"I'm glad to hear you're invigorated" Sorala's mindvoice tuts, watching the near miss of the boarding axe swinging by her head. "But they are trying to kill me here. Steel yourself."
Eitleán's blade shimmers just so slightly in the light, almost imperceptible, but Sorala knows the rimeblade has just fortified itself, and Eitleán will cut extra deep.
Sorala considers bolstering her defenses some more, but quickly discards the thought. The leader's weapon seemed to be suffering a malfunction - it was best to take advantage of the opening.
Ignoring the half-orc bruiser next to her, Sorala sprints towards the leader, Eitleán's glow bobbing faintly through the smoke. Jumping over rubble and a blackened corpse, Sorala finds her balance off, her vision narrowing, the aftereffects of the blast still lingering. Gripping Eitleán with both hands, Sorala steps to the leader and swings the rimeblade with an overhead grunt, a wobbly strike intended to maximize the carnage if it lands...
Spells cast: Mirror image, invisibility
Eitleán arcane pool: 1/2
Black Blade Strike (Sp): 9/10 rounds. As a free action, the magus can spend a point from the black blade’s arcane pool to grant the black blade a +1 bonus on damage rolls for 1 minute. For every four levels beyond 1st, this ability gives the black blade another +1 on damage rolls.
Sorala darts past the confused half-orc, keeping her eye on the prize. Moving over the smashed and half-burned refuse is difficult however and the pirate has time to take a swing at the running Squire. This doesn't surprise Sorala but she inwardly grids herself against possible pain as the axe whistles through the smoky, acrid air.
Another mirror image flickers and vanishes, slashed in half by the bemused half-orc. By now Sorala is long gone, vaulting a still smoking barrel and coming to grips with the obvious enemy leader. Maybe if she struck this gunslinger down, it would counteract the chaos in her own ranks. The figure looks surprised when Sorala is suddenly upon them, the rimeblade a frigid slice of Irrisen.
The figure tries to leap backwards off the anvil, but Soral is too quick for her. Alastia taught her many things but the first and last was that speed was the key. How many hours had she drilled, practicing the same move for hours until her arm could preform it without thought, without delay?
That smooth grace served her well now as she ripped the razor rimeblade across her foe. Eitleán slices through clothing, bone and flesh with the same ease as a farmer harvesting fresh wheat. A gout of bright red blood erupts from the wound as the gunslinger topples back with a huge slash across their chest. They barely manage to catch themselves, boots on smoky cobbles, gasping the smoky air. The eyes blink and focus on Sorala who notes, with that detachment of battle, they are rather pretty green eyes, outlined in glittering eyeshadow.
The eyes grow wide, not only in what must be shocking pain, but also at the sight of 3 Sorala's bearing down on her. The gunslinger had clearly expecting to mop up half a dozen dazed and battered Irrisen soldiers, not come face to face with a trained magical warrior. So they did the only think one does in such circumstances.
They ran.
With only a moment's hesitation they turned and darted back into the still smoking and burning ruin of the blacksmithy, boots leaving scrapes in the soot.
"We'll meet again!" The shout in rather melodramatic fashion as they ran, blood still seeping from the deep and cutting wound. In a moment they have vanished into the blackened rubble.
Sorala turns toward the rest of the battle.
It is a haphazard melee of smoke and shouting. Her Irriseni soldiers look the worse for wear but they have kept their wits about them, retreating to the far side of the alley, putting their backs against the wall. The maneuver worked because the Port Perilers were more focused on the other two fighters.
Two flanked Vasim, and the roaring werewolf's fury was something they clearly did not want to face head on. They slashed and danced, the sailors doing a decent job of escaping the snapping jaws and jagged claws. Vasim had his share of wounds as well, a nasty cut across the muzzle and a dark, seeping wound in one leg. Still, he was up and fighting.
Maidrayne Vox, Mistress of Blades for the Order of the Nail stood like a tower, surrounded by six heavily armed pirates. Her black spear shone like dark diamond in the setting sun, moving with blurring speed that Sorala's eyes could barely follow. First high, then low, then a jab strong enough to gut a draft horse. Her armored feet scraped loudly on the stone, the grating sound the only move the silent fighter made. Her movements made the pirates (and, to be honest Sorala's own) look like amateur, like childern playing with willow reeds and pinecones. Sorala was a fine solider and a good fighter, but Vox was a warrior.
In fact, the Chelish guard was so efficient, Sorala wondered how she had any foes left. Surely she could have dispatched them like a wolf among rabbits? Then she saw why, Lord Carvious huddled at her feet, almost holding on to one armored leg. The Hellknight was playing defense, forced to counter, forced to place her charge first instead of simply wading forward and relying on her armor to save her.
Fighting against five or six was too much for even the greatest warrior forever however and eventually she would miss a thrust or misjudge a parry and the noble would pay the price. Vox was in no real harm of being injured herself, the full plate was nearly impentrable to the ill-practiced pirates, but Lord Carvius would surely be injured.
Unless Sorala helped, of course. But the White Squire had other duties, other choices. The gunslinger could still be caught, her own men protected, and even Vasim was technically under her command and therefore her responsibility. Besides, would the world be a worse place if Carvius suddenly stopped being a factor?
Or perhaps Vox would take it personally....
Sorala frowns as the gunslinger disappears into the rubble of the blacksmith shop, silently cursing herself for not using her entrapping magic and instead trying to end the enemy's life in one powerful swing.
Fight smart. You're not Vox, the Squire tuts, this time apbrading herself instead of her sword, and turns to the field of battle, options flickering through her mind like a sputtering candle.
She could - probably should - follow the pirate leader. But that would leave her men to fend for themselves, and they were mere babies in a fight. They needed training, and that meant living past the evening. Plus, she owed Rossem and the other fallen the effort of making sure more didn't join them in the afterlife. They were her command, after all.
And there was the noble, certainly the most important person on the field for his mistress's purposes. To best serve her house, ensuring his survival would be wise. But Vox also would likely do so, with or without Sorala's assistance. Would ignoring his plight hurt her House?
And there was the wolf, though he could live or die as far as Sorala was concerned. If he lived, he proved his worth, though she could make an enemy in the process.
"A real Baba Yaga's feast," Sorala's mindvoice muttered as she slid around the anvil, facing her soldiers. The old Irriseni colloquialism, denoting a plethora of choices, opportunity cost attached to each. Sometimes the good thing to do was not the right thing to do. Perhaps she could nibble at one of Baba Yaga's morsels while eating another whole?
Hopping over a smoldering tangle of wood, Sorala cast a quick glance towards Vox and extended her free arm, stretching her fingers together like the point of a spear, and uttered harsh syllable, a sound almost like the crack of an icicle falling from the eaves of a roof. Conjured shards of ice and packed snow flew from Sorala's outstretched hand, arcing through the air towards one of Vox's opponents. With any luck, one of her opponents would be removed from the fight, and that would be enough to turn the tide for Vox and Carvius.
Turning her attention to her soldiers, Sorala picked up speed, sliding through the smoke like a banshee as she yelled. "I cut your boss like a sow and she ran, bleeding from the gut! She'll die within the hour, but first two of you to surrender live!"
"The right choice," Eitleán agrees mildly in her head, "There will always been more opportunities but not always more lives." A bit strange coming from the usual brutally practical blade.
The frigid ball of ice and snow flew through the humid tropical evening air like a bullet sent from a sling, a blur of glittering white. One of the armed sailors just has time to notice it when it strikes him in the head hard enough to that the crack echoes across the little battlefield. The Port Peril local stiffens then slumps to the ground like a felled tree, sprawling lifelessly across the cobbles. Had she killed him?
Maidrayne Vox moves with liquid speed at the sudden gap in the ring of foes. With one mighty heave she tucks the cowering Carvius under an arm, lowers her shoulder and bulrushes a suddenly shocked sailor. The hapless woman is trampled under the Hellknight's armored charge, and then Vox tosses Carvius in a safe corner. She then turns to face the sailors again, bloody spear rolling in her hands.
The fearsome fighter takes one step forward, now free to advance as she sees fit.
That tiny step, and Sorala's shouted threat, is enough. The sailors bolt and run, hurtling for the allies and byways of Port Peril. They leave the dead as they lay, running away from both the looming armored Hellknight and the ice casting magus.
In a few seconds the ambushers are long gone, even the echoes of their feet on cobbles vanishing. Vox assumes a parade rest, spear butt planted on the ground, feet spread apart. Behind her Carvius shakily climbs to his feet, looking around at the scattered remains, both material and biological.
The Irriseni fighters remain huddled together against the wall, still bewildered by the sudden onset and just as rapid retreat of their foes.
"You fight well, Squire." Lord Carivus finally says, voice strong as ever. "You are clearly a credit to your Mistress. You have our thanks for your assistance." The chemical tang of the smoke lingers in the air, coating Sorala's tongue. Still, it covered the taste of her own blood from where she bit her cheek during the blast.
The whole ambush had lasted at most half a minute, and just as suddenly as it began, their enemies disappeared into the smoky, tangled streets of the humid, dilapidated city.
Crouching, Sorla wiped Eitleán clean on the shirt of a nearby pirate corpse and peered about the battlefield. "Thank you, M'Lord. We are fortunate that you were here. It could have been much worse for us. I assume that Port Peril is an important stop for your forces on the way to your holdings in the South? Once we pacify the city, we can be great friends with the Chelish, and I'm happy to have been of service to you today."
Noting some soot covering her hand, Sorala scrubs at it with her shirt sleeve, just smudging it further. A small, flat smile crosses her face. "I am sorry for your clothes, M'Lord. You'll need another bath when the day is over. If it is any consolation, the Lady Elysia will likely appreciate that we fought together."
Drawing a slender wand, Sorala regards it briefly as she walks towards her soldiers. The wand was hewn from a great northern pine, or rather broken from it - it looked to have little finish to it. It was not straight, nor was it carved with sigils or other obviously arcane enspellings. It looked, at first glance, like a twig broken from a branch. Its defining characteristic was that appeared to have been burned in a fire; the wand was blackened, and dropped bits of white ash as Sorala carried it through the now still air. If she dropped it now, it would likely be indistinguishable from the rubble all around, but the wand held great power - it was steeped in devil's blood and burned in the hottest of House Morgannan's hearths, and it could bestow a devil's gift of unnatural healing upon those touched. Sorala raised it to the soldier with the most grievous wound, a nasty strike from a pirate club, and tapped him with it as she spoke to the survivors.
"Smart, to back as a group to this wall. You adapted quickly to the ambush and rallied as one for your protection. I'm proud of you."
The soldier's wound, a gash already purpling around the cut, staunched and began to knit itself shut and Sorala turned to the rest of her soldiers. "Go through the possessions of the enemy. Set aside anything you can find. Put it all there, atop the anvil that their leader stood atop. Who else is hurt?"
Next, Sorala turns to Vasim. The werewolf had shown poor judgement today, first with the assault on the Chelish and then again with his need to take the lead through the unfamiliar city. That job should have fallen to the now absent Norintha. Sorala considers denying Vasim healing, but discards the idea. It would do Sorala little good to make an enemy. Raising the wand, Sorala taps Vasim once on the forehead. "You fought well, Vasim. Lady Elysia is lucky to have such a fierce fighter."
Next, Sorala visits each of her downed men, tapping them once with her wand. If they still clung to life, the wand should make that apparent. She pauses at Rossem's body. "We'll take our dead back with us. They will receive a hero's burning."
Straightening back up, Sorala watches her men go through the corpses, and then once they have been disarmed, she once again uses her wand, this time on the enemy. She stops after each one, pausing to see if they heal, before moving onto the next. If the wand worked, she would not bring more than one back from the brink of the next world.
"Quick to start, eager to flee. Interesting fighters, these southerners." Eitleán comments musingly, neither dismissive or complimentary.
Lord Carvius considers the dirty and slightly torn clothing with surprising aplomb. He starts patting his jacket, as if looking for something, his voice distracted, "Yes, Port Peril is a key point of interest for the Empire." In moment he smiles, withdrawing a wand of his own. Unlike Sorala's rather primeval stick of wood however, this is finely wrought and pure white, carefully cut and polished.
"As for pacifying the city.." The nobleman's eyes swept from the smoking blacksmithy to the corpses littering the street to the scorched cobblestones. "It may take you longer you desire, I fear."
As Sorala turns to her men, she can't help but notice that Carvius starts surveying his clothing with renewed intensity. Then, with a flick of the wrist, pokes the worst stains and tears with the wand. Instantly the smudges vanish, the threads re-done, the shocking red shimmering back to life. Harnessing the very warp and weft of reality, tapping into the vast arcane well that hides behind this Plane to...repair clothes. Remarkable. Sorala supposed she was lucky he didn't summon an imp to re-do the tailoring.
Sorala turns to the still startled troops, their eyes as wide as a panicked horse. They calm somewhat at her words and the Squire wonders if they expected punishment. It was not unknown for the Jadwiga to kill survivors after a botched battle as a lesson to future armies. Apart from the head wound one other solider, after some coaxing from his comrades, reveal a jagged slash down an arm.
After the healing they turn to the ordered pillaging with gusto and Sorala wonders if anything obviously valuable is found (coins, jewelry) if it will tucked in some hidden pockets rather then shared.
Vasim growls but bows at her compliment and manages, "You did better, you chased off the leader. Your training has not been exaggerated, it seems." The werewolf seems both frustrated and prideful in this, as if he had personally helped Sorala become the highly trained fighter she was today. As if she represented him, on behalf of Irrisen.
She finds one fallen Irriseni solider alive, eyes spasming wildly. The man is shivering despite the muggy, unnatural heat. She touches him with the healing wand and although the magic courses through him, it is too little, too late. Even to Sorala's untrained eye, the man is visably dying, blood pooling under him in a dark sheet, turned black by the setting sun.
With a last grunt he grabs her wrist and whsipers, in hoarse Hallit, the langauge of the poor, "Tell me, mother...where are we? Where am I dying?" Sorala realizes, with revulsion, that her 'troops' are not even aware of where they are asked to fight and die.
All of the fallen pirates are dead, Vasim's claws and Vox's spear equally deadly. Judging from the fallen near the Chelish, Sorala guesses the Hellknight dispatched any fallen foes as a routine part of combat. A savage practice, even by Irrisen standards and Sorala had though her people unsurpassed in brutality.
In short order there is a tiny cairn atop the anvil, of items scrounged from the dead. A handful of exotic coins, most worn and stained, coppers and bronze. Sorala idlily wonders from how far these coins may have traveled, in the pocket of a sailor. Garund? Tian Xia? More distant?
Most of the rest of the items seemed to be lucky charms of one sort or another. Rabbit's feet, dried tangles of herbs, an entire preserved fish of some sort. Oddly, despite most of the sailors visibly having had jewelry during the attack, none is resting on the anvil.
There is one magical item in the small, rather sad pile. A spike of coarse dull looking metal, dark against the anvil's hardened steel.
Sorala smiles at Vasim's backhanded compliment, the rimeblade still shimmering in the dispersing smoke. The White Squire would not sheath the sword until they were on the ice floe, and perhaps not even then. After all, that ice floe may be the most dangerous place in Port Peril right now.
"I aimed to kill the leader in one blow and did not succeed. Had I been smarter, I would have disabled them and picked them apart, one limb at a time. Alas, the leader is still a threat, while yours are not."
---
Closing the dead soldier's eyes, Sorala stands and looks to her remaining men. These poor bastards. Fodder for Jadwiga whims. Of course, she was too, just better equipped. In the end they all were fodder.
---
Sorala pockets the nail and raises a worn coin to the afternoon's quickly vanishing light. The bronze disc, shaved into an oval shape from the whittlings of coin clippers, was rubbed almost clear of distinguishing features, a barely visible bird etched on one side. The bird was leaping into the air, wings outstretched, legs elongated, long in the ways of the birds of the south as Sorala understood them. Cranes? Yes, they were called cranes, the Squire recalls, and places the coin next to the nail in her bandolier, a memento from this fight.
She turns to her men, barking at them in Hallit. "When I said put everything from the dead on the anvil, I meant everything - the dead's jewelry too. You may keep the jewelry this time, but know that I do not expect, nor do I want, creative interpretation of my orders. Next time, do as I say, or it will be the last time."
"This time, you will earn the jewelry for taking our dead back to our camp. Gather the bodies and get moving. The day grows short."
Switching to Taldane, Sorala gives Carvius a wave of her arm, a sweeping gesture towards the bay. "You look as fine as ever, M'Lord. After you."
The other Irrisen solider look at each other, at Sorala and then away, anywhere but her bright eyes. The grimy stones, the slapdash port Peril Houses, the now dark evening sky...anywhere. They grab the fallen bodies and carry them in makeshift slings, sledges or simply on their back like bags of good bound for market. The soldiers were not much in a fight but the cold northlands bred strong shoulders and wide backs. They would manage.
Lord Carvius slicks back his hand with on hand and then bows shortly, "Of course."
They cross the rest of Port Peril without incident, or sight of Norintha. The halfling had been a useful guide and promised to be an interesting ally. Sorala doubted she had seen the last of the formidable woman but for now, she had to rely on her own sense of direction and navigation. Luckily, it did not lead her wrong.
It is full dark when they reach the bridge of ice leading out into the harbor. The sky is a star spangled tapestry of white and blue sparks, a swirling immensity that is possible to get lost in. Even a quick glance tells Sorala that while she recognizes many of them, the night sky is not the same she grew up with. If she wanted to be able to use it, she'd have to re-learn those old lessons...
The air was rich and humid, clinging to her skin, full of the city scents. The birdsong had died away, replaced with the buzzing whir of insects and the silent beat of bat wings. The bats she was used to, Irrisen had plenty, it was the bugs that were a new annoyance. More then once she felt a sharp slice of a bite, replaced by a dull, throbbing itch. Sometimes the Squire quick hands even caught the offending insects, smashing it to a red paste but there always seemed to be more hungry bugs. How did the locals deal with this every night?
Barely visible in the gloom she spotted other soldiers and Irriseni troops gathered about. They were not in even a semblance of order, simply milling about in rough groups. Some were cooking food over low fires, while others were bickering about small piles of loot. Sorala saw heaped linens, jumbled furniture, even small piles of coins and jewelry. Food though seemed to be the most valued property, with one bearded warrior defending a bucket of potatoes as if his life depended on it. And maybe it did.
There were no guards, no patrols, not even any officers.
Lord Carvius took this all in in an instant, sniffed once and then indicated the black outline of the iceflow, glittering in the starlight.
"I presume our destination lies ahead?"
Sorala is quiet as they make their way towards the ice flow, formulating a plan for how to deal with the introduction of Carvius to Elysia - and in the moments when she allows herself a moment to let her mind wander Sorala wonders what awaits them at the iceflow. What shape would her House's troops be in? What would be the state of command? Sorala held little hope it would impress the Chelish nobleman she accompanied.
Still, her people little use for ships, and this was a big advantage. They should be able to pacify the city when it was all said and done.
Stopping at the crest of a hill, the bay spreads out before them, most of the city having gone dark with nightfall so as not to bring attention to the invaders. Only the occasional light still twinkled on a street or from a house's window, here and there. The stars above them, however, were much brighter than usual - of so Sorala assumed, with the bulk of the city darkened. It spread out above them like a bejewled, black satin sheet. An unfamiliar one at that. Sorala thinks briefly of asking Carvius if she could borrow one of the books on navigation from his library, but thinks better of it. Best not be indebted to the man, and besides, there were surely bookshops and mapmakers in Port Peril. She'd find one in the daylight. Casting a thought at her small, but useful library back home, Sorala sighs, and then with a twinge slaps at her neck, her hand drawing away streaked with blood. Best get moving. They seem to bite less if you're moving.
The state of the forces around the flow are predictably embarrassing. Sorala merely shrugs as she leads their procession to the bay's edge, offering Carvius the thinnest of excuses. "We are of course still setting up the, the... what is the word to your southern military minds? The beachhead. Please, stay here. I shall return shortly. I need to inform Lady Morgannan that I've brought a visitor."
Turning to her men, Sorala barks an order in Hallit. "Stay with the Lord. Tell anyone that he's under my protection. And that the knight will easily kill a company of our men if bothered. We'll give our dead a hero's burning later tonight, but for now, keep them close and our soldiers away."
Facing the iceflow, Sorala took a deep breath, and stepped quickly towards the darkened silhouette.
The ice clicks under her boots reassuringly, a more familiar feel then the slick greasy stones or sucking mud of the tropical streets. The air above the icy causeway is cooler too, easing her sweaty and bug-bitten skin somewhat, a soothing balm of chill. The insects fade away, driven off by even this hint of northern climes. What would they do in a true northern blizzard? Sorala had seen winds cold enough to freeze skin solid in moments, to turn boiling water to ice before it had time to hit the ground.
The water sloshed against the ice, here and there creating half-frozen puddles on the surface but so far the magically induced bridge seemed to be holding. Perhaps whatever wizardry that had transported them here would preserve this ice floe for far longer then nature would normally permit it. Sorala wondered what the fish, for surely fish lived in the harbor, made of the giant frozen interloper. Did fish even think of such things?
The bridge was busy though, if chaotic. Others were coming and going from the seat of power to the city, soldiers, servants, looters. Most were humans, some still bundled in furs fresh out of the portal while others had shed their Irriseni garb, or at least the outer layers. Perhaps such differences would mark those with more time in the South versus those fresh off the snow.
"That and the sunburns." Eitleán comments.
Others are not human however. Blue skinned trolls shuffle past, heavy feet scraping on ice, huge hammers glinting in the dim light. Fey of all sorts swarm past, teeth bared and fingers bloody. Werewolves stalked the shadows, some far more feral then Vasim. Sorala could only guess what terrors lay ahead if these creatures were turned loose. Sorala knew better then to label them mindless monsters, but that did not make them any dangerous.
Finally the White Squire reaches the iceberg itself, the heaping piles of ice glistening around her, the air even colder. Indeed, her breath even puffs in front of her in white clouds, even if fainter then back home. She rounds a tumbled pile of jagged ice and again, confronts the 'reception' area she left that morning. Some things have changed. Some had not.
The flat space hacked from the living ice was more crowded for one thing. Where in the morning the area had held the Lady, and perhaps a dozen servants and advisors, now the torch-light space was crammed full of troops, servants, porters and captives. Crates and boxes littered the area, smashed open to reveal treasures and loot of all sorts, all of it a much higher class then the carefully guarded potatoes of the rabble. Here, jewels and silver glittered, gold shimmered, priceless artwork lay scattered on the ice.
At the far end Lady Elysia Morgannan still sat on her throne, which looked more ornate then ever as if the iceberg was still resolving itself according to some unrolling vision. Where before it had been a rough outline of a chair, it was now a smooth elegant shape, graceful and hard. The lady had changed to a dress of rich red, her hair tied up in an ornate braid that wrapped around her smooth, pale neck. She sat eagerly forward, hands on the arms of her throne, face excited. Sorala knew that level of interest only meant one thing. Someone was about to be in serious pain.
Despite having looking elsewhere, the Jadwiga sense Sorala's approach and raised a single white hand. Instantly the hubbub of the area died away, replaced by a frosty silence where Sorala could hear her heart beating. It quickened as the Jadwiga's bright eyes settled on the Squire. Her mistress smiled, teeth gleaming.
"White Squire!" She says, voice rich with promises....of pleasure and pain. "You arrive at an opportune time. Perhaps you can be of use." Her smile intensifies, almost painfully beautiful. "Look, faithful servant." A manicured finger points ahead of her throne, and Sorala shifts her gaze.
To a line of perhaps a dozen men and women, kneeling in front of the icy throne. All are tied and bound with rough hemp cords, the knot tight enough to draw blood which pools on the frozen floor. They are a diverse group, humans, half-elf and even a half-orc. Some where outrageous finery, billowing shirts and wide cut pants while others wear the fighting leathers and linen Sorala is already associating with Port Peril. Most are shivering, with eyes downcast, but a few seem to still have some spirit left, staring up at Elysia with fiery eyes.
"See?" Lady Morgannan purrs, voice soft. "My first share of the plunder from our successful conquest. My captain sent me these as a taste, a gift, an offering. As is right."
Typical. How else to gain the favor of a master like Lady Elysia? By flattery, by bribery, by greed. Not of gold, of course, the Jadwiga had no lust for treasure. But an offering of blood, of pain....well, that could let one rise in the complicated politics of the court.
"But now I must choose." Elysia Morgannan says, idlily, tapping her lip in a stage actor's version of deep thought. Then the smile returns, "White Squire. Choose for me. Choose one of these to entertain me this evening, and perhaps to even share the night. On which of these lost barbarians would you bestow this honor on?"
Reinforcements had arrived from Lady Riina, and Sorala is a bit heartened as she makes her way over the ice bridge; the fey, ice trolls, and werewolves would make an impression on Carvius of strength.
Sorala's small, flat, frown appears once more at the sight of the treasure piled scattered about the berg at the beginning of Elysia's throneroom, however; were they mere bandits? Surely, there was a bigger plan at work here. Sorala hoped there was a bigger plan at work.
The receiving room - or area, as it may be, opened to the stars as it was, reveals nothing terribly surprising. Just Elysia engaged in a game of wanton cruelty. All this around her. A new place, vastly different from her home. And she engages in the same cruel delights as before.
Sorala doesn't miss a beat, replying even as she breaks into a low curtsy. "Thank you for this honor. I choose the nobleman, M'Lady. The one with the green silk shirt, who looks anywhere but his feet. He's got fire to him, and I'm sure knows much of what passes for the upper class in this fetid, ramshackle place. A suitable guest for your evening's delights."
The serfs here had hard lives, which were no doubt going to get harder. Thinking briefly of Norintha, Sorala realizes she has no desire to submit them to the cruelty of her mistress. But even more so, one less noble removed from the field is one less potential pain point for Sorala going forward. With any luck the noble she'd chosen wouldn't last the evening, and Elysia would learn something useful about the town in the process.
"Your captain is wise and kind to give you the best of his spoils for your evening's entertainment, M'Lady. You chose well in grooming such a servant. I have also brought you something - something which I believe you will agree has much value to our House."
Pausing, Sorala lets her words linger in the cool, still air, relishing the command she has over the silent room, and yes, even Elysia herself.
"I should begin with news of our success at the Old Fort. As you instructed," Sorala pauses again - it was always useful to remind Jadwiga of their orders, as they changed on a whim and were prone to being forgotten - "I made my way there to resolve the situation. I found that Vasim and his men had brought honor to House Morgannan. Vasim had thrown two waves of soldiers at the walls of the fort, and was preparing a third when the occupants of the fort flew the white flag. We engaged in parley to find the occupants were not locals, but rather a contingent of Chelish soldiers that had taken refuge there when the invasion began."
"This fetid swamp of a town is an important resupply station for the Chelish Empire, as I'm sure you know, M'Lady. They stop here on their way south to their colonies in Garund. Their armada was in port and at an unfortunate time. Our forces destroyed most of their fleet that was anchored in the bay, save their flagship, an immense vessel called the Geryon which contains half a thousand men by my estimation. Our forces killed the fleet's Commodore at the Old Fort. The captain of the flagship is also dead. One Captain Valero now helms the Geryon."
"Their lord, Lord Carvius, scion of House Charthagnion, Guardians of the Hespereth Straits, Keeper of the Nine Forts and Overlords of Kharijite lives, wishes an audience with you. He had questions that I dare not answer, M'Lady. He is here tonight, with his bodyguard, a Hellknight of great skill at arms called Vox. They wait outside the ice bridge as we speak."
"Carvius Charthagnion is an imperious man, of keen intellect and charismatic. He has some influence within the Chelish Empire, though not as much as he hopes, for he has been ordered to stay here indefinitely, to his chagrin. Likely to figure out what our goals and capabilities are. If you speak with him, he will pretend to speak only a little Skald but knows more of our tongue than he lets on. His ire is quick to be raised, and if you needle him enough, he can be brought to anger and threats of violence. He has an imp familiar whose name I do not know, and seems to be a binder of devils to some accomplishment. There is a summoning circle beneath his quarters on the Geryon, though Lord Carvius says there is nothing bound there at this time."
Sorala waves her hand around the court, a flit of her wrist encompassing the scene. "We of course have no need for ships to project our power. And you are within your rights to decline a meeting with the Chelish Lord and send him and the Geryon on its way. Or to have them join the rest of their navy at the bottom of our bay. But I would counsel you to take the meeting. The Chelish Empire is powerful, and they have need of us to hold their colonies in the south. Safe passage here must be worth something to them, yes?"
When Sorala chooses the well dressed man she guesses is a noble, many of the others captives sag in undisguised relief.
Fools. Did they not realize they had no hope? In the best case they would be shuffled off to work gangs, to be driven to death under whip and club lifting rocks or clearing buildings. More likely however they would simply remain here, waiting to be given up to Lady Elysia's pleasure. For the Jadwiga to use them up, like a child who burned her dolls after playing with. Considering what was often left of such playthings, the metaphor was rather apt.
The man Sorala chose however, merely spat and said, staring at Elyisa, "You'll never tame us witch. You think you are the first to try and claim Port Peril?" His voice is rich and tinged with an exotic rolling accent, but full of passion nonetheless. "Trying to hold us is like trying to grab water with your fists. We'll just slip right out." He actually gives a grin, although one tinged with ferocity, "I don't know where you ladies are from, but you don't know the hurricane you've lashed yourself to."
Lady Elysia Morgannan's smile widens and she actually gives a girlish giggle. Her eyes fill with a vivacious, hungry light. "Oh, excellent. I think you made the right choice, White Squire." The Jadwiga clapped her hands, "Take them away, for now. Prepare them for a night of diversion." Without another word the captives are hustled away by fur clad men and more then a few fey. The man Sorala chose is quiet as he is led away but holds Sorala's eyes for a long moment before vanishing behind a grinding tower of ice.
When Sorala gives her report, Elyisa is silent and bored looking. Her glacier colored eyes rarely focus on the Squire, instead roving over the assorted audience area, the lazily gathered loot, the flickering torches, the distant outline of the city. And yet, despite the outward appearance of a spoiled brat enduring a hated teacher's lesson, Sorala is not so sure.
Lady Elysia was not stupid. She would be less dangerous if she was. Fey? Yes. Megalomaniacal? Certainly. Capricious and driven to flights of self-indulgent fantasy? Indeed. But stupid? No.
After Sorala finishes, there is a long moment of silence as all in the area hold their breath to see how the Jadwiga would react. Sorala had once heard that such anticipation was much like predicting the weather. Unreliable and dangerous, but unavoidable.
Finally Elyisa gave a sigh and waved a manicured hand, "You did well in our service, Lady Squire. " Her usually mask-like face reveal a trace of doubt however as she goes on, "The Chelish..."
Sorala wonders how much the Jadwiga knew of outsiders and how often, if ever, she had dealt with them? This was a task better suited to her mother (or better yet, her sister) and her advisors. And yet lady Riina had sent her wild sister here to rule, at least for the present. Was it a chance to see what her elder daughter could do? Or was it a cruelly sharp bear-trap, hidden under the sands of Port Peril?
"A Chelish man, you say?" Elsyia repeats, eyes narrowing. She dabs a glossy red lip with care and says, "Present him. Let us survey this man who dares be 'imperious' in my domains."
Sorala watches the noble being led away, her gaze even, her face unbothered by his stare or his previous outburst. He would be dead soon, and little concern of hers - the man's rage was simply not worth dwelling on.
In that long pause after her report, Sorala wonders - and not for the first time - if sending Elysia here was Lady Riina's way of disposing of a troublesome child. Both of Riina's daughters would certainly make a play against her mother at some point in the future. Perhaps this was a win/win situation for Riina? If Elysia succeeds, then House Morgannan gains power and honor, and Elysia is for the foreseeable future far removed from her mother's court. If she fails, well at least her daughter is removed from the board.
It was likely Sorala would never know for sure what Riina's intent was. And that was fine - the White Squire just had to survive the journey.
"Thank you, M'Lady." Sorala gives Elysia another long curtsy, and turns, leaving the throne room. Along the way, Sorala picks the most menacing looking fey, werewolves, and warriors that loiter on the bridge, with instructions to look fearsome, but stay silent. Stepping off the ice bridge with her new entourage, Sorala looks to their guest.
"Thank you for waiting, M'Lord. Lady Elysia is ready for an audience. Please follow me."
Not waiting for an answer, Sorala turns once more and starts back towards the iceflow, her boots clicking across the ice with surety and purpose.
Back across the night bridge again, this time with Lord Carvius in tow. The Chelish keeps up nicely, despite probably being unused to treading on ice which alternatively is gritty and slippery. Yet despite a firm smooth stride just behind Sorala, the man somehow maintains his own rhythm and gait, not slaved to the Squire's motion at all. A neat trick, to appear independent even when being escorted. Was that a learned skill or just a natural knack? Or perhaps some conjured charismatic edge? All Sorala knows is that the well dressed man turns many heads, human and fey, despite the gloom.
A few he favors with a cool glance but most of the onlookers are airily ignored, Carvius's dark eyes instead sweeping the bridge constantly, every detail seemingly being stored in a giant file somewhere, a great mental storage bin to be carefully collated and examined at later leisure.
Soon they reach the audience area which, Sorala notes with some chagrin, is even more crowded. Clearly her words had not been ignored and many Irriseni wanted to see a great Chelish noble. Considering Elysia's....questionable diplomatic talents, it would have perhaps been better for a private audience but alas, instead Carvius's reveal would be done to a full crowd.
They reach the flickering circle of torches and fey lights that mark the border of the Jadwiga 'throne room' but before Sorala can speak, Carvius sweeps past her as if the Geryon was floating past a fishing trawler. With grace, majesty and unstoppable force.
The Chelish lord stepped into the circle of light, and the world seemed to light up upon his arrival. His clothes positively glowed, the red and black richer then it had seemed even under the full light of day. The man seemed to grow half a foot in height, his features ever finer, his stance ever more commanding and yet not swaggering. His face was fixed in a noble yet neutral cast, calm but strong....impressive, was the best word. Carivus somehow managed to convey he was a potentate of importance and power, but he did not try to directly challenge Elysia's considerable attraction. Instead he merely held his own, a fine line to walk. A lifetime in the Jadwiga court had given Sorala a fine sense of the dramatic, and instantly she knew Carvius was the equal to any she had seen.
"Lords and Ladies, " The Chelishman said, bending slightly in not quite a bow but more then a nod, "I am Lord Carvius, scion of House Charthagnion." The perfectly modulated words hung in the air for a moment, his breath briefly visible as a puff of whiteness. This seems to surprise the man, but he hides it well. "I come as a welcomed visitor and diplomatic guest, open handed and with gifts." A smile lights his face, benevolent and warm.
Lady Elysia eyes the man with care and, with more care and bearing then the woman usually displayed said carefully, "I welcome you, Lord Carvius, on behalf of House Morgannan. I am Lady Elysia Morgannan, mistress of Algidheart and now master of Port Peril." The first part was assuredly not true and the second still up for debate. Still, as far as Jadwiga claims when, bearable. "Display your gifts, Lord Carvius and let us judge them, and yourself." The same haughty tone as ever and yet Sorala, who knew Elysia so well, could detect a strange undercurrent in her imperious commands. Curiosity? Interest? Attraction?
Carvius inclined his head slightly and reached into a pocket and withdrew a glittering something.
"I brought this gift as an heirloom of my House but I can see no greater service then to offer it to you, Lady Elysia, to honor both you and your realm." A shining necklace glimmers in the man's long-fingered hands, the silvered mithril throwing back the torchlight like a living flame. Red jewel glint like drops of pure blood. "These are dangerous times, I understand, feel free to have your men inspect it. It is a necklace of stars."
[ooc]A Necklace of Stars, a cool 42,000 gold
The Jadwiga considers this, her blue eyes flashing from necklace to man and back again. She waves an pale hand and a fey hustles up, takes the necklace and retreats out of the light.
"Well said," The Lady purrs, "You interest me. Come closer and let us discuss matters."
The first hurtle was crossed, at least Carvius wasn't going to be summarily strung up and flogged. A niggling sensation that these two were going to get along far too well, starts to grow in Sorala's stomach.
Carvius sweeps past Sorala before she can make a proper introduction, and once again the nobleman is on the backside of the White Squire's good graces. Sorala's flat frown appears, and she skirts to the back of the room to assess how the meeting of the two goes.
And it goes too well, to start. Sorala would have to council Elysia about the gifts of Chels - that they are not given freely - but at least the noblewoman has the good sense to set the necklace aside for later.
And speaking of the necklace, Sorala must admit to herself that it is a fine gift, overly so even. House Morgannan had a few mines in their holdings, and produced some of Irrisen's finest emeralds and ice opals. The gems on the necklace were neither, and predictably red. Sorala squints into the dim light, watching as the necklace disappears from view. Rubies, or something more devilish in nature? Once again, Sorala curses silently that she hadn't the foresight to prepare the simplest incantation this morning, one that could detect magical auras.
It had been a long day, and Sorala doubted her talents were needed any longer. She should look for a place to sleep. Turning to withdraw, Sorala finds Vox at the edges of the room. The Hellknight must have followed them up, though Sorala wasn't aware of her at first. Passing by Vox, Sorala turns and surveys the room one more time, taking in Carvius and Elysia speaking quietly at her ice throne.
"It must be challenging, being bound to that man," Sorala says, giving the hulking warrior at her side an appraising glance. "It is a shame we cannot speak. I was serious in my offer earlier. When the day comes that you can talk, please pay me a visit. I'd love to hear the voice behind that mask."
Sorala pauses again, and gives the warrior a nod, and reaching out, brushes the woman's armor with her hand as she goes, curious to have a tactile sense of the Hellknight who was at once both more than and less than real. "I'm going. You're the finest warrior I've ever seen. I doubt you need my protection to get back to your ship. Goodnight, Maidrienne Vox."
---
Once off the floe, Sorala finds a group of prisoners, tied to each other with the large, tough ropes of a ship. She walks the line of prisoners, up and down, and finds a woman about her size, tanned and dressed not in the simple rags of the laborers, but rather a threadbare set up pants and shirt, denoting she was probably middle class, though on the desperate fringes of it. Drawing Eitleán, Sorala waves the blade an inch from the woman's neck and gives her a one-word command. "Strip."
---
Off comes Sorala's own clothes, and into her haversack they go, along with her boots and ioun stone. Eitleán would stay sheathed under her cloak, but available if needed, and the cloak and Sorala's circlet would unfortunately have to stay. But otherwise, Sorala would appear as much the local as possible, as she wouldn't be roaming the streets tonight with any soldiers.
As Sorala turns away from the pair of nobles, Elysia's voice rings out, sharp as a needle.
"White Squire, you were not dismissed." Sorala glances back and the Jadwiga is staring at her, her gaze slicing through the soft velvet night. Even for Sorala, accustomed to the Jadwiga, nearly winces. Lady Elysisa has recovered from whatever doubt or concern Carvius had engendered and has now drawn herself up to her full height on her throne. Yet the woman does not seem stern, but is instead languid and fluid, draped over the icy chair. Yet despite being so sensual that even Sorala can feel a tiny pulse of attraction, she is yet still cold and inaccessible, like a remote peak enticing a climber to their doom. Sorala looks at Carvius and can see, behind the mask of confidence, a flash of something...fear? Did the Chelish man finally understand what he was walking into?
"You have done....well in your duty." Elysia finally says, "To bring this honored guest to us." High praise indeed. A flick of polished nails dismisses Sorala, who is all too happy to leave.
As ever, Vox ignores Sorala's words, standing like a a looming black statue, on the edge of a nightmare. Armored boots ground into the ice, spear butt planted firmly. Clearly the cold of the iceflow effects the Mistress of Blades no more then did the cloying, suffocating heat.
Then Sorala brushes the battle scarred armor.
Sorala was accustomed to cold, even more then more Irriseni. Her childhood was, in many ways, one of deprivation and exposure. How many evenings had she spent in cold basements and freezing rooms during grueling lessons with Tihkon? How many pre-dawn training sessions with Alastia? Only Loremaster Aelick had kept her warm.
Once, in her youth, Sorala was forced to climb a jagged raw glacier wearing little more then a thin shift. The task had been assigned by her tutor in tracking and outdoor survival, Huntsman Jarrik. While the climb itself was nothing extreme, something Sorala had done many times the lack of clothes quickly made it a punishing ascent. After only moments her extremities were numb extensions of her body. By the time Sorala dragged herself to the top, she was a bloody, shivering mess on the edge of consciousness. It had taken days for her to even begin to feel warm again. She still carried the scars, and the memory of cold down into her bones.
The touch of the Hellknight's armor made that seem like a summer's stroll. A lance of pure freezing cold shot into Sorala, so perfect, so pure that it seemed to stop her heart. The Squire's breath caught in her throat, her eyes glazing over. But it was not just a physical cold, no it was something more. A wave of isolation flowed over the Squire, of loneliness and lost, of every thread cut and cast into a frozen void. Blackness beyond death, beyond time. A shard of non-being shoved directly into her soul, cutting away-
'Sorala!' Eitleán sounds in her mind, his voice dim as always when sheathed. Yet it is enough to break the connection and her mind shakes loose.
With grating slowness Vox rotates toward her every so slightly, iron grinding on blue ice. Somewhere behind the dark helmet, twin lights suddenly gleam like distant stars. Red as embers in a dying fire, they vanish in a moment and the Hellknight seems the same as ever.
----
The female prisoner looks at Sorala, the blade and then says with a laugh, "I bet you would.". The woman was strong looking yet rather attractive, if one liked muscled women of rather imposing height. Perhaps it had not been the first time she had been asked to strip. Still, the glittering rimeblade at her throat left little room for argument and with a disgusted growl, the woman removed her clothes. She was soon standing in some underclothes shivering despite the humid tropical air.
"I'll catch my death of cold, leaving me like this." She warns. Sorala is, again, surprised at the spirit and fight in these people. An Irrisen peasant would never have dreamed of talking back in normal times, let alone when basically being loot. Many would pay dearly for such impertinence.
In moments Sorala is swallowed by both the balmy night and the dark backstreets of Port Peril. The night holds no terrors for Sorala, raised in far north, where nights lasted days in some of the northern territories. No, monsters did not frighten her, getting lost was her biggest fear. In the dark, the intersections looked different and landmarks she had memorized during the night invisible. Was this the right turn? Or was it straight through here...
She rounded a corner and nearly collided with two groups of Irriseni soldiers in the middle of the street. She vaguely recognized a few of one group, and mentally associated them with her own House. The others looked rougher and more rugged, and Sorala guessed they were hired blades for the invasion, probably jumped up bandits pretending to be professional mercenaries.
The two groups were confronting each other with blades drawn and clubs raised high, outlined in the flickering light of a smoldering building across the street. The hot night air had that tingle of anticipation of violence, the tension palpable.
Between the two fur-clad groups was a small knot of children and one bent man with a long cane. The children were cowering around the gray-haied man, who did his best to shield them. He held his hands up and, face turning this way and that, said, "Please, sirs, let them go. They are just children. They have nothing of value."
"Shut it, old man." One of the Morgannan women says, voice a growl, and then turns to the rival group of looters. "This is our group, we saw them first. Now, get lost."
The rival 'leader', a red-bearded man with wild eyes scoffs, "What? This is our street, so they are ours. You get lost!"
Knives glitter in the dark and one of the children starts to cry.
Eitleán's voice cuts through Sorala's mind and the White Squire audibly gasps. Under the glove that brushes Vox's armor, the tips of Sorala's fingers were blackened and unfeeling - the prize the girl had won that day so many years ago, climbing that glacier. Lady Riina had forbidden the frostbite to be healed, and until this day, Sorala had covered them in finely tailored white gloves. Now, feeling rushed to the deadened nerves once more, bringing Sorala fully back for a moment to the glacier's climb, and her fingers spasmed with a freezing fire. Which to be fair was nothing like the cold, the loneliness, the void that lanced from Vox and through the rest of Sorala's body, as visceral a sensation as the cut of any weapon.
The White Squire stepped back, her words tumbling from her in a quiet, worried squeak, the way a girl facing down an abuser may utter a heartfelt but ultimately timid order, at once defiant and pleading. "I... I rescind my invitation!"
Turning, Sorala wraps her cloak about her and forces herself to not run from the audience chamber, drawing Eitleán once she is safely atop the bridge back to shore. "Thank you! What was that? Have you encountered anything like in your existence?"
---
Sorala blinks at the woman's impertinence and considers, for a moment, running her through with the rimeblade. Perhaps it is the residual effects of her contact with Vox, but Sorala shivers again once the woman speaks. I'll catch my death of cold, leaving me like this. Again, Sorala finds herself back on that glacier, shivering, near death. "Godsdammnit!" the White Squire mutters and brings Eitleán down once, cleaving the rope binding the woman in two. Reaching into her bag, Sorala pulls forth a wolf's pelt, and leather breeches and tosses it to the woman.
"Go."
---
Rounding the corner, Sorala nearly stumbles into the fight, and once again Sorala blinks, this time finding herself in the presence of a whole passel of shivering, frightened children. "Godsdammnit!" she mutters again, this time surprised to find the words she speaks in Taldane, rather than Skald. What is wrong with me?
Whatever it was, she'd had enough of cruelty for the day, and of freezing, shivering, fearful people. Sorala steps forward and barks an order in Hallit. "There are reports of saboteurs nearby. I was ambushed earlier tonight. They used explosions that killed four of my men before their burnt bodies hit the ground. It is unsafe to be away from the main body of our army. Stop entertaining yourselves with the terror of children and move to the ice bridge to guard it, the lot of you. NOW!"
Sorala stepped forward, mouth set in a firm line, Eitleán faintly shimmering in the darkness.
The Morgannan allied woman growls a curse and turns toward the interloper. Upon seeing Sorala however she wilts like an icicle in a summer's breeze. Her face turns white and she lowers her weapons. A glance at the rimeblade, and she visibly swallows.
"All right. Let's go." She orders the rest of her motely crew, who shamble off into the darkness without further disagreement.
The mercenaries however are made of sterner stuff and hold their ground. Unlike the Morgannan household, they clearly have no idea who Sorala is.
"Who and you? And what right do you have to our captives?" The red-bearded man says scornfully, looking down his nose at Sorala. "Giving orders like you were a Jadwiga or something. You can put your sword away, we all have them." And indeed, his half a dozen rabble all gesture with their various weapons.
"It would be unprofessional to gut them all," Eitleán remarks dryly. For once Sorala envies the unfeeling blade. The weapon did not need to carry the mental and physical burden of a day of fighting, diplomacy and leadership. It only needed to be sharp.
"That was a bit unkind." Eitleán reproves her. "But then again, maybe we should make an example of these idiots. Warn off the others."
On the dirty street the children cower while the old man looks helplessly around, hands outstretched. There is a glint of metal around his neck as some jewelry catches the dim starlight. A holy symbol of some kind?
"Who am I?" Sorala asks smiling, as she sheaths Eitleán, a final thought accompanying the rimeblade into its home. Perhaps. But, maybe there is a way to use these brigands?
Drawing a wand from her bandoleer, the White Squire continues, her voice nonthreatening, almost genial. The wand is - unlike the one made of hellfire-charred wood, simple in appearance; straight and made of iron, pitted with nicks and rust, as if it has weathered both the elements and violence. "I forgive you for not knowing who I am, for you are not of our house."
Sorala taps herself with the wand, her figure shimmering for a second, as if encased in ice.
Slipping the wand back into her bandoleer, Sorala slides Eitleán back out of his scabbard, and straightens herself to her full height.
"You may have swords, but I am a sword."
Taking a step towards the leader, Sorala stares him down, Eitleán shimmering in the darkness, as if in anticipation. "I am Sorala Ironeyes, White Squire of House Morgannan, Sword of my mistress, the Lady Riina Morgannan. Today, I have resolved the seige at the Old Fort, brokered an introduction between a Chelish lord and the Lady Elysia, and fought terrorists in the streets."
Sorala stops, casting a quick glance to the cowering children and old man, a scowl of irritation. "You..."
She takes another step forward. "...have captured some children and their elderly caretaker."
One final step, and Sorala is within killing distance of the leader. "You can consider my orders to be Lady Rinna's orders, and if you disobey them, I shall kill you all here. You have ten seconds to get to on your way."
Slipping into a swordfighter's stance, Sorala lifts Eitleán so slightly, the Squire ready to parry any attack. "That said, standing up for yourself tonight proves to me you are a brave man. If you decide you'd like to live, I'll visit you tomorrow at the ice bridge. I may have work for fearsome warriors like yourselves. And it will pay better than a gaggle of children and an old man."
The bandit takes a step back at the obvious display of power and confidence. In Irrisen, hierarchy is everything even to the unlawful dregs of society (At least for humans, fey and some other monsters played by their own rules). There is also another feature at work. Like a wolf growling and bristling before a fight, Sorala has announced she is ready and willing to fight, a declaration of power. The bandit clearly isn't ready for quite so drastic a step.
"Well, then they are yours." The bearded mercenary says, faking a nonchalant shrug. "Like you said, worthless anyway. Maybe we'll see you tomorrow...maybe not." With a curse he leads the posse away into the gloom of the mucky humid streets of the captured city.
Eitleán, "More hirelings? You'll have a private army before you know it."
After the old man fumbles for his stick in the dark, fingers sliding on the dirty stone. He fails to find it until one of the children gently offers it. With careful movements the man straightens to his rather considerable height. While his frame is now shrunken with age and wear, Sorala guesses the man must have been powerfully built in his youth, a true fighter. He turns toward her, sunburned face worn with dirt and care.
"Who...who are you? Why did you save us?" The eyes are the unseeing gauzy orbs of the blind.
Blindness is not an uncommon disability in Irrisen since removal of an eye or two is a common Jadwiga punishment (or pleasant diversion, depending on your point of view). Many a peasant has lived a life of darkness after failing to avert eyes from a noble, or for speaking a rash word in public. The trait was not even unheard of among the powerful and connected, with Steward Anders Lavitsson missing his left eye after a youthful indiscretion. He had overcome it, but many marred so simply feel into disgrace.
The blind man blinked, "Well, whoever you are, you have my thanks. Whatever your duty is, let it concern me and let these children go. They are poor and hungry off the street. They have nothing of value and the slave's collar would be the death of them. I beg you, just let them slip away."
Sorala's mindvoice is firm, a weariness setting in as her mind clicks through the possibilities she's setting in motion. "Oh, they'll be dead in two days," she thinks, lowering Eitleán as the brigands slink away.
The White Squire raises her blade once more, this time to take in the man, Eitleán's light casting faint shadows across the now almost-deserted street. The night fell quicker here, like a heavy blanket, rather than the drawn-out gradual fade that happened in her northerly home. At least the heat was slightly more bearable.
"I am Sorala Ironeyes, old man. What is your name?" Lowering the blade again, Sorala takes in the gaggle of children, a small sigh escaping her. Orphans. A cruel world the world over, it seems.
"I saved you because I was once fearful and vulnerable, and I am not one that enjoys hurting orphans... and cripples. You all are free to go about your way, but I need your help first. I'd like to find a place I was earlier today. Luckily, it was far from here and that is good for you and your charges too. This area... is not safe for the vulnerable. The place I seek is higher in the city, near the Old Fort. A bakery, Vudrani in nature I think. I can get roughly there, but in the dark, I am not so sure. Can you and your children assist me? As I say, once I am there you are free."
Reaching out, Sorala's hand wavers hesitating, and then pulls the metal chain from the man's shirt. "Don't worry, I just want to see it. What does it mean?"
"His name is Brother Barnabas," A female voice rings out from the shadows. Instinctively Sorala whirls toward the sound only to see Norintha sitting in the window of an abandoned building. The halfling looks the same as when they parted, with no apparent damage from the bomb blast that separated them. Except, perhaps, her feet and knees are dirtier.
The blind man cocks a head like a dog and smiles, "Is that Norintha I hear? Then you, Sorala Ironeyes, are a friend to me." He then rasies his voice, "I am glad to hear you, friend Norintha. I was worried about you during the fighting."
"It'll take more then a few northners with swords to finish me off," The middle aged halfling says and hops out of the window. She pads quietly across the dirty cobblestones toward them.
Meanwhile, Sorala glances at the holy symbol in her hand, still curious despite Norintha's unexpected arrival. To the White Squire's surprise it is actually two holy symbols, crudely soldered together. One is older and corroded, the metal pitted as if left in seawater for a year. It depicts a grinning skull and crossbones. The other symbol is newer, although also worn smooth, as if handled often. A rather simplistic butterfly.
As Sorala releases the chain, Barnabas smiles, "My twin masters, the old and the new. I lean more on the later these days but on a night like tonight? The Black Lady is a worthy ally."
By now Norintha has reached them and looks up at Sorala, "Sorry Sorala, to leave you, but I wanted to....think things over. The explosion gave me a chance to do some thinking." She nods to the dirty street urchins, "And I also wanted to see what you would do when confronted with the innocent, caught up in this invasion."
Barnabas grunts disapproval, "You'd use these children as a test?"
Norintha shrugs then says, 'Don't worry, Barnabas, I'd have done something if Sorala turned out to have a heart of ice. Luckily we don't have to do that." The halfling turns back to the White Squire, somewhat more solemn now, "I am ready to return to being your guide, if you want me." Jerking a thumb over her shoulder she adds, "You can let Barnabas and the kid's go then."
"Ahhh, Norintha," Sorala says, her voice ticking an octave higher, "Nice to see you again. There is no need to apologize for your actions. I would have done the same, were I in your position."
Letting go of Barnabus's chain, Sorala stands to her full height, and slides Eitleán into the rimeblade's home, darkness collapsing in on the street as the blade's hilt hits the scabbard.
"I'm sorry to meet you under such circumstances, Barnabus," Sorala continues, her voice more measured. "I wish we could have time to talk, for me to learn more of your two masters. Perhaps another time. Take the children somewhere safe, and if possible, do not venture from that place until things are... calmer. And be careful what you give to any masters, gods or men. They will only take more."
Waiting quietly as the blind men and his charges move away, Sorala hums a the refrain of a particularly popular Irriseni opera, just audible in the still, muggy night air. It was a fine opera, though she had no doubt that Carvius would see it for an amateurish aping of a more superior culture. Which, of course, was also the case.
"I plan to visit the bakery this evening," Sorala says, her voice hushed. "Or nearby at least. I'd like to spend the evening atop a nearby rooftop, looking to see what can be seen, if anything, from a vantage point, about their operation. I have a plan to liberate your people tomorrow evening. Can you take me to the bakery once more?"
"And what can you tell me of Barnabus? How do you two know each other? Who is this Black Lady? A pirate, I assume?"
Norintha looks a bit surprised by Sorala's reply but says, voice slightly joking, "I'll remember that the next time an explosion happens."
It occurs to Sorala, when was the last time someone joked with her? No underling in Irrisen would dare even attempt it, witness Rossem's servitude. And no one higher in the Jadwiga's court would risk showing such familiarity, which would be taken as weakness. Sorala had encountered kindness in her time in the Morgannan, even if ti was often hidden or furtive, but jocularity?
Not since Halgred.
Barnabus seems intrigued by Sorala's words and says in his rusted voice, "I am sure we will meet again, Lady Ironeyes. Port Peril is not that big, after all. As for your other words..." A moment of silence and then, "The trick I find, is finding the right master. Maybe we shall swap stories of captains, some time?" With that he begins to herd the motely children off down a side alley.
One small figure remains for a moment however, a dirty looking girl with small eyes and dark hair. She is dressed in little more then rags but she does not cower or snivel. Instead she looks up at Sorala with solemn care and says, "Thanks." She says it oddly, as if it is a word she has little chance to say. "I owe you one. You ever find yourself at Limpet's Court, ask for Vannie. I'll help you out. " With that she follows the others into the fragrant tropical night, leaving Norintha and Sorala alone.
The halfling's smile at Sorala's word is half friendly, half feral. "I have watched that place many times, what do you wish to know." With practiced ease, as if it was noon in her own backyard, the halfling leads Sorala down the dark street.
There is however, a moment of hesitation when the White Squire asks about Barnabus, as if the halfling is still judging Sorala's worthiness.
"He is a friend of mine." She finally says, "We have some similar goals, at times. Colleagues, I think is the fancy word." A few more steps down the quiet street, the only sound being the calls of exotic nightbirds and the whirr of insects. The humidity is nearly physical to Sorala, a sweaty heat.
"He is a good man, Barnabus. He was a pirate back in the day, or so they say. A real hells-rasier. I think he even sailed with Bonefist once. A real scrapper, both on ship and ashore. Terror of the taverns. Well, he fell into a ship with a real hard Captain, a real taskmaster. Drove the crew like slaves and liked the whip. Well, old Barnabus apparently didn't like that and, refused to follow suit. One day the Captain ordered him to flog a man for 'insubrornation', whatever that means. barnabus refused to do it so the Cpatain made an example of him. Keelhaulded him."
Seeing Sorala's blank face. "Tied with a rope, thrown overboard and dragged longways down the keel. Pretty nasty. It usually kills you, either by drowning or slicing you open but Barnabus lived, somehow. They dumped him on the beach and left. Wrote him off for dead when he wandered off into the jungle."
Norintha and Sorala cross a quiet intersection, where a building still crackles and smolders from a burnt out fire. Wisps of dark smoke hang like black curtains against the stars. A few figures dart away when they pass it. Looters? Locals?
"But he did not die. He came back, very changed. Blind, but not just that. he was...different. The man you saw today." Norintha grows quiet and the story dies. When she speaks again she talks about the White Squire's other question.
"The Black Lady is Besmara, the pirate goddess. Master of trickery and the weather, wave and wind. Or at least, she tries to be." Norintha shrugs, "Pirates tend to be a rather unreligious bunch, so she doesn't have many temples but she doesn't need them. Besmara prefers action to stuffy prayers, anyway. Still, as Barnabus said, on a night like tonight? She is a good god to have in your corner."
Sorala kneels in front of the little one as the girl lingers, giving the girl what Sorala hopes is a reassuring smile. Jokes, thank yous, smiles? What was happening? "You're welcome, little Vanyita. You are lucky to have Barnabus looking out for you. Listen to him, and I will see you again. What is, ah Limpet's Court, by the way?"
Straightening, Sorala wraps her cloak about her, trying to cover her sword and gear as much as possible, and follows alongside Norintha. "I do not know what I wish to know. I planned on spending the evening studying it from a nearby rooftop, before I fell asleep, and then again, when I woke, as I'm sure the sun and heat and bugs will get me up early."
"But, some questions I suppose are in order. How many guard the place at any time, do you think? Are there any ways in or out besides the front door? Where do the enslaved ones go? How often? Are they picked up at the bakery or are they taken somewhere else? Do you know anything about this Sooraj?"
Sorala takes note of this Bonefist as Norintha talks, and then again of the practice of keelhauldeding. Bonefist seems like he could be a worthy adversary or ally, and the keelhauldeding, well Elysia would enjoy hearing of the practice, if nothing else.
The White Squire's hand moves to her sword hidden under her cloak, and she thinks of trying to disperse the looters, but waves the idea off and lets them scatter into the night.
As godesses went, this Besmara sounded like a decent one. Any god that preferred action to prayers was at least a active and practical master. Sorala made another note.
"I have another question: Did you know that person that attacked us with the explosions yesterday? Who were they? Where do I get one of those... hand cannons, I think they are?"
They crest a hill, and the city spreads, silently into the darkness, the hum of insects and a few still-smoldering fires their only companions. "Thank you, by the way. For the joke. It has been a long time since I've heard one, and it is a skill I've never learned. I'd like you to teach me how to tell a joke."
Vannie vanishes before answering the question however and Sorala is left wondering if the Limpet's Court is a person, place, thing or idea. Who can tell about this place, where orphans look you in the eye and promise favors?
"It is strange, the streets being so empty." Norintha says, looking around the deserted cobblestone streets. "This place is usually so alive at night."
This is not unknown territory for Sorala. In Irrisen the long cold nights are often the times for social gatherings, since the daylight are so needed for labor. It was after the sun set that the peasants gathered together to share stories, complaints and such. Even many weddings and holidays were really only properly celebrated after twilight. And of course, for the Jadwiga, defying convention was the point. Staying up all night in parties was practically a hobby for many. Even Lady Althea, an outlier if there ever was one among her class, was often summoning servants in the middle of the night, as if forgetting the rest of the world was ruled by the sun.
"Sooraj is a coward." Norintha says flatly, the insult delivered with careful gravity. "Which will make your questions harder to answer. I knew all that and more, if you'd have asked me yesterday. But now? And after our little visit earlier? Gods only know how things stand now. He is probably bedded down tighter then a barnacle on a shipwreck, hiding from your troops."
They cross more streets, and Sorala can see they are drawing closer to the bakery. 'Perhaps watching will be useful. Finding a spot will be harder with everyone hiding. We will stick out."
When Sorala asks about the explosions the halfling gives a shadow of a smile, "I do not know them, but that isn't a surprise. Port Peril is a big place and I tend to stay on the island. I did follow them for awhile after the attack, but I lost them at the wharves. " She sounds a bit miffed at this, like a card player admitting they lost an easy round. "Sloppy, but the streets are...unsteady."
The halfling stops Sorala in front of a teetering wooden building, leaning drunkenly over the moonlit street. "Inside here. On the other side is the bakery. It was abandoned before the fighting, should be a good vantage." They find the door wedged shut and Norintha waves at Sorala, "You open it."
"As for the 'hand cannons', they are called guns, Sorala." Her short guide says, "But not very far wrong. Expensive things, but they are getting common on ship these days. You can buy them at the markets...well, you could I have a feeling they will suddenly all vanish overnight now."
When Sorala breaks open the door, it reveals a dark and spidery room, heavy with the smell of musty wood. The air is dank and wet, like the hold of a leaky boat. The windows are boarded up but only haphazardly, leaving plenty of peep holes.
"Should work, as long as no one bothers us." Norintha says.
"Now to be fair," Sorala tuts a tinge of annoyance entering her voice. "If I had asked my questions yesterday, would you have told me? You mix truth with omission as well as Master Tikhon."
"At any rate," Sorala continues, not bother to clue Norintha in as to who Master Tikhon is, "Do not worry about Sooraj the barnacle hiding from me. I will coax him out with promises of easy power and influence. But he, and his men - they all must die. Can Sooraj weave magic? Is he - or any of his men - fearsome with a blade?"
As they talk, Sorala studies the door, and does as she's instructed, sliding Eitleán into the space between jamb and door. "Here we go again. I promise, you shall have more glorious experiences soon."
To Norintha, she asks one final question before leaning into her rimeblade. "What was this place, before it was abandoned?"
The door pops, and Sorala pushes it open, creaking hinges revealing a dark and damp-smelling domicile inside. Stepping in front of Norintha, Sorala pulls a splinter of wood from the door's jamb and enchants it with a warm yellow glow, before sending it bobbing through the air, lifted by another simple incantation. "Wait a second," Sorala barks, watching the room's shadows recede. "No people are here obviously, but I'm sure this verdant hellswamp has all sorts of dangerous vermin, and worse."
Norintha answers the last question first when she says, "It was a bakery. Actually, it was here first, when Sooraj moved in. They had several mysterious fires until finally, one night, the family was trapped inside. Burned alive. Tragic." The last word was said flatly, without emotion. Clearly Norintha did not consider it merely a tragic accident.
"It has been left empty ever since. It was a black market shop for awhile but they moved closer to the docks a few years back. Mostly just the homeless now, drifting through. I doubt anyone will be here today, it is too exposed during fighting."
And indeed, after a careful search, Sorala finds the place empty. There is a pathetic collection of blankets, carpets and other detritus cluttered in corners but nothing of value. Sorala is not familiar with homelessness as a concept. In Irrisen either the weather would claim you, or some Jadwiga work gang would suck you up to work on a fish boat or in the jewel mines. Or, perhaps more likely, merely as a fresh plaything for a noble to torment. The freedom of life Norintha was implying was very strange to the White Squire.
[i]"Imagine, no home. No House, no cause, no orders."[/i ]Eitleán comments, and Sorala is unsure of his tone. Interest? Concern? Both?
A few rats dart from under her foot as Sorala discovers a ragged door leading down to the basement. "Don't go that way." Norintha says, voice carrying oddly in the darkness. "The bakery had a sizable basement and last I heard, there were some oozes down there."
A set of very rickety stairs leads upwards, where the walls seem in even more disrepair.
"Shall we?"
"Why would he burn the family alive?" Sorala asks, more to herself than to Norintha. Perhaps the rakshasha were cruel and capricious creatures, and Sooraj would truly be among his own if introduced to Elysia. Best not to let that happen.
Satisfied there's no threat lurking in the bakery's main room, the floating, magically lit splinter winks out and drops to the floor, Eitleán's pale white-blue light the only sources of illumination in the clapboard once-store. Sorala steps inside and shuts the door behind them, using another incantation to drag a mildewed blanket over to the door, keeping it from swinging open, and looks around. It would do for the night.
"You sound... intrigued," Sorala thinks. "I don't know about being - what did Norintha call it? Houseless? Hearthless? But no orders..." A wistful mind-sigh follows her thought into the ether between her and the rimeblade.
Sorala nods to Norintha, and gingerly putting one foot on the stairs, starts up to the next floor.
"Slavers," Norinthai said with disgust, "Who knows why they act the way they do?"
The stairs are old and in poor repair, creaking heavily under the White Squire's heavy tread. More then one simply softly tore away from rusty nails, soft wood turning to mush. For the first time Sorala reflects on the impact of climate on the world. In Irrisen a well-built staircase would last generations, even if left neglected, the cold air locking ii in frozen status. But here, in Port Peril everything seemed...malleable, changeable, a constant state of flux.
Alive
Sorala reaches the top of the stairs without it crumbling, Nortintha silently pacing behind her. She steps out onto a flat roof (another strange design for someone used to heavy snowfalls), and breathes the night air. It is cooler up here, with a different scent. Less of the slimy mud and muck of the street, cleaner somehow except for the strong notes of smoke and cinder. Above the stars are breathtakingly bright, a swirling sea of blue, green and ice-white pinpricks.
It is so sweeping, Sorala misses the two figures in the corner of the roof.
Clearly it goes both ways for the two slumped human shapes, mere outlines in the darkness, are having an argument as if a heavily armed warrior had not just joined them.
"I told you, you gotta stop drinking that stuff!" One male voice said with insistence.
"I'll tell you..." Another answers, a wet wheeze, slurred by drink, 'It's a special occasion.."
"Never mind that..." The first voice says and then stops. Louder it says carefully, 'Who are..."
Norintha reaches the roof and says questioningly, "Who is talking?" She leans forward in the dark and then says, 'Oh, it's you two. What are you doing here?" Then she sniffs the air and says sharply, "Piet, I thought you swore off the rum. You know it's no good for you."
The drunk man staggers to his feet, "It's the end of the world, Nor. Surely I can drink now!" The other figure stands up too , grabs the reeling drunkard carefully and says, "A grog shop was plundered and we found this bottle in the ruins. You know how Piet is when the devil gets on him. On a day like today, can't blame him."
"Well, get going. This is no place for you." Norintha says dismissively.
Sorala slides her body sideways to the men, an instinctive, muscle-memory led response to make herself harder to hit, and raises Eitleán to from her side.
At least one was quite drunk, and would likely be easy to dispatch. As long as he wasn't one of those fearsome Minkian booze-monks, which seemed... unlikely. The other, the one that was not Piet, would be the one that Sorala killed first.
As for alcohol, Sorala tried to avoid it, only partaking when ordered to by a Jadwiga (and she attempted to avoid situations where that was a possibility). It was a crutch that enabled weakness, and Sorala could not afford any weakness in her life.
"Norintha," Sorala growls, stepping towards not-Piet, "Can you vouch for these men?"
Not-Piet suddenly cowers back, as if seeing Sorala for the first time. "Nor, you are working with them?" He squeals, but Sorala notes, keeps his grip on Piet, dragging the drunk back a step from the towering Squire.
Norintha's voice is oddly hard and brutal when she answers, "You know me, Willem. I'll work with anyone who is pulling the same way as me." Then the halfling brightens and takes a step in front of Sorala, "I'll vouch for them, Sorala. Allow me to introduce Piet, one of the more notorious drunks of the Crescent Harbor and his...friend, Willem. A mild mannered insurance clerk by day and well, we all have our secrets by night."
The figures step forward, giving Sorala her first real look at them. Piet is a fairly large gangly man with a florid, tanned face and wearing smeared clothes. A bottle is clutched in one meaty fist, gripped as tightly as a man thrown overboard holds a line.
The other man is slight and slender, well-dressed, with a neatly trimmed beard. His eyes are small and careful. They are a very mismatched pair but Sorala notes, again, how carefully they hold on to each other. More then just friends, perhaps?
"Fair winds then." Not-Peit, no Willem, says to Sorala. "If Nor vouches for you, then you mustn't be all bad. We'll leave you two alone." They move to try and edge around Norintha and Sorala.
"What is an insurance clerk?" Sorala asks, her eyes slanted in suspicion, hand gripping Eitleán, tight.
"Very well." Sorala's voice softens, and she steps to the side to let Piet and Willem pass. "Tell no one I was here. And enjoy your end of the world. You are fortunate to be able to spend it with someone."
Once the men are gone, Sorala settles onto the roof, facing the slavers' bakery, and pulls some bread from her pack. Was it really only today that they had procured this bread? It seemed... weeks ago, at least. Breaking off a piece of a sticky roll, stuffed with a sweet, purplish-brown paste, Sorala hands it to her guide. "I have a plan to take the bakery, and will put it into place tomorrow. But tonight, I'd like to watch and see if anything is to be seen. We can split duties, a few hours each, until the morning comes. Eat, get your strength. Tomorrow will be another long day."
Chewing thoughtfully on her bread, Sorala stares down at the bakery, wondering what the slavers inside are doing with their last night on Golarion.
Norintha's teeth flash in the gloom at Sorala's question but remains silent. Willem gives a rather helpless look, still supporting his drunk and clearly worse for wear friend.
"It's...complicated." The man said carefully, but then Norintha broke in, "It's sort of like gambling, but without all the fun. Get out of here, Willem."
Norintha takes the dough but doesn't eat it, instead turning toward the quiet, dark bakery. She holds up the sweet coated breadroll. "Slave made, Sorala. Like so many things here. Port Peril calls itself a city of freedom, where anyone can make their own way. A ship makes a captain, as they say, but so much of it is built on the backs of those underneath. Judging from your words, the same holds true in your land." She toys with the bread adding, "The invasion will make things harder for those at the bottom, of course. Such things always do. But a time will come, when the chains will be struck, the binds loosened and the city truly made free."
She crushes the bread into a tiny ball and lets it drop over the side, vanishing into the darkness. "I'm not hungry. I'm still not sure what you hope to see. Sooraj and his men will be locked up down there, with doors and windows barred till morning, riding out the storm. Place is usually quiet at night anyway. He keeps the place locked up, to prevent any of his slaves from making a break for it."
"Flip for first watch?" The halfling takes out an old battered coin.
"That is the way of all civilizations, is it not? To be built on the backs of its most vulnerable? I cannot imagine a city truly free. What could this even-"
Sorala stops as Norintha drops the ball of bread over the side of building, the White Squire's heart racing, her hand reflexively reaching out, too late. Didn't Norintha understand the value of food? Didn't she see that it should be hoarded, especially when one is vulnerable?
"You should not have done that," Sorala murmurs, staring into the darkness. "That could be the difference between your life and death at some point in the near future, not far away but impossible to see. You don't not eat because you not hungry. You eat because you have the opportunity, and don't know when it will come again."
"Anyways, I hope to see something useful," Sorala says, voice still a murmur, her eyes now focused on the slavers' bakery. "Watch rotations, comings and goings, visitors - or movement of slaves or Sooraj from the building."
"I don't expect to see these things, however. But one must be as prepared as one can be in this world."
Looking away from Norintha, back into the darkness, where the bread lies somewhere below them, Sorala mentally curses and waves her hand. "Fine, flip the coin."
Annoyance creeps into Sorala's voice, her eyes search the darkness. It was becoming clear that Norintha was impulsive, and impulsive was dangerous.
Norintha looks a bit confused at Sorala's sudden change in temperament. "It's just a bit of bread..." Then seeing Sorala's face clearly in the starlight sighs and says quietly, "You remind me of my mother..." But does not explain. Still, he face softens and she adds, "I am sorry. I did not mean it as an insult and I think you are right, it was a stupid gesture. We all have our flaws."
Holding the coin, the halfling flips it, the dull metal barely visible in the dark. With a soft smack Norintha catches it and peeks at it, "Ah, my lucky day. You get first watch and I can get some sleep." She reveals the coin, which is a beaten silver disc. The image is a eagle-man, with wings and feathers, yet a human head. Running under it, in plain Taldane it says 'Birthplace of Freedom'.
"My lucky coin. From Andoran." Norintha flips it to Sorala, who catches it with the instinct of a hunter and warrior. "Hold it while you wait. Maybe it'll share some luck. Wake me in a few hours." Pulling a blanket out of a bag, the halfling makes a small nest for herself in a corner of the roof.
Sorala put little faith in luck. It was better to have knowledge on your side, and using the knowledge, preparation. Better still, was power that could be wielded in a way to achieve your aims. However, far from home, in a strange land that she understood very little of, with no idea of the aims of her masters, she would not refuse Norintha's coin.
Squinting at the coin, Sorala gripped it tight and nodded. "I shall wake you," was all the squire said, as she mused on Andoran. Sorala knew the basics, bits of knowledge purloined from Loremaster Aelick's tomes, knowledge that surely her masters would frown upon her knowing. Had they shown enough interest, Aelick would certainly have had his books burned, the little man would have been chained to the roof of Riina's manor to die during the howling darkness of the Irrisinian night. Thankfully, as far as Sorala knew at least, this had not happened.
Regardless, Sorala knew the basics of Andoran. A revolution, a republic, where citizens could have some say in their governance. The idea seemed... silly. What would Irrisen's serfs do in such a situation? Something cruel and self-defeating no doubt. How could Andoran manage any differently? They likely didn't.
And so, Sorala sits, musing of things she knows not enough to understand, and stares down at a slaver's bakery in strange city beside an inscrutable, rash, gently snoring woman, Eitleán shimmering softly in the moonlight.
Standing watch in Port Peril was very different then in Irrisen. There, a night watch was a brittle painful thing. A time of utter silence and stillness, of a frozen world seldom broken by activity. Sorala recalled a hunt in her apprenticeship.
The Jadwiga had desired stags for some festival or other and huntsman Jarrik had advocated for Sorala to join them, despite her youth. It was a high honor, as hunting was a noble prerogative, a right only given to trusted servants. Still, being the youngest, she was given the hardest jobs and tasks. One had been a midnight vigil over a sleeping herd, to make sure they did not slip away under the cover of darkness from the morning hunts.
It had been a long and frigid night, filled with the steady monotony that only an Irrisen winter's night was capable of. Despite her furs, she had been chilled right to the bone, eyelashes fringed with ice and her throat sore from the cold.
Compared to that, this watch was pleasant. The air was warm and scented with strange exotic smells, wafting in from some unseen forest. It seemed to grow stronger at night, or perhaps she was above the usual stinks of the city? Bats and night birds swooped around her, swirling against the spangled stars. The moon rose in full glory, reflecting off the ocean with such shimmering beauty that it nearly made her gasp. Somewhere, on the edge of hearing, there was the rhythmic crash of water on sand. Sorala even had a seat of sorts, a few boards of old wood to sit on. The biggest risk was falling asleep after such a trying day but long experience kept her awake.
Several times she noted people passing below, furtive shapes in the darkness. Sorala quickly divided them into two groups. Those of Irrisen who carried torches and the locals, who did not. None lingered near the rickety building or the closed bakery, and soon passed out of earshot.
Twice however, her interest was pricked. Both times a figure emerged out of the dark street, approached the bakery, knocked on a closed door and was swiftly escort inside. In short order they emerged again, vanishing into the gloom. Curious.
When Sorala mentioned this to Norintha the halfling had frowned, "I'm not sure. I didn't expect anyone. Maybe you were on to something." She yawned and sat up, waving to the White Squire, "Get some sleep. I'll wake you at dawn."
As Sorala took her turn in the little nest of blankets, she heard Norintha's voice in the warm gloom.
"Stars are shining bright
The wind is on the rise
Whispering words
Of long lost lullabies
Oh won't you come with me
Where the moon is made of gold
And in the morning sun
We'll be sailing
Oh won't you come with me
Where the ocean meets the sky
And as the clouds roll by
We'll sing the song of the sea"
It was a soothing chant, well practiced and smooth. Like the distant sea, it rose and crashed with a perfect rhythm, putting Sorala to sleep.
She had strange dreams that night. Which was rare for Sorala, who usually slept too lightly. But this night she dreamt of golden beaches, colorful grottos and drifting banks of seaweed, all washed by a warm, sunlit sea. She felt young and strong, her cares washed away by the salty tide.
Then she awoke, Norintha nudging her with a boot. The halfling jumped back, startled as Soral bolted instantly away, hand reaching for her blade.
"Easy." The older man woman said, holding up her hands. "Aren't you a jumpy one. Dawn is coming. Sorry to wake you, looked like you needed it." Around her the world was gray, but a distant line of pink was forming on the distant horizon. The air seemed hot and heavy again, oddly still.
The figure appeared again and Sorala strained her senses, trying to hear if there was a cadence or pattern to their knocking.
---
---
Sorala blinked, reconciling the comfort, the warmth, of her dreams, with the oppressive humidity of the morning, and slowly let her hand fall from Eitleán's hilt. "Ah. Thank you. I'll need to go gather some troops this morning. I'll return as soon as I can." Unwinding her scarf, Sorala folded it and passed it to Norintha. "Please keep watch and signal me when I return. I'll look to the roof. If something happens - I don't know what that would be, exactly, use your judgement - and I should not commence the attack, please hang this scarf from the roof."
"But that is later. Now, I must prepare for the day. You're welcome to some of my food, please don't throw it away."
Removing the remainder of her bread, Sorala sets it atop her bandolier and removes her spellbook, a slim tome bound in bleached white leather. Taking an occasional bite from the quickly staling bread, Sorala studied her book, and within an hour, raised her head, sudden aware of just how punishing the sun had already become.
1 (DC 16) frostbite (rime); frostbite (rime); frostbite (elemental spell acid); ill omen, Snowball
2 (DC 17) blindness/deafness; frigid touch; invisibility, mirror image
Next, she plucked the small, cracked magenta stone from the air circling her head, and closed her eyes, focusing on the stone. She would need the gift of deception today, and so she thought of Tihkon and his lessons, and in a few moments, the stone's color seemed to shift so slightly in the light, as if trying to guess what its holder wanted it to be.
Rising to her feet, Sorala gave the bakery one last look before stepping back into the house, and then descending to the street. Sorala wrapped her Perilian cloak about her, and hurried towards the ice floe and the mercenaries she'd offered work to the previous night.
Finding the mercenaries, Sorala approaches and gives the leader a short nod befitting his station. Opening her cloak, Sorala taps Eitleán, her rimeblade still resting in its scabbard, and gives the leader a flat smile.
"Good morning to you, ah... what is your name? Do you and your mercenaries want the opportunity for some real work?"
There seems to be no pattern or secret knock for these late night arrivals. Which is a bit disappointing but reasonable. How many people show up in the middle of the night and knock?
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Norintha takes the scarf, wrapping it expertly into a very neat packet. She is quiet while Sorala does her reading and building her arcane powers for the day. The world brightens around them, shifting from a humid gray to a riot of colors. The sunrise seems to literally explode over the horizon in streaks of yellow, red and magenta. The blue sky seems to glow with heat and light, a vast dome marred only by fluffy white clouds as fanciful as ice towers.
It is the noise that distracts her most during her reading though. The harsh cries of gulls, the tolling of distant bells, the snap of flags and ropes and the slow creak of wood at sea.
When Sorala leaves the halfling raises a hand, "Fair winds, Sorala Ironeyes. See you soon, I hope."
The walk back through Port Peril is an odd one. The streets are still mostly quiet but they are not the terrified empty they were last night. Now Sorala sees local people. Most still stay in their homes, but windows are open, people watching out of windows. Quiet and watchful but alive.
There is little sign of an Irriseni presence on the streets. Few patrols, no garrisons even of the obvious places like street corners and markets. So far, the Irrisen grip is light. Sorala doubts such things will last long.
The area near the ice bridge however is filled with activity, reminding Sorala of a rabbit warren. Irrisen troops are everywhere, if somewhat disorganized and disorderly. People seem convinced they should be doing something, just not quite what. Loot is being stacked and counted, cookfires started or put out, companies half heartly drilling. Sorala notes more then a few locals being press ganged into servile labor, either cleaning up rubble, washing clothes, cooking or other domestic tasks.
Near the glittering edge of the ice bridge she spots the mercenaries from the pervious night. They are lounging about at ease on piles of broken crates and boxes, eating a breakfast of boiled fish and some sort of very bright fruit. A few beaten down local women are doing the serving and cooking here, the most despontant Port Perilers Sorala ahs so far seen. The old scars of chains mark their neck and wrists.
Slaves.
The mercenary is as wild as he appeared last night, although perhaps more portly then midnight shadows revealed. His red-beard is still uncombed and his eyes black and sharp. He rises when Sorala shows up, and wipes some grease onto his shirt.
"Vennik the Wild." He says carefully, "Terror of the Hoarwood." Sorala had never heard of him. Such bandits lived shadow lives outside of the usual tight confines of Irriseni life. Criminals, surely and often made brutal examples of by the Jadwiga. But useful ones and many times were hired by local nobles to put down rebellions, quash troubles or for arrow fodder for military adventures. Some also acted as peasant heros, or at least fuel for sagas about bravely standing up for the simple folk of the fields.
Such stories were less then wise to repeat.
"What sort of work do you have in mind, exactly?" The bandit leader asks, eyebrows narrowed in focused thought.
Cloak wrapped tightly to cover her origins as much as possible, Sorala makes her way through the city, the path from the bakery to the ice floe growing familiar by now, as is the sweat that soaks Sorala's hairline and back, runs down her cheeks. At least the sunrise was pretty. Drawing Eitleán, Sorala pushes through the dissaray at the ice floe, looking for the men from last night, her rimeblade shimmering in the still morning's heat.
Finding the mercenaries, Sorala gives Vennik a cool nod, eyes briefly passing over the man, appraising him. What weapons did he carry? Armor? What of his men? How many? How were they armed?
They would do, for the next step, the procurement of the bakery. If they could be tempted with a carrot.
"There is a slaver's ring that fronts as a bakery not too far from here. I met with them yesterday, and I believe we can gain entrance to their shop again. They wish to be of use to us, but they are a small operation, not worth our time. Instead, we shall enter their shop under the guise of allyship, and then when their leader appears, kill them all. There is enough food there to feed your men for days. And I'm sure plenty of valuables, which you can have - all of it, except the slaves, which I need for another purpose."
"So, accompany me to the slaver's den, wait for my word, and help me kill them. In return, you can have all of the food and goods in the shop, except for the slaves."
Sorala arches an eyebrow, staring at Vennick, and raises a hand to shake. "Deal?"
Sorala eyes the mercenaries sprawled out on the crates and boxes with an experienced gaze. What she sees isn't a total disappointment. Many of the mercenary bands in Irrisen were little better then rural bandits, living in caves, wearing castoffs and armed with fire hardened sticks. Vennik's band however seems to be of a higher caliber.
Most of the men and women are wearing serviceable furs and leathers (although most are stacked in an untidy pile, replaced by local linens). They seem fit and healthy enough, overlooking the usual marks of frostbite and windburn, at least by Irrisen standards. One or two even had makeshift mail coats, stolen from corpses no doubt. A couple seemed to be mages of some sort, hedge wizards probably, rare enough. Vennik must have considerable skill if he was able to keep such a coterie in line. That said none look to have formal training. No Jadwiga soldier washouts or foreigners. Probably local militia rejects and former villagers. Sorala counts about two dozen mercenaries, total. Enough for her purpose.
Vennik himself is, surprisingly, harder to read. The man's voice is the rough unlettered speech of the countryside, but his eyes are sharp. He probably couldn't read, but he was no fool (which was a shame). He has a rather fine sword at his side, silver flashing in the early light. It looks unstained and new. Port Peril plunder is her first thought, confirmed when she notes a distinctly nautical theming around the pommel. His beard is wild and greasy, untamed as an Irrisen fir tree. His clothes are patched and repatched, giving the stout man the look of a crazy quilt brought to life. And yet the White Squire can't help but feel some of it is an act, a deliberate attempt to play the part of rustic country bumpkin.
The man rubs his chin at Sorala's word, remaining silent for a long time. "Not a bad deal." He mutters, "Almost too good. You use the word 'us', M'Lady, but why me? Surely someone like you can whistle up a platoon of proper Jadwiga soldiers. I'm sure you have pull in court."
"What do you need with mercenaries?" His eyes narrowed, "Or are no questions part of the deal?" He quirks a knowing smile and reaches for another fish, "And what's to stop me from finding this bakery and taking what I want, slaves and all?" He bites into the breakfast, a thin line of grease running down his chin onto his chest.
He is wily, more cautious then she had suspected and yet...there is greed behind his sharp eyes. Desire for something. Loot? Prestige? Or something else Sorala could provide...?
"Or is this just a favor to the Jadwiga?" He had the air of a man fishing in unknown waters, seeking deep holes.
Sorala keeps her face placid in the barrage of questions, fighting to keep her disappointment at bay. Vennik the Wild was turning out to be a shrewder man than she'd hoped.
"What do you think?" Sorala's mindvoice asked Eitleán, lilting at the end with curiosity. "Two dozen mercenaries against the slavers, let's say a little more than half survive the fight. Would the remainder survive an ambush from one of our House's companies?"
"Good questions, and fair ones," Sorala says, waving her hand in the air, conjuring a flame of blue soft blue light so that she can better read the man in the dark. "You're a smart man, smarter than I'd hoped, to be honest."
The flame sits in Sorala's outstretched hand, flickering, casting an icy-hued tinge across the mercenaries and their crates and boxes. "Why you? You impressed me last night. You've got bravery, and swagger, and I need some folks that are fearless enough to leave the safety of this floe and conduct a raid. You're also a decently armed group of soldiers, well-fed with good equipment and even a couple of mages. This speaks to your skill as a leader. You're frankly better than most of our House's soldiers."
"And you're right, I could gather my House's forces. But then I divert them from others, and there are petty rivalries and slights that come with commandeering forces, Vennik the Wild. Something I assume I don't have to worry about with you, unless you've got other orders tomorrow? If so, I can look elsewhere..."
Sorala pauses, eyeing the man, waiting to see if the hook was baited enough. It was all true enough and flattering to boot, but it was of course not the whole truth. The whole truth was, no one would miss these men, were they to die in the raid... or suffer misfortune afterwards.
Still, she sensed the man wanted something more than bread and vague promises of treasure. First the stick, then perhaps a carrot would need to be offered.
"I'd caution you to take what I want, Vennik the wild. Jadwiga games for Jadwiga names." It was an old saying, roughly meaning two things: that the Jadwiga eternally struggled against each other, playing their "games" against other noble houses without fail; and that these schemes were reserved for Irrisen's nobles only. All others were meant to serve. It would be a death sentence for Vennik to take the bakery on his own.
"But, desire glitters behind your eyes, Vennik the Wild. There is something more you desire. Out with it then! I am intrigued, but have no patience for guessing games. Tell me what you want, and perhaps something can be arranged..."
The best lie was the truth, Sorala had learned long ago under the watchful eyes of Master Tikhon. It had served her well and it served her now. Vennik's band really was fitter, stronger and better equipped then any random collection of House troops. That they were expendable even, was probably something Vennik was aware of.
"Probably." Eitleán commented, "They would be tired and disorganized after the attack. Losing Rossem has taken the heart out of them, but they can still probably get the job done. " A mental pause before the sword goes on, "I'd also say you have the element of surprise, but he seems the type to expect a double-cross. Then again, so does everyone from Irrisen."
When Sorala directly asks the bandit what he wants however, she realizes she has gone too far. The man's face hardens into a impenetrable mask. He takes a step back, eyeing her blade. Still he mutters, "Jadwiga names..."
Then, without further prompting, "We'll do it. For all the loot, and the food. You keep the slaves. Will you be helping, or is that blade just for show?" The bearded man indicates Eitleán with a jut of his chin. The bandit sticks out a hand to shake but before Sorala can shake it...
"Sorala Ironeyes." Still holding her sword, Sorala turns to face this new voice behind her.
A young man is standing on the very crust of the ice bridge, wearing the livery of House Morgannan. Sorala recognized him of course, one of that countless cloud of servants that seemed to follow the Jadwiga like icicles followed a storm.
"Lady Elysia requires your attendance at a meeting of the Court." He went on, seeing her attention. "Immediately."
"Kostchtchie's seed," Sorala curses, and grasps Vennik's outstretched hand, sealing the intent of her deal. "Loot and food are yours. Slaves are mine."
Turning, Sorala gives the Morgannan aide a withering look, and then sheaths Eitleán. "But it seems I am needed immediately. Jadwiga games, I'm sure. I'll be in touch and we'll visit the bakery as soon as possible. And don't worry, Vennik the Wild, I will be leading us, sword in hand. Until then."
Sorala gives the man a curt nod, and turns giving the servant another look, that if it could kill, would. The man's - and Elyisia's - timing was impeccably awful. Not only could she not move on the bakery immediately, but now Vennik had information that could harm her, for an indeterminate amount of time to boot.
Since she couldn't dress down Elysia, it would have to roll downhill. "Don't presume to order me about... Rorick." Sorala pauses, as if to cast about for the man's name, as if he weren't important, but in reality she knew it just fine. "I could kill you here and Elysia would forget to avenge your death by mid-past."
Scowling, Sorala whips her local's cloak behind her and leaves the servant to catch up. Elsyia needed her immediately, after all.
Vennik takes her had in a fairly strong grip, but Sorala's is tighter. The bandit blinks in surprise at this but says roughly, "I'll get the lads together. We'll be ready." His sharp eyes watch as she strides away down the ice bridge.
Rorick follows behind wisely having decided to say nothing at Sorala's rather brutal put-down. Such servants hold a strange place in the House hierarchy. Sorala is infinitely higher then a mere page such as this, and her remark is probably correct. In Irrisen someone of her rank really does have great power over her underlings. Still, men like Rorick served directly under Elysia which gave them a twisted sort of pwoer...if they were willing to ride the wolf, as it were.
The ice bridge is still busy with comings ands goings but most make way for Sorala, not only due to her rank but because of her obvious mood. In Irrisen politics such emotions can really make the difference between life and death. The sun is fully risen when the White Squire reaches the main ice floe, the tropical sun causing the rough ice and snow to glitter like a vast diamond, blindingly bright. She notes a few people are wearing narrow-slitted blinders, an old northern trick against snow blindness now repurposed for a bright sun. Clever.
Sorala makes her way toward the center of power, the throne area. Rounding a tumbled cliff of icy slabs the size of houses, she notes that the noble audience area is once again changed.
Eylsia is there, of course, languorous seated on her frozen throne, almost draped across the huge chair. Above her is a simple three block canopy, looking for all the world like the druid arches that dot the remote forests of Irrisen. It protects the noble skin from the blazing sun, creating a tiny patch of shade on the otherwise totally exposed ice floe surface.
Seated next to her, in a more normal wooden chair, is Lord Carvius. The man is perfectly dressed and kept, hair slicked back expertly and teeth gleaming in the morning sun. He smiles slightly as he mutters some aside to the Jadwiga, making her laugh and touch her throat girlishly. Speaking of riding the wolf....
Others are standing in a half circle in front of the throne. No chairs for the rest. Sorala's eyes sweep the small gathering quickly, trying to get a feel for what is going on. Generally the Jadwiga avoid large meetings, Eylsia especially having distaste for committees and council. Then again, conquering Port Peril was an unusual event.
There are few true Morgannan power players and elites here, of course. Most of there were still in Irrisen serving Lady Riina, the true power of the House. Instead it was mostly a collection of Elysia's personal favorites, hangers-on and would-be advisors.
The first person who caught her eye was none of those things however. Head Cook Coriine Colbertsdottir was no one's hangers-on. The stout woman was standing sweating in the bright sunlight, wearing her usual burned and stained apron. Still, looks could be deceiving and Coriine was a minor power in the household. Not only did she have a long history and a large staff in the kitchens, but also the ear of Steward Lavitsson. Sorala had a feeling she was here on Anders's wishes, eyes and ears of the steward. Still, Sorala knew Corrine was a capable and keen organizer in her own right, and would be valuable if Elyisa had the sense to use her.
The figure standing next to the portly cook engendered no such hopes. A stumpy shape with the legs of a hairless goat, a humanoid torso and a balding horned head. Mynnom the forlarren, one of the most disreputable fey that clustered around Elysia's power. Clever, brutal and jealous, Mynnom had made a name for himself as a blackmailer and extortionist, using a network of fey and child spies that haunted the backalleys of Algidheart.
The next figure is not much taller, although she gleams like a lump of precious metal, gold and silver. Threzle Fullbeam, dwarven jeweler of great renown in Algidheart. Her route to Elysia had been very direct, via the jewelry the young Jadwiga loved to wear and flaunt. Even now Elysia was wearing a sapphirine studded necklace that Fullbeam had wrought. Jewels were one of Irrisen's major exports and Fullbeam was the current representative of a long line of dwarven craftsmen, with deep ties to the local merchants and traders. Vain and petty, she still had her finger on the pulse of the small merchant class.
Standing next to the gleaming dwarf was a figure who could not be more stark. Tall, stern, dressed in black edged with deep purple. Valacus, cleric of Zon-Kuthon and holder of a position that few foreign courts had but everyone in Irrisen held in respect. Valacus was Elysia's private torturer. True, the Jadwiga was more then capable of killing herself and of making such slayings painful and protracted but true torture, for a purpose, took time and labor. Neither of which excited the young Jadwiga noble. That was where Valacus came in. It was they who had overseen many of the more gruesome and unpleasant deaths of the House, including that of Halgred. Genderless and very secretive the cleric was a rising power in the House, and even rumored to have preformed delicate tasks for Lady Riina. A dangerous and subtle figure, to be sure.
Last, and least was Vasim. Sorala was surprised to see the werewolf here, since the man was little more then a petty thug but perhaps his 'victory' over the Chelish had risen the werewolf's station. Riding Sorala's coattails had its benefits, she supposed. Besides, Lady Elysia probably enjoyed his rather simple views on things. Smash them with brute force, regardless of the cost.
Quite the collection all told.
As Sorala strode toward the throne and respectfully presented herself, all eyes turned on her. What did they see? A youthful woman with little political experience? A skilled warrior? Or could some of them still see the frightened child draped across the White Rider's horse? Something else?
Lady Elysia favored her with a cold smile, "Ah, White Squire. You have finally arrived. We did not wish to start without you." A tiny involuntary glance toward Carvius told her the tale. She was invited at his request. Sorala could not help but wonder why. Surely it was not out of kindness or repayment. The Chelishman did not strike her as the type beholden to such gratitude. Clearly Sorala being here was part of his aims, whatever they were.
"Take a place," The Jadwiga says, now turning Sorala and addressing the collection of people at large. "Now, let us discuss the fate of my new city, this....Port Peril." She says the name with some uncertainty.
Sorala raises her hand to shield her eyes and notes Carvius and his closeness to Lady Elysia, and sighs. How much misery will that introduction bring you, girl?
To see Coriine brought a different - and frankly, unexpected - reaction; relief. It was a curious choice for Riina - or Landers - to send the cook to Port Peril, but a smart one none-the-less. Corrine Colbertsdottir was a master of logistics. Having her on hand to keep the food flowing - a necessary part of any invasion, even if Elysia did not see it - was vital to the success of their war effort.
Personally, though Sorala would not call them friends, the White Squire thought well of Colbertsdottir; she was competent, and forthright, and protective of her staff, doing what she could to shield them from the vagaries their Jadwiga masters. Of course, Coriine's influence would be greatly lessened here in Elysia's court. Perhaps she could use a friend? As the new arrival to court, all eyes were on Sorala and it was easy enough to lock her gaze with the cook for a lingering second. Sorala allowed her eyes to widen just slightly, her mouth to curl into the faintest smile, hoping it was enough to convey her thoughts. Nice to see you. Let's talk when the opportunity presents itself.
As for the rest, they were Elysia's court, and thus to be held at an arm's length. A group as cruel, greedy, and stupid as any in Morgannan's holdings. Though these traits were not necessarily negatives to the House's Jadwiga nobility.
Sorala looked to Elysia, lounging and lascivious in all the right ways, and offered the Jadwiga a deep curtsy, dipping her head low just as Elysia offered up her involuntary glance to Carvius. Just what do you have planned, Lordling?
Rising to her full height, Sorala offers Elysia a wan smile in return, making note of the Jadwiga stumbling over Port Peril's name. "I am honored to be invited to council, M'Lady. If I may offer a suggestion? Rename the city in our House's Honor - something to remind our new subjects who their masters are, and something that will indicate to visitors from other lands our power."
It was impertinent of course, to offer up a suggestion unasked, but Sorala hoped the sentiment would be welcome none-the-less. The Squire stood in the sweltering sun, hand once more raised to shield her eyes, and waited to see what Elysia thought, and why she had been summoned.
A moment of silence fills the icy court area after Sorala's words, as every eye turns again to her. It slowly dawns on the assembled courtiers that Sorala, of all people, just neatly outflanked them with the ultimate flattery. Confusion marks more then a few faces as people adjust their mental approximation of the White Squire. And then a babble of rushed voices as others try to close the gap.
"Irrisenai!" Threzle says quickly.
"No, Morgannanmont." Mynnom corrects, sweating.
"Elysia City!" Vasim says desperately, trying to jump on the passing sled before it vanishes.
Lady Elysia smiles broadly and settles in her chair, like a cat about to purr. She eyes Sorala and says, "Fair suggestions all, some more then others." Ah, the Jadwiga way. Never reveal ones true feelings or opinions, so they can use as a knife. At her side Lord Carvius seems unmoved by the debate, perhaps a bit bored. Maybe Chelishmen didn't go in for that particular brand of vanity.
"But a name change..." Elyisa says, pretending to think, "I know there are many administrative matters to discuss." This is said with obvious bored disdain, "But perhaps it would be simpler to simply destroy the city and take the captives back home? It seems so much...cleaner." She flicked some manicured fingers toward the distant skyline, as if that would banish it. And, in a sense it would. If the Jadwiga gave the word, the city would be leveled to rubble and every soul killed or sent into indentured slavery for the rest of their lives. Now Carvius's eyes open fully and the man sits up, face intent.
"A holy cleansing." Valacus intones, their voice an even contralto. "A fitting gift for the the Prince of Pain."
Mynnom mops his brow and ventures, "Of course, of course. Your will, your whims are not to be denied, Lady." A cough and then, "But when a farmer acquires a new field they do not salt it and burn it, they use it, and put their peasants to work on it."
A misstep. No Jadwiga would consider themselves a farmer, ever. Not only is it insulting, it is foolish since the metaphor would mean nothing to Elysia. Indeed the Jadwiga noble's face turns frosty and she gives the fey a look so cold he takes a step back out of some primeval instinct.
Lord Carvius stirs then, catching Sorala's eye. The Chelishman gives a tiny nod to the White Squire, encourging her to speak.
Sorala grits her teeth. Surely, Carvius - with his influence and charm, could find a suitable way to dissuade Elysia of such notions. Instead, he looks to Sorala, expectant, as if he can will her to rest her head on butcher's block? He was a poor judge of character then - Sorala would burn the entire city to the ground before she got killed on behalf of a noble from a distant empire.
And what just was Elysia thinking, anyways? Surely, Lady Riina had given Elysia a very specific charge. Jadwiga were cruel and capricious and given to wild moods and temperment, but Rinna would not expend the resources - the men, fey, giants even, not to mention the sheer amount of magic needed to sustain the gate...
Ah, the gate. So if we can bring slaves back to Irrisen, it is not a one way trip then? Sorala files that fact away for later, and resumes her thinking on Elysia.
Wouldn't Elysia be drastically disobeying her mother's orders, whatever those were, if she simply salted the fields, as Mynnom had so ineloquently put it? (though for her part Sorala appreciated the analogy)
And thus was the rub, Sorala realized, giving Carvius a slow blink of her eyes in return, the slightest of acknowledgements. No one here was in a position to countermand Elysia except for Sorala, for Sorala was not beholden to Elysia. And, as one of the tenants of her knighthood, it was Sorala's duty to put her Jadwiga’s interests above all others, including her own. And whatever Lady Riina's interests were, Sorala was sure it didn't include razing Port Peril to the ground.
Godsdamnit, Sorala thinks, giving Carvius another blink. It looked like she would be putting her head on the butcher's block after all. Of course, perhaps she could communicate in a delicate enough manner to avoid such a fate...
"Of course M'Lady," Sorala says, her voice sure, more assured than she felt; this was no time to show doubt. "Whatever the esteemed Jadwiga of House Morgannan wish, shall be done."
A subtle reminder; there was another Jadwiga's wishes to be considered. Yet also a statement that was inclusive of Elysia's station and not demeaning or too confrontational. A vague, superficially flattering statement with underlying meaning that the Lady would not miss. The Jadwiga way.
Despite the rising tropical sun, a chill sets in over the esteemed gathering as Sorala plays her trump card. Mentioning House Morgannan was a clear way of saying Elysia was not the sole power here, that she had others to answer to. It was a powerful move but not one without risk. Presuming such things had led tot he deaths of lesser courtiers and hangers-on. But Sorala was no mere servant or aide, but a White Squire with a rimeblade hanging on her belt.
Lady Elysia considered this in silence and then said, "Well said, Qhite Squire." And the moment passed. Elysia would never reveal more, but clearly she had considered the warning arrow and accepted it. Behind her, Carvius nods ever so slightly.
"Indeed," Elyisa went on, hands lightly caressing the icy arms of the frozen throne-like chair (probably too throne-like if Lady Riina were here). "Our will must be done." A short pause and then, "Rename the city...Isseier." A mental second passes as they all translate this old Hallit word. Winter Victory. Lady Elsyia gives a negligent flick of her wrist and it is done. Hundreds of years of culture are swept away and the name of a city changed. Or so it would be in Irrisen.
Sorala has a feeling Port Peril and the Shackles will be a harder horse to master.
"And we shall rule it." Lady Eylsia says firmly, "Without question. I trust there is no argument?"
Silence from the crowd. of course not. Saying otherwise would be absurd. Arguing against a Jadwiga at the best of times is foolhardy. Arguing their wills are not absolute is suicidal.
Then Mynnom coughs and speaks up, "Of course not, M'Lady. Not among your trusted and valued servants. But there are others...." A second to let this linger before plunging on, "I have heard rumors that some of the bandits, who call themselves mercenaries, are stealing food and valuables for themselves instead of giving it as tribute."
Another chilled silence. "Bandits?" Lady Elyisa said, as if in surprise. "Why do we have bandits among us? Are these loyal servants, to be trusted? What should be done..."
Silence.