Rum Over Ice

Game Master Mowque

Sorala had to admit that Norintha had a point, about her enslaved people and Divedi's cruelty matching the Jadwiga's. The White Squire merely shrugged and slid her rimeblade into its sheath; for the first time that day, Sorala felt a bit at ease. Still it was strange that Norintha wanted to hand the enslaved over to her, essentially putting them back in danger. Sorala understood that the woman didn't want to be their caretaker, but there must be somewhere safer in the city for them.

As to the "tailor's" first question, Sorala was intrigued, and perhaps pleasantly surprised. She shrugged again, face placid, trying to hold her excited in at the possibility of having a place to hide. "I had plans for this place, but I assumed they were not possible. Do you know someone that could clean the corpse room discretely? Perhaps there is a way that we can both use this space, in return? You want to make your way in a cruel world, yes? And have freedom for your people?" Sorala lets the idea hang in the air for long, lingering moment to see if Norintha can envision it too: a place of refuge, a port in a storm which would surely rage around them.

"Divedi had a hidden room down there. The door is broken now, but were it to be repaired and few knew of it, well... there is much that could be done here, yes?"

And then again, Norintha says something intriguing. "What is the Crescent Harbor? Sadly, I have little in the way of coin, but perhaps some things to trade, if there's an honest appraiser about. And if you know of those that need favors, I can trade my blade as well, as long as I have the freedom to do so."

Sorala's mind's eye flashes to the feast's preparation that surely must be in full swing by now, and she wonders if Vennik made it back and made good on his word to deliver the bread (which Sorala would not be eating).

She'd have to leave soon to get back to tonight's feast. She couldn't carry the sheaf of papers with her. Well, Sorala corrects herself, she could, but wandering the feast with a neat stack of invoices would surely raise questions. She'd take the ledger but leave everything else, and so had best get to work going through the documents soon...

Her connection to Eitleán dulls and fades as the rimeblade is sheathed, her mind more nearly becoming her own. Strange, when one thought of it that way.

Norintha answers her last question first with a laugh, "Crescent Harbor is where you are standing. The smaller city where you are, that is Crescent Harbor. Port Peril proper is across the bay." She smiles, "This is the poor part of town, Sorala. Where the pirates, smugglers, beggars and new arrivals rest their anchors."

This was the...smaller part of the city? These seemingly miles of wharves and ports? If that was true then Port Peril, no 'Issier' would be a bigger city then Whitethrone. Far bigger. Had the Jadwiga known what size fish they were swallowing here? The Irriseni would have their work cut out for them.

"I know a few who might be able to do what you wish. Might take some time to find, with the way things are." Norintha says, "But it is a small thing, in exchange for what you did today. I will ask around, cast a few nets, see what swims in. I have a nasty feeling Sooraj's notebook would be unpleasant to open without care."

When the talk shifts to the building, the halfling turns on the spot slowly, taking in the empty shell of the bakery. Her feet stir up the flour dust, scraping loudly on the wood.

"I have to say, seeing a place of evil and suffering do good makes me smile." Her brown eyes settle on Sorala, "Normally, of course, it would be impossible. People knew Sooraj, they would ask questions. But now? What is another burned out shop? No one would know. Even the bodies will be easier to get rid of. How many will be clogging the gutters this morning?" She shakes her head but then shrugs, "As for repairs, well, you have a work crew right there." She gestures toward the slaves, still out enjoying the sunshine and water.

The halfling tailor nods slowly, "Yes, I think much good could be done here. "

"Thank you," Sorala murmurs, her voice rich with a degree of earnestness that is usually missing with her flat delivery. "You raise a good point about the time being now to change this place. Do you think that your people would mind working here? Being here? After everything?"

It certainly seemed to be the case, if Norintha had a handle on the freed ones that hadn't left, and truthfully, Sorala's question was a bit hypothetical - either they would agree to stay on or they wouldn't. And if they did, and could keep their wits about them and their mouths shut, then this could be a place of safety. But if the freed ones weren't interested in staying, then it was nothing lost on Sorala's part but a half-day, and the city was better off with Divedi's death, regardless. For a moment, Sorala struggles with a feeling of pride. The feeling itself was not unusual; Sorala had after all felt great pride in her accomplishments and the furtherance of her House's glory. But the feeling here was different in a way. Yes, there had been self-interest in ending the slavers, but ultimately that may be for naught and Sorala found herself unconcerned.

Sorala was proud of her help for Norintha and her people, and their freedom was the closest to an act of charity that Sorala had done in... the Squire could not remember. Since Halgred had been murdered by his mother, the Lady Riina at least. Sorala frowned, her pride vanishing, swallowed by self-annoyance. Charity could get you killed in Irrisen.

Well, this newfound pride was a problem for future Sorala. For the present, she would see if the freed ones were interested in staying. The White Squire padded across the empty bakery, noting the silence in her steps, enjoying the feeling of her bare feet feeling the cool, flour-dusted floor. Stopping in the doorway, she looked over the freed ones that remained, and leaning against the frame of the bakery, waited until her presence was too much to ignore. "Freed ones: you can stay here, if you wish. If you have no where to go. I only ask that you repair the doorway to the room that Divedi's corpse lies in, in the basement, and let me use that room as I see fit. You will have my protection under this roof, and no one will enslave you again."

It was of course a difficult promise to enforce, but that was a detail to figure out later; another problem for future Sorala.

"Perhaps, if you do not hate the work, this place can once again be a bakery? You are wonderful bakers. And perhaps, with time, it can be more. But that is up to you. Make the space what you wish - just give me the room below, and passage as I need it."

"There is another thing. There is a second room below; many corpses lie within. They should be disposed of immediately. There's no longer any threat in that room, but for the sake of disease, or for the prevention of the unquiet dead, if you stay, make their disposal the first thing you do now?"

Turning back from the doorway, Sorala again ducks inside, and pulls the ledger from the counter where Sorala had left it. Tucking it under her arm, Sorala squints, her eyes again adjusting to the dim light. "Norintha, I need to get back to my master. What will you do now?"

When Sorala asks Norintha about the building she catches a strange glint in the halfling's dark eyes. Excitement, passion, the thrill of someone being offered a much desired but never truly expected chance. She gives Sorala shrug and says, "Time and tide change all things. What better place for a flower to grow then in a former cesspit? Seems fitting, you know?" her eyes sweep the room again, somewhat distant as if seeing some very different room. What visions danced in front of her eyes?

Sorala made her proposal to the slaves like she would to Irrisen peasants. Short, to the point and with a little judicious 'massaging of the truth'. The limit of her protection might be less then these people imagined but she wasn't going to tell them that. Sorala wasn't exactly lying but it wasn't the whole truth either.

When she finished her pitch, the slaves then did something Sorala did not expect. In fact, their reaction went against her entire worldview and sent her mind on a dizzying tumble.

The slaves, after hearing her words, formed a simple circle and started discussing the matter. As a group. They took turns forwarding thoughts, debating ideas and asking questions. One by one the talk went around the ring, and even the very sick or very young got a turn to speak (if they wished). This simple act threw Sorala.

Irrisen was set up on strict hierarchal lines. The family was governed by the eldest able female, the village by an appointed headwoman and so on up to the Jadwiga themselves (who, in theory were subject to the strange whims of Baba Yaga). All of these figures were inviolate, except by the next master in the chain. There was no discussion, no meaningful debate or, most times, even explanations. Orders were given and then they were blindly followed on pain of death.

And here, these battered slaves were voting on weather to take up with Sorala or not. She couldn't but contrast this fair flow of ideas with the sycophantism rife in Elyisa's so-called 'council'. Was this how Port Peril did things? Sorala glanced at Norintha but the halfling seemed unconcerned, busy examining the walls of the bakery. Clearly such circles were common?

The discussion doesn't last long however and when they hold a final vote, nearly all say 'Aye'. Sorala watches, curious what will happen to the No voters. Will they be forced to vote yes or merely cast out? To Sorala's surprise and puzzlement, the losers merely shrug and join the others.

A female slave older then Norintha speaks first saying, "We'll join you, for now. You helped us and we wont forget it." Another, a younger man with a seemingly mutilated left arm sys, "I was a carpenter's apprentice before his debts forced him to sell me. I can fix your door."

Somewhat still bemused by the decision making process, she turns to Norintha.

"Well, I think I have my work cut out for me. Removing a few dead bodies properly, feeding everyone, fixing this place up, finding a lockpicker." The halfling woman gives Sorala a grin, "Just a normal, average day in Port Peril."

Sorala watches the ongoings, her brow furrowed, conflicting emotions at war within her.

On one hand, she seemed to be witnessing, if what Critical Conversations: Ulfen Political Life and Civil Society in the Linnorm Kingdoms, an ivory-bound tome that sat atop one of Loremaster Aelick's sagging bookshelves would call a moot. It was thrilling to see such a thing in flesh and blood, and the White Squire paid close attention to the dialogue; who said what, the power differentials (shockingly not) on display, even the manner of discourse. Watching the freed ones debate was almost like watching the customs of an alien race from one of the supposed other planets in the solar system, so far removed from Sorala's life was what was happening before her.

On the other hand, everything was deeply discomforting. Hadn't she already given them a choice, and wasn't that enough, especially for ones that were enslaved mere hours ago? Why didn't they meekly accept or slink away? Why did the ones that lost the moot simply shrug? Did they not then duel, or undertake some form of skullduggery to get their way? Perhaps that came later.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Sorala thanks the man that was once a carpenter, and says her goodbyes, making sure to thank Norintha as well. Another day, indeed.

The sun had climbed high in the sky and hovered over the city, punishing in its radiance. Sorala had a feast to attend.

The slaves are happily buzzing, as Sorala leaves. Clearly having something productive to do, chosen by them is quite the intoxicating cocktail after years of living under Sooraj's presumably unwelcome rule. It is the freedom, not the labor, that was onerous.

There is a lesson here but Sorala's mind can't quite tackle it. Not yet.

Instead she leaves the stripped bakery and begins walking the streets of, what she now knows is Crescent Harbor. For once the White Squire is not in a hurry or following the orders of a impatient master so she...takes her time. In a rather novel experience she simply wanders the twisting streets with no defined goal in mind, except a gradual movement toward the ice flow.

But Sorala is not idle. She keeps her eyes and ears open, her mind awake. She wants to understand this strange place, to learn about this city. The Irrisen woman has a feeling she will be spending a great deal of time here and something about this tropical enclave....excites her. So she walks.

And sweats. The first thing she discovers is how hot it is. Early afternoon in Port Peril is, quite literally, the hottest Sorala has ever been. The blazing tropical sun beats down like an angry forge-god, rays of sunlight turning the air into a sizzling saucepan. Sorala can see, before her disbelieving eyes, hot air dancing off rocks, like the space above an oven. Her pale skin tingles painfully, hot to the touch. Sunburn? How did people live here?

She pulls up her hood, drinks more water from her canteen, and keeps walking Sticking to the shade of the ramshackle buildings whenever possible. She is helped by the fact that the buildings are packed closely together, leaning on each other like friendly, helpful drunks. The wide, gabled roofs cover most of the muddy streets even at high noon. While this keeps the heat at bay (and protects her feet from scorching) it does mean most of the paths are slimy, fungus-laden tracks.

Around her the city is still quiet, shell-shocked from the day before. Sorala can still smell ash and blood on the air, and a few house fires are still smoldering, sending circles of smoke into the bright blue sky. A few allies are still clogged with debris and dead animals, victims of the haphazard invasion. A few times she spots a body, half-hidden in a dark doorway or submerged in a flooded gutter.

Still, the destruction is very uneven with some street corners looking like a warzone while across the street, the buildings are the same as ever. With a careful eye, Sorala can see life starting to return. People hanging out laundry, children running between buildings, a few shops cautiously open for business. There are no open bazaars or markets, nothing so organized but Sorala has the sense of an animal sniffing the air, wary of danger yet still emerging from its hole.

In most places Sorala is ignored, just another wandering figure in a city turned upside down and shaken. Barefoot, smeared with blood and mud and wearing a sword, few want to get in her way. But on a few streets, someone puts the clues together. The cut of her clothes, a glimpse of pale skin, the frequent gulps of water. They all shout 'Irrisen' to the careful eye.

Even on these streets no one actually says anything. No shouts or jeers, no thrown stones or fruit. Not even angry stares. The memory of the invasion is too fresh, the danger she poses too unknown. The violence still present. And yet....and yet Sorala detects a sullenness to them, a sort of subdued outrage that she dares strides down the street, alone. A challenge they yearn to take up, but do not dare.

Not yet.

Sorala wonders how long they will stay shaken and subdued and what might happen when it wears off.

She focuses on the geography and layout of the town. This is difficukt because, as far as Sorala can tell, the streets follow no rhyme or reason. They twist and swoop, with wide streets suddenly ending in squalid alleys or corners hooking out into straggling plazas. Several times she gets lost, turned around and is confronted with the harbor shoreline. Annoyed, the White Squire realizes she needs some high ground. A way to see above the swaybacked warehouses and rooftops, and out of the rich mud.

She is wary of just entering a random building however, even if it seems abandoned or dilapidated. For one thing, Port Peril home improvement seems to be lacking and more then one teetering construction that would be judged a ruin by any architect is happily inhabited by several large families. Second, who is to say she wouldn't wander into a smuggler's den or criminal hideout? The last she wanted was to run into trouble.

Then she spots it. A tower of crumbling stone right along the quay. About three stories tall, it is higher then most of the other buildings but while looking abandoned also sturdy enough to not crumble under her boots.

Approaching it, she isn't sure what it is for. Round and slender, it doesn't seem designed for storage and it is poorly placed to act as a crane or strong-point for block and tackle. What was it? Sorala couldn't even tell what kind of stone it was made from, irregular and crumbly, like wet sand pressed together and left to dry.

In any case, the tower was open and unguarded. Inside was a single spiraling staircase that lead upwards into the seemingly empty shell. Curious.

Sorala climbed it and, after picking her way through the obvious signs of vagrants and squatters, found herself at the top. The top of the tower was a wide empty space covered with a low slate roof. The round room was totally empty, scrounged and scavenged long ago. Plants grow in nooks and crannies, vines tangling down from the roof. A colorful bird breaks for the sky at her arrival, squawking loudly. In the center of the floor were black scorch marks, burned right into the stone, signs of a long and hot fire. Interesting.

But whatever the reason for the old tower, it offered a stunning view of the city and harbor.

The White Squire quickly realizes why it is called Crescent Harbor. The entire habitable part of the city is a half-moon shaped wedge stuck between high jungle-clad mountains to the west and the curving arc of blue sea to the east. To the north the city dwindled against the final spine of the mountains that marched to the sea but to the south she saw a open space filled with ordered trees and plants. A farm of some kind? Beyond it a large and rambling building rises, with several large stone wings. She wonders what it is for it lacks walls or defenses of any kind. A temple?

Dead ahead of her lies the ocean, where Elysia's ice flow floats like a giant sea-monster, a wreath of steam rising from it, clouding her vision. Past it, is another bigger city. It is hard to see any details from this range but she can spots miles of wharves, acres of houses and entire strongholds. Port Peril proper.

After seeing everything there is to see, she climbs down the strange tower and steps, once again, onto the muddy streets. Her stomach rumbles and her throat is parched. The waterskin at her belt is empty, and the sun above is still relentless.

Sorala is reflecting on this when she spots a large-ish building ahead, with more signs of life then most. The doors are flung open and the sounds of music and laughter float out, and Sorala glimpses people inside sitting and drinking. A tavern?

Could be good...if she didn't start a riot by walking in. Maybe she should keep going.

Maybe she should keep going? That would be the prudent thing; tough the heat and sun and thirst out until back among her people, but... Sorala is thirsty, thirsty enough to drink the entirety of the Great Glacial Lake, she feels. And she hasn't had anything to eat since the night previous. As if to accentuate her thoughts, her stomach rumbles and clenches, hard enough that the White Squire worries she'll pass out soon. So, it was the tavern or hunting for rats and puddles. If things went badly, well she could always fly out the front door.

Sorala hides Eitleán as far under her cloak as she can, and tying her hair in a quick, loose braid, tucks it into her cloak. She then pulls the cloakhood far over her head, as if to fold her head so far into it as to appear to be nearly headless, and certainly indescribable. Taking the last frew drops from her canteen, Sorala washes as much blood from her hands as is possible.

She lingers at the door for a second, taking the room in, making sure there were no obvious threats...

disguise: 1d20 ⇒ 16
perception: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (16) + 6 = 22
stealth or sleight of hand as appropriate: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (18) + 2 = 20

As Sorala moves toward the building, she glances at a sign above the wide lintel. Just as in Irrisen, it is dominated by a painted image not written text. Here it is a glowing lamp of some kind, sending shooting rays in all direction. below it are letters however, neatly painted on (even if very weathered).

Dellman's Deadlight

Stepping inside, Sorala finds herself in a large open room fairly crowded with people. The air smells of body odor, fresh beer, wood smoke and...something exotic and musky Sorala can't quite put her finger on. Incense? A spice of some kind?

The layout is similar to taverns the world over. The center of the room is taken up with wooden tables and chairs, filled with people talking and drinking. One wall hosts a long bar of slightly splintered wood, with rough stools in front of it. A space in the back is cleared for dancing and even now a few small groups are back there. An unseen fiddle squeaks out a rusty tune.

It is the atmosphere that interests her, that indefinable 'feel' of a room. This one is very strange. While thee are certainly people laughing and drinking, it is not the merriment or joy one expects. or it is, but with an added edge. The laughter is too loud and long, the drinks too desperate. This is exhausted relief and surprise, tinged with a slight craze of 'I can't believe we are alive'.

Sorala finds a seat without trouble, doing her best to stay out of the way and not draw attention. Well, until she wants the bartender. A middle-aged woman with muscles appears from a back room, drying out a pewter mug. Spotting Sorala she raises an eyebrow but shrugs.

Sorala drops two bangles on the bar, the copper and brass gleaming brightly as they made a rather musical sound.

"It'll get you plenty." The woman says after inspecting one. She starts to lean closer, stops and then whispers, Ytalk less, your accent gives you away. I'll be back in a bit, I'll see what us leftover from last night."

When the woman leaves, Sorala does her best to listen. Not to her surprise, the recent invasion is the only topic. Most is silly nonsense or personal tales, but she hears something quite different from one part of the tavern.

A few tables have been pushed together along one wall and here a group of men and women are in deep talk, sober and serious. Sorala, carefully, turns her head to get a good look. They are an eclectic bunch but she soon finds some generalities.

They all seem young and strong, with very tanned skin and clothes stained with salt. The scent of tar and seaweed rises off of them, and every single one is armed. Their voices are sure and energetic, yet somewhat controlled. Even Sorala can tell what they are at a single glance. Sailors and those used to giving orders. Captains?

"What, you are going to miss old Bonefist?" one of them says, a young woman with an outrageous red feather in her floppy hat. "Gonna get all misty eyed for the days when Boney would string up folks at the Dead Man's Dance Hall?"

A round of laughter but a short black-skinned with an ugly weal on his face grunts, "You think these new one's 'ill be any better? Gods, they are Ulfen raiders."

"Not Ulfen." Another man says, this one a rather scrawny, rat-looking fellow with a long jangling earring made out of bones. "Something else. I used to trade up north. These ones ain't no more Ulfen then you, Siboniso."

Sibonido grunts again and says darkly, "Anyway, it'll all be trouble, mark my words."

The woman laughs freely, "You'd say that on a fair morning with a hold full of loot. You are as grim as a sea slug dropped on a salt pan."

More laughter and drinks.

While she waits, Sorala keeps one ear on the captains' conversation behind her and one eye on the bartender - the woman had pegged her as an invader immediately, and there was always the danger that Sorala could be poisoned. Sorala's stomach clenches and Sorala's face pinches - with pain, but also regret. She would have to avoid the food and drink here.

history to know anything about this Bonefist: 1d20 + 11 ⇒ (10) + 11 = 21

And then it arrives. "Sancocho, bread," the bartender says, sliding the bangles off the counter and into her apron. "And ale."

The soup possessed a thin, red-tinged liquid which smelled vaguely like the market in the small foreigner's quarter of her home city; pungent, warm, and sweet all at once. But the broth was merely a minor portion of the dish, outnumbered by the sheer amount of vegetables and protein ensconced within it. Sorala detected notes of leeks, or something similar enough, and could see there was some whitefish and shellfish there, both familiar enough - but there were also vegetables, which other than the allums were wholly unfamiliar.

Curiosity and hunger warred briefly with her caution, and caution lost; surely if she were to be poisoned the bartender would not have announced she knew where Sorala was from? Sorala spooned a bite of the stew into her mouth. First there was the fish, similar enough to ones she fished back home, perhaps a little more dense of flesh. Then there was a vegetable, vaguely like a potato in taste, but more fibrous. And then there was the broth, which came upon Sorala first with mild intensity and then like a wave crashing on a beach, a tingling, pleasant sweet heat that grew in the back of her throat like a hearthfire; sweat beaded on Sorala's temple and below her lip, her nose began to run. Why on golarian would they make their food so hot here? Wasn't the sun enough?

Still, Sorala had to admit it was delicious. Ripping a hunk from the roll placed next to her, she dipped it in the soup - the sancocho - and shoved it in her mouth, her eyes watering. It was simple bread, crusty and dense, not as good as Sooraj's, but also likely not made with yeast harvested from corpses.

Losing track of the conversation happening behind her, Sorala digs into the soup until her stomach is no longer grumbling, and wiping her running nose with her cloak, sits back and sighs.

It was time to meet some of the locals. Taking the remainder of her soup, and the ale - a watery, mild drink much less memorable than the sancocho - Sorala slides off the stool, keeping her head down, moves to an empty seat at the captains' table. Slipping into the seat, Sorala places her food before her, and surveys the captains from under her cloakhood. "Hello. Siboniso is not exactly wrong. I am Ulfen, for example. You are captains, yes?"

The assembled Port Perilers grows instantly silent when Sorala interjects herself in the conversation. A dozen set of eyes, of all colors and shapes, watch her with a mixture of curiosity and surprise as the White Squire sits down into one of the rough wooden chairs. Mouth still burning from the sancocho, she cools the fire with the rather pathetic ale.

Siboniso gives her a long cold stare, lip curling slightly, "What you doing, eavesdropping on private talk? No one invited you."

The woman with the feathered cap sniffs and waves her hand toward Siboniso dismissively. Sorala can see calluses on the long, rather delicate fingers. 'Shut up, Sib. This is a open tavern, not exactly secrets. Besides, you gripe loud enough they can hear you in Lucrehold. I can't blame her for hearing." She smirks at Sorala, "I don't recognize you." Still with an insolent grin, she tilts her head at Sorala.

"I don't know about Ulfen, but if you are a captain I'm a sea hag." The woman finally says, and a few others nod in agreement. They aren't angry at Sorala, but there is a guard of wariness placed up, a barrier. She is not one of them, quite clearly.

"What brings you to the Deadlight?" The woman finally asks, "Apart from the soup. Which is, fair enough, a pretty damned good reason to walk in."

"We don't get many Ulfen down here," She goes on, gesturing idlily to the rat faced man, who gives Sorala a long searching look. "They tend to stick to their own kind." This is not said judgmental, but conversationally, remarking on a slight curiosity, like an interesting bird or a slightly unusual cloud.

"Oh, you're no sea hag, that's for sure," Sorala says, her voice light, as if discussing the weather or one's skill at Conqueror. "And I'm certainly no captain."

A small smile flits across the Squire's face. "Although I've spent some time aboard ships. I've even built one. Nothing as grand as the ones that ply the southern seas, of course. Even the longships of the Linnorm jarls don't compare." Or so I'm told.

Sorala grows still, her mind turning over her approach, the ways she could speak the truth while still obscuring it. A dangerous game, but one that she suspected would be entertaining for her audience, even if not believed in its entirety.

"I came to the Deadlight because I was hungry and it was nearby. I wish I had a more thrilling story, but... I have newly arrived in Port Peril and I don't know much of the city. Yet. But the invaders, they make it difficult for me to walk the streets. Just yesterday, I was attacked."

Sorala's smile flashes across her face again, this time not reaching her eyes. The Squire's hand moves as if a reflex, to the hilt of her rimeblade, still hidden under her cloak. "They regretted it in their last moments, I imagine. But, I am not so foolish to think I am the biggest wolf in the pack. I may not be so lucky next time."

Turning to Siboniso, Sorala lowers her eyes, gives him a quick nod of her head. "Forgive my interruption. You look like persons of power and influence. And knowledge. As for me, I merely wish to walk the streets without being attacked. And so, I wish to ask you a few questions. You see, I understand the invaders. And so, I'm perhaps in a unique position to be of service. Perhaps, violence need not bring the city down around us?"

"Now, I understand that no fish is given freely. Perhaps you would like to know more? Ask, and I shall answer, if I can."

Sorala's scattering of half-lies and truths dance like snowflakes in a blizzard. Bright, dazzling and very dangerous.

The assembled captains watch her warily, obviously aware there are things unsaid. The smart thing, the careful thing would be to walk away and leave Sorala to herself. But no one moves, not even Siboniso. These are sea captains, used to taking daring risks and gamblers all.

So instead they sip their drinks, and....listen.

The woman with the feather speaks first, sipping a mug of something that doesn't smell like the watery ale, but instead fruity and rich. "That's fairly said, I suppose. Although it isn't like violence is new here. Port Peril isn't exactly a peaceful utopia, even at the best of times." Some laughs but obviously the word 'utopia' is beyond a few of the captains.

The woman goes on, "Are we doing names? You don't have to, but mine is Fleta, of the Yellow Fin." She raises her mug is a sort of toast before adding, "As far as knowing more, sure. When a big army shows up and starts hacking people to death, information can be useful."

A few people quickly glance at Sorala to see how she takes this. One of them, the scrawny faced man jumps in, "Well, they aren't Ulfen. Who are they then?"

"And how did they get here?" Another askes, jerking a thumb toward the unseen harbor, "Is the iceberg going to stay around? It is blocking half the roads out there."

Fleta smiles at this and says, voice soft but cutting through the sudden babble, "What do they want, exactly? This is a long way from home for them, must be something important."

"Ygritte," Sorala says, her voice just a murmur. She had not said her birthname in years, and to offer it to this table of strangers, even the version of her name as it was spoken in the Lands of the Linnorm Kings, drawn out and with a hard i, rather than the shorter "Igrit;" it made Sorala feel once again like a scared child, slung over the back of the White Rider's horse, galloping into the frozen unknown.

Giving her real surname was out of the question; these pirates had not earned that. Nor could she give them any of the appellations she'd earned over the years, for her actions here could be spun by any enemies in Elysia's court, if they learned of them before Sorala had the opportunity to tell her masters. So, for the time being, a moniker was called for. Sorala quickly tosses ideas aside, her mind flying through possibilities while the merest moment passes at the table. Ygritte Northstar? Ygritte Avalanche? The Winter Wolf?

"Guiding Star. Ygritte Guiding Star. Nice to meet you, Fleta of the Yellow Fin. I assume that is the name of your ship, and that she is graceful, with sleek lines that cut through the water like a scissors through hair?"

Despite the bellowed questions and raised voices, the threat of violence seems to have passed, and Sorala realizes she's in command of the table, the old Jadwiga adage Always spin a web fleetingly passing through her thoughts. Turning to the scrawny-faced man, Sorala raises her glass of ale and takes a lingering sip. "You are right... and wrong. Many of the invaders are Ulfen. But not from the Linnorm Kings. They come from their neighbor. The Ulfen are the servants, the soldiers, the slaves. Their rulers are something else entirely. Jadwiga. Do you know the word? Powerful spellweavers. Another, more common word to describe them is "witch." Though I offer this caution - that word can be taken as an insult. And insulted Jadwiga always pay the insults back ten-fold."

Looking towards the harbor, Sorala continues. "They arrived on the iceberg." Sorala waves a hand in the air, nonchalant. "As I said, spellweavers. As to whether the iceberg will stick around, I cannot say. They have no need for ships."

"And, the crux of the question," Sorala says, turning to the captain, Fleta, and holding her gaze, "They want what all Jadwiga want. Power. Recognition. Wealth. To be feared. It is, frankly, an insatiable hunger, one that is merely sated as like a gluttonous feast. Momentarily. The hunger shall return."

Sorala paused, looking about the table, letting her thought linger. "And so I come to my question. But first, a statement of fact. The Jadwiga army destroyed the entire Chelish fleet, save the Geryon, which now sits unmolested at harbor. Such is the Jadwiga's power. And so I ask: What will you do? Do you plan to bend the knee?"

"Ygritte," Fleta says slowly, as if tasting the word. The woman then shrugs, "Not bad. It fits, somehow."

When Sorala explains the Jadwiga and what drives them, one of the Captains mutters, "Great. Glory hounds." There is some laughter and knowing smiles. "Well, at least they'll fit in here." Fleta however doesn't laugh, but merely notes Sorala's word with a raised glass.

"Well, the ice will melt, won't it?" The questioner persists, "The bay is warm as bath water."

"Not that you'd know what a bath feels like, Faron."Comes a quick quip from the table and Faron rolls his eyes.

"It is probably magical." A female captain says, conservatively dressed in dark clothes. "Arcanely protected against the currents. Abjuration spells, perhaps?" This is met with the collective shrugs of those who use magic but never bother trying to learn it.

At Sorala's comment about the Chelish however, the reaction isn't what she expects.

Laughter. Every captain starts to chuckle, giving each other knowing looks and grinning.

Seeing her face Fleta leans back her chair with a wide grin, putting her boots on the table. 'Well, they hardly needed to do much didn't they? The Chelish make piss-poor sailors even in good weather. No stomach for real sailing. I was surprised they all managed to get in the harbor, myself."

"They didn't." says Siboniso, "One of them ran aground on Marlow's Shelf. She's still sitting out, dry as a bird's nest." More laughter and drinks.

Then, cold as a sudden Irriseni wind, a big rangy man with a fringe of red beard cuts in. He glowers over the table at Sorala, eyes narrowed. His voice, when he speaks, is a rough growl reminding her of Vasim the werewolf.

"So, ye like these newcomers, eh? Know something about them? One of them gutted my first-mate last night. Spitted him like a suckling pig." A hand drops to a knife at his belt. "What's yer plan if I decide to do the same to you? How's that fit into yer 'walking safely' around our city. My city."

Cold silence congeals around the table when Fleta, still leaning says mildly, "Quye has a point after all. Aren't you a bit worried we might take things the wrong way? Maybe we confuse you with our new...management and settle a few scores?" Again, her voice is casual, like someone discussing the weather. "Might be dangerous, being alone."

Sorala smiles, a long, slow grin spreading across her, and she lifts her glass once again, draining the last of the ale, before turning to rangy man, Quye. "Oh, so this is your city? You are the man about town that the invaders should be parlaying with?"

The Squire's voice drips with sarcasm, intended to keep the man off balance, seated. Slowly, Sorala's hand moves under her cloak to rest on Eitleán's hilt, and she makes a mental note to follow up on later. Quye must die.

"Your assumption is wrong, Growling Quye. About liking the invaders. My whole village is gone. But I'm still here. Think carefully about what you decide to do with me: it is a foolhardy thing to threaten those you don't know."

The prospect of violence dances in the air, the taste of copper coats Sorala's tongue. Her hand closes around the rimeblade's hilt, ready to pull the weapon from its slumber.

The moment hangs in the air, and then, like a moonflower in the morning, Quye closes in on himself, and Sorala slowly lets loose a silent exhalation, her fingers loosening their grasp on Eitleán. She turns to Fleta, who it seems may be the leader of this band of pirates, as much as anyone is. "Might be dangerous, true. But for who? I trust no one wants to find out today. I do not. I merely wish to talk, Fleta of the Yellow Fin"

Sorala considers asking if she kills Quye, does that mean she gets ownership of his ship, but decides against it. Might want to avoid ratcheting up the tensions again.

"So, I've told you of the invaders. You know more than you knew a mere ten minutes ago. I wish to know if I may be of service. Do you plan to greet the invaders as rulers?"

Sorala shrugs. "And, I also have questions of a more... normal nature, perhaps. I assume you can't hold all the ships you board. Is there a merchant that sells them, the ones you take but don't keep? Perhaps one day I purchase one myself, and earn a less honest living."

The White Squire meant the last question more as conversation and idle curiosity, but is surprised to find a mental picture forces itself into her mind: Sorala Ironeyes, adorned in Fleta's ridiculous hat, at the wheel of a large wooden ship, sails flapping in the wind behind her. The sun is bright, the breeze gently ruffling her white hair, and a spark - perhaps the reflection of gold or a shiny bronze figurehead at the prow of her ship - glinting in Sorala's eye.

Ridiculous, Sorala thinks, and forces the image from her mind.

Quye moves to stand up and things might have gone poorly but Fleta, with sudden movement, slams her chair legs back down. They slam loudly on the Deadlight's grimy floor, and the female captain gives Quye a serious look, smile gone.

"Shut up Quye, before you get someone killed." She says impatiently, "Probably yourself. Look at her. She isn't some soft-handed merchant or lost landlubber. Use your eyes man! You think that sword is just for show? Now, save Dellman's staff the trouble of cleaning up your guts."

Dismissed, the rangy captain settles back down in his chair, face a mixture of anger and embarrassment. Ignored, Fleta turns back to Sorala to consider her words.

"Rulers?" She says with obvious confusion, the grin reappearing on her face. Sorala notes the woman has good teeth, with bright red lips. "We don't have rulers or masters. Never have and never will." Nods and a few drinks raised in toasts at this.

"We are the Free Captains," Fleta says proudly, "We aren't even aligned with any of the Pirate Lords...and you have no idea what I'm talking about." she adds, seeing Sorala's face.

"Well, it might not matter much now. I wonder how many of the Lords are in the Boneyard after last night. I know Fairwind got out, I saw the Luck of the Draw making sail yesterday. She prefers Quent anyway."

"Delmonia is dead," Siboniso offers, "Burned alive I hear. Died ashore."He shakes his head at this obviously dark news.

"Maxevale Janis is dead, or so they say." Someone else offers but Fleta snorts in reply, "Maxvale is no Lord. He's Fairwind's bed partner and nothing more." No one disagrees but a few shrug at what is clearly an old argument.

Fleta turns back to Sorala, "If you expect Port Peril to accept these Jadwiga," She butchers the foreign word with careless ease, "You are in for a shock. The Shackles doesn't really have rulers."

Sorala is still digesting this revolutionary concept when Fleta answers her other question. "So, looking to become a Free Captain yourself? Might be a tough time, with so many bottoms sunk last night. Then, again, what better time then now to break in?"

People laugh but not at Sorala. The White Squire meets a few others eyes and she doesn't see pity or amusement at her question, but instead a guarded understanding and it occurs to her that every single soul at this table must have had the same inner fantasy.

"Old Khalla Faggur runs a breaking yard in Low Eastwind. I've sold her a few hulls through the years." Fleta says.

"Bah, Khalla is a miser." The rat-faced Ulfen expert says with a flip of his callused, dirty hands. "Jezutau in Beggerbriar now, he's always generous."

Fleta makes a face, "Now I know why you smell sometimes, Bressaic. Going down to Briar? How desperate are you? Besides, he probably sells dry-rotted ships."

Bressaic shrugs nonchalantly.

A dour woman with lank hair and big teeth (Sorala guesses some half-orc blood in her) says in a deep but rather pleasant voice, "Buying a ship?" She gives Sorala a long, careful look, "That is not the way. Take a ship, that way it'll be your own." A ring of nods of approval but Sorala gets the feeling most of these assembled men and women did buy their first ships.

"Besides," Fleta adds after the murmurs die down, "Who knows what the new folks might do. They captured a few hulls last night. Assuming they don't sink them, they might be in the market to sell a few."She gives Sorala a smile, "Or give them to loyal followers?" Frowns and dark looks at this suggestion.

Sorala sits, quiet as an icecicle, taking in the banter and taking note of people, places, locations. Names fly through her brain, are categorized: Delmonia, Bressaic, Quye, Fairwind; questions are filed away for later: who is Bonefist? What is a Pirate Lord?. This wasn't the crowd to show too much ignorance. She would need to consult with someone. Norintha?

Her questions answered, Sorala stands, leaving her half-eaten soup and empty glass of ale. "I suppose I cannot be of help to you all then. Thank you for your company, and for your knowledge. I look forward to paying Faggur and Jezutau a visit."

She wasn't sure how the locals ended conversations, so Sorala merely nods and offers a parting thought, ripped right from one of the names she's gathered. "Fair winds to you all."

Turning, Sorala makes her way towards the tavern's door and the inescapable, punishing heat.

"Ygritte" Fleta says as Sorala rises to her feet. The Free Captain (whatever that meant) looks oddly serious, "Thanks for stopping by. If you run across the Yellow Fin, feel free to visit."

A few raised eyebrows at this from the others. Clearly this is a sign of honor or allowance rarely given. The woman goes on, "I do have one question though. Maybe one for you to ponder, rather then answer. How do the new people intend to feed themselves?" With a rather cunning look she says, "They look hungry most of them. I saw a pack of of them focus on a butcher's shop over a jewelers last night, so I doubt it is coming from their homeland." The others look pensive at this but not dismissive. They know the value of food and rations.

"The city is fed by traders bringing in food. Traders like us." Fleta says, gesturing to the table. She glances at Bressaic and the rat-faced man twitches. "How many shiploads did you bring in from Widowmaker last month? A dozen?"

"Fifteen." he corrects, looking oddly proud, "If you count the Second Sister."

Fleta looks back at Sorala, "Fifteen loads of grain, and that is just one middling captain. If the new 'masters' of Port Peril want to keep anything here except sand, they'll need to get the food deliveries back up and running. Something to think about."

Sorala did indeed have much to think about as she left Dellman's Deadlight and headed back out onto the muggy streets. It was mid-afternoon now and the heat was intense, but the White Squire was mostly thinking about what she had heard.

Pirate lords. Food delivers. Free Captains. Beggerbriar. But one thing kept coming up, drowning out the others. No rulers. What was such a thing? How did one live without that chain of command? What sort of life was it, to just be....yourself?

Sorala wanders the streets of Crescent Harbor, making her way back toward the icy bridge. She passes the crumbling Old Fort, which looks empty and abandoned again, with only tumbled rocks and the smell of smoke to remind her of the battle. Out to see she glances again at Harbor-Horn, that isolated fort on a long causeway in the harbor.

The ice flow bridge is as busy as ever, with men and women coming and going. It is also still disorganized, with no guard or officers in charge or directing traffic. Signs of the upcoming feast are everywhere however. Dozens of crude tables have been set up right on the causeway, clogging the already tight area. Food is piled up here and there.

A huge open-air kitchen is roaring onshore, just to the left of where the ice bridge connects to dry land. Clearly Coriine Colbertsdottir had decided to do most of the preparations on land, which seemed fair enough. Ice made a poor kitchen. Sorala can see several dozen houses had been leveled to make space for the cookfires, ovens and spits that had appeared as if by magic. Idlily, she wondered what the locals thought of it. If any of them still lived.

No food seems to have been dished out yet, by the various soldiers were slowly clustering around, circling like vultures. Such a grand feast like this might be a once in a decade event back home, held only to celebrate the grandest of events such as the birth of a Jadwiga heir or to honor a great victory over Ulfen raids (a rare event).

Sorala knew that the heart of the feast would be around Elyisa but no normal soldiers would be within eyeshot or earshot of such lauded company. No, the feast would be Irrisen in microcosm. A vast wheel of hierarchy, radiating out from the Jadwiga on down to the very outer fringes which would be dark, cold and hungry.

Gritting her teeth, Sorala bravely makes her way toward the center of the the busy hive. It isn't easy going. Even with her obvious status revealed by the rimeblade, her clothing and proud bearing, the way does not clear. The ice bridge had been too narrow before, but now clogged and clotted with feast preparations, it is nigh impassable. Sorala is forced to confront porters carrying food, soldiers shuffling loot, 'officers' leaving after reports, not to mention the endless tides of hangers-on trying to wedge closer to the warm, important center of the spiderweb. The icy surface hinders here as well, since the passage of so many feet has created slick spots that slip even under her tough boots. So she crawls forward.

Still, it gives her time to appreciate the efforts being put into the feast. Not just tables and food, but also decorations. Fey inspired ice statues are placed here and there, cut right out of the twisted ice flow. Some are decorated with stolen loot from the city, laden with necklaces or tiaras. Threzle Fullbeam's work, Sorala guesses.

Such decorations grow larger and more elaborate as Sorala gets closer and closer to the noble seat of power. By the time she manages to reach the actual ice flow, the path is flanked by a literal arcade of icy arches glittering with lattices of ivy-frost. They turn the harsh afternoon light into arcs of blue and white, playing over the iceflow floor. Huge statues, many well over life-size dot the area, traditional Irrisen themes. Fey creatures, frozen trees, wild animals.

There are more slaves and servants here, busy making the area presentable. The floor is swept and cleaned, and rougher to prevent slippery patches. The tables here are nicer, with chairs instead of humble benches. Fires are already burning, stacked bonfires that remind Sorala of home. Lady Elysia is unlikely to come even this far out but the mere chance means everything must be...prepared.

The crowd is thinner somewhat, as few dare to get this close to the fire at the Irrisen heart. Being close to the Jadwiga is good but too close risks enacting the moth and the flame. Only the boldest, most foolish or well connected enter this space.

Sorala finds the noble throne area surprisingly empty and it is obvious to see why. Lady Elyisa is not here, the ice throne empty for the moment. Without her, why would anyone be here? Sorala is just pondering this when she hears a strong male voice behind her.

"Your Mistress is....entertaining himself." Sorala turns to find Lord Carvius, looking at noble and commanding as ever. His snuff box is in his hand, gleaming in the slowly sinking sun. Behind him Maidrayne Vox, Mistress of Blades for the Order of the Nail stands still as an ice statue except she is black as iron.

"I am told she spend a great deal of her time thus."A trace of annoyance passes over his face but it vanishes in a flash. 'Assuming that is who you are looking for, White Squire Sorala." His bright eyes trace her over and the nobleman adds, "Busy day?"

====================
Dellman's Deadlight
====================

Sorala pauses, one hand brushing lightly against the nearest captain's chair, the Squire's tongue clicking once off he roof of her mouth, a Jadwiga gesture for surprise and delight. "Free Captain Fleta of the Yellow Fin, I'd be honored to visit, if the chance presents itself. And your question is a good one. Honestly... I doubt much consideration to food - or other supplies - has been given. I can certainly ask around, perhaps there is a way for the food to flow again - aboard Free Captain ships, of course."

====================
Iceflow
====================

Sorala marvels at the ever-changing iceflow, wondering how it shifts so quickly. Magic of course, but that was still a vague notion in even Sorala's relatively well-versed mind. There must be great power - and resources - being invested by House Morgannan in the flow's evolution. Power surprising to Sorala.

Sorala stands, silent and alone in the throne room, relishing the moment in what will certainly be an evening of tedious - and dangerous - Jadwiga games. A soft sigh escapes her at the interruption, which is masked as quickly as Carvius's annoyance. "Ah, Lord Carvius Charthagnion, Guardian of the Hespereth Straits, Keeper of the Nine Forts and Overlords of Kharijite. It is a pleasure to see you again."

Sorala casts a fleeting glance towards the hulking, always-silent Vox, her earlier infatuation replaced by a deep sense of unease. Casting her gaze away, Sorala frowns as she looks down to her bare feet, just now realizing how cold they are. She must look ridiculous, in her local's clothes, barefoot, splattered with blood and the remains of the ooze.

"All my days are busy, M'Lord. I am afraid this one even more so than most. I admit I wish I could take you up on that bath now." Sorala's voice lilts higher, teasing. "When do you return the Geryon, M'Lord? Perhaps I can accompany you? Unless you plan to stay with the Lady for a while?" The tone of her question is teasing, but there's a real question there, none-the-less. Just how long is Carvius planning on staying?

"Is there anything I can assist you with, while we wait for Lady Elysia? Oh, and you should know, I have heard that a Chelish ship ran aground on Marlow's Shelf." Sorala tries on Siboniso's expression, finding she likes it. "She's still sitting out, dry as a bird's nest. "

Carvius takes the jibe in stride but Sorala can see the impact under the diplomat's trained façade. His tiny glare also indicates a change in perspective for her as well. When they had met the day before, the Chelishman did not know Sorala, her rank or position. He had played a careful game with her, testing her out, judging her. Now, he had a full day, some of it with a Jadwiga herself. Perhaps he had a better handle on where Sorala Ironeyes stood?

Well, that would make one of them.

The foreign made snapped shut his snuff tin with a loud click. "Quite." he glances out over the edge of the ice flow, over the harbor. In the distance the sun is starting to sink now, throwing up streamers of orange and red, which dance on the surface of the sea. A double sunset, in a way. On above as below.

There is no sign of ships, stranded or otherwise but clearly the Chelishman is seeing the beached vessel in his mind's eye.

"Yes, on our initial approach one of our ships ran aground on a sandbar. Before being flogged, the captain blamed poorly dredged local channels. Considering the state of Port Peril, forgive me, Irisser civic infrastructure, this does not surprise me."

"I am told the next flood tide will be high enough to re-float her. I suppose in a sense it was lucky. It saved the ship from taking part in that regrettable incident between our two nations." Another sniff.

"As for your assistance." Carvius says, weighing the words carefully, looking around the empty icy area which will soon be the stage for a Jadwiga performance. His words are slow and measured, like a man testing his steps before he confirms to them, checking for traps.

"Perhaps. I noted you have some influence with your Mistress, as befits a loyal servant."A pause, "This will be a difficult time for your people. These initial days after the conquest. Much precedent will be set, some of it by accident, that will cast a long shadow. It would be wise to be fore-sighted in this time, to consider steps carefully. A vision for governing, to ensure productive and efficient rule."

"Ah, you know then." Sorala stands by Carvius, close enough to slip a dagger in his throat before he could do anything (Vox, on the other hand, would certainly make sure Sorala did not live through the next minute). The White Squire stares out towards the horizon, imagining what kind of ship sits stranded on Marlow's Shelf. Not a sloop or two-masted schooner, given their shallow draft. A galleon most likely; that seemed more the Chelish style. Briefly, Sorala daydreams doing as the orc-blooded captain with the pleasing voice suggested; gathering Vennik and his band and taking the galleon by force. Alas, they still would not be able to make it sail, and the Chelish were - obstensibly at least - now their friends. Sorala sighs again, this time audibly.

"You are a wise man, M'Lord, and a scion of one of the great empires in all of Avistan. Lady Elysia is blessed to have your company; hopefully she has said as much. I agree with you; these next days, perhaps weeks -- they will be difficult. We will need food, shelter, ammunition. Structure. And of course, to rule with a firm - but not overtly cruel - hand. Tell me, were you the ruler of Irisser, what would you do with these first days?"

No doubt, Carvius had already told Elysia some of his thoughts. And if he was now talking with Sorala, things had not gone well. Perhaps she did not care to understand, or she ignored him, or she was insulted. Regardless, Sorala would not know exactly, but she knew enough. And she knew men as well; they were not so different whether in Irrisen or Cheliax. The Chels had perhaps more power, but ultimately, all men at their core were the same. They wanted someone to listen to them. There was wisdom in knowing that; knowledge that Elysia surely lacked.

When Sorala asked her question, the handsome nobleman was quiet for a moment. His eyes swept the dazzling sunset before them, the lingering light playing over sea and ice. Then Carivus turned to her, a confident smile like that of a man playing Conqueror who recognized a particular gambit.

"There is an story, from my country." The Chelishman says, "Often repeated to the more...grasping children."A quick nod indicates that he would perhaps have fallen into this catergory.

"An Eagle, flying down from his perch on a lofty rock, seized upon a lamb and carried him aloft in his talons. A Jackdaw, who witnessed the capture of the lamb, was stirred with envy and determined to emulate the strength and flight of the Eagle. He flew around with a great whir of his wings and settled upon a large ram, with the intention of carrying him off, but his claws became entangled in the ram’s fleece and he was not able to release himself, although he fluttered with his feathers as much as he could. The shepherd, seeing what had happened, ran up and caught him. He at once clipped the Jackdaw’s wings, and taking him home at night, gave him to his children for dinner. On their saying, “Father, what kind of bird is it?’ he replied, “To my certain knowledge he is a Daw; but he would like you to think an Eagle.”"

Carivus shakes his head, "I am not master here, and playing 'what-could-be' is a dangerous one, as you well know. It is your Mistress's part to decide how to govern this place. I only wish her the best of luck and wisdom in doing so."

A final glance, "Vox, I think we shall retire for a bit, before the festivities begin." He paused and looked at Sorala again, a flash of pity, "Although, I will make a personal suggestion. Perhaps a bath might be in order?"

With that the nobleman (and his ever present but silent bodyguard) leave Sorala alone in the icy place.

Feel free to insert something in here if you want, but I'll move us ahead

The sun slowly sets and an air of anticipation grows. Bonfires are lit in a great ring around the royal area and a quick glance backwards shows Sorala the entire icy causeway is alight. Closer at hand, tables and chairs appear quickly, laid out with fine clothes and pillows. Others of Elysia's inner circle start to arrive, like bees drawn to sugar water (or perhaps moths to the flame).

Threzle Fullbeam and Mynnom the forlarren arrive together, deep in conversation. Behind them is a straggling collection of Irrisen servants and fresh local slaves. Sorala notes those of the fey are on the younger and female side, a few quite attractive. Disgusting.

Valacus arrived later, alone and still wearing his simple black robes. No slaves or servants for them.

Others trickle in, joining the collection. Recent heroes of the battle, and Sorala notes a few names of renown. The conquest was a rare chance for upward movement among the members of the House and clearly many were making a bid for power. She even spots Vasim here, the werewolf taking a seat neat the outer edge of the warm royal center. At least he has cleaned up some, wearing a new seat of clothes that barely fit on his muscular frame.

Food is brought out on steaming platters, an astounding variety for those used to Irrisen tables. Some of it is familiar of course, rough rye bread and bloody stuffed sausages. Cabbage soup bubbles in large cauldrons, topped with sour cream. Sorala event spots an entire table given over to Pelmeni , tiny dumplings stuffed with spiced meats. A great delicacy back home and often saved for the grandest occasions. But tonight, such traditional foods are left in the shade by the newcomers.

Wooden trays of glistening fruit in a bewildering display of colors. Some Sorala knows from her studies under Loremaster Aelick. Oranges and lemons, watermelons. Others she has no idea and is as stumped as everyone else. What is that jagged one, covered with razor-sharp spines and topped with green leaves? Other tables hold the seafood that must play a large role in Port Peril cuisine.

Entire fish boiled whole, with blank eyes staring out. Mounds of fish eggs, entire buckets of buttered clams and mussels. Heaps of rice, topped with spices and sauces. Two servant struggle carrying a cage of what look to be live, giant crabs. The strange scents tingled Sorala's nose and made her mouth water. Yet no one ate. No one raised a fork or touched a bread roll. Not yet.

Somewhere, music started. Shimmering notes from a harp, rippling like a spring stream. Fey enchanted, Sorala wondered idlily if there really were musicians here or was it merely a spell? She had seen both in her hears at court. In either case it is bewitchingly lovely, a cascade of sound that flows from all sides, the royal center awash in ethereal music.

Seeming to arrive out of the sound, Lady Elysia appears. She is wearing a dress as blue as the dark ice around her, with edges sewn to look like frothing foam. Large white pearls are sewn into it, creating swirling patterns that bring to mind both a freezing wind and churning waves. Amazing, that such a fitting garment was on hand...

The Jadwiga approached her icy throne with casual disdain for the suddenly silent and watchful crowd. She ignores them completely, as if they were merely animals on a roadside. Sorala's mistress (what a strange word, she suddenly reflects) takes her seat with perfect poise and grace, lounging on the chair as if it was a pillowed divan instead of a high-backed chair carved out of solid ice. Her cool blue eyes finally deign to sweep the crowd, sharply cutting through to every single soul.

Then she give an indolent shrug and reaches out a hand, wordlessly. Instantly, without any other beckoning a servant rushes up, bearing a tray full of ripe strawberries. Elysia takes one and pops it into her mouth. The juice matches her ruby red lips.

A moment of silence and then....the feast begins.

Carvius was right, and Sorala was thankful that he and his hulking bodyguard took their leave with enough time for Sorala to take his advice. Gathering her few possessions, Sorala made her way from the ice flow and wandered down the docks, staying close to her countrymen's territory but looking to be far enough away from the ice flow's chilling effect, as well as any prying eyes. Slipping around the side of a smoldering dockfront warehouse, Sorala disrobed and placed her traded local's outfit, folded in a stack. She could clean it of course, once she had a moment to memorize a small glamer, but in the meantime the outfit was decidedly vile; covered in viscera and slime, and - Sorala noted - unpleasantly fragrant.

Sliding into the water, Sorala sighs, and closing her eyes, dips her head under, appreciating the unusual experience of bathing outdoors. To stroll off and take a dip in Irrisen would be a death sentence for most; here, the sea was pleasantly warm. Sorala muses of skipping the feast altogether but duty of course would not allow it. Instead, the White Squire scrubs what she can of the day's work from her skin, and then sits in the shadow of the smoking warehouse, enjoying the chill of the water's evaporation from her skin. Once she's suitably dry, Sorala digs into her pack, and pulls from it a tightly rolled white dress, which she unfurls and shimmies into. Frocked with fine ermine, the dress itself will be comfortable on the ice flow, and as is meant to be covered with a more a sensible shawl (that Sorala did not bring with her), could perhaps even be used on a warm Port Peril evening. Irrisier, Sorala corrects herself.

Over her neck goes a silver chain that matches the magical chain that always stretches across her forhead, just under the Squire's hairline. The necklace is accented with an opal of flat grey, the exact color of Sorala's eyes. The remainder of Sooraj's bangles slide onto Sorala's wrists along with a couple of bracelets brought from home; more silver. Another goes onto Sorala's right ankle. The dress hugs Sorala like an encasing of ice, shimmering softly in the day's dying light, cotton and off-white ermine fur matches the silver of Sorala's jewelry and her white-blond hair; Sorala's tan skin seems almost to jump out in contrast, deep and warm. Eitleán, still nestled in his scabbard is carried, as a lady-in-waiting may carry a purse.

Sorala would be barefoot and her dress would be wrinkled, but this could not be helped. Making her way back across the wharf, Sorala again enters the ice flow, marveling at the food as she gets close to the center of the gathering. Her stomach growls, long having absorbed the sancocho from this afternoon, and her mouth waters. But, she must wait until the Lady Elysia starts, and knowing Elysia, the woman would take her time, letting the guests marinate in their hunger.

And so Sorala sits and waits, like an obediant dog, until her master lets her eat.

The whole crowd watched silently as Elsyia slowly devoured the ripe strawberry. Sorala knew that even the other tables, far out of sight, were also held in frozen abeyance, awaiting the signal or news to start the feast. No one, not even on the furthest out table would dare begin without permission.

A tiny line of red trickles down Elysia's neck as she finally finishes the fruit. She pauses, looking out again over the hungry, anxious crowd. Few dare meet her frosty eyes, looking down at empty plates out or out over the now dark sea. A barely notable smirk crosses the Jadwiga's porcelain smooth face, before she reaches for another fruit.

Mid-reach she pauses and turns to the crowd, as if noticing them for the first time. "Well?" She asks in mock confusion, "Begin!"

And with that, the feast truly begins.

Sorala had carefully chosen her seat to both be near the center of action and away from any of the other 'councilors'. It was a physical expression of her central, but detached place of power in the Irrisen hierarchy. Frankly, the White Squire was surprised she there was such a seat but Sorala had been surprised to find a half empty table near the middle of the collection.

So instead of the crowded seating around them, Sorala was at a somewhat smaller table with only three others, as well as several empty chairs. Despite not being marked, they seemed saved in some strange way. Sorala surveyed her feast partners.

One was a rather good looking middle-aged man with a stubbled beard and gray eyes. He worn arms and armor, and worn it well from long experience. Sorala judged him one of the few real soldiers she had seen so far. Still, she didn't recognize him as one of Elysia's household guard though. No mercenary would be allowed to sit here, surely. So who was he?

Next was a face she knew well and was surprised to spot here. The age spotted face and grey hair of Stablemaster Bjorn Beallson. A stalwart member of the household for generations, the aged horsemaster was the key to Morgannan success in equine matters. He had been as close to a friend as Jadwiga allowed with Rinna's departed mother and had served the current Jadwiga well for decades. Still, he had never got along with Elysia. Why was he even in Port Peril, Irrisier?

Sorala watched the other guests for a moment, careful as always. Already though, most had thrown themselves into the orgy of feasting. Threzle and Mynnom were busy gobbling sweetbreads as fast as they could, while Vasim busily began demolishing an entire smoked fist longer then Eitleán. Others were already busy working at the strange fruits, while yet more struggled with the strange crabs. Most seem attracted to the new and exotic foods, as if determined to milk every possible gain from the new conquest.

The fey music returns, softly trilling in the background, almost lost in the gabble of voice, the clatter of plates and the strange scraping of wood on ice. The bonfires flicker around them, throwing both shadow and light on the tumbled piles of icy blocks that surrounded the royal area. Above the southern stars begin to peek out, a web of lights that few guests bother to notice.

Across from her Bjorn picks up a frosted bread roll and tears it with what appears to be his final two good teeth.

"Greetings, White Squire." he says formally, nodding to her. "It has been some time since we have spoken." A small smile, "You are wondering why I am here, yes?" Seeing her face he adds, "It was hoped we would capture many horses and animals, I was brought along to judge the stock."

Raising her hand, Sorala stops a servant mid-step. The young man falters, looking rather foolish, foot raised a few inches above the ground, frozen. The tray he carries is piled full of crustaceans, at once familiar and strange. Sorala pulls a lobster from the pile, noting that it is smaller than the ones back home, and browner of shell, even after being steamed.

Corriine and her cooks, of course, had prepared it perfectly, and diligently as well - one of her assembled army had already taken the time to crack the lobster's shell, thankfully for Sorala and her white dress. Balancing Eitleán between her legs, Sorala pulls the lobster's meet from its shell, taking account of the slightest sweet and spicy accent to the shellfish's flesh; Corriine had already seemingly mastered the local spices. The city was hellishly hot and moist, and the locals no doubt were going to give them trouble, but Sorala had to admit to herself that she was enjoying the food.

Covering her mouth as she chews - as a lady does - Sorala uses her eyes to smile to Bjorn, and raises a glass of water - iced, of course - to toast. "Bjorn! It is nice to see you! I'm afraid you'll be waiting a while to see any horses. How are things at home? How long will you be staying?"

The water chills pleasantly in the back of her throat; more of the exotic food makes its way around. Sorala spends some time catching up with the stablemaster, before turning to the stranger, and noting that no one else has yet to join them. Could Elysia's court be afraid to be seen with them? Or with the stranger? Sorala watches the man as he eats, casting a furtive glance to his grey eyes. Curious.

"Good evening, soldier. Forgive my bluntness, but you intrigue me. You are not of Elysia's court, and I don't recognize you from my Lady's household. What is your name? What brings you to Irrisier?"

Bjorn polishes off the pastry before grabbing another. Clearly the old man intends to focus purely on dessert foods which struck Sorala as unwise but surely the stablemaster had the experience to do otherwise if he wished? Then again, what better time to focus on sweets when one is old and your teeth are already missing?

Licking the honeyed glaze off his fingers the elderly man replied, "There were a few actually. Either worn out nags struck in machinery or polished stallions in merchant's corrals. They had a small parade of cavalry through the streets on the mainland yesterday and the locals acted like they had never seen horses before. Apparently the place holds with boats instead of horses." He shakes his head at the strangeness of foreigners. "In any case, I am here until they call me home. I got the sense that such travel is not to be used lightly, but I don't know anything about magic or any of that." Another roll is finished as Sorala turns her attention to the gray eyed man.

The man gives her a steely-eyed stare with obvious disdain. He doesn't answer, merely raising his glass of water to his lips, hands fashionably gloved.

Stablemaster Beallson gives a wheezy chuckle and answers instead, "That is Sabremaster Rychenkov Vasil Romanovich. Newly arrived to our House's service. What was the title again? Master of the Hanging Markets?"

The man's lip curls, and when he speaks it is with a polished cultured accent that makes even Sorala's voice sound like a country bumpkin. "Overlord Commander of Urban Districts."

Bjorn shrugs and turns back to his desserts.

Rychenkov Vasil Romanovich....Sorala doesn't know the name but clearly this is no sellsword. Irrisen had aristocracy outside the Jadwiga of course. High ranking families of noble birth who existed below the level of winter witches but often actually ran the districts. Landowners, urban landlords, the stewards and castellans of distant fortresses. Some of the families had roots dating back hundreds of years, and had ancient protections in both law and custom.

"As the esteemed Stablemaster indicated," Rychenkov says, "The reason I am not known to you is because I am new to House Morgannan's service. I swore to the Lady Riina just before the invasion of Irrisier" He uses the new name with casual ease.

"I do however, know you, Sorala Ironeyes." He continues, eyeing her across the table. "One of the vaunted White Squires. Your organization has quite the reputation as both formidable warriors and cunning leaders." His eyebrow indicates considerable doubts.

"I led the expedition to capture the mainland city, which I must say went quite smoothly compared the rather ramshackle efforts that made up the island conquests." His veiled insults are wasted since the only other guests within earshot is Bjorn who merely cackles and grabs another roll. "Well," The Sabremaster says graciously, "War is a matter of circumstance, after all. Perhaps you were merely unlucky?"

These are strong words. Sorala has seen others killed for less but several things temper her reaction. One, this man was hired by Riina not Elysia which meant he might be a real power. Second, this was a formal feast and such places were generally free of the duels and challenges that otherwise gripped Irrisen court life (at least, until the party got much rowdier). Third and lastly, there was something in his eyes...

Sorala Sense Motive: 1d20 + 10 ⇒ (18) + 10 = 28

Old Tikon..how many times would he save her?

For some reason Rychenkov Vasil Romanovich wanted her to react, to counter strongly. Feeling a strange set of eyes she glanced toward the throne and spotted Elysia, lounging on her throne watching them like a cat deciding which mouse to pounce on first.

Court was never a safe place, and the newcomer's hostility drove the point home; Sorala silently upbraided herself for the general sense of ease she'd felt, here among -- well, not quite a friend, for no one in Morgannan Manor could truly be friends, lest it was used as leverage... But among such an amiable companion as Bjorn Beallson, it was easy for Sorala to slip into something akin to a sense of security. A dangerous lapse, and she thanked the newcomer for the reminder that she was swimming among sahugin.

Romanovich was of course trying to provoke her. His delivery was too polished, as one merely playing a game, or playing at orders? Sorala catches Elysia's eyes, and gives the Lady a small, flat smile. To what end? Was Elysia trying to drive a wedge into her mother's home? Was she trying to get Sorala killed, or banished back to her mother's manor? Did Carvius say something that got Elysia's ire up? Was the Sabremaster a dual agent? Or merely trying to curry favor with the only Morgannan in thousands of leagues? Mysteries for another day; of more immediate importance was the reaction.

Violence was out of the question. Sorala could respond as many Jadwiga would, given an insult at court; a steely stare, followed later by a blade in the back. And, while a blade was certainly on the table, Sorala instead uses a deflection she'd seen earlier in the day: Sorala laughs.

It is a high, cutting laugh, the kind of laugh tinged with disrespect and the spectre of harm Sorala had seen hundreds of times at court. The kind of laugh that says You are beneath me. You are not worth my ire.

"Stablemaster," Sorala says, turning to Bjorn, her laughter trailing off, but her voice warm, teasing, "I thought we were friends! It is a tough thing, when a lady has not a mirror, to appear beautiful. I had thought I had succeeded this evening none-the-less. But now I doubt, Stablemaster! Do I need to pluck my brow? My lip? I have eaten well lately, I admit - have I gained weight? I think the Oversword -" Sorala intentionally botches the man's title, and then again, as she places a mocking hand at the spot where her long neck meets her chest, as if she were shocked. "The Oversword thinks I am Lady Elysia's pet wolf! For it was Vasim that led the island conquest."

Sorala waves a hand in the air, well, airily, as if her imagined slight has been forgiven. "Well, I'm sure you just misheard. And since you're new to our house's service, you may be unclear as to just what I do."

The warmth ebbs from Sorala's voice, as if a candle snuffed by the wind."My time is too valuable to play soldier. I solve problems, Oversword. While you were busy pillaging tailors and jewelers, I was forging new alliances for our house. Taking note of possible resistance movements. Negotiating logistics for our army."

Once again, Sorala's voice becomes light, as if she has moved on from their conversation. "But I do not mean to diminish you, Oversword! You are of course very important to our House! I am happy to know that you have pacfied the main city," Sorala says, keeping her gaze held on Romanavich as she sips her water. "I have business there tomorrow, and am glad that I shall be able to walk the streets safely. And I expect that your boasts are accurate and that I shall be able to do so."

That small, flat smile comes back, the harbinger of a final twist of the proverbial knife. "Your keen observations of our military prowess is always welcome, Oversword. Lady Elysia's forces - and of course, the Lady herself - will appreciate to hear of your thoughts of their work on this side of the city. I shall tell them tonight, once everyone's bellies are full with food and drink. Watch your back, Oversword, lest it get sore from all the pats it is about to receive!"

Sorala turns back to Beallson, happy to be done with Sabremaster Rychenkov Vasil Romanovich for the evening. "Now, Bjorn, tell me, how is Kurit..."

Rychenkov Vasil Romanovich looks so torn between anger, confusion and frustration that for a moment Sorala is worried the Sabremaster will explode. All these emotions war on the Overlord Commander of Urban District's face in competition long enough that Sorala has a chance to risk a glance toward Elysia.

The Jadwiga's attention seems to be elsewhere, roaming the crowded festivities. Turning back to Ryechenkov, Sorala is alarmed when the Sabremaster then does something that concerns her a great deal. The man doesn't shout, or stand or even draw his sword. Instead he swallows his anger and, with a hint of a wry smile of defeat, raises his glass to her in salute. A foe who can realize his own weakness? A dangerous enemy indeed and as rare as hen's teeth in a Jadwiga court....

Sorala's musings are disturbed when a group of figures approaches the table. Even in the growing dark however, it only takes the White Squire a moment to recognize them. An Irrisen servant, eyes correctly downcast, silently leads Lord Carivus, now in a rather dashing black and white suit, toward their table. The nobleman is speaking to the man at his side, whom Sorala recognizes as Captain Valero, the rapidly promoted Chelish naval man. Behind both of them, as inexorable as the tide, silently strides Vox.

"Excellent, they reserved us a seat." Carvius is saying, "One with people at it. We won't have to sit next to any monsters..."

He trails off as the servant departs and he spots Sorala.

He gives the White Squire a gleaming smile and Sorala feels a slight tug of attraction over her self control. Dangerous. "Why, White Squire!" he says, gracefully taking a seat at the table. "If we keep meeting like this, people will talk."

Valero gives Sorala a short bow and then sits as well. Vox remains standing behind them, looming like one of the ice statues dotting the landscape. The firelight seems to vanish into her dark armor, as if the Mistress f Blades could suck in warmth and light. Sorala wondered if the armored woman could sit.

"Well, quite an evening." The Chelish lord says to the table at large. Bjorn ignores the foreigners, focusing on a cup of ice topped with fruit juice. Sabremaster Rychenkov Vasil Romanovich gives the Chelish a cold stare but dares nothing and Sorala can see why. Ryechenkov clearly is going for the same noble air of diffidence and power that Carvius holds, but it is a bit stilted, a bit forced. Lord Carivus is the real thing and it shows.

"Your people do know how to put on a feast, Sorala." Carivus says conversationally, looking at the assorted feast-goers. "Quite a difference from back home. Still, I think House Charthagnion knows how to hold an event. Where you there, Captain Valero, at the Ascendancy? Now that was quite a party, I remember,"

Lord Carvius memories are cut off however, by a sudden blare of unseen fey horns, silencing the crowd. It puts Sorala in the mind of baying hounds, fleeing harts and the crash of horses through undergrowth. A thousand memories of Huntsman Jarrik rise and fall. And then...the liquor arrives.

The arrival of liquor or the 'rolling of the barrel' is a time honored custom in Irrisen, dating back to before the Jadwiga. In olden times the first course would be served with water only, so the arrival of fine drinks could be made an event, a way to flatter guests and burnish the host. With the Jadwiga however, as with all else, it had been swelled to mighty proportions. It became an event of itself, often the centerpiece of the entire meal or feast and clearly Elsyia intended to do no different in Port Peril.

The horns bleat again, mixed with an odd sloshing sound. Out of nowhere, with a noisy clatter, comes a dozen men out of the darkness running on top of rolling barrels! Nimble as cats they easily jog on top of the spinning, rollicking containers, laughing, jumping and doing kicks. They crash through the party with abandon, sometimes running along tables or doing handstands over stunned guests.

Irrisen traveling acrobats, one of the few truly Irrisen art forms. The traveling bands crossed all over Irrisen, performing at nobleman's houses, Jadwiga's court and the richest merchant parties. Remarkably free from the usual constraints of Irriseni society, they were some of the few who dared make jokes or laugh without permission in Sorala's homeland. Always a welcome sight, they always presaged only the biggest and grandest events.

All of the acrobats had the same costume they always did, the exaggerated parody of a simple peasant. Beards so long they were tucked in belts, woolen fur hats and baggy pants that flopped with their antics. The barrels crashed together in center stage as the acrobats lightly dismounted, either into flips or cartwheels, while others walked on their hands. Everyone laughed or cheered, throwing bread at them (the height of Irrisen compliments).

More barrels arrived, carried by servants and slaves and were hoisted into safer positions. Sorala spotted wine, mead and cider soon being poured in great quinty. A huge ice troll even carries in a huge vat of clear vodka, which is soon being sucked down by the feats goers.

The fey music quickens into a lively step, as the Irriseni acrobats dance and gambol about the feast-goers. They flick beards, make faces and generally mock all and sundry. Sorala notes none come near Elysia (of course) but neither their table as well. It seemed an odd choice since Sabremaster Rychenkov seemed an easy target.

The party quickly grows more wild as entire tankards of liquor are inhaled at a dizzying rate, along with the quickening music. Tables thump with fists beating the tune, while some brave souls even start singing. The acrobats encourage such antics, often dancing to the crazy tunes or conducting the worst singers and coaching them to new heights. Above all, the drink keeps flowing.

"Lord Carvius," Sorala smiles, her voice warm - genuinely - at his arrival, for the prospect of being seated for the evening with her new enemy and the amiable, but sugar-motivated Bjorn was short on appeal.

Sorala stands, and gripping Eitleán's scabbard in one hand while offering the Chelish Lord her other, gives Carvius a deep curtsy. "I must admit, you are a dashing figure. I imagine people talk about you regardless of who you are seen with."

Sorala then offers her hand to Valero, accompanied with a short curtsy. They had last seen each other on the great Chelish war galleon, and Sorala was sure the memory of his fleet's destruction was still very raw. She would keep things cordial, and not antagonize the Captain any further than she had, now that their masters were friendly. "Captain, welcome to our celebration. It is an honor to sit with you this evening; I hope you enjoy yourself tonight."

As for Vox, what was the point? Sorala began to suspect there was nothing to her beyond her service to Lord Carvius, and the woman was merely an automaton in mind as well as purpose, or perhaps she was not even alive? Thus, Vox was ignored, as would be a statue, or an impressive set of drapes.

"Lord Carvius Charthagnion, Guardian of the Hespereth Straits, Keeper of the Nine Forts and Overlords of Kharijite; Captain Valero of the grand War Galleon Geryon: please be seated. Joining you tonight are - like you and I - persons who operate outside of the Lady Elysia's court; the older fellow is Goodman Bjorn Beallson, Stablemaster of Lady Riina Morgannan. Do not let his infatuation with sugary foodstuffs fool you; Bjorn has possibly the finest eye for animal husbandry in Irrisen. The other gentleman here is Oversword Rychenkov Vasil Romanovich. He led the forces, that as he tells me, have pacified the main city. The Oversword is a brilliant military mind, as I'm sure he will tell you."

Soon, the acrobats have begun their rowdy - and loud! - procession through the feasting circle, and Sorala leans in close to Carvius, finding it necessary to yell to be heard. "Ah! Travelling acrobats and the rolling of the barrel! You are in for a treat, M'Lord - we Jadwiga love the opera of course, especially the Chelish classics, and our concert halls often ring with the symphonies of your people. But, this is something never seen outside of Irrisen - one of my land's truly homegrown forms of art!"

The White Squire is soon lost in the acrobat's antics, and for a few minutes, she slips completely into the actors' performance; Sorala yells, and whistles, and throws bread and forgets for a few moments that she is in a strange land, in the company of outsiders and one herself among her own people.

Alas, there is work to do. The acrobats roll on to another section of the feasting circle, the noise lessens - a bit. Sorala leans once again towards Carvius. "M'Lord, I appreciated your fable earlier, when I asked you about ruling with a firm hand, though truthfully, I wished for some advice more... tangible in nature. Your empire has ruled over others for nearly as long as our memory stretches into the past. We are venturing beyond our borders for the first time since Dear Grandmother seized our land from the Linnorm Kings."

"And so, I ask again for your wisdom. There is... some interest from some of the Free Captains to enter into an agreement with us. Their livings have been thrown into difficulty with our invasion, and they wish to see some stability return. In effect, they want to trade."

Sorala pauses for a moment, allowing the Chelish lord time to absorb what she is saying. "What would you do, in our situation? Would you open a relationship with the Captains?"

Given the Free Captains' derision of the Chelish, Sorala doubted Carvius would think the proposal a good idea. And he would certainly answer evasively. But perhaps, his response would reveal a little of what the Chelish intentions towards House Morgannan were. Sorala waved down a servant and took her first sip of alcohol - a sip of sweet cider from a carved ice goblet.

Carvius seems happy enough at Sorala's word and clearly agrees that anyone worth anything would want to sit next to him during a feast. Valero is quiet but respectful, trying his best to not meet Sorala's eyes and watches the various antics of the feast.

Apparently suitably flattered, the Chelish nobleman consents to respond to Sorala's introductions to their tablemates.

When she mentions Bjorn Beallson, the tall man raises an eyebrow. "I did not know your homeland was well acquainted with matters equine." Bjorn says nothing, still chewing on a grape-filled pastry. 'Tell me Stablemaster," The Chelishman goes on, "Have you any experience with the Monchino breed, in your northern kingdom? The finest horses in the world, Chelish bred of course." The nobleman nearly swells with national pride and self congratulation.

"They say Baphomet himself bred the first stable."

Bjorn grinned at this, and finally set aside his sweets. When he speaks his voice has that rough respect he had used his whole life in dealing with his betters. Experianced and valuable Bjorn might be, but Irrisen did not favor servants who lacked proper subjugation. "The Monchino...." he gives Carvius a side-long look and even tips Sorala wink, "Can I tell you a secret, sir? They are the rootstock of our own stable."

Carvius looks surprised and leans forward, "I was not aware the Monchino were sold aboard. In fact, I am quite sure they are illgeal to export."

Bjorn spreads his hands wide, "Forgive me, sir, but it was before my time. In my grandfather's day he managed to get ahold of a Monchino stud. The bloodline has been spread through the whole stable by now." The old man cackles at this and turns to Sorala, "Sometimes the old line breeds true. Do you remember old Sable?"

Remember him? Sorala still had nightmares about the horse she first learned to ride. A giant black stallion with a soul as dark as his inky mane. How many times had he bit her or thrown her? Only Bjorn had really been able to ride him, the canny old horsemaster an equal to any animal. Sorala had finally learned enough to satisfy, but it had cost her many bruises.

Carvius seems both pleased and a little annoyed that his homeland's equine fame had reached so far and so deep but the talk soon turns to Rychenkov.

"Overlord Commander of Urban Districts." The Sabremaster says coolly, over Sorala's repeated misnaming of the title. He meets Carvisus eye and says "It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Lord Charthagnion. The entire court has been abuzz with news about you, but we have not yet met."

The Chelishman eyes the Irriseni noble carefully, weighing him and....finds him wanting.

"Capital." He replies, pulling out his snuffbox. After a few moments of busying himself with taking a sniff, he adds, "I am told the conquest of the mainland city went smoothly, so that is a credit to your leadership. Still," He says with a grin, nudging Valero with an elbow, "They did not have to manage the Chelish army and navy over there did they? Eh?" Valero dutifully laughs.

Further conversation is drowned out by the arrival of the acrobats. Lord Carvius is suitably pleasant during the performance, but has the same fixed smile one uses for a neighbor's dog or performing child. A sense of condescending duty then actual enjoyment. He does not throw bread.

Sorala wonders how drunken cartwheels compare to Chelish amusements? The White Squire knows Carviu's homeland is famous for their refined cultural pursuits. Besides the aforementioned opera, sculpture and poetry are spectator events there, with historys reaching back centuries. Nothing like that existed in Irrisen. Then again, both nations did enjoy bloodsports although the drunken brawls in Sorala's homeland were probably a far cry from the ritual gladiatorial combats in Chelish amphitheaters. Maybe he would enjoy bear baiting? Assuming Port Peril had bears....

Later, when things calm down slightly, Carvius takes in her words slowly. By now he is working on a plate of his own food, which he eats with casual decorum and protocol that places him several planes of existence higher then Sorala's countryman's table manners. The man has brought his own fork and spoon.

"Stability." Carivus finally says after carefully swallowing a slice of poached fish. "That wasn't bad, actually." He says in faint surprise. Then he coughs and turns to business."Yes, stability. You are wise to focus on that. The conquering is often the easy part. Making things work is the difficult part." The man says with the ease of long experience. His eyes narrow in thought as he contemplates the Free Captains.

"Of course they wish to trade." Carvius says, "Chaos spreads opportunity. From what you say, they hope to grab markets previously closed to them. In addition they probably hope to control the food supply, making themselves indispensable. A grip around the gullet can be a most effective political tool." The man carefully removes bones from another piece of fish.

"At the same time, you do need the food supplies and local allies would not go amiss." Carvius goes on, voice a combination of musing and lecture. "I would suggest sounding out the policy fully, while focusing on rifts between the Captains. If you can weaken their unity, they would be much more pliable and useful tools. Play one against the other. Privilege, money, connections, offer the usual things. See who bites and who draws back." The Chelishman stabs a scaled hunk of flesh and nibbles it. "Oh yes, it really is good. I simply must meet your chef."

Sorala is considering this when a loud gong sounds. Surprised she looks up, just like everyone else. Like magic the acrobats draw back to the shadows, laughter dying away in a sudden severe silence. A male servant next to Elsyia bellows into the quiet, "Bring forth the Willing and Unwilling!" A roll of drums and the bonfires flare brightly, some casting blue or green flames into the dark night sky.

Sorala has no idea what to expect and, judging from the faces of the guests they do not either. Only Carvius looks smug and stage whispers, "Oh, you'll like this."

A mass of fur-clad guards emerge from the shadows, marching right through the ice-covered square. Tables and chairs are pushed out of the way and a few guests beat a hasty retreat before the grim and silent soldiers. It takes Sorala a moment but then she notices the guards are escorting two groups in the center of the mass. Two lines of people, in neat single files. One are walking with backs straight and eyes forward while the other is shackled together, prodded forward with clubs and kicks.

Unwilling indeed.

They reach the empty audience space directly in front of Elysia, who is no longer lounging but sitting straight, face a mask of icy cold. Wordlessly the guards move aside, fully exposing their disparate charges. Sorala notices all of them, shackled or free are carrying crates, box and urns of all types.

The same servant at Elysia's side intones, "Offer your tribute to Jadwiga, ruler of this city! And then offer your oath to serve he body and soul! Step forward!"

The unshackled line moves forward, slowly. At the front of the line is a rather fat man with visible liens of sweat running down his rotund face, from either fear or the struggle of carrying a very heavy chest.

"M'Lady.." He stammers, blinking up at Elsyia's impassive throne. "I am Hortus Vulso, merchant of this city. I offer you gold, to honor your victory and rule!" He sits the chest down, and it jingles loudly. Carefully he opens it, revealing a mound of gold coins and bars which dazzle brilliantly. The Jadwiga's eyes focus on it, the stern look melting at the edges with traces of open greed.

The fat merchant kneels and says, "I humbly offer myself as well, to your reign and desires. Make I make a useful servant." With that he stands back up and, nervously, backs away.

And so the ceremony goes as one by one, Port Peril men and women offer obeisance to Sorala's mistress. They mostly seem to be merchants or well-to citizens of the city and offer their stock and trade. The goods offered up are diverse and luxurious. Bales of rare silks and tubs of polished ivory. Casks of glittering jewels and bundles of bright color feathers. A stack of rare books and a case of magical items. All are accepted wordlessly from Elysia, although her face grows more and more animated with each passing gift as the wealth of the entire city falls into her arms. By the time the last of the Willing retreat she looks like a child offered an entire candy store.

And what of the Unwilling?

Give you a chance to react

Sorala strikes her tongue against the roof of her mouth, pleased, as Carvius gives her his surprisingly clear advice. She wondered once again if he had communicated similar thoughts to Elysia. "Thank you, M'Lord. Your advice is welcome with me, always, and let me state again just how fortunate we are to have your presence in our court."

Smiling, Sorala nods towards the nobleman's plate. "And I'm sure Lady Riina's chef would be honored to meet you."

The gongs interrupt any further conversation, and Sorala lets a small frown slip when Carvius exclaims his knowledge of this new event, the parade of the Willing and Unwilling. A reminder of just how out of the decision making process you are. The White Squire quirks her eyebrow in Carvius's direction and sits still, wondering just what level of cruelty she was about to witness.

And so the "Willing" parade themselves in front of Elysia, dropping more wealth than perhaps even Lady Riina possessed, and an unease settles deep into Sorala's bones. How much of this tribute would make its way back to Irrisen? How much would be spent to fortify their position here in Irrisier? Would it be spent on their soldiers, on food for their people, on supplies? Sorala assumed most all of it would make its way into Elysia's icy quarters, where it would just... sit. Baubles to sate a rapacious hunger.

The Willing finish their tribute, and Sorala's stare turns to the Unwilling, and she searches the line to see what types of people were there? Were they all Port Perilers? Did they seem to be wealthy, or were they slaves and the underclasses? Sitting still in the silent feasting circle, both hands clasped tight around Eitleán, Sorala's breath barely comes, dread and anticipation mixing in equal measure, her skin tingling with worry at what she may soon witness.

Lord Carvius takes the flattery well but clearly the Chelishman agrees because he allows, while busily searching for another succulent filet of fish, "And all by random chance too. Then again, as the sages say- 'Chance is better than choice; it is more lordly. In its carelessness it is more lordly. Chance is divine, choice is man.' Seems apt in this case."

Her eyes turn back to the procession. Some of the wealth doesn't even make it back to Elsyia's quarters. The Jadwiga scoops up a handful of pearls, the soft clacking audible in the silence, and dumps them in red wine. They bubble, hiss and then, with a childish grin, Elysia drinks them down. A cup of wine worth a fortune. She tosses the crystal goblet casually to the side, as a servant prepares another. Clearly using the same glass twice isn't grand enough. Gold coins and jewels litter the ground around her throne, carelessly dropped during the offering. Sorala is suddenly reminded of a magpie nest, a mixture of crude thatch and mud, interwoven with gimlets of shiny things. She watches a priceless ring of solid gold roll off into the darkness, probably destined for the sea. Lost forever.

Another roll of the drums and the Unwilling are prodded forward, none too gently. One, a stout dwarf puts up enough of a fight that two guards have to use iron-shod clubs to beat them into submission. This merely seems to heighten Elsyia's interest and she licks her lips at the savage display. Sorala notes, with concern, that Valacus has risen from their seat. The cleric of Zon-Kuthon taking up a position at Elsyia's side, looking more dour then ever amid the ruined glories of shimmering loot.

Just like the Willing, the group of staggering locals that made up the Unwilling were a diverse group. Young and old, men and women, of all skin tones and races. Sorala spotted humans and half-elves, halfings and dwarfs, even a solitary gnome with flame-red hair. Each were carrying some sort of awkward heavy load but in the shifting light, the White Squire could not tell what.

The first Unwilling is a middle-aged woman who does he best to suffle forward bravely, despite the clattering of the Shackles. Her dark skin gleams in the light of the bonfires, clothing torn and dirty. She is carrying what looks to be a small glass cylinder.

"You have been Unwilling to properly obey your new Lord." Valacus says, voice magically enhanced, shuddering with grave finality in the warm tropical air. "You will now join the Willing...or perish."

Without a pause, the cleric steps forward and smashes the Unwilling's hands together, hard enough to smash the glass. Instantly the woman starts to scream as a bright blue liquid gushes out, coating her skin. Sorala does not need to see the instant rime of frost or cloud of white vapor to recognize it. Liquid Ice.

The woman falls to her knees, writhing in agony as her hands and arms are flash frozen. Valacus watches carefully for some time, silently judging the torment. Elsyia is not nearly so dispassionate, and the Jadwiga actually claps her hands together, like a theatre-goer who enjoys a joke.

Finally Valacus intones, 'Do you wish to join the Willing?' The woman, whose screams and pleas for mercy so far had been ignored manages to say, "Yes, please gods, yes! By the Black Lady, whatever you want. Just make it stop!"

Valacus nods once, waves a hand and dark light suffuses the woman. Instantly her gasps of pain slow and her spasms recede to mere tremors. Still though, it seems the pain leaves reluctantly because she has to be man-handled out of the way to make way for the others.

The rest goes much the same, with as diverse punishments as the Willing had brought gifts. Sorala watched a man forced to hold red-hot ingots of iron until he 'repeated' while another was force-fed castor-oil until they vomited. Most were only able to endure these torments for a short time before begging for mercy from an unyielding and unmoved Valacus. Sorala was surprised when the gnome, forced to stand in boiling water, rather died then submit. Valacus seemed uncocnerned by this and the corpse was tossed into the bay.

Lord Carvius seemed unbothered by the barbaric display as well, continuing to nibble at various dainties. His only remark is when a man is being brutally flogged, that a Chelish overseer would do a better job with less fuss.

Finally the tortures cease, the dead, dying and maimed led off while the Willing take their place at a table set aside for them. It is outside the inner ring but close enough to surprise Sorala. This was more diplomatic then the White Squire would have thought possible. Another Chelish intervention?

The party grows more rowdy and drunken around her. People are drunkenly dancing on tables, slapping thighs in beat with the still unseen fey musicians. The acrobats assist in the merriment, twirling and jumping around. Vasim amuses himself, and others, by tossing entire pieces of furniture onto the bonfires and watching sparks fly up into the dark, starry sky. Carvius watches this with growing displeasure, which intensifies when one blundering drunk splashes his suit with honey mead. Sorala is quite sure he would have struck the staggering man if he hadn't been so blindly outraged at the lack of decorum.

Sorala is about to interject when she notes something out of the corner of her eye. Like all in Court she never quite forgets to keep an eye on the Jadwiga present. Such inattention could cost one dearly. Her sixth sense is rewarded when she notes a flurry of servants bustling around the icy throne. It is impossible to hear over the sheer racket of the feast but clearly Elsyia is asking the servants and slaves something, and not enjoying what she is hearing.

This will not end well.

Finally an ultimatum is apparently given for the entire school of servants freezes in place, looking at each other in sheer terror. Mice, deciding who should bell the cat. Finally someone who looks like a recently acquired local slave is pushed forward and mutters something to the coldly staring Winter Princess.

Elsyia throws her glass down in a gesture of rage. The tinkle of fine crystal on gritty ice instantly silences the entire feast, like a wave of frozen cold gripping a spring-time forest. Every guest, no matter how drunk, becomes immobile. Silence reigns as every eye is turned toward the Jadwiga, who stands up, robes slithering smoothly against the polished throne.

For a long moment she surveys the shivering collection of slaves and servants with a regal, silent glare. Seconds stretch.....until....

Elsyia screams in howling fury, hands alighting with glowing blue energy. There is a crack and she starts throwing darts of freezing cold in every direction. The more experienced servants duck for cover, while the new slaves attempt to run for it. A classic mistake because turning your back on a predator just encourages them. Icy blasts sweep out, glittering gusts of frost. Humans caught in the spray are left with savage frost-bite in the best cases, as solid pillars of ice in the worst.

Carvius watches the outburst with a mask-like expression, eyes bright. Valero seems unmoved however and Sorala guesses that perhaps things are not so different among the Chelish.

Finally Elysia's rage seems to run down for the woman, without warning, ceases her magical fury. A flick of the wrist she gestures and the surviving servants cluster forward, escorting her away from the party and into the dark shadows to what must be the Jadwiga apartments.

Every eye watches her go and then, when she is safely gone, the gossip starts from every lip.

Sorala stands, drawing Eitleán and wondering for a moment, if she should leave the scabbard at the table. Instead, she decides to carry it, ruing her earlier choice to not dress more practically for the feast; they were in the middle of a war zone after all.

"Pardon me, M'Lord. It has been a pleasure to see you again. And you as well, Captain Valero." The White Squire nods to Bjorn, and turns her attention to the now empty throne. "You may wish to head to your quarters, Lord Carvius. I cannot guarantee your safety."

Gripping Eitleán's, Sorala slips into the crowd, making her way towards the gossipers most close to the throne. She looks first for Elysia's court - Mynorm, Threzle, or Valacus - and if they linger, she approaches them first. If they are gone, Sorala lingers among the gossipers, doing what she can to uncover what they heard from their vantage points near to the Lady.

If any of Elysia's inner circle are around, Sorala will approach them. If not, she'll use diplomacy to gather information, to gather what if anything anyone heard coming from the servants or Elysia.

diplomacy: 1d20 + 12 ⇒ (5) + 12 = 17
time spent gathering information, in hours: 1d4 ⇒ 1

Lord Carvius doesn't seem surprised that Sorala rises and moves toward the crowd. The Chelishman does seem a bit concerned at her warning and haste however. Perhaps in his circles, diplomats and courtiers move at a slower pace? Not in Irrisen. A whisper now will be worth a shout an hour later.

The nobleman waves her away with a smile, "Exciting as ever, White Squire." He says genially, "You never disappointment. Come Captain, I think she may be right. I think our social requirements have been met. Besides, there is nothing else here worth impressing."

Sorala leaves the pair of foreigners behind and throws herself into the crowd. A quick glance tells her one thing, no one expected this. Confusion, fear and outright panic is evident on many faces and the rumor mill is particularly high-strung. This is not surprising. While Jadwiga's anger may be petty and short-lived, it can be all the more vicious for that. It is not impossible that the display they all witnessed presaged the slow and horrible death of every single person seated here.

Sorala is soon engulfed in rumor, although she quickly decides the gossip is more based on current concerns then actual facts. Still, everyone has a guess what the 'bad news' is. One faction holds that the former ruler of Port Peril has survived and is promising rebellion. Another is just as convinced a second, much larger Chelish fleet, is on the way and intends to conquer the city. A third contends that the slaves are rising up on the mainland, promising death and blood to all. A fourth offer a theory that the Willing's loot was fake, but Sorala discounts that one instantly. Most of the tribute is still piled uselessly around the throne. The boldest (or perhaps canniest) suggest that perhaps it is news from home that has caused the distress.

Mynorm and Threzle ahve spilt up, although if this is because of a rift or simply to cover more ground, Sorala is unsure. She notes Valacus is nowhere to be seen, the torturer apparently having vanished as soon as the Unwilling ceremony finished. While a feast was hardly their style, it still seemed odd they would leave such a triumph early... Sorala is debating which knot of gossip-mongers to intrude on first, when she feels a tug on her sleeve.

She is so tense, she nearly draws Eitleán in reflex, before noticing it is a snot-nosed Irriseni serving girl, wearing the blue robes of Elsyia's personal staff. When Sorala recognizes her, she relaxes...a little.

"The Mistress wants you, miss." The woman, more a girl, says accent thick with home. "In her 'partments."

There was nothing else for it. To refuse such an order, even one so minor, was to court a instant death. Or, if Elsyia was feeling cranky, a very much not[/]i instant death. Flashes of a gnome being boiled alive flash before her eyes.

Finally the path ends in a small open patch of rough ice, patched with snow. Ahead is a long hall made of solid ice, gleaming dimly in the starlight. It doesn't look hacked or carved however, and there are no tool marks. Instead it looks as if it were [i]grown straight out of the ice floe. Despite being an usual material, the building is pure Irrisen. Baroque and ornate, the roof is several tiers high, with multiple overhanging sections. Many windows dot the surface, each glazed with ripple clear ice unlike the more opaque walls. Instead of doors, heavy furs act as flaps.

The building is dark, with only faint fey lighting darting above and around it, a sure sign of Jadwiga power and might. No one else had such lighting, under strict pain of death.

The servant leads Sorala inside, into a wide foyer luxurious appointed. Fur covered chairs and couches, tapestries on the wall and wide glossy tables of dark wood. The outer layers of a Jadwiga's comfort. A dangerous place to linger. The servant leaves without a word, abandoning Sorala in the dark room.

The White Squire is deciding what to do (venturing further inside without explicit permission is suicidal, but leaving an upset Elsyia waiting is even more unthinkable), when a flap opens. Again, instinct almost makes Sorala draw her blade as a dark and ominous shape silently drifts into the foyer.

Valacus.

As the torturer cleric crosses the room silently, Sorala reflects what the context is.

Religion plays a strange role in Irrisen. Strictly speaking the highest 'divine' figure is, of course, Baba Yaga the Great Crone. Looking farther afield for objects of worship is frowned upon in a land so wrapped up in the cult of Old Grandmother. Yet, for all that, Zon-Kuthon and Lamashtu have considerable followings and they are generally tolerated (if they remain subservient). Sorala even knows some pious Jadwiga although worship of the Prince of Pain is hard to separate from the usual sadistic nature of Irrisen rulers.

As for Valacus themself, their appearance gives little away. All black clothes, edged with deep purple. A face of hard angles and lines, smooth as a fresh glacier yet seemingly as unyielding. Dark hair cut short, no jewelry or weapon Sorala can see. Most unsettling is their eyes. Dark pits, like little notches carved out of reality itself. Something...missing.

"You arrived quickly." The cleric says finally, voice controlled and stern. "This is welcome, for we have a serious matter." A pause and then, "We have had an escape."

The mask-like face, twitches slightly, "An Unwilling, reserved for her Mistress's pleasures, managed to suborn the enchantments and wards placed upon them. They were last seen at the start of the feast and in the confusion of events, got away. The guards have been interrogated but have provided little information of use." A finger curls and uncurls.

"You have been chosen by our Mistress to find and apprehend this escaped person. Not only is it her personal wish, but it is also a matter of security for this person may have seen and heard much while being Lady Elsyia's ...personal servant."

Elsyia liked to talk in the bedroom, perhaps?

"I have been informed you know what the prisoner looks like." Valacus goes on, remorseless as the tide. "It was you who chose them out of a collection of others, as a favor to Lady Elsyia."

For a second Sorala has no idea what the cleric is talking about, so many memories fill her mind. When had she chosen...oh yes. A brave man wearing green silks who shouted with defiance even as he was led away...

"Yes." Valacus says, seeing recognition bloom on Sorala's face. "His name is Maxevale Janis and he is, or rather was, a person of local importance. A dangerous risk if left free to roam about."

Maxevale Janis...the Pirate Lord?

A long moment stretches out as the White Squire battles to keep her face a mask, beneath which a flurry of thoughts and emotions tumble, as if trees and earth spinning down a mountainside in the wake of an avalanche.

What was Elysia thinking, keeping a Pirate Lord as a plaything? The ruling class should be killed or co-opted, not kept as an amusement, and certainly not put in a position to hear anything sensitive. Sorala wonders at Lady Riina's judgement, putting such a... tempestuous child in charge of the invasion. Why not lead the invasion herself? Or send Lady Althea? Again, Sorala considers, was this an attempt to rid Riina of her eldest daughter? It couldn't be, Sorala decides, her thoughts as much an attempt to reassure herself as anything. Too much treasure, too much power expended. A colossal error in judgement then. Has Riina's faith in her daughter had doomed us all?

It was also not lost on Sorala the role she had played in this escape, unwitting as it had been. She had picked Janis out to be Elysia's plaything. If the Pirate Lord escaped, then the odds were good that the blame for it would be laid at Sorala's feet.

Well, there was nothing to be done about Elysia, nor her temper, nor her impetuous nature. This was the setup of the Conqueror board, and Sorala had been left a difficult start. Janis was alive and as a hare in the forest; he knew where to hop, where to burrow. He would likely go for his ship, if it still existed, or try to hole up with an ally if that was not an option; maybe get smuggled out of Irrisier... Sorala reaches back to the conversation with the Free Captains. He was the consort of Fairwind, whoever that was. They preferred Kwent. So he'd likely try to get there.

What pieces on the board did Sorala have? A few fledgling contacts who may or may not be at the Deadlight. Norintha, who may or may not be at the bakery. The might of the Irriseni army; most of which were now very drunk. A bad start indeed.

Sorala realized her mask had slipped. Her face was pinched, her frown deep. She sighed, not caring that Valacus see her displeasure. "Overtyrant," she said, using the honorific reserved for powerful Kuthite priests, "I am happy to help Lady Elysia secure this Maxevale Janis, but this... this is an impossible task. He knows the layout of Irrisier, and, as you put it, a person of local importance, will have a network to rely on. He may of course try to flee Lady Elysia's wrath." If he has sense. "Lock the wharves down. Order our giants to sink any boat - even those as small as a rowboat - that move away from the city. Ask our Chelish friends to train their cannons on any fleeing ships as well. If Janis has senstive information, Lord Carvius may equally be interested in seeing him captured." Or, he may wash his hands of us completely.

"I, unlike Maxevale Janis, have no network here. I have been here two days. I have been in combat today, and have spent a good deal of my magic. And I have been attacked walking the streets of the city. I either need a sizeable - and sober - force at my disposal, or I need to a way to disguise myself. I shall not get far without either. So, use your influence and get me some help - metal or magic, or both. And for gods' sake, lock down the docks."

If they could lock down the docks, there was at least a chance. But Sorala needed more information. Perhaps the Overtyrant knew something useful? Regardless, Sorala would let on less than she knew. Valacus may have been smarter than Lady Elysia, but a smart wolf was still a wolf.

"Now, you say that Janis is a man of influence. What do you know of him? Tell me quickly but completely. Time is of the essence."

When Sorala instantly begins throwing out orders, suggestions and plans an expression crosses the hardened torturer's face. Something approaching....approval?

"Your dedication to duty becomes you again, White Squire." Valacus intones gravely. "I will confess, I was not displeased when you were selected for this task. Of all our Mistress's servants, you have always placed self above the body." Sorala is not familiar enough with Zon-Kuthon theology to quite understand this.

"Your task is not as hopeless as it seems however." The cleric goes on, unsmiling as ever. "There is no enchantment placed upon this man that is, as far as I can tell, still in place. A lesser geas, one that I personally placed upon them. It should prevent them from crossing moving, active water. Going aboard ship for any length of time would be quite painful." The dark eyes gleam slightly, "This Janis follows no tradition or discipline that would sustain him in such a venture. Be assured, he is on land."

"In fact, based on the gathered evidence, I would be certain he is on the smaller, closer island. That should aid your quest and narrow the possibilities." Well, that was some good news.

"As far as metal and magic..." Valacus claps his scarred (yet oddly soft-looking) hands together once. Instantly a flap opens and a diminutive servant shuffles into the room. Even by Irrisen standards they seem oddly subservient, eyes never leaving the ground and moving with a halting, careful step. Wordlessly they hand a cloth bag to the cleric, then shuffle backward out of the room.

Valacus never even glances at them, instead holding the bag in their hands. "You will find this useful." Drawing out a soft object from the bag they add, "A Hat of Disguise. Fittingly, it was among the effects of the escapee. This should give you more latitude in uncovering the secrets of this place. "

Reaching into the bag again and there is a clinking rattle of steel. Valacus withdraw a set of black manacles, gleaming with fresh oil. They somehow sharp and painful, heavy and hard.

"Shackles of Compliance." The cleric offers, handing over the heavy items, "A final gift, taken from my personal holy stores. They should assist in keeping your charge safely under control, when you find them." No smile yet something..."I would add these have been made to me specific design and will engender...quite a reaction is used." Pain.

"I know nothing of the man." Valacus says dismissively, "Except they proved weak and vain under my questioning. Even under my control for a few hours broke them completely." And yet he escaped later that day so perhaps the Pirate Lord was more formidable then the cleric wished to admit?

"His lies, while clever, did reveal they considered themselves of importance. Janis indicated he was a Pirate Lord, a rank of some sort among the locals. This has not been verified as of yet, but will be pursued."

"They do not maintain a residence in this city, no home to run to. They live aboard ship when here and the ship, I can attest to, is currently resting on the bottom of the harbor."

Sorala's eyebrow raises, the tiniest crook of surprise, as Valacus explains the geas spell. "A powerful magic, and a very smart idea, Overtyrant, when dealing with a prisoner of means and influence. Tell me, how does one remove such a compulsion?"

Assuming he is forthcoming.

"Your prescience has bought us valuable time, Overtyrant; I commend you for your preparedness, and if I have the opportunity to speak with Lady Riina, will certainly speak highly of your abilities, and your care for our House's success."

"We have some time, but I recommend you still order all traffic in and out of Irrisier closed indefinitely. Given enough time, Janis will get the compulsion removed, or perhaps he will get creative - have himself rendered comotose, or incapacitated before he is taken aboard a ship, for example."

Sorala takes the hat in her hands, a small frown gracing her lipsas she turns it over in her hands, running her fingers along its contours. It was a simple-looking piece of headwear, crushed and creased brown felt, roughly in the shape of the tricorn hats so prominent among the local peacocks. But in and of itself, hardly impressive. Perhaps that was the point, Sorala thinks, and slides the hat into her backpack.

She does not spend so much time lingering over the manacles. Given their purpose - and their provenance - they likely had a dark past; one not healthy to dwell upon.

"Thank you, Overtyrant. This gives me ideas on how to flush the Pirate Lord out. I shall return to you soon, if I am able to put them into place. Shall I look for you here, at... your residence?"

This was likely Elysia's residence, but best not make assumptions. Valacus would let her know either way.

"To put my ideas into motion, I need but one more bit of information, the more specific you can be, the better. When crafting a lie, it is best if it is mixed liberally with the truth. And so I ask, what information did you wrest from Pirate Lord during your interrogations?"

Valacus's tone shifts almost to that of a lecturer when Sorala asks about the geas spell. "As indicated by remaining despite their escape, the gaes is, by its very nature, a difficult spell to remove. Even a lesser gaes such as this will last a week without further reinforcement. Removing it will require a magical user of considerable skill, beyond that of a street corner conjurer or temple cleric. This spell is of my own fashioning and, without vanity, one I pride myself on. Furthermore, the Midnight Lord's power is well-suited to such bindings." A pause and then, slowly, "But a city of this size probably has the required resources to remove it, given time."

When Sorala asks for more information, a slight shift crosses the cleric's mask-like features. The White Squire gets the sense a lesser person might have waved a hand or grunted but Valacus is content with a slight tightening of the jaw, "It was not a full interrogation. Had it been this, I could quote you chapter and verse from their birth to their breakfast yesterday. No, the prisoner was merely one of many locals which I submitted to routine examination."

The dark pitiless eyes glittered and the cleric's voice quicken every so slightly in excitement, "I had never tested a follower of Besmara before, they are unknown to me. I confess I was curious to see how they would react to the gifts of the Prince of Pain." Sorala inwardly shuddered. It was like a collector finding a new type of stone and wishing to experiment upon it. Except Valacus meant people and torture.

"Frankly, I find them wanting so far." The inquisitor says shortly, "A few have spirit but most seem to wither under the lash. Still, I may soon have time to subject a few to the Kiss and the Knowing."

"In any case, I discovered little of use to you. This Maxevale Janis admitted to being a ship captain of some local renown and of having a small following. Most of the crew was killed during the invasion but a few confederates may still be at large. As I mentioned, they have no home of residence in the city to retreat to. Sadly no plans of escape were shared." The cleric straightens up to their considerable height.

"As far as reporting, do not worry Sorala Ironeyes. You will not need to come to us. The eyes of the House will be on you."

A small pause as Sorala's skin prickles with both the cold and the veiled threat. The fact that Valacus mentioned the 'House' instead of Elysia herself is interesting.

=======================
Elysia's/Valacus's home
=======================

Sorala's skin tingles as Valacus's threat settles itself into the pause between them, but even so, a small victory could be claimed by the threat's mere existence. Sorala's eyes widen just so slightly. She'd long suspected that she was watched in some way. It made sense after all; she was a weapon that had been invested in, trained, and grown for many years. And of course, she carried an even more valuable weapon with her at all times. The Jadwiga were gifted spell-weavers, and it occurs to Sorala that her bedchambers have likely been combed through since she left; her possessions - a bit of clothing, or one of her treasured library books perhaps - now in the hand of Riina or her watcher, so that she can be followed from afar. Any sense of victory vanishes, like a bit of ice thrown into a baker's oven to harden a loaf's crust.

"You misunderstand, Overtyrant. I will need you - or a designee - to disperse some of our soldiers as soon as the morning."

Like Valacus a moment before, Sorala paused for just a moment and then dropped her pack from her shoulder. "I need to change. I have no quarters here on the floe. And I need the space in my pack, so I shall leave some things with you. Or a designee."

Pulling a black shirt and matching leather pants from her pack, Sorala then upends it on a nearby table and places her cold-weather outfit, crafting tools, fishing net, remaining clothes, bedroll, flint and steel, iron pot, mess kit, soap, waterskin, and her silk rope aside in neat stacks. The remainder of her possessions would fit in the pack's front pockets, or her bandoleer, belt pouch, or component pouch. On a second thought, Sorala removes the iron pot from the pile and places it back into her pack.

Sorala pauses again, making mental note of what is on the table, and then turns to Valacus, raising an eyebrown expectantly. "If you don't mind, I shall change and be on my way."

=======================
The Bakery
=======================

There was one more thing to do before leaving the ice flow, however. Sorala paused at the makeshift kitchen, taking stock of what was left. Sorala scoops as many mussels as she can fit into her iron pot and places it into the bottom of pack, wrapped in the magical chain that Valacus has given her. She follows the mussels with some of the exotic fruits, oranges and larger ones covered in skins that she could not identify; on top of them, two loaves of dark rye sitting long cooled on a nearby rack, and then finally some more delicate pastries. It would make for a fine second dinner.

Slipping into a nearby alleyway, Sorala takes the felt hat and places it on her head, and wonders briefly how it works. The White Squire thinks of the woman - the prisoner from the day previous that she traded clothes with - of her skin tone and her hair color, and finds herself smiling to see her skin has darkened, her traveling clothes look muted and worn. Eitleán sits strapped to her belt, looking for all the world like a fishing knife in a dirty leather scabbard. It works!

And so, Sorala flits through the night, looking for the world like she grew up in Port Peril, up Crescent Harbor towards the bakery, until she arrives to the sound of the halflings, still awake even as the night lengthens. Stepping into the doorway, Sorala waves her hand and the magic vanishes. She frowns taking in the empty room thinking again of her boots; Vennik and his men were truly capable scavengers. Well, the counter would have to do.

"Norintha mentioned food. So I have brought some. Fill your bellies." And so Sorala spreads the food on top of the counter (making sure to leave the manacles hidden in her pack) and begins her second dinner of the night eating silently at first as the halflings gather around, and then slowly, intentionally, interjecting herself into the conversation. She asks about religion - where do the halfings worship, or did they, before they were enslaved? Where are the temples of the major religions? She asks their favorite taverns, the ones with the best meals and the best entertainment, and finally, she asks about spellcasters.

"I need to find the services of a powerful spellcaster. One that can create magical items and cast magics beyond the ken of even most priests and mages. Where should I go?"

=======================
Dellman's Deadlight
=======================

Sorala stood in the entrance to the Deadlight, sweating in the humid air. Even at close to midnight, there was little respite from the punishing climate - at least to Sorala's frame of reference; the locals seemed to be doing just fine, despite the humidity and the events of the recent days. The Deadlight was perhaps even busier than she'd seen it last time she was there, and certainly rowdier.

The White Squire glanced down at her hand and marveled at the hat's glamer. Her hand was wrinkled, dirty, with nails chipped and long all at once; the hands of a woman who had worked her whole long life, and who was nearing the end of it. Of course, the hat only altered her physical appearance, and it took some getting used to, to be her and not her at once. She looked the part of the old crone, but her smell and the feel of her skin, of her clothes, it remained the same. And so Sorala had rubbed some effluvia from one of the city's open sewers onto her feet and along her clothes - enough to be noticeable but overpowering; it would not do good to have anyone get too close.

Sorala caught a glance of herself in the large plate window adorning the front of the business; the felt hat, a light tan in the glamer but otherwise the same, sat atop shock of white hair which plummeted down her back in unruly, straggly curls. Her skin looked tanned and wrinkled, her clothes were pitted with moth's holes, adding to her general look of destitution.

Taking a deep breath, Sorala shambled into the tavern. It was time to put the knowledge she'd gleaned from the halfings to work.

The old woman saddled up to the bar and cackled, slamming one Irriseni gold coin down on the counter top. "My lucky day, hehe, haha, might just end up captain of my own boat by the morning's light, Pirate Queen be willing!"

"Look at it! It's one of the invaders coins, spends just as good as any others and don't tell me other!"

The crone swivels her head around, nearly turning to face behind her, and barks, her voice and high shrill. "Its the only one I got! Don't rob me, er you'll have to answer to the Pirate Queen I bet!" Turning back to the barkeep, the woman whispered, conspiratorial. "Give me the best worst swill ya got!" And then raising her voice, louder, "What a night, haha hehe, took this coin off a the corpse of one of them invaders!"

Being sufficiently distracting to get attention focused on her, Sorala plunges into the thrust of her ruse. "They had a fight with some Chelish. What, they did I swear on th'Lady herself! I was cozy up in my alley, ready to nod off, when they come through talkin' with the Chelish. It was an argument but they seemed to be working together. Chelish leader, he were a sailor, a captain or something, strange to me he were onshore, and with the invaders. So I perked up, you know! But stayed hidden of course. Old Vannie didn't live so long by being caught eavesdropping, right?"

"Anyways, they were having a heated argument, the leaders. And I couldn't catch everything, but I caught enough, and hehe haha, they were looking for someone."[/b]

Sorala cackled again, her voice sing-songy. "And you'll never guess who-oo!"

She paused and then slammed a wrinkled hand down on the countertop! "Maxevale Janis! The one and only bed-mate of Fairwind!"

"But he and Fairwind, they were working with the invaders. They had to have someone high-up right? Think about it - how else did they manage to take the city so quickly? They knew where to go, who to target. I'd betchyou my last good tooth!"

The old crone waves her hand dismissively. "Always preferred Quent anyways. Bah! Traitors, the both of 'em, and they'll get what they deserve!"

"So they argued about where to look, and the Chelish, they don't think too much of the invaders. All high and mighty, like hawks looking down at a rat, y'know? And the invaders, they puffed up and then--"

Sorala slams her hand on the bar again, rattling the cup of rotgut the bartender had just placed there. "They're fighting, and they all scatter, but the poor bloke was carrying that gold coin, he just bleeds out real quiet like, only about ten feet away. I culd hear him babbling in his mother's tongue, for a good ten minutes before he died. And I went through his pocket and found this coin,"

The crone pats Eitleán, disguised as a pitted axe, and looks at her drink, and sighs, theatrically, and then tips it back. "And this axe. Oh well, his pain, my gain haha, hehe!"

And so, her ruse started, Sorala would stay a few minutes and then shamble onto another tavern, and then another. With any luck, by this time tomorrow angry locals would flush Maxevale Janis to one of the only spots in town where he could get the geas removed. And Sorala would be there to meet him.

The next twelve hours are very busy ones for Sorala. It is not her first sleepless night, of course. If anything, after the endless dark nights of her homeland, the balmy tropical darkness seems to only last a few hours. Still, it is tiring work.

Most of her troubles are not actually getting ahold of the troops, of course. Valacus agrees to her troop request with promptness and Sorala has the feeling the Overtyrant approves of any plan that requires the prey throwing itself into a barbed net. No, her main problem is the troops themselves.

In a more organized state, say Lord Carvius's Cheliax Empire, Sorala would merely take her approval to the appropriate battalion or company and their officers would guide them to Sorala's will. Sadly, nothing so...orderly existed in Irrisen. The armed force of her homeland was a disorderly and disparate mix of House guards, hired thugs, impressed peasants and sullen bandits turned mercenaries. Valacus name could get obedience but not efficiency. Worse still, most of the men and women are hungover from the feast. Indeed, a few she actually has to pull away from the party, which hardly earns her smiles and warmth.

Worse, the task is larger then it seems and covers a lot of ground. During her midnight wanderings, spreading gossip, Sorala also pauses to double-check the halfling's information. She would hate to miss an obvious Janis target simply because her sample size was too small or her question poorly phrased. To her surprise, she found the slaves had been generally correct. The first answer everyone gives her is the Mystic Redoubt, followed by Ida Kela. Few mention the Berth of the Sea Wraith and Sorala gets the feeling clerics and magical power don't fit together in Port Peril as naturally as they do elsewhere.

Still, she does gain some new information and is forced to spread herself out more. A few tavern goers mention a grimy set of magical item stores near the docks that cater to the more daring pirates and would-be adventurers. They don't look very powerful but Sorala figures they may have the tools required, so best to guard it. Also, her attention is drawn to a seedy but sprawling Calistria brothel. Apparently a branch of a far more famous and esteemed establishment on the Mainland, it does sometimes bring up capable clerics of the Savored Sting. So again, a possible place of refuge for her prey.

So, five locations to guard. A magical school, a drunk, a set of shops, a Besmara holy place and a brothel. It was a lot of ground to cover in a city she didn't know and with troops she didn't trust. In the end she manages to cover everything but is forced to ask Vennik for help.

The red-bearded bandit isn't nearly as excited for this assignment as he was for ransacking a bakery. There, the personal reward had been obvious and tempting. Here, Sorala was asking them to stand guard around a possibly dangerous magically talented drunk. The Terror of the Hornwood was not impressed. Still, between the carrot of personal thanks from Elsyia and the stick of Eitleán in her fist, Sorala gets her way.

By mid-morning, all is proceeding as well as can be expected. Sorala has guards at all the locations (or at least dispatched) and her rumors are swirling through the markets and taverns like a blizzard. Still, as the White Squire sweats under the tropical heat, she has her fears.

She simply hasn't had enough time. Jarrik had once told her that a hunter must know the land better then the prey and that certainly wasn't happening here. Janis might not be a Port Peril native but he had clearly spent more time here then Sorala had. Her main fear was the Mystic Redoubt. The most likely target, she had placed most of her troops there but it was a difficult location to guard. A sprawling many-winged building surrounded by gardens and manicured grounds. Annoying easy to sneak in.

But the same went for the rest of the places. Who knew if the brothels had a secret rooftop entrance or the shops had a smuggler's tunnel? There were just too many variables. Still, it was what she had.

Another thought occurs to her, as she paces the dirty, smelly allies of Crescent Harbor's extensive dock district. Apart from the actual invasion itself, this was the largest show of Irrisen force in the city so far. Dozens of troops out on the street, some patrolling others merely watching. Most stood out like sore thumbs on the city streets, a visible sign of the new rulers of the city.

She wondered how the city would take it.

Ok, so run me though here. Are you in disguise? In a location? General information, hit me!

Sorala the beggar wanders the dock, a small beaten tin cup taken from her mess kit waving in front of her, the White Squire's mind ablaze with worry. It was a good plan considering the circumstances, but one with many variables, and in Sorala's experience, nothing ever went perfectly, even when there was more time to put things into place.

She would have to rely on the Irriseni troops - despite her reservations - and hope that if she did not spy Janis herself, one of the Irriseni did, and that they of course could get their signal horns blown so that Sorala could follow up.

And of course, there was the worry of a confrontation. She'd posted troops in large enough numbers to dissuade any hostility, she hoped; were they enough? Sorala was betting that the generally disorganized nature of the Periliers was more than the disorganized nature of the soldiers of her house - and that the few fey, giants, and other obviously monstrous members of the decoy forces were an additional deterrence.

There was also the issue of the soldiers patrolling the docks. They were smaller in number, in order to keep the Irriseni presence "porous" enough to encourage Janis towards Ida. But that lead to them being more open to attack. At least they were closer to Sorala in that case.

And so the beggar wandered, waving her cup in one hand and clicking Eitleán, disguised as a gnarled walking stick, up and down the docks. Sorala wore the gore and slime-splashed local's clothes from the previous day, and hunched as she walked, her skin tanned and hair a greying shock of black, tight curls. Atop her head sat Janis's hat of disguise, itself glammered to appear in the fashion of the wide-brimmed laborer's hats so common in the city. The Irriseni patrolling the docks had orders to leave anyone alone, but especially the indigent and beggars, and Sorala hoped they would listen.

The White Squire stooped and walked slowly down the dockside, her "walking stick" clacking against the promenade. Her eyes, however, remained sharp, and her head slowly shifted from side to side as she walked, looking for women that matched the description of the drunk Ida Kela.

Sorala is located at the docks, in disguise as an old, indigent woman. She's looking for Ida Kela, and if she finds her, will set up within sight of Ida, also within a few feet of an alley or other obscuring spot, in case she needs to duck into it and change her disguise. Otherwise, she'll trust the Irriseni hornblowers to signal if they see Janis.

And so Sorala waited....and waited...and waited. Under a hot tropical sun. Even with a wide brimmed hat and finding a shaded spot to wait, it was interminable. From her vantage she sometimes caught sight of Vennik or his followers patrolling past and they looked just as miserable as she was. Sweaty, tired and feeling drained. The sweltering heat seemed to just suck the life right out of someone. How did the natives do it?

As best as she could tell, the local seemed...unbothered by the heat. There were plenty of them in this district and Sorala saw signs the life of the city was slowly coming back. Porters carrying goods, sailors idling outside taverns, shop stalls popping up. Sorala got the feeling this was a more run down part of town, even by Crescent Harbor standards. The location was near the docks, which was a plus, but seemingly mostly visited by smaller and poorer ships. The White Squire was still learning the layout of the city, how the rich and poor mingled and segregated. How the flow of coin, prestige and honor flowed here. One thing was very sure.
....

It was very different then Irrisen.

One thing that surprised the watching (and sweating) magus was the diversity, which was both greater and lesser then in her homeland. In a major city back home, Sorala would have expected to see many non-humans about. Ice goblins, snow giants, werewolves, hags and a bewildering array of fey would have been expected. In Port Peril however, it was generally just humanoids. Yet, within that narrow channel, it was deep.

Dwarves, halflings, gnomes, half-orcs and half-elfs were the most abundant, in every shade of skin tone from rivaling Sorala's pale white to glossy black. There were more unusual people too however, some of which Sorala had never encountered in her homeland. Silky furred catfolk, crust oreads and hunched ratfolk. Sorala even glimpses what she thinks is a fetchling, but she is unsure. And not only is the collection diverse, but everyone seems so...vibrant. Clothes of many styles and jewelry of every sort. Flashes of color from feathered hats to dyed bandanas to tasseled boots. It was like every passerby was an amateur artists, whose outfit was a canvas. While not all the get-ups really worked, they did engender a sense of travel and adventure, of distant seas and exotic lands.

'I never would have thought you a hopeless romantic.' Eitleán commented, when a passing man with dark skin and a animal skin tunic made her of think of dark jungles and beating drums. 'It's charming, really.'

Time passed. Noon came and went, and Sorala began to worry. Had her planned failed? Had Janis been scared off by her display of force? Or had it laughed at it and easily dodged the clumsy patrols? Was he already inside the boarding house Sorala was staring at, getting Ida Kela to remove the gaes?

The white sun was starting to crest westward and Sorala on the edge of giving up (or trying something else), when the atmosphere of the crowded street changed. It was a vauge thing, but there was a strange sense of....tension. The people walked faster, ducked out of the way, no longer stopped to chat. A few stalls were packed up and bustled away. Sorala could see no outward sign of danger and yet.....

Suddenly the doors flew open of a ramshackle seedy tavern a few doors down. A dozen men and women poured out of it, in various stages of being armed. At the same moment, another building's door crashed open, and another gang emerged. Again, a motely crew of obvious locals armed with clubs, belaying pins and knives.

Both groups marched towards each other and met in the center of the street, only a short distance from the boardinghouse Sorala was watching. The air crackled with tension as the two groups confront each other, sizing each other up.

"Garrick is a filthy cheat!" One dirty looking woman shouts, waving a knife wildly.

"Bah!" Someone from the rival groups grunts, "It is Ben that is the dirty scum."

'You calling me a liar?" The first says.

'Well, I'm not calling you to dinner!" is the rejoinder and then fists start to fly. In a matter of moments Sorala is witnessing a sprawling and growing street brawl as more people join the tangle of weapons, fists and curses.

"It is... strange, I think," Sorala responds to the rimeblade, doubt creeping into her mindvoice. "To be so far adrift from one's home. Exciting in a way, but also... I feel untethered."

Sorala pauses for a moment and then wonders of the sword's ages of experience. "Have you ever been so far from Irrisen?"

The day drags on, and the street fills with tension. It was not any one thing, but a culmination of little changes here and there. Silence, one or two people going their way quickly, it was to be expected. But everyone? It was shift of the wind, subtle, but noticeable if one was paying attention.

Which Sorala was, so when the melee happens, the White Squire is not surprised. "A ruse?" she muses, her mindvoice lilting at the end. "Keep your senses about you, Eitleán."

As for the melee itself? It was not something for Sorala to get involved in. Perhaps Vennik and his men would, or perhaps they wouldn't. Regardless, Sorala should not be distracted from her purpose.

Sorala's "walking staff" clicked along the ground as she fled from the melee down an alleyway. Looking quickly around her to ensure no one was watching, Sorala pressed against a wall and cast a glammer, vanishing from view. Then, the now invisible (and still disguised) Squire lifted off the ground, into the air, and landed a few seconds later atop a nearby roof where she could see from an bird's vantage, both the melee and the nearby entrances to Ida's rooming house.

If the melee was a ruse, then the next few minutes would be crucial. Janis would make his move.

Casting invisibility, then flight hex. Sorala will lift up to a nearby building with a good way to survey the entire scene. Should take all of about thirty seconds.

While you wait

Eitleán is silent for a long moment. While currently looking like a slave's helping stick, Sorala can easily picture the fine blade's true shape in her mind's eye. Gleaming polished steel, inlaid with shimmering silver swirls. A worn ivory hilt, wrapped with fine bear skin leather. Sorala had never seen it rivaled except the rare times she had glimpsed another rimeblade.

"It depends on how you measure distance." The sword finally says, voice oddly thoughtful. "By miles counted with feet or beats of a wing? Yes, this is the farthest I have been from Irrisen. I fought in the wars of Conquest, when Irrisen was founded. But before that...."Another long pause and then, carefully, "Let's just say I am not from around here."

Curious. Sorala had never heard of where the rimeblades came from. They had always just....been there, as part of irrisen as the endless winters or Baba Yaga herself. And yet, as Eitleán just commented, those features were not permanent either. As sacrilegious as it was to consider, Baba Yaga was a relative newcomer to this place. Where then, had Eitleán come from exactly?

Before she had time to ask further the street grew sharper, more tense.

Ok, mid riot

Sorala ignores the riot for now, she has bigger fish to fry. Quickly the "slave" vanishes from sight, hidden behind a veil of magic. She then rises into the air, getting a bird's eye view of the boarding houses and its entrances. The White Squire can only fly for a few minutes but she guesses she won't have to wait long....

The boarding house has two main entrances, front and back. In addition there are a number of crude doors along the first floor, but they only provide access to a single ground-floor room. Everyone seemed convinced that Ida Kela lived on the top floor so these were secondary concerns for the flying magus.

Below her the riot grows like a living thing, pulling in bystanders from the street as well as the taverns near by. Knifes, swords, clubs and fists are all used with wild abandon, as people fall wrestling in the dusty street. Sorala notices that Vennik's patrol are slowly being involved, despite their best attempts to keep their distance. A few wild punches have landed on his bandits and revenge is quickly entangling them.

Not that Sorala cares. If anything, the appearance of Vennik's disruption might entice Janis to make his move. The 'hole in the net' is looking more open by the second. The only downside was, if Sorala needed back-up, it would not easily reach here...

There!

From a darkened side alley, practically just below her flying feet, Sorala sees a dark figure dart from the shadows. Despite the heat, it is wearing full robes and a hood pulled up. With speed it runs toward one of the smaller side doors, pelting full out. On street level it is ignored in the chaos of the street battle but this is exactly what the Irrisen magus was waiting for....

In seconds the shadowy figure has reached the door, shouldered it open and slipped inside.

It was more than Eitleán had ever told the White Squire, but ultimately merely a nibble of his story, a crumb thrown to a slave by a Jadwiga gorged on a decadent meal, rather than a feast itself. Sorala resisted the urge to press the rimeblade; her mindvoice was respectful.

"Thank you for sharing, and I would love - someday - to hear more. When you are ready to tell it, of course."

The feeling on the street had changed; it was best to pay attention anyways.

-----

A figure? Cloaked and covered in the heat, it was certainly suspicious, but Sorala cursed under her breath. Another ruse? It was possible. Even as Sorala dove towards it, the figure slipped into a side door, one of the ones that lead to the large ground floor room; Ida Kela was on the third floor, and there was no egress between the two. It was possible that this cloaked figure was yet another decoy, and Janis, hidden nearby, waited to see if the figure would be followed. Still, what choice did Sorala have? Kela could be waiting in the ground floor room, or there could be an overlooked or hidden door there, or Janis could be there, having gone in the wrong door by accident.

And so Sorala hurtled at the door, like an osprey after a mouse, a mere few moments after the cloaked one first entered. Sorala barked an arcane syllable and looked towards the melee and then away; one last glance before she shouldered the rapidly approaching door herself, and then she clenched her jaw and dropped the last few feet.

perception, ioun stone, alertness: 1d20 + 6 + 2 + 2 ⇒ (11) + 6 + 2 + 2 = 21

Casting shield. If Sorala sees nothing unusual (or more unusual), she'll go through the door.

Even as Sorala's feet hit the warm, dusty earth she hears a loud rending crash from inside, and heavy footsteps. Squinting against the harsh tropical light, the White Squire takes a second to glance inside before rushing in. Inside is a small grimy room, with only the barest furniture. The most distinctive feature is the fact the far wall has been smashed open, leaving a gaping hole roughly the size of a human male. Sorala sees no sign of either occupant or her quarry.

It actually takes Sorala a second to process what happened and reflect on the genius. Simple smash down a cheap, flimsy wall. It would never have occurred to her because in Irrisen even the humblest and crudest peasant hut would have thick heavy walls, to keep out the killing cold. Clearly though architecture is quite different in port Peril.

"Perhaps this reflection would be better suited until the manhunt?" Eitleán comments. Sorala agrees and steps inside the room, moving toward the new exit.

As she does so, a small dark shape flies through the air, tossed by some unseen hand from the hallway beyond. A bomb? A weapon? A spell? No, a small...cloth bag? Sorala just has time to register this when the bag explodes.

No, not explodes. The opposite of explodes.

A shimmering cloud of utter blackness pours out of the bag, like a snowstorm of black flakes. In an instant Sorala is blind in a world of blackness, her only frame of reference her booted feet on the dirty wooden floor and the scent of dust in her nose. Her eyes are useless and even Eitleán's trademark gleam is invisible.

"Ah, darkness. Not a bad tactic." The rimeblade remarks, calm as ever.

A heavy sound of footfalls sounds in her ears, boots thunking on stairs. Then a male voice, somewhat muffled by distance and walls shouts from where vaguely to her upper right, "Ida! I'm calling in that favor!" More footfalls.

Were anyone able to see Eitleán, they would perhaps note the slightest change of the blade; sparks for a second run along it, as if the sword were being honed by an unseen blacksmith, and the rimeblade shimmers briefly, as if the bond between it and Sorala were being buttressed. Of course, Sorala - and by extension Eitleán - was invisible, and shrouded in darkness at that.

A flurry of options run through Sorala's mind, one after another quickly discarded as soon as they enter, save two.

"Kela!" Sorala screams towards the ceiling, while gesticulating - a waving of her fingers like serpents intertwined. "Janis is wanted for crimes against his liege. Do NOT interfere, lest you welcome the Jadwiga's wrath!"

Spitting forth another arcane word, this one sibilant and tangled, Sorala points Eitleán in the direction of Janis's voice, and then triangulates to take into account the man's expected movement, shifting a bit more to the upper right.

"Have you ever been through a wall before?" the Squire asks, her mindvoice sharp with tension. Closing her eyes, Sorala launches them, blade-first through the air, up and towards the sounds of heavy footsteps...

Swift action: spend a point of magus arcana to give Eitleán +1 enhancement and the keen property. Standard: cast mirror image. Move: 60' flight to the upper right. Free: talky-talky.

mirror images: 1d4 + 1 ⇒ (1) + 1 = 2