marks her out as different from the hundred other nobles in the city who might turn their noses up at a similar offer.

Glancing around, Amavin is momentarily unsure who to direct her remarks towards, before finally deciding to speak her response to the person who last spoke.

"I see that I obviously caught you by surprise - so forgive me for creating an unnecessary...anxiety. It's extremely kind of you to offer me food - provided that I'm not effectively stealing part of a meal you could ill afford then yes, I'd be happy to accept the invitation to eat."

Slightly disappointed he'd had no luck with engaging with any of the masters, Aramil decides that he should visit his parents while he's out and about. After all, he had not seen them in several months, since he'd brought Calaida from Kyonin to study under his father for a bit.

He wanders through the streets, eventually coming upon the townhouse in which he grew up. It still looked much the same, despite how the houses around had changed ever so slightly. He smiled. Elves don't change very quickly, do we?

Knocking, he waits for one of them to answer the door.

:: Amavin ::

The silver-haired man (or woman) at the frying pan half-turns towards you, gives a slight grin (of approval, perhaps?), then nods to the rest of them. "Relax," she (or he) says to the others, continuing to stir the sizzling food with the strange wooden paddle. Odd, to hear that Vudran accent coming out of what is so clearly a Tien. "She ain't gonna bite. Think of this as an opportunity to practice your language skills."

Slowly, the other four ease up a bit more on their wariness while the cook smiles again at Amavin. "Rice and cabbage are cheap. Bean curd less so, but these four have, in our travels, had to adjust to variations on what they're used to. The beans they use here are not the beans they use at home - and each of us comes from somewhere different, which means the beans they use in my home of Tian-Dtang is not the same that the Tian-Shu of the Lung Wa Successor States use, or ... well, any of the others." She (or he) smiles for a moment, going back to stirring the cabbage and peculiar 'bean curd' while, in another good-sized silver pot, rice slowly boils.

Using the squared-off wooden paddle, the cook then points to each of his (or her) companions in turn, to make introductions. "Möngke, a Tian-La from Hongal," she (or he) says, pointing at the swords-definitely-a-man, who is settling down onto a cushion in front of the low table in the middle of the room, setting the decorated sword down next to himself. At one corner close to him rests a cross-hatched board, not unlike that of chess, but without the squares colored in. Upon the board rest what are clearly game pieces in white and black, but which are otherwise simple stones.

"Gan," the cook adds, shifting the paddle to point at the old man, who steps around you while giving you the sort of eye on you that gives lecherous old men a bad name before settling down at the table. "Tian-Shu, from the Successor States of Lung Wa."

"Eun-Suk, a Tian-Hwan from Hwanggot," the cook continues the introductions with a gesture at the richly-robed large-eyed young ... woman, you finally decide as her smile curves those lips into an entirely feminine bow, her expression almost beautific.

"And Aimai, a Tian-Min from Minkai," concludes the cook as Aimai spins the halberd to rest its curved point upon the ground, then pulls off the flared-cheek helmet to reveal not only entirely feminine features (and sensual ones at that), but the extended ear-tips of a half-elf. She regards you for a long moment, then gives a slight nod - or maybe one of those entirely-too-subtle bows.

"A-ma-vin?" asks the old man, Gan, as he hitches his long, flowing sleeves back up his forearms, then makes a broad gesture to the board. "Do you play?" His accent is no less heavy than that of Möngke, but at the same time is significantly different.

======================================================================

:: Aramil ::

Elves indeed change very slowly, but they do change a little, for the human who answers the door is unknown to you - unknown but at least, in the eyes of an adventurous elf such as yourself, who has gained some experience at identifying such things, young. Though he 'makes' you cool your heels in the foyer while he goes and finds someone to tell your name to, the person who comes back (leading the human) is none other than your mother. "Amavin, why did you bother knocking? Is this not still your home? I am sure the door will still recognize you." There is a twinkle in her eye as she approaches and embraces you, but the warm enfolding of her arms combines with the unique scent of her to kick your well-earned adventurer's paranoia unconscious, a knockout blow right in the back of the head.

There is in Kyonin a painting, just under three foot by two foot, created by the legendary artist Haleck Mournbrush some three thousand years ago before the Return. Now carefully preserved, it serves as something of an object of pilgrimage for Forlorn elves, and as an insight into their heart-torn cousins for those whose upbringing was by their own kind. It is of an elven matron embracing a youth, but the muted colors of most of the painting turn into glorious light about the matron's face as she holds her child to her. There is joy there, and peace, and contentment - but etched into the lines of the Forlorn fem's face is the bone-deep burden of knowledge that even this transcendent exultation of decades-long familiarity is temporary, limited by time and the world. Passing rare is the elf, no matter their kindred, who has dry eyes when they leave the small room that holds the painting.

There is nothing in all the worlds to compare to a Forlorn elven woman embracing her child.

It might be a handful of seconds that she stands there with you in her arms; it might be a score of hours. Finally, though, she releases a deep, reluctant sigh and lets you go, moving back to arm's length to look at you. "Back from your mischief-making, are you?" she teases you with that bit of needle-prick wit that refers to your adventuring ways. "How long are you here for?"

Aramil smiles at the sight of his mother, and warmly returns her embrace. "Yes, I am back from mischief-making for a while. I'll be staying in Restov for at least the next few days, possibly longer. My companions and I are trying to join up with this expedition to the Stolen Lands, so if we are chosen to join with it, we shall be leaving when they do. If we are not, I will likely push for us to winter here, as the snows will make travel difficult."

"And your name might be?" Amavin inquires curiously, deciding the question was probably not rude as the cook had introduced everyone else except his or herself. While letting the cook find an answer in his own time, she glances at the game board Gan had directed her towards. Giving the man an encouraging smile (it was, after all, a difficult name for anyone to pronounce), she considers the question. "No, unfortunately, I'm not familiar with the game here, or its rules. How easy is it to play?"

:: Aramil ::

"And how long have you been in town before paying a visit to your long-suffering parents?" she asks, linking her arm with yours as she walks with you towards the library, which is not only where most visitors to the house are received, but is both the most comfortable room and where the family has traditionally spent the majority of their time anyhow. "Your father is off at the Citadel, sent for by this new 'King of the Stolen Lands' Kowalskiy. I expect he is wanting to know if there are any old elven strongpoints of which he should be made aware, and your father of course is the very elf to give him that information. He'll probably," she adds, releasing you inside the warmer room to head towards the fireplace to hook out from the fire the singing kettle, "lobby for permission to come study whatever remains the king's men might find in their exploration.

"Tea?" She holds up the kettle, about to pour the boiling water into the ceramic pot to steep.

======================================================================

:: Amavin ::

The silver-haired ... person flashes you a sideways smile, as if you'd passed some sort of test in calling him (or her) on the name thing. "Waralee," she (or he) says. "It means 'Moon'. Eun-Suk, some more of everything, please?" The wide-eyed green-robed woman nods, going over to a prep table (repurposed, it looks like, from a bedside table) and begins slicing up some more cabbage and beanstuff.

At your question about the game, Gan laughs and grins hugely in approval. "A minute to learn, a lifetime to master!!!" he proclaims, then laughs uproariously, only to choke momentarily as Waralee hooks out a chunk of something green and expertly flicks it into the old man's wide-open mouth.

"You sound like a carnival shill," notes the silver-haired man (or woman), though her (or his) tone of voice doesn't really sound disapproving; more amused-rueful.

After a cough and a bit of chewing, Gan waves long fingers at the cook and says to you, "Pay no attention to her. She has no skill at the game. You, on the other hand, I am sure I can entertain you ..." His leer is, perhaps, meant to suggest that playing with white and black stones is not the sort of entertainment he'd prefer.

======================================================================

:: Azrael the Avenger ::

The city is, in its own way, beautiful; Ragathiel may be a Lord of Vengeance, but he's still an angel, and appreciates moments of beauty whenever they present themselves. It's a little after lunch, while you're moving slowly from the Citymarket on your way towards Red Table Square, when you become aware of the fact that Corwin (in his blond mastiff form) is growling low in his throat, head turning nervously from one side to the other as he pads by your side.

======================================================================

:: Aolis ::

You are in words up to your eartips when a respectful tapping comes at your door. "Sor?" (It's one of the drudges that work for the place you and the others are staying.) "Sor, summat t' see one o' you, but yer th' only one hain't gone out."

The double entendre is not lost on Amavin, who is used to both using them herself and Ishana trialing them all the time. The old man doesn't really interest her that much, it was clear that he was trying exceptionally hard to find an opening, but Amavin regarded him as mostly harmless. Wearing an innocent, almost bored expression, Amavin responds to his leer with barely a raised eyebrow. "I'm perfectly capable of entertaining myself...sir - but in at this moment, I fear I may have to politely decline your offer of a game. Getting the pants thrashed off me by someone experienced at the game don't fill me with enthusiasm."

Pausing for the moment, and observing the meal preparation, Amavin continues carefully. "I must confess, I know very little about your adventuring group, or what brings you here to this city. Am I delving into private matters here by asking what brings you from such a distance?"

:: Amavin ::

The old man leans to one side, as if considering thrashing the pants off you in a more literal fashion (the pants off, no doubt, not necessarily the thrashing) and gives a lecherous leer. The swordsman, Möngke, glances sideways at the apparently distracted old man, then reaches forward to shift the position of one of the stones; without even seeming to look, the old man reaches over to rap his knuckle against the back of Möngke's hand. "No cheating," he says, and - after a final waggle of his bushy white eyebrows at you - returns to his game with the Tian-La.

The halbard-wielding door-opener, Aimai from Minkai, settles down in a somewhat-uncomfortable-looking kneeling position next to the door; she remains in her armor, her helmet by her side and her halberd point-down but otherwise upright next to her. It would appear that this group keeps a sentry active even when they're inside a city. Or perhaps especially when they're inside a city ...

Waralee waves the paddle slightly. "Oh, nothing that the Surtova's men didn't ask. We belong to a ... mmm, political group I think would be the best way to describe it. There are a number of groups such as ours out in the world, looking for somewhere that the rest of us may come to exist in relative peace. We hope," and here she gestures to include herself and all of the other four in her meaning, "Lord Chalm will offer us that place. Elsewise ..." She shrugs, shifting to one side to allow Eun-Suk to add the extra into the big, strange frying pan. "We will keep looking."

Amavin frowns at the position Aimai is in before glancing at Waralee. "You know, I might not be a tactical genius, but occasionally I am somewhat more than a pretty face. By all means, feel free to keep all of your secrets, but to me, you seem more than a typical political group. For one thing, you haven't mentioned a variety of your talents - too many nobles boast about importance and yet, no mention of anything. Despite this, you clearly have something the Surtova's would want or consider useful, be it skills or something else. In addition, you have a sentry in an uncomfortable position - but the posture indicates that she might be used to such uncomfortable positions -indicating that she or others are used to standing guard - even inside a building, inside a city - indicating concern against a possible threat that a mere political group would be facing. Most curious, considering not even I would have sentries that would take the task so religiously as some of you do."

Azrael pauses, though he's been looking about as well, enjoying his stroll, he looks about with more purpose perhaps as he asks softly, "What is it Corwin? Do you sense something or someone amiss?" He tries to focus on what the mastiff seems interested in, but with the dog form seemingly scanning about, it's hard to determine a direction... He will look for anything that looks like trouble afoot as he starts detecting for evil, focusing to the left, and scanning clockwise cones one direction at a time.

He puts down a tome before answering.

"That is by design my good man."

He replies to the servant. Without looking he speaks to someone else in the room quietly.

"Your staring Nakir, I don't like it."

The sound of dice rolling is heard but the silence continues. Taking a long exhale he addresses the servant outside his door.

"Very well, we will be leaving to take in the sights shortly. Please have our transport waiting for us."

Shuffling things on his desk he again speaks to the other person present.

"That should improve your mood and we should get a lay of the land. As well as get in contact with the others."

:: Amavin ::
Aimai looks mildly amused. "It is only uncomfortable until you get used to it," she states.

Waralee laughs. "Aimai's been sitting like that since she was two," she says, stirring the sizzling vegetables in the strange frying pan as Eun-Suk gets bowls and rice ready and the two men play pieces on the board, removing and returning those of their opponent in some archaic methodology. "And we are not so peculiar as that. Of all of us, only Möngke is a noble --"

"Disowned and banned," the Tian-La swordsman states baldly, clearly focussed on the game.

"-- so you see there is no need for us to toot our horns to say how important we are. We are not; those who come behind us, they are the ones we are concerned with, who are important to us. We only hope we can find a place for a peaceful few - well, relative few - to live. Understand that old habits die hard; a sword or polearm cannot go through the walls here, yet in the homes in which we have all lived, paper and thin hide were the most frequent material for inside walls. Eun-Suk's homeland experiences political upheavals daily; Gan grew up in the midst of pretenders to a century-dead throne. And the political philosophy we all share ..." Waralee pauses to neatly portion food onto rice. "Well. It is unpopular to the point of wholesale slaughter, in some cases. So we look for a new homeland."

Waralee and Eun-Suk hand bowls to the two men, then to you; after a short benediction (in whatever language she's speaking) by Eun-Suk, the four of them produce pairs of slim, hand-length sticks of ivory or other material and begin to eat. After a moment, Aimai produces a pair and hands them to you, saying, "Here. The one on guard remains so until the others finish their meal; I will clean them when you're done."

:: Azrael ::
Corwin growls, softly but uncertainly, the golden head shifting from one side to the other. "I cannot tell," he says all but under his breath, barely loud enough for you to hear - though it might be easier should you take a knee next to him. "There is ... there was something, someone, just for a moment."

And he is right; as you quiet your mind and allow yourself to let the ebb and flow of humanity and demihumanity shift and eddy about you and the mastiff, there is a shadow that breathes amongst the food-sale booths full of tubers and grains, cured hams and pickled odds and ends. At all times the sophonts of the world possess flashes of anger, hate, malevolence and violence; in a mass like this city, twenty-plus thousand in it, resentment and jealousy of the lowers towards the uppers is endemic, but such things are like black sparks flickering up from a massive fire - inevitable, flaring, but short-lived. Unfortunate, but normal.

What drifts across the face of your heart in its elusive and ghostly manner is entirely different than such ebon blots. There is a fleeting sense of deliberate patience, malevolent intent, and a gut-twisting sense which, were it on your fingers, would be similar to greasy soot. But that is all it is - faint, fleeting, like an echo through a dozen empty streets.

In the heart of your soul, the Five Wings flex, like a boxer loosening up his shoulders in case he must fight.

:: Aolis ::
The servant looks confused for a moment. "Uhhm. Duzzat mean I should show 'em up, sor?"

"Worry not about it, lad," says a voice behind the built-like-a-block-and-just-about-as-smart man, "I'm here already. Go on, see yourself off." The servant turns ponderously around, blinks down, then shrugs and steps around the ... gnome-in-the-hallway, rather unusually stolid for a gnome (middle brown suit, heavy dark brown overcoat, a tan coped hood. "Hello, there," the gnome says, tilting his head back so he can look up at you. "Mph. You'd be -- what's your name, Aolin, something like that? You're not who I wanted to see, but that's life. Mind if we talk anyhow? If you ordered a carriage or something," he adds helpfully, drawing his hood back a bit to better see you, "there was none such outside."

Aolis sighs, that was the problem with the world. No one bothered to instill the basics in everyone.

"If I am not who you are looking for, then perhaps I am not the person you should be speaking to."

He scans the gnome.

"Their is the matter of me having no idea who you are, with your failure to introduce yourself and lacking the knowledge of my name at that. I don't think we would have much to talk about, yet if you think otherwise. I'll be in the common room."

He moves pass him on his way to the common area. Getting someone to go order that carriage for him before taking a seat. Nakir remains silent and observant as he takes a seat as well.

Amavin politely nods her head respectfully when its her turn to receive her bowl, before giving an amused smile at the ivory sticks. She attempts to use them a few times, but, if she is having a lack of success she gives a wry smile. "It appears I have some way to go in mastering this art", she remarks before concentrating slightly, attempting to use her Mage Hand cantrip to assist her in the movement of the sticks - allowing her to master the cooking utensil a little bit better.

Rostland, Brevoy.
The Free City of Restov
Wealday 1st Calistril - Oathday 2nd Calistril, 4710 AR.

In Calistril, it doesn't matter where in Brevoy you are; it's cold.

This morning's sun broke bright and icy in a crystalline blue sky, traditional for the last official month of winter; while snow may yet be in the offering between now and late Pharast, most of the heaviest falls are behind the city. The Swordlords and the nobility of Rostland are making final preparations for the party - or rather, The Party, to give it the emphasis it requires - on Oathday the 2nd, better known as Merrymead, which brings a very welcome flow of silver and gold from the coffers of the rich to the coffers of the not-so-rich. Even the bootblacks and torchbearers can look forward to a night of money-in-the-pocket, re-primping a lord's footgear or lighting the way for a carriage (or a handful on foot) from The Party to one of the countless post-Party soirees already scheduled.

The added influx of adventure-hungry swordsmen, land-hungry farmers, fresh-faced journeymen, power-hungry noble scions, god-hungry fanatics, and blood-hungry plotters has swollen the city's eighteen-thousand plus to well over twenty thousand; while the farmers have been welcomed readily by the chamberlain Oskar Vorwilde, the leaders of the rest have undergone interviews by both Vorwilde and Sir Nikita Alexeyevich, the Royal Captain of the Guard. You too have had these interviews, alone and with the rest of your group, now you wait nervously like the rest of the two- or three-dozen adventuring groups, some of you packing the inns of the town full, some of you getting clever and renting a townhome for yourselves and your minions, and some among you in the barren, snow-mounded fields just outside of town, pallisades erected to keep at bay hungry wolves and desperate bandits alike, housing not just yourselves but hundreds of farmers, mostly alone but a few families, in singles and groups ranging from strict order to a mish-mash of chaos.

Many of the farmers will be headed back home by Starday or Sunday, having gotten the promise of funds or transportation they need, to gather together their meager households and head south when the warmer winds blow in four or six weeks - in time to get there and break ground, not so soon that the ground will still be frozen. Others, mostly craftsmen of one stripe or another but almost all of them either journeyfold fresh out of their apprenticeships or those needing a new start, will wait for spring as well. Some few - vagabonds, or those who have been already turned out by landowners or mastercraftsmen, or the sharp ones who know that 'first established, best established' has been a watchword for millenia - will undoubtedly travel with the new king and his baggage train as they advance to the nearest safe haven (likely Nivatka's Crossing or Oleg's Trading Post, but some suggest that Chalm has cut a deal to temporarily establish himself in Fort Serenko) and begin tromping through the average of two feet of snow (and drifts varying from five to twelve feet in height) to start poking around and seeing what troubles can be stirred up, then quelled for good. The Stolen Lands have an even worse reputation than pretty much all the rest of the River Kingdoms; it is, bluntly, the most lawless area of them all. While others confidentially hint that Chalm will march deep into the Kamelands immediately to establish himself on the Tuskwater or Candlemere, this seems unlikely at best.

Red Table Square
Wealday 1st Calistril, 4710 AR.
Midmorning.

Today is the day. Today, invitations to The Party are being sent out across the town, to those of political and military acumen who have stepped up to ask to accompany - to lead - the spread of Brevoy's culture into the Stolen Lands, to take risks and subdue the land so that the farmers and farriers that follow will be able to live and farm and work in peace, without risk (or at least at much lower risk) of getting spitted on some bandit's sharpened stick, or burned out by some goblin pyromaniac.

Sure, The Party (perhaps 'The Royal Party' would not be out of place, eh?) isn't until tomorrow night - when the entire town is going to be having a party or two, and even the Castle (where The Party is taking place) will have a large portion of the bailey open to the public as they distribute the last of the winter alcohol, but you really do need forewarning if you're going to attend this sort of society bash. Granted, the people who knew they were going to be going - you know, the nobles of Rostland and all - basically got a month of preparation time to fine-tune their Merrymead outfits, which is all you really need. Or you need to be obscenely wealthy, but hey - nobles usually are, eh?

What getting invited means, however, is that you've been accepted - that you (along with an undefined number of others) will have a hand in developing vast tracts of land, civilizing bandits, turning monster lands into ... well, whatever it is, it'll be happening soon. Shortly, even, because at your group's interview they told you that the decision as to whom would be accepted would be posted publically at noon today, and announced to the crowd at Red Table Square.

It's just now passing ten o'clock, and the square is swamped ...

Theodric carefully makes his way through the noisy throng packing the Square this morning. Working by his senses of hearing and touch--sight hasn't been his guide for some years now--he is able to navigate surprisingly well, and a quick apology is kept ready for those times when he misjudges his steps. In his wake follows a recent addition to his party, one Lillana Selveratva. He's still not entirely certain about her presence, but her father wasn't exactly easy to turn down, so here she is. Fortunately, she's quite level-headed for a noble's get, and already proving helpful as she occasionally takes Theodric on brief sidetrips to delicately probe for useful information. Theodric has little issue with taking the role of her bodyguard at these times, looming silently and--so he hopes, at least--impressively at her shoulder.

He doesn't begrude the time spent on these little stops, not that they take all that long in any case. And, though he would never admit to this aloud, he rather enjoys listening to Lillana charm, flatter, and coax her targets into revealing what they know. Whether the information is of any use, that's another matter entirely, of course. And it certainly helps pass the time until the announcement that everyone is here for. Theodric does take a few moments to ponder the whereabout of the others in his service. His kinsman Mikos should--had better be, if he knows what's good for his health--be in camp with Seria and the others, keeping a close watch over the Harvesters' supplies. And Darvan left camp shortly after sunrise, hoping to find a swordlord, or three, willing to accept his challenge to a spar. As he once more takes the lead from Lillana on yet another meadering circuit of the Square, Theodric hopes his friend found what he looking for.

Rolling out of his tent already bundled in the thick clothing this atrocious northern weather demands, Darvan greets the pre-dawn light with a joint-loosening stretch that easily shifts into his morning ritual of practicing his stances and forms. The movements flow easily, even in his heavy outfit, and Darvan quietly relishes the familiarity of his actions. After what he estimates, with the aid of the increasing light to the east, to be a third of a candlemark, he brings his movements to a controlled stop, with only a faint increase in his breathing showing his exertion. His next action is a curious one, were an onlooker available to comment on it; Darvan takes a loop of braided hair from around his neck and carefully undoes the braiding, combing his fingers repeatedly through to ensure that the strands are fully separated. He then takes a seat on a bare patch of frozen ground, folds his legs into a painful-looking contortion, and begins to carefully rebraid the hair. He doesn't even look at what he's doing, yet the motions of his fingers are sure and steady nonetheless. When the braid is restored, Darvan carefully makes a loop of it once again and places it back around his neck. By this time, the sun has risen fully, and Darvan reaches into his tent for a slim volume, which he spends a time reading through. Closing the book with a regretful sigh, he returns it to his tent, then rises to his feet and approaches a nearby wagon.

Entering the wagon, Darvan soon returns with a bundled blanket whose squirming contents he remorselessly turns out into a convenient snowdrift, revealing a cold-stunned young man who quickly gathers his wits and makes a desperate dash for the interior of the wagon, only to be stopped by Darvan. "None of that, young Valtrava! You know quite well whose turn it is to ready the morning meal. And you also know what Theodric is like without coffee." At the mention of Theodric, the young man pales slightly, slumps dejectedly, and makes his way to a nearby firepit, which he begins readying for use. Darvan chuckles and gives the young man a pat on the back before returning the blanket. "Be of good cheer, Mikos, for next week is someone else's turn to greet the morning like this. Now, I'm on my way into the city to find someone to spar with. Be sure to inform your cousin of this when he's awake, yes?" Getting a nod and a mumble from the young man, Darvan chuckles again and leaves the camp for the nearby gates of Restov.

Getting into the city takes little time, and Darvan is soon on his way to Riverside and the many schools devoted to the swordsman's art that are to be found there. Though no swordsman himself, Darvan hopes to find some eager opponent who won't let such a minor detail as that stop an earnest challange from being accepted. Of course, before finding this hypothetical opponent, he first has to find a school where they congregate. Fortunately, his years of working in the area have left him with a bit more information than most foreigners would normally possess, so Darvan has at least some idea of where to start his search.

Before the interviews: Lyda and her group arrived a scant day before her interview. Many people were headed south and the normal trade roads were clogged with travelers. Because of the inclement weather and the wagon load of people and goods, Lyda was forced to take these roads and ended up behind schedule. While she and several others got tents set up and fires going, Winnie and Joanne headed into town to learn of where the interviews were taking place and see if accommodations could be found. Winnie was successful but Joanne was not. But that was to be expected. They town was full near to bursting.

That first day was both a nightmare and blessing to Lyda's wilderness-honed senses. Stoneclimb was nothing compared to Restov. Not even during festival days had she seen this many people clogging the streets. There was so much to hear and smell and see but all of it had to be experienced from beneath a slightly over-sized hood. One with fluffy fur trim too (Winnie's idea). Winnie had reminded her that the normal populace might be put off (a kind way of putting it) by her horns and tail. She was taller than most woman and stood out enough as it was. She didn't need pitch forks and torches as well. The walk to the interview and back was quite enough for one day. She'd wait until Wealday to return and see if things had gone well.

Day before Wealday: The days after the interview where spent in seemingly quiet contemplation. Outwardly Lyda, seemed as calm as ever. Inwardly she was a mess of emotion. Helen's death had come harder than she thought possible and now here she was, trying to live up to the woman's expectations. She'd never wanted anything more in her entire life. She did more than her normal training and exercises to burn off the excess energy. So much so that Kasha was avoiding her, favoring Joanne's son, Shawn, for now.

Another Ranger had joined their group and brought only slightly more people than Lyda. Together, they had been dubbed Voice of the Mountains. Apt if uninspired. And while, at first, they had mingled little over the journey, as hunters aren't prone to being talkative, until Deneb and Joanne got working. Deneb organized a little celebration the day before Wealday and managed to bag an elk for the dinner entree. Then Joanne slow cooked it during the day and turned it into something only magic could have made better. She'd also gotten a few barrels of mead at a decent price from the city. It wasn't a tavern party but it was certainly more fun than they'd had all winter.

Wealday: As with the previous days, Lyda was extremely nervous but felt much better after last nights festivities. She saw no need to head into town until just before the announcement at Red Table Square. When she was readying to go she heard a very enthusiastic conversation.

"Please can I go? Please? Please? Please?"

"Dear, I am not the one you should be asking."

Lyda's hunter instincts kicked into high alert and she spun to avoid Charlotte's flying tackle. She was getting closer each time. "Aw. Why'd you dodge?" Charlotte quickly picked herself up and dusted herself off. "May I please accompany you and Deneb to the announcement? Pleeeeeeease." Not sure what to do, Lyda looked at Winnifred who was covering her face and shaking head in silent laughter. No help there. Jasper looked just as interested in going but was holding it in better. Shawn seemed content petting Kasha and Joanne was watching out of the corner of her eye.

Lyda made the mistake of looking down and right into the Charlotte's puppy-dog eye trap. "Fine."

"Yay." Charlotte gave her a quick hug and started almost skipping towards Restov. Jasper raised a finger and got as far as "Um" before being cut off.

"I can only handle one of you," Lyda said fallowing after the over-enthusiastic youth. Jasper visibly slumped. He felt a tap on his shoulder plate a moment later.

"Hey, can you show me that move you did yesterday?" Shawn asked.

"Yeah, sure," Jasper said, a little forlorn but not as much.

An uncomfortably large number of people had gathered at the Red Table Square. But it was expected. They stuck towards the back as they waited. Charlotte kept up a running commentary and Lyda did her best to humor her. If nothing else, the girl was good distraction from Lyda's tall stature and odd garb.

"I could just be a crow on a roof and get to see everything but nooooo. Someone forbade shapeshifting within the city," came a voice from her right. Lyda smiled but did not look down.

"Should I have brought Jasper so you can ride his shoulders?"

"At this point I'd ride Charlotte's. All I see is legs and dwarf butts." Charlotte had tuned into the conversation when her name was said but now all three were laughing at dwarf butts. With Charlotte on one side and Deneb on the other, Lyda stayed successfully distracted form her nerves. She was happy they cacme along.

Before the interviews: As much as he wanted to, Deneb was forbade from circling the city overhead until Winnie came back. When she did he was sorely disappointed. He could neither bring Garuda within or over the city and was also forbade from shapeshifting unless threatened with bodily harm. Boring. But that still didn't mean he couldn't enjoy himself. Even though cities felt a little imposing to his new druidic sensibilities, he was still a people person. He stayed much later than Lyda on the day of the interview to see who was in attendance. Who were the big movers and shakers. Not for political reasons but just to know.

Before Wealday: In the days leading up to the announcement, Deneb got some quality time in high in the sky, either riding Garuda or flying with him as a bird himself. He stayed away from the town but did circle around the outside a time or too. But most of the time was spent organizing the shindig and having fun. He'd bought a few decks of cards and other games ahead of time so the stuffy hunters would have something to do and start up conversations. They were some of the hardest people to get going but once they found something in common, it was hard to stop them. Months alone in a forest will do that.

Wealday: Deneb heads out early on foot (so boring) to find a good spot for the announcement. But being a hafling, there weren't a lot of "good" spots. Even standing on a bench or barrel or crate wasn't enough to see much. So he used these failed opportunities to find people he knew and have a chat. That or just stare at the sky, wishing he could perch as a bird on one of the roof tops.

With the anticipation surrounding the day's big announcement, Darvan finds little interest in challenges among the usual candidates, when he can even find a swordlord who isn't at the Red Table Square for some reason. Shrugging to himself in resignation, he makes his own way to the Square with the intention of joining up with Theodric. If his friend isn't there already, he most assuredly will be before noon, and will likely be making plans as soon as he learns of the Dashing Harvesters' role--or lack thereof--in the events to come.

One of the first Deneb spots is Darivan and his new order. Once he is fairly certain they will stay in one spot, he hopes down from a bench and ambles over. In a teasing voice he says, "Well if it isn't little Darvi? Could see your glow from across the street. And hellp Sylvia," he says looking over at the young wizard. "At least you get prettier each day. Darvi looks like he's just getting shinier."

With a disgruntled look on his face, Aramil threads his way through the crowd in the Red Table Square. Although the time spent training his distant cousins had been nice and relaxing (they were at least less likely to stab themselves now), he would have been more than happy to set them up as their own group to try and journey to the Stolen Lands, and instead sought to journey with his old adventuring compatriots. Instead, he not only would be staying with them, but the bureaucrat they'd signed up with had listed him as the leader. So, now he was here in a massive crowd of people all eagerly awaiting to hear their names called to join the expedition. Sighing, he found a spot where his height would allow him to see what was going on, then scanned the crowd, looking to see what he could see. He wasn't sure if Porablum would be joining him or not, depending on how populated the common rooms were this day.