Fiorré Braska Wintrelle's page

The most obvious thing that Aphotos and Fiorré notice while out on the town is that the authorities seem to have been plenty antagonized. Guard patrols of the city have visibly increased, and people hurry to their destinations, wary of tarrying in the street for idle conversation or even a few moments of Aphoto's performance.

No one at the constable's barracks is available to speak with Fiorré. "We've bigger fish to fry than one wayward servant. Count your blessings, my girl, and mind you find some gainful employment before we run you in for vagrancy," the desk sergeant warns the ersatz maid.

“Aye—um, yes, sir!” Fiorré, such as she is, gives a crisp nod. With a sweet smile, she chirps, “Already asking about becoming a lady-in-waiting to some of the noble ladies.” The Iobarian Galtan girl doesn’t wait around to let this lie grow out of control, hastily getting out of the guards’ way. She concludes her shopping with the same wary haste that other folk display, and puts some extra effort into returning to the safehouse unseen.

She flashes Fiorré a quick glance and sighs in relief.

Fiorré, for her part, takes it upon herself to act as impromptu barmaid to the dicehouse’s lads and lasses (and nonbinary classes). It is, if nothing else, a good opportunity to practice her Galtan accent some more... not to mention some flirtatious fun. It’s been all too long—weeks, even—since last she had opportunity to be the innocent tease that caused such havoc at the Magaambya. And dallying makes for a welcome break from the seriousness of the mission.

For all her masquerading, Fiorré cannot even begin to match her compatriots’ skills at espionage and intrigue; but she’s out on the town, and more to the point, on the job. So as she plays her kittenish game and enjoys the night life, the young woman puts out a few inquiries of her own; nothing incriminating or even specific, but simply the innocent questions of a girl new to the city. In particular, however, she keeps her ears perked for any mention of the Gardeners’ plot or the final blades... and her nose keen for any hint of the previous night’s haunting scent.

Diplomacy to Gather Information: 1d20 + 27 ⇒ (14) + 27 = 41
Perception to notice any noteworthy scents: 1d20 + 26 ⇒ (4) + 26 = 30 Aye, that tracks.

For once Fiorré awakens at a decent time; rarely does she sleep without some restless midnight wandering, but the trials and travels of the previous night have seen to that. So she sets about preparing a hearty breakfast—and it is unambiguously that; Fiorré doesn’t know what ‘cholesterol’ is, but one gets the impression she’d be all in favor of it if she did—involving eggs with cheese, meat, and scallions, as well as potatoes and thick-cut pork and beef, all pan-fried in butter and garlic. The overachieving young woman even whips up some sort of buttery fried tart, sweetened with cinnamon and sugarcane powder. Conscientiously, Fiorré makes certain to knock on Miss Ozinichi’s door with two plates (one for her and one for her familiar).

Once she has seen to all of that, though... remembering her solemn promise of the morning previous, Fiorré slyly slips out of the safehouse, turning her hair panther-black again and returning to her maid’s outfit before seeking out the constabulary. Having put out some subtle inquiry of her own during yesterday’s wandering, the alleged maid comes equipped to weave a tale that will satisfy the constabulary without putting anyone’s neck on the line. Fiorré does a bit more shopping for fresh foods in this guise—doing her best to establish her false face in town—before surreptitiously returning to the sanctuary. Truth be told, the beastblood girl is a wee bit jealous of Sir Upwell; but he knows how to keep a secret better than she.

Back at the safehouse, Fiorré contents herself with practicing her dueling forms, reviewing what the group has learned and taking careful notes, and threatening her comrades with the eager promise of a hearty supper. Chance’s question pulls the Iobarian girl away from fussing over one of the group’s acquired invitations, and Fiorré eyes the priestess suspiciously. “I do believe, Miss Chance, that you are attempting to lead me into a lifestyle of hedonism and debauchery.” A thoughtful look crosses the young woman’s face, and after a moment of pondering she nods sagely. “Aye, that sounds fine with me.”

Funmi’s advice draws another sage nod from the Iobarian girl. “Aye, I think for the moment ‘twould be wisest not to antagonize the authorities further.” Fiorré smiles brightly. “Besides, ‘tis quite welcome to have a rest from bloody battle and muddled mystery.” Certainly she seems rather more perky today. As for Miss Chance... Fiorré isn’t precisely sure whether dice houses count as ‘lying low’, but the young woman quite clearly intends to find out.

Fiorré waves the others goodbye before proceeding with Kuthek to collect the gossipy mapmaker. On the way she checks her supplies of paper and ink, collecting some extra from the wrecked map shop upon arrival; this is an excellent opportunity to explore and experience the Shadow, and the ever-eager student in her is determined to make the most of it.

Out of sight of Miss Ozinichi, Fiorré doesn’t overly concern herself with the changes brought forth by the occult transference. For some reason—she’s certain something must have happened while Miss Mayael was out, but this is an important chance to show trust in the wayward beast girl, and Fiorré’s not going to spoil it with suspicion—she’s not terribly bothered by Kuthek seeing her shadows or her changes. And as for the chatty little mapmaker, well, she’ll be well away before idle gossip can come back on her.

So on the trip to their destination, Fiorré contents herself with observation of the Shadow, sketching its vistas in charcoal chiaroscuro while Kuthek shepherds their ward along. Sibéal, being in part a manifestation of this very curiosity, is too busy investigating to be her usual distracting self. And as for Mayael... Fiorré watches how the beast-shadow haunts Kuthek’s steps in her stalking way (while of course maintaining an aloof distance), and the young woman allows herself a delighted little smile. Glad she’s found a friend outside our head. ‘Twould do her the power of good, I think. Let us just hope Sir Eventide is up to the task... sure he has his work cut out for him.

Fiorré sneaks in a quick catnap while her companion sees to their ward’s secure settlement; it’s been a long day, and there is much yet to do. On the return trip, the Iobarian girl—perhaps savoring the more intimate moment just a little; she doesn’t mind crowds or even small groups, but one-on-one is best of all; and not just because it’s the best way to hunt—spends time in quiet conversation with Kuthek, inquiring about aspects of the Shadow with her schoolgirlish ardor or letting her companion guide the topic. As before, she doesn’t press him for details of the night’s events; it’ll come out in proper time.

Upon return to the safehouse, Fiorré has little energy left to do more than sneak off for a surreptitious supper of fresh fishy, purchased that day at market. (She’d rather not let Sir Upwell know about this particular craving, especially if he’s seen how Mayael conducts herself in a fight.) Then it’s back to the hearth to say her prayers and curl up in her cloak between Kuthek and Funmi. A good day, all in all.

As the others manhandle the final blade into the (hopefully) inaccessible depths, Fiorré’s wandering of the spectrum of nearby scents is disrupted by an out-of-place note. Wanderwise though she may be, her predator’s senses are keener than the river’s newest occupant, and immediately the beastblood girl is at full perceptive alert. To no avail, however; the new scent seems to have vanished as quickly as it bloomed, leaving only the river’s promise of fresh fishy, among other welcome scents... none of which seem quite so entrancing now.

After a tense moment of anxious alertness, Fiorré turns to the others. “Éist suas!” “Listen up!” the Iobarian girl hisses quietly, getting the others’ attention. “‘Twas a strange creature-scent that vanished soon as I caught it. They might have the knowing of us after all.”

Fiorré falls silent, a look of self-directed frustration on her face; it’s clear she blames herself for not picking up the scent sooner. Perhaps more concerning, a strange look is dawning in her blue-violet eyes—stranger than the shimmer granted them by twilight, even—as they flick back and forth across the nighttime wharf... a look which Aphotos and Kuthek briefly glimpsed only a few minutes earlier, as the battle for the blade concluded, and which Funmi may have seen more than once in her time.

But the beastblood girl doesn’t plan on succumbing to the siren song of lunacy just yet. Settling cross-legged on the wagon’s seat and raising her gaze to the moon, Fiorré reaches into her scholar’s satchel and draws forth a well-worn silver coin from some long-drowned Lirgeni mint, rubbing it between her fingers as she begins to murmur Magaambyan mantras to herself. The effect is neither immediate nor drastic, but slowly the girl’s subtle twitching slows and her breathing steadies. Returning her gaze to the others, Fiorré smiles anxiously. “Perhaps when to our sanctuary we return, I might offer up a song, if any should like to hear it.”

Since claiming her spot alongside Funmi on the driver’s seat of her fairly purchased commandeered wagon, Fiorré has spent most of the ride quietly keeping alert and guiding the horses. Mayael’s appearances, while not nearly so emotionally draining these days, are still quite physically strenuous, and the quiet rest gives the beastblood girl a chance to catch her breath and let her blood calm down. Occasionally she shyly glances over at the elder Magaambyan; but whatever is on the girl’s tempestuous mind, she keeps her peace about it.

As the guards step out in front of the wagon, Fiorré’s hands develop a faintly perceptible nervous quiver. “O-oh dear,” she murmurs under her breath, one hand subtly and subconsciously drifting down to the hilt of Snowfall. While she’s developed some proficiency in the art, the Iobarian girl has never truly grown comfortable with lying to the constabulary, her earlier performance notwithstanding. Thus it is with some relief that she hears Midnight speak up. That is his name now, right? she thinks anxiously, half-listening to the exchange. In fact, her little plan—not that Fiorré’s inclined to take all that much credit for it, of course; it was something anyone could have come up with—seems to have worked swimmingly.

As the wagon arrives at pier’s end, Fiorré notes Funmi’s wariness and follows suit, peering out into the shadows and drawing a breath of night air to sample its scent.

Perception with low-light vision and imprecise scent 30’: 1d20 + 26 ⇒ (1) + 26 = 27

Fiorré’s eyes flutter closed as she draws another breath, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. The wanderwise young woman’s clearly not going to be of much use here.

Fiorré blushes anew under the elder Magaambyan’s direct gaze, as she often has. But, for once, she doesn’t look away shyly. Instead she listens, wide-eyed and intent, to the solemn pledge. Only when the elvish woman has finished does Fiorré move again, giving her a slow but heartfelt nod. “Then... when that time comes, I shall be there at your side to help.” A shy smile dawns on the Iobarian girl’s face. “And, um... thank you, Miss Ozinichi.”

She’s hesitant to break the sincere moment. But, alas, there is work to do. Tapping a finger against her lips thoughtfully, Fiorré considers the group for only a moment before issuing suggestions. “I shall see about securing transport. Sir Eventide, perhaps see what can be done to prepare this heavy thing for loading.” Her gaze passes over Chance, with a somewhat perplexed air, before landing on Aphotos. “You, Sir Midnight, you are the closest of us to our host’s build and appearance; perhaps you can disguise yourself to add a layer of deception to our movements? And,” the Iobarian girl turns to Funmi with a sweet smile, “if you’ve any illusions remaining that might aid us, well, I’m certain you know how best to use them.”

Then, with a swish of skirt and whirl of braid—and, perhaps, a distinct air of shyness finally triumphing—Fiorré scurries out the door in search of misappropriation-ready vehicles and horses. (For which, in defiance of the conventions of her profession, the conscientious girl leaves gold enough to cover the cost of the wagon and the animals, plus an additional consideration for the inconvenience.)

Fiorré manages not to sneeze as the magic washes over her,although she can’t help but blush as rosette-stippled fur blooms across her face and body in response to the arcane energy. Still, she’s proper clean again, and it’s not like her teacher’s not seen this happen before. “Thank you, Miss Ozinichi!” the beastblood girl chirps, folding her hands in her lap demurely.

Settling in, Fiorré watches the ladies unleash their magical power against the engine of death, to no avail. She has some experience with artifice—the beastblood’s interference with arcane, divine, and especially occult magic did not extend to magical craftsmanship, and the Iobarian girl did actually manage some (comparatively) impressive achievements in the field during her time at the Magaambya—but the abominable final blades are well beyond her.

At Funmi’s mention of the river, Fiorré perks up. “Aye, should be doable. I shall go fin—” As she rises to her feet, a grim issue with the plan occurs to her, and she hesitates. “Um...” Fiorré coughs softly, fidgeting a little. “I shouldn’t like to, um, spoil this fine plan. But... how will we get it back out of the river later?” As all eyes turn to her, the Iobarian girl blushes again. “Final blades are full of imprisoned Galtan souls, held from, um, Pharasma’s proper judgment. If we dump it in the river... how ever shall those souls be freed?”

From the look on Fiorré’s pretty face, the thought of such a fate disturbs her very deeply indeed; far more than one might expect. What is it that you fear? Lesedi asks her. A cage. To be imprisoned for what I am, to never know freedom again, she answers. Dismissing the memory, the beastblood girl chews on her lower lip, briefly flashing Funmi an apologetic look. “That, um... that’d not sit right with me. If you’ll forgive me so saying.”

Fiorré wakes from the depths of dreaming—Mayael’s beast-spirit is too strong for her to maintain consciousness past the first few moments of such a wild hunt—to the scent of blood and the taste of meat. It is, sadly, not an unfamiliar experience for the beastblood girl. Lifting a trembling hand, the bracer running like mercury down her hand and wrist to reveal streaks of silver-seared skin, Fiorré instinctively wipes at the blood on her mouth and chin. Biting her lip, trying not to hyperventilate or burst into tears, she surreptitiously glances over her shoulders at the others. No-one looks too badly harmed, and Fiorré allows herself a wee ray of hope.

Using the tent to wipe clean Snowfall, Fiorré sheathes the sword and tucks her masque back into her satchel. Most of Miss Mayael’s more... interesting... alterations to Fiorré’s body were instinctively subsumed during the change back, but she takes a moment to recenter herself on her human form... although she does leave just a bit of tail and a prong or two of antler poking out. Princess’s pride, the beastblood girl thinks, a shy smile breaking through her anxious expression.

What she wants to do is to go ask Miss Ozinichi if everything is all right and if she made the right choice letting Mayael out. But the elder Magaambyan’s mind is almost certainly occupied with the final blade, as it should be. And, in all honesty... she’s not quite ready to face up to Olufunmilayo Ozinichi so soon after what she’s just done, princess’s pride or not. Instead the beastblood girl slinks a little closer to the group; not quite joining them yet, but simply listening in as she wipes away the blood and sucks on her silver-scorched fingers.

Fiorré spends her time during the day shopping for minor items, exploring the city while taking care not to run afoul of further legal (or Gray) trouble, and occasionally surreptitiously tailing one or two of the others to see what they’re like outside of their adventuring lives. While she’s tempted to arrange a performance—Litran surely has a thriving artistic and musical scene, and it’s been too long since the Iobarian girl has had a chance to show off her skill as a pianist—such a show would most certainly imperil their mission here.

At the appointed hour, Fiorré leads the group to the alleged circus with all stealth, scouting warily ahead; as she prowls the darkened alleys and quiet streets, her clothing flows and reshapes to tight black velvet, and her braided hair goes panther-black. As the group approaches the false circus, the beastblood girl falls back a little, her hand drifting into her satchel to brush across the masques of filigreed mithril and tangled wood. All right, girl, time to choose. The Lady... or the Tiger. It’s strange to think in her own voice for once, but Fiorré is too busy wrestling with her conflicted feelings to properly appreciate it. Perhaps she should have brought this up earlier? Too late now, though.

Know yourself, and you have nothing to fear. The words Miss Ozinichi spoke during their odyssey through the Shadow come back to her. With a glance towards the others, at the woman calling herself Eclipse, Fiorré makes her choice. Pulling out the appropriate masque and trying to calm herself, the beastblood girl draws a deep breath, whispering the mantra that Lesedi, Funmi, and her classmates had all helped her develop. “O Huntress Queen, o Huntress Queen.” As she dons the item, Fiorré screws her eyes tightly closed...

Fiorré remains quiet for much of the journey back. Her clothing returns to its immaculate state and she’s wiped away most of the blood, but she still seems somewhat shaken by the experience. Back at the apothecary, she busies herself with helping set places and pour tea—Perhaps ‘twould serve you better to don again the maid’s dress, Sibéal playfully taunts, and Fiorré momentarily pouts before smiling to herself—but Funmi’s words shake the beastblood girl out of wanderwise mid-pour.

“A ritual,” Fiorré repeats as she sets down the teapot, a chill running down her spine and unease painting her pretty face. “Sure ‘tis not for the health and good cheer of the citizens, either, knowing these Gardeners.” She ponders what she knows of the final blades, a line of thought which fails to rekindle her optimism. “Saints preserve us. D’you think they mean to... to capture souls en masse? Or... something worse?”

Funmi’s mention of capturing a final blade, on the other hand, puts a tentative smile back on Fiorré’s face. “Aye, now there’s a grand fine plan. Fight or trick our way in, snatch the thing, and have it away with all haste.” Her hand drops to rest on the pommel of her blade... and then the beastblood girl hesitates, surreptitiously glancing around at the others with anxiety in her eyes. No-one had said anything about the way she’d bled that man and then took him to pieces, but...

Taking a deep breath, Fiorré tries to banish the old fear, the fear of her deeds—and, perhaps more so, of others’ judgment for such deeds—that had haunted her all the way from Iobaria. She’d just have to be a wee bit more careful in future. Keep herself under control. Couldn’t be so hard as all that... after all, normal folk went weeks, at the very least, between each savage bloodletting. Tapping a finger against her lips thoughtfully, the beastblood girl glances around at the others again. “I’m fair in favor of stealing one of their bloody blades. What say you all?”

Before Funmi begins casting any spells, Fiorré daintily holds up a hand. “Miss Ozinichi, please,” she says, flashing a smile her teacher’s way, “permit me to dispatch this base cutthroat for you.” Then... the Iobarian girl erupts into motion, her blade flashing again and again in a storm of auroral trails. Her first is another elegant arterial razor, but the rest are simple slashes to the zealous assassin’s body and face.

Bleeding Finisher Strike: 1d20 + 29 ⇒ (7) + 29 = 36 for finisher damage: 8d6 + 11 ⇒ (2, 3, 3, 3, 6, 2, 3, 4) + 11 = 37

Strike: 1d20 + 29 - 5 ⇒ (20) + 29 - 5 = 44 for critical damage: 6d6 + 22 ⇒ (6, 1, 5, 5, 3, 4) + 22 = 46

Strike: 1d20 + 29 - 10 ⇒ (5) + 29 - 10 = 24

quickened Strike: 1d20 + 29 - 10 ⇒ (12) + 29 - 10 = 31

Well, at least a couple of them were probably cool. We’ll call the others flourishes. :D

As the assassin bleeds his last, Fiorré turns back to Funmi, offering her teacher a tentative smile and a small bow. “I, um... hope it was not too unseemly for you, Miss Ozinichi.” The beastblood girl knows her teacher has witnessed far bloodier deeds done by her hand—or, more frequently, paw—though this somehow does little to assuage her anxiety. For a moment it seems as though she is going to say more to the elder Magaambyan; instead the young woman glances shyly aside.

Instead Fiorré pads over to Kuthek, folding her hands in front of her and looking hopefully up at the avuncular fetchling. “So, Sir Eventide,” the beastblood girl murmurs, her eyes aglow in the light spilling through the shattered door, “what think you of my technique? ‘Tis a wee bit sanguine, I grant, but...” Fiorré gestures vaguely at Kuthek, as if to say, Surely you, sir, will understand.

Fortitude: 1d20 + 24 ⇒ (12) + 24 = 36

Fiorré shrugs nonchalantly, unperturbed by the strike (though the kiss of the blade did elicit a little giggle). “Ah, ‘tis a shame to see a lad throw his life away for nothing. Still, if you insist...” The Iobarian girl holds out a fist with thumb extended to the side, turning it downward like a Chelish princess at a gladiatorial arena, and grins hungrily at the assassin. “Corpse.”

Invisibility. No fair! Noijitan monster! If ‘tis not one thing, sure ‘tis another. Fiorré pouts... then blushes faintly at her spicy language, even if Funmi (probably) can’t read her thoughts (right now). The beastblood girl sniffs at the air, trying to pick out the scent of bizarre entity under the rich coppery perfume of bloodshed. When she thinks she has it, she doesn’t even hesitate, whipping her blade through the space her teacher indicated with the same gory intent.

flat check to target Red with Bleeding Finisher: 1d20 ⇒ 13
Bleeding Finisher Strike: 1d20 + 29 ⇒ (17) + 29 = 46
Bleeding Finisher slashing damage: 8d6 + 11 ⇒ (4, 1, 2, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6) + 11 = 38 plus 5d6 persistent bleed

Fiorré feels her blade meet resistance and saws it back just as before, adding an extra saw or two just to make the point about the invisibility. Then she is once again in motion, keeping the assassin’s gaze on her with a rolling sway of her hips. Tease, Sibéal playfully jibes, as if she’s not in the habit of far more sultry tricks.

Performance to recharge panache; same as last time: 1d20 + 28 ⇒ (20) + 28 = 48

The Iobarian girl’s eyes shimmer in the sunlight spilling into the room as she watches the assassin follow her every move. ‘Tis like witchcraft, with the way boys are. She was going to take another piece out of him with Snowfall, but now...

Instead, Fiorré lashes out nonchalantly at the invisible entity, barely even looking; she’d much rather keep her little fishy hooked.

flat check to target Red with quickened Strike: 1d20 ⇒ 14
quickened Strike on Red: 1d20 + 29 - 5 ⇒ (12) + 29 - 5 = 36
slashing damage, if that hits: 3d6 + 11 ⇒ (6, 5, 6) + 11 = 28 EDIT:plus an extra 5 due to precise strike

Then... she should be defending herself, but where’s the fun in that? Instead Fiorré reaches out with her free hand, lightly brushing the assassin’s cheek just above the mask as she gazes into his eyes, summoning all the mystique she can muster. “Perhaps you’d like to give yourself up to me?” the Iobarian girl playfully whispers in her breathy voice, tugging the mask down just a little as she leans in. “Sure you’d rather be a corpse than a captive? My captive?”

Diplomacy check or something, why not: 1d20 + 27 ⇒ (3) + 27 = 30

Fiorré Bleeding Finishers Red, Performs at Yellow, makes a quickened Strike at Red (even if it’s dead already), and then wastes an action toying with Yellow’s heart.

Also, these rolls. My goodness.

Between the coppery reek of blood on the air and the scarletsong beginning to thunder in Fiorré’s ears, the assassin’s blade barely even stings as it tears into her side. A savage grin spreads across the beastblood girl’s face. Someone needs a spanking. Turning to her assailant, Fiorré flashes him a beguiling smile, Snowfall beginning to whirl with blistering speed.

Bleeding Finisher Strike: 1d20 + 29 ⇒ (16) + 29 = 45

Executing a daring spin, her blade flashing around her in a shimmering sphere, Fiorré finally comes to a stop... with the razor edge of Snowfall pressed against the side of the assassin’s throat, right against the carotid artery. The beastblood girl gives him a saucy wink. “Got you.”

Then, with a twitch of her arm, Fiorré saws the blade across the assassin’s neck.

finisher damage, slashing: 8d6 + 11 ⇒ (5, 6, 3, 5, 5, 4, 4, 2) + 11 = 45 plus 5d6 persistent bleed damage

Fiorré draws a deep breath, eyes widening, only dimly aware that she is smiling delightedly as blood begins to spurt and gush. But the fight is far from over. Taking a moment to let the gory deed sink in, the Iobarian girl reorients her auroral blade into a defensive grip. Then she begins to sway and twirl, Snowfall playing the part of dance partner in her entrancing display.

Performance vs. Will DC of Yellow: 1d20 + 28 ⇒ (14) + 28 = 42 On a crit success, Yellow becomes fascinated, and this has the incapacitation trait; if her check exceeds Yellow’s Will DC, she gains panache, even if the effect didn’t succeed.

But Fiorré isn’t yet done playing with her prey. As she sways, Snowfall lashes out, eager yet to spill the blood of the wounded. Blue if necessary, Yellow otherwise.

quickened Strike: 1d20 + 24 ⇒ (6) + 24 = 30 I doubt that hit, but let me know if you need damage.

Actions: Fiorré spends one action to use her Bleeding Finisher, one action to Dueling Parry, one action to Perform with Fascinating Performance for battledancer reasons, and her quickened action to Strike with Snowfall. Wheee!

Fiorré has been in her own little world almost since the group left the late judge’s residence. Partially the aftereffects of emotion, not to mention lying to the guards—genius though her performance was—and partly the wanderwise at work. Maps are so boring anyway, at least now that she has the freedom to go where she will. Who’d want to look at a bunch of lines on paper when they could go see those places for themselves? And so Miss Wintrelle has been letting her mind wander, particularly to the upcoming gala.

But there is nothing like the sweet promise of bloodspill to focus the mind. As the splintering crack resounds through the shop, Fiorré shakes herself from her wanderwise reverie. “Aye, Miss Liendi, down you go. You shouldn’t see what’s to come next.” By way of punctuation, the beastblood girl draws her blade with an auroral flourish.

“Pardon me, Sir Eventide; Miss Ozinichi.” Fiorré’s voice is perfectly measured and polite, belying the tensing of her muscles. Then, rather than her customary blistering sprint, she all but dances out from between the two, a swaying sword-dance that lands her right in front of the nearest foe.

Acrobatics vs. Yellow’s Reflex DC: 1d20 + 31 ⇒ (5) + 31 = 36

Unfortunately, her enchanting little trick doesn’t seem to make much impact on the dour Gardener. Fiorré pouts rather theatrically at her target. “What a terrible disappointment you are.” Then she is in motion again, her sword-dance carrying her right into the center of the trio of foes.

Acrobatics vs. each enemy’s Reflex DC: 1d20 + 31 ⇒ (11) + 31 = 42

Fiorré grins to herself as the brutes’ eyes begin following her movements, a telltale sign of the entrancement in which she delights. Splendid. On the prowl, then. As she comes to a rest, Snowfall flicks out at Aphotos’s prey with lightning speed.

Quickened Strike: 1d20 + 29 ⇒ (13) + 29 = 42 for Slashing: 3d6 + 16 ⇒ (2, 3, 6) + 16 = 27 (against Blue, in case it wasn't clear)

Fiorré draws her weapon, then uses her Vexing Tumble feat twice to put herself right in the center of attention. Then a quickened Strike just on principle. Let’s see some critical failures!

The surge of pride Fiorré feels at her teacher’s words is tempered by the weight of the emotion still hanging over her. The Iobarian girl creeps out, resisting the urge to offer to fetch a doctor herself. Best not to complicate her involvement any further. As she emerges through the servants’ entrance, blinking at the sun’s brightness, Fiorré finally remembers to shift back. Hair reclaims its snowy shimmer, the mithril band becomes a bracer once again, and her dress returns to its wonted form. Holding the door for her unseen friends, she finally takes a deep breath of air untainted by death.

“Like that I should be inquiring of my errant fellow servants,” Fiorré murmurs to herself, halfheartedly endeavoring to shroud the old grief in an audacious grin. “But perhaps the judge shall under these circumstances forgive me my deception.” With a series of faint sniffles, the beastblood girl orients herself upon her companions. “Whence now are we bound?” Fiorré asks, voice still low. “Back to our wyrm-shrouded lair? Or have we others of import to call upon?”

It takes Fiorré a few moments to regain some vestige of her composure, a final proof that her tears are no act. Taking a few deep breaths, the previously-definitively-established-as-not-Iobarian girl does her best to piece together the guards’ last words. “A-an inquest? Oh. Oh aye—um, of course!” The trouble with lies, Fiorré glumly reflects, is that they echo like a shout in the mountains. And can quite similarly bury the speaker out of nowhere. At least the quaver in her voice will go unquestioned.

As for her pockets... Fiorré sets about pulling items out of her pockets. Truth be told, these contain very little; some spare gold with which to generously overpay, her little waxed-paper bag of ‘medicine’, a vial or two of potion, and some spare trinkets. Then, ever the soul of forthrightness, the in-no-way-beastblood girl starts taking items from her scholar’s satchel. Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately; their size would have revealed the container’s copious capacity—she's left most of her traveling gear, cookware and the like, back at the safehouse. Still, one by one, out come a few spare outfits, relics of a time before the dreaming dress; her masques, wood and mithril; the broad shady hat she’d worn to endure the Mwangi heat; her sword Snowfall, sheath and all; and her splendid lyre.

Fiorré begins speaking again before Snowfall comes out, hoping her words will distract the guards from inspecting the potent blade too closely. “Though, ah...” The young woman smiles a sheepish smile, hand rubbing at the back of her neck in uncertainty. “I fear I’ve not yet found proper lodgings. I had expected to once my employment was proper stable, perhaps rooming with another domestic or such. And given the urgency of my errand, I’d hastened to return before finding a room proper for a young lady.” More composed now (though she still avoids the sight of the bed and its occupant), her voice has largely returned to its elegant mimicry of Galtan inflection.

Not wanting to leave the matter at that—for after all, was she not quite innocent of death or burglary? and besides, the habits of Abadaran upbringing were not so far distant from the ever-considerate girl—Fiorré smiles her sweetest, most obedient smile. “But of course, I’d not ever wish to cause you inconvenience. Perhaps on the morrow I could simply pay a visit to your guardhouse, or to the judge’s seat of court? Then you needn’t search the inns and caravanserais for my lodging-place.” Fiorré folds her hands demurely in front of her, smiling quite genuinely; helping is its own reward, after all.

She knows it’s coming, yet Fiorré still lets out an undignified little squeak when the door is flung open. As she quakes and stammers, the beastblood girl recognizes the guards’ tabards. City guards. Oh dear. Why couldn’t it have been ordinary ruffians? Thinking back to her mother’s lyrical accent—her mother, oh dear—she clears her throat.

Looking up at the guardswoman, Fiorré heaves a sigh of still very anxious relief, clasping her hands to her chest. “Thank goodness! I feared you were mere ruffians. I have had quite enough of those these past weeks.” As if the woman’s words are only now getting through, the definitely-not-Iobarian girl shakes her head meekly, striving for the deference with which she had spent two decades treating guards of all stripes. “I beg your pardon, my lady, but I am no thief. My name is Bellerose. Um, Celeste Bellerose. I am a recent addition to his lordship’s—” Fiorré’s gaze flicks to the noble corpse in its lovely bed, and she quivers slightly, tears brimming in her eyes. “—um, his late lordship’s household.”

Letting her gaze lower to the floor, Fiorré shakes her head sorrowfully, anxiously twisting her hands. “The local apothecary, that curious bird man, could not get the correct medicines for the lord. And so, being the newest of the maids, I was sent by the head of household to Isarn.” Another tremble shakes the unquestionably-Galtan girl’s shoulders, and she sniffles loudly. “It... was a very difficult journey. They would not give me money for a coach, so I had to travel on foot by myself. Hiding from b-bandits and things!” Fiorré takes a deep breath to steady herself, though the quaver in her voice only seems to worsen. “And w-when I returned...” The 100% pure human girl gestures at the bed, her hand trembling, unable to look upon the deceased lord. “I w-was too late. Too late to save him. I f-f-failed.” Fiorré bursts loudly into tears, wholly unfeigned, as the familiarity of the situation fully sets in.

“A-and, and all the others have gone. I'm sure it... m-must have been them that had away with his lordship’s lovely things. ‘No money for a coach’, indeed! They planned it all, I am sure!” Shaking with indignation and sorrow, Fiorré holds her travel-ragged satchel close. “If I had not taken my inheritance and savings with me, they would have taken it as well.” The young woman, who has never in her life been outside of Galt, much less to anywhere as exotic as Iobaria, slumps against the wall next to the closet. She buries her face in her hands, her shoulders trembling as she sobs.

Deception is a mere +22, I'm afraid. Performance is +27, though Fiorré has no method of using it here; I just want you to understand my pain. She also has Society +26 and Courtly Graces if that will help, though this isn't strictly in its sphere of influence either. The crying, for its part, isn't feigned at all.

Fiorré tenses up at the sound of voices. Too much to hope that they’d go unsuspected. The others are all safe in the embrace of illusion, at least, leaving her all alone. Where to hide... All alone. A sudden jolt of inspiration strikes the Iobarian girl. There’s no time to think it through—and really, it’s not as though Fiorré Braska Wintrelle has ever gotten anywhere by thinking—and so she simply acts.

The thought of her wig crosses Fiorré’s mind, but she hasn’t invested that old thing in months. The panther trick will do, though. Recalling the book she’d found in the Magaambya archives, Fiorré focuses on her hair. The results are immediate; darkness splashes through the beastblood girl’s torrent of hair, painting every inch of it black as ink.

As Fiorré enacts this change, her hands are already pulling her swordbelt off and deftly stowing it in her satchel. Most of her other gear should be readily explicable, but her silver bracer will raise some questions. Tugging it away from her arm, the Iobarian girl twists it just so, and its magic takes hold, transforming it into a glittering silver band which she artfully tucks into her now-inky hair.

And now, the pièce de résistance. Refocusing for just a moment on her beautiful sunsilk clothing, Fiorré dreams it into a new shape... that of a fine Galtan chambermaid's outfit. ‘Tis a fine thing that black and white suit me so well. As the dainty dress settles in around her, the beastblood girl catches her reflection in a nearby mirror. The overall effect is enough to make Fiorré’s pretty cheeks burn. Quite the look, my lass. Might that you should see what your lovely elvish flame thinks of it later, no?

Steadfastly ignoring Sibéal and her deeply unhelpful commentary, Fiorré then darts for a closet. She only barely hides herself, though, striving instead for an amateur impression of stealth. The point, after all, is to be found; she’ll get her answers, and the intruders won't look too hard for invisible folk if all they find is a spooked and distraught chambermaid.

Fiorré is noting the absent valuables with a careful eye when the fetid stench slices into her senses. Slowing to a halt and trying to keep her eyes from watering, the beastblood girl takes a careful sniff, and then another, her gaze drifting up to the ceiling. Oh dear...

Turning to her companions—or, at least, to where she believes them to be—Fiorré daintily raises a hand in a ‘stop’ gesture. Then she points a finger upward. “‘Tis a horrid scent in the air, coming down from above. Death old enough to spoil, and sickroom smells besides. I fear ‘tis too late for a doctor...” The Iobarian girl shakes her head solemnly. “...but just the time for Miss Chance’s services.” Gesturing for silence and straining her ears a wee bit, she adds, “I heard no motion, but dead and undead lie still the same. If you’ve the means for such foes, perhaps prepare them.”

For a moment Fiorré considers abandoning stealth in favor of swiftness. But Miss Ozinichi has already spent some of her magic, and that power comes dear. And if she lets herself admit it, the beastblood girl does enjoy the prowl. So with a dainty little ‘follow me’ gesture, she begins silently moving toward the stairs.

Fiorré is many things—some even simultaneously—but a burglar is not among them. But even if she were so easily deterred, she knows full well her companions will not be, and she’ll not be left behind. After a moment’s consideration, the noble girl turns slightly to the others, incrementally tilting her head to indicate the rear entrance. Creeping around the manor, Fiorré tests the rear door and is gratified to find it unlocked.

Holding up a hand for the others to wait a moment, Fiorré steps silently into the kitchen and takes a deep breath of the air. No scent of fire or foodstuffs, just the dusty staleness of desertion. Leaning back to address the others, the beastblood girl murmurs softly, “Unused for two days’ time at least. Sure this bodes ill for our host.” Gesturing for the others to follow carefully behind, Fiorré begins to drift through the house with feline stealth, keeping an eye out for any clues as to what might have presaged this apparent abandonment; and, of course, for signs of habitation or potential threats.

Fiorré is rather somber as the party departs their safehouse, a sharp contrast from her earlier comfort and vigor. She bids their guest an equally quiet farewell, nodding solemnly at the promise given. Now, out in the hostile realm of the Gray Gardeners, the young woman does her best to keep her attitude serious and her attention focused, with a chew of mint helping the latter along. For the moment she refrains from excessive sidetracking, stopping only a few times for niceties and perishables or to observe particularly interesting architecture (and this mostly to obfuscate the group’s trail and intent).

As the group approaches the manor house, Fiorré leads the group on a somewhat meandering circuit, observing the state of the structure and other details. The Iobarian girl drops back slightly to murmur to Aphotos and Kuthek, trusting the sharp ears of her teacher and their mysterious priestess to keep the ladies informed. “Sure he’s fallen on hard times. That or he’ll not be trusting folk to tend his garden. ‘Tis no hard thing to imagine here.”

After a few moments’ thought, Fiorré advances on the front door; she’s neither commoner nor servant, and has a relatively serviceable alibi besides. The young woman raps politely on the door three times, then folds her hands in front of her demurely, putting on her sweetest noble-girl smile.

That Night:
Easily picking up on Zintaya's desire for time and thought, Fiorré conscientiously gives the elvish woman all the space she needs for now, busying herself with cleaning her dishes and otherwise seeing to the party's habitation. As with the previous nights, when bedtime comes, she undoes her braid and lets her hair cascade down around her, drifting away from the lighted rooms to say her prayers. The keen-eared among her companions can pick out Desna, Luhar, Erastil, Tsukiyo, and a smattering of other names from the Iobarian girl's richly-accented murmurs.

Returning to the firelit offices, Fiorré casts a wistful glance up at the high support beams, sighing. But rafters are in no short supply and will always be there. Instead the beastblood girl slinks, only a little self-consciously, to somewhere near to (but not too near to) Funmi and Kuthek. Retrieving her snow leopard plushy from her satchel, Fiorré curls up in her fluffy cloak and quickly drifts off.

Particularly light sleepers may notice Fiorré occasionally rising to tend the fire or climb into the rafters; occasionally the subtle scritching of a quill can be heard from above.

The Next Morning:
Fiorré sleeps in a little, as usual, though she does at least put in the effort to get breakfast—omelettes laden with butter and cheese, thick-cut bacon, and some sort of fluffy cakes—ready for the group and their guest. The Iobarian girl then plays her lyre for a little while, the subtle and soothing instrumental composition perfectly easing people into the day.

When it comes time for her own preparations, Fiorré carefully and intently dons her equipment piece by piece, from the glittering anklets at her feet to the flower in her hair. Then the beastblood girl heads out into the cavernous warehouse for some fitness; dashing this way and that at breakneck pace, bounding up walls to leap to the high support beams, and generally engaging in athletic frolicking. If any of her companions show interest, Fiorré will invite them to join or even pull them in, smiling gaily; if not, she will simply enjoy it for herself. She caps all of this off with a bit of washing-up, making herself properly presentable for public.

The bath, it would seem, suits Fiorré just fine. The young woman all but melts into the hot water as if she was born to it, not quite managing to stifle a dreamy sigh. After a few moments, though, slow realization strikes her. “Thank you for the relic, Miss Calbieste. The warm water is lovely.” Fiorré’s voice is perfectly proper, with the distinct air of some long-ago charm school, but still warm and genuine.

As she performs her ablutions, occasionally fishing around in her scholar's satchel for soap or hair-care and doing her best not to make anyone uncomfortable with the arrangement, Fiorré listens to the others converse. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Zintaya’s words draw the Iobarian girl’s attention. “So you are not of Galtan birth?” Fiorré remarks, intrigued. “Long have I wished to see Kyonin for myself. Per—” She hesitates, and the shadow of frustration flickers across her face for a moment; but she’s done with that for tonight. After collecting her thoughts, Fiorré shyly adds, “Perhaps when we are done here, I might escort you home? After all this, I should like it if you arrive safely.”

Fiorré listens to the elvish woman’s continued description of her time in Galt, nodding sympathetically. “I agree with Miss Ozinichi,” she says, nodding in the elder Magaambyan’s direction. “Desire and need lure the opportunist, and ‘tis ever so easy to be drawn into their webs.” The beastblood girl smiles a rueful smile, for once seeming all of her two-and-a-half decades. “Remind me someday to tell the tale of the Chelish paracountess. Sure ‘tis not the first time I have been gan éadaí in polite company.” Fiorré gestures at herself by way of translation, her hot-water flush deepening slightly, her hand drifting briefly to the jet-black choker at her throat.

“Still...” Fiorré tilts her head, finger tapping her lips, as her expression goes momentarily blank. What do people say at times like this? Would that I had paid more attention to Ahassunu. Lizards make me ever so pouncy though. Settling for a sweet smile at Zintaya, the beastblood girl continues, if a little sheepishly. “I know ever so well the urge to oppose those who cause suffering and corrupt justice.” And the urge to go a-prowling of nights, and to make prey of the wicked. “So I’ll not say that you were wrong in your motives; only that you were manipulated as Miss Ozinichi says.” Fiorré nods again in Funmi’s direction, her gaze lingering for a moment as she studies her teacher for signs of disapproval.

The fluttering presence of Funmi’s familiar draws the beastblood girl’s attention as well. She's seen Quill on occasion before, but the wyrm’s retiring nature and her own shyness have conspired to keep her away, to her disappointment. Fiorré watches the diminutive dragon return to the warehouse’s high beams (with no small amount of envy) before his mistress’s words draw her attention back. “Pardon me, Lorespeaker—” Teacher’s pet. “—but if I can be of assistance with your arrangements...” The beastblood girl trails off, half-knowing the answer already; Miss Ozinichi’s magic is even more oblique to her than most magecraft, and she is well-accustomed to being excluded from its practice. Still, Fiorré can no more resist the urge to offer aid than she could the scent of blood or the shadows’ allure.

For a moment Funmi receives no reply. Then, tentative at first, but building in strength: U-um... yes, Lorespeaker. I mean, yes, Miss Ozinichi. And, um... thank you. The elder Magaambyan can all but hear the smile in Fiorré’s voice.

A few moments later, the door opens again, and Fiorré daintily steps out, giving Funmi a shy smile before glancing around the room. There is indeed a bit more pride in her stance; the shy, yet unashamed, aspect of a nymph in her glade. Slinking over to Kuthek’s side, the beastblood girl leans down, gathering up some of the wooden slats. ”Many hands make light work, ‘tis said. Perhaps you should like another pair?” Fiorré’s voice is soft, sweet, and perhaps just a little lighter now.

Turning slightly, Fiorré lets her voice rise enough to address the others. ”And, um... sure ‘tis large enough to share, if anyone should like to.” There is no teasing in her voice this time—or, well, not as much—just the innocent hopefulness of a young woman who never quite learned her way around intimacy.

In truth Fiorré's courage doesn't last long at all. It's not just her shyness and overdeveloped dignity, which she is still trying to get over (with mixed results, Chelish paracountesses notwithstanding), but the vague feeling of unease she feels in the air. Mayael, ever the predator, pounces on the weakness instantly. What did you think would happen, banphrionsa? That you would play succubus-in-training, and your cultured and dignified companions would play your sinful little game? How are you to face them now? Sibéal adds nothing; perhaps, the Iobarian girl muses bitterly, the trickster has done her mischief and now happily leaves Fiorré to salvage the situation.

"Somewhere more private, Sir Eventide, if you please," Fiorré murmurs in Kuthek's direction, her voice meek and flat. Leaning down to gather her fragmented garments and other possessions, the beastblood girl begins to move towards one of the smaller chambers when Zintaya approaches. Not quite willing to look the elvish woman in the eye, Fiorré accepts the obsidian relic carefully, though the strengthening warmth makes her hesitant. "Thank you, Miss Calbieste. I hope it will wait for construction to finish." Her voice is carefully (almost rigidly) polite, but anyone with sense to hear can pick up the anxiety verging on anguish beneath.

Succubus. Harlot. Deviant. Beast. Mayael punctuates each word by sinking her hallucinatory claws deeper into Fiorré's flesh, though the shadow—keenly aware of how visible her manifestations would be in this state—does not manifest any physical wounds for the moment. Hiding her face, the Iobarian girl hurries off into another room to redress. Thankfully she has had much experience with keeping her crying silent... though Lord Wintrelle and his wife were not nearly so sharp-eared as her present companions.

Fiorré's eyes light up at the reveal of the impromptu bathing facility. "Oh, how splendid! What a treasure you are, Sir Eventide." She's just drifting towards the stout kayal when Aphotos interjects. Despite herself, Fiorré can't help but raise a hand to her mouth, giggling at the indignant tirade; though her laughter is not at his expense, but her own. Once upon a time, the Iobarian 'princess' would have reacted the very same way, and without even the justification of biology.

It is in this carefree mindset that Fiorré flashes the sea-dweller a coy smile in reply to his apology. "Oh no, not at all, sir! In fact..." For a moment she seems poised to continue, a pinkish flush painting itself across her cheeks; then the beastblood girl clears her throat softly and looks away, her expression turning uncertain and somber. If you want to share with one and all, just say so, my lass, and stop being so prim about everything. Am I to do all the work here?

A frustrated pout crosses Fiorré's face for the briefest of moments. Fine then, Miss Sibéal. Perhaps I shall! In truth the young woman is not sure whether she's more frustrated with Sibéal or with herself; certainly her uninhibited alter-ego never struggles like this. Before she can fall into another endless cycle of second-guessing, though, Fiorré reaches for the collar of her fastidiously arranged attire. The familiar gesture draws an eager chant from Sibéal. Par-ty trick! Par-ty trick!

Her hair is already down, so Fiorré needn't bother undoing the thick braid. A little sway of her head brings some of it down over her front as the Iobarian girl slips her fingers daintily under the collar to either side of her neck, giving the slightest tug against the latches there. And, just as she had modified it to do under internal pressure... her entire outfit separates into perfect fragments, pieces of Keleshite sunsilk and other fabrics flowing down her curves like water to pool on the ground at her feet, leaving nothing but eerily flawless flesh. Turning away from the others just enough to preserve the threadbare delusion of modesty—though not far enough to hide that the blush goes all the way down, as it were—Fiorré looks over her shoulder at the others with a shy (though clearly not that shy) smile. "Might someone lend a hand preparing things?"

Fiorré carefully moves within Funmi's spell—even if the arcane magic makes her nose itch a wee bit—every so often glancing over at Miss Calbieste. Of course it's only to make sure she's still with them... probably. She fancies me. The thought makes the beastblood girl's heart skip a beat, though she can't tell if it's anxiety or something more exciting. Sure you'd think I should know my own heart by now. Every so often her gaze flicks from one companion to another, trying to gauge their reactions... and her own feelings about them. Would that something could be simple for a change. But no, not for Miss Wintrelle.

Stepping inside the warehouse, Fiorré manages to forget her tumultuous heart for a moment as she looks up at the high ceiling. The beastblood girl eyes the high support beams wistfully. If only, if only. Following the others to the smaller rooms at the end, she looks around the smaller chambers with an increasing air of disappointment. "Well... I suppose 'twould be a bit much to hope for a proper bath." Fiorré glances around at her companions, then back around the chambers, hoping to find a place to cook if nothing else.

Fiorré doesn't immediately close her hand on Zintaya's, giving the elvish woman time and freedom to make the choice for herself. "So long as I am at hand, nobody shall take your head but over my dead body." The beastblood girl winks at Miss Calbieste, projecting a little more confidence. "And should they try, they'll fast find I'm more than just a pretty lass of the gentry."

Poised to continue her reassurances, Fiorré is stopped still by the elvish woman's blush and the way she glances aside; little gestures with which the Iobarian girl is well familiar, but little-used to actually seeing, save in mirrors. O-oh. Oh dear. She... she fancies me? Fiorré can feel her own blush creeping across her cheeks in reply, only intensified by her treacherous mind dredging up a short montage of her practically throwing herself at Miss Calbieste throughout their short conversation. Oh dear. 'Tis to be Foundational Conjuration all over again, my lass. At least ritually purify your gold first this time. Fiorré can very nearly hear the grin in Sibéal's voice.

Still, Fiorré is not quite the uselessly gay lass she once was—well, not the useless part, at least—and manages to collect the majority of Zintaya's explanation to her teacher. She slowly nods in reply. "Aye, sure that we could make use of such a thing." The beastblood girl smiles shyly. "I was telling the truth when we spoke of the masque. Um. Mostly."

As Miss Calbieste's gaze returns to hers, Fiorré blushes just a wee bit more pink. How are you ever so surprised by this? Just ask her, my lass. "Um. Well, um. You surely could make ou—um, travel to Kyonin, aye." If this were a duel, you'd be riposted for sure. Summoning a little discipline, Fiorré tilts her head, letting a note of flirty innocence enter her voice. "Unless...?"

It's been a long afternoon, though, and Fiorré was running slender on patience even before the elemental emerged. And so—after letting the question hang in the air just long enough to properly tease Miss Calbieste—the Iobarian girl continues, "Unless you should like to come and shelter with my allies and I? They've methods of keeping our havens safe from prying eyes. And, um..."

Fiorré can feel her ears burning; but she presses on regardless. "Should you decide after all that you should like to accompany me—um, I mean, us—to the masque, 'tis sure that my teacher might weave over you an illusion that none shall penetra—um, see through." She nods at Funmi for emphasis, unable to resist meeting the elder Magaambyan's gaze. I'm ever so sorry, Miss Ozinichi, but dissembling was never my art. Nor illusion, for that matter. Returning her gaze to the other elvish woman (and now feeling distinctly flanked for some reason), Fiorré smiles shyly, folding her hands demurely in front of her. "Though, um, what with the wicked plot and the terrible dangers and all... I shall of course wholly understand if the event does not take your fancy." Nice landing. Eight out of ten.

Fiorré hesitates for a moment. How is she to claim protectorship, given how little she was able to do to protect Zintaya from the bizarre entity? But there are bigger things afoot, and the young woman and her friends need help.

As Fiorré moves closer to the elvish woman, her pace measured and nonthreatening, her feline features melt away into her familiar human form (though her waterfall of hair will need some rebraiding). Now looking up at Zintaya once more, the beastblood girl clears her throat a little uncertainly. "I understand, I truly do. Yet... we need you. This entire nation needs you. You shared in their counsels to some extent, 'twould seem, and your knowledge could yet be what turns the tide against whatever horror they are plotting."

Fiorré tilts her head with measured elegance; somber, yet hopeful and reassuring. "You acted as you did because you could not stomach their plot. But you may yet be the key to stopping it in its tracks. Please." The Iobarian girl doesn't put an excessive amount of emphasis on the word, just enough to punctuate. "If it is that awful—and I have no doubt it is—we will need you. Who knows how many lives you might save in so doing?"

Letting her tone turn just a little sardonic—though still sympathetic—Fiorré adds, "Besides which, if they are so ruthless as you say, running has little to offer. Will you spend the rest of your long life looking over your shoulder, fearing every shadow?" The beastblood girl smiles, a little more self-deprecatingly. "You've seen now what I am. I fled from it across continents and years, living in terror of what it might do... what I had done, what I was." Fiorré's smile turns warm once more. "In the end... 'twasn't until I stopped running that I could finally find peace."

"I pledged to protect you, and protect you I shall. I'll not make you stay if you wish not to... but I wish you would." Closing her thoughts with a small nod and a gentle smile, Fiorré offers Zintaya Calbieste her hand, palm-up.

Let me know if you would like a skill check or the like.

Fiorré's tail twitches in annoyance as the thing sweeps past her. Oh no you don't! Mine! The beastblood girl rears back, hips swaying in a dainty little shake, before bounding up to the entity and smashing at it twice more with her clasp-bedecked tail. As ever, Snowfall blurs into motion just behind her tail's strikes.

tail strike: 1d20 + 29 ⇒ (7) + 29 = 36
tail strike: 1d20 + 25 ⇒ (6) + 25 = 31
sabre strike: 1d20 + 19 ⇒ (18) + 19 = 37

Unfortunately, none of them come anywhere particularly close, and Fiorré stifles a snarl, settling instead for a huff and a pout. "Sir Eventide, 'twould seem the lady will be relying on your protection a wee moment longer," the beastblood girl calls, glancing over her shoulder at Kuthek to make sure he remains vigilant.

Not so hot, sadly. Stride, Strike, Strike, quickened Strike.

Still a bit shaken up, Fiorré watches Funmi depart with a tiny squeak. She's just wondering if she should follow the elvish woman when she catches that strange scent again; it's much more intense even in this shape, and the gravity of predation pulls her along its arc, drawing her closer to the stony foe.

But meek and kittenish is no way to fight; the change in shape may have freed her from her temporary prison, but her scarlet-singing blood is unsatisfied with this inoffensive form. Even as she lets herself drift forward, the wee kitten is already crouching as if to pounce. And then, finally... she gives the beastblood what it wants. The transformation is far more elegant this time, smooth and liquid as a shimmering spring, as Fiorré reaches her previous height.

And keeps growing.

Not until she's six feet and spare of rosette-dappled fur and Keleshite sunsilk does the beastblood girl stop growing, her antler-crowned—and now unshackled!—hair forming a second cloak that flows nearly to her paws. Lashing behind the hybridized girl is a feline tail, thick and long as her braid, and indeed glittering with the mithril clasp like a scorpion's stinger. And, just as with the braid, Fiorré twists to send the tail lashing out into the churning stones before her. Once it strikes, then again, with Snowfall following rapid as the wind.

tail strike: 1d20 + 29 ⇒ (12) + 29 = 41

more tail: 1d20 + 25 ⇒ (18) + 25 = 43

sabre strike: 1d20 + 19 ⇒ (3) + 19 = 22

Good golly.

tail damage the first: 2d4 + 11 ⇒ (3, 1) + 11 = 15

tail damage the second: 2d4 + 11 ⇒ (1, 3) + 11 = 15

The sabre doesn't do much, but Fiorré didn't expect it to. Her tail, on the other hand...

Turning towards Kuthek, Funmi, and Zintaya too, the beastblood girl smiles proudly—her lightly furred, but still humanish, face and glittering grin somewhat incongruous with the wicked fangs therein—and winks at the trio. "I should perhaps have tried this sooner, 'twould seem."

Fiorré uses the free Step to re-enter melee with the rock storm. On her turn, Fiorré concentrates to Change Shape into her true form, then Strikes twice with her tail (fist statistics again, so agile), then uses her quickened action to Strike with Snowfall at –10. And, perhaps, finally turns the tide?

Fiorré has left herself no avenue of escape from the rocks that crash down around them. And yet... what envelops her is not stone but shadow, rich with jungle scent and sensat—

night all around rich darkness scent of jungle and snow and drinking chocolate and blood so much blood on her hands the blood of the guilty and the innocent indistinguishable huntressqueenohuntressqueenbeastbeastBEAST

Acrobatics to Escape via Liberating Step: 1d20 + 31 ⇒ (6) + 31 = 37

The old primal force spikes within Fiorré again, and for a moment she is that freshly orphaned teenage girl again; trying to learn her first bardic spell, the one that blinded her, stole her mind and memory, left her to wake naked and full-bellied in the driven snow. She's so caught up in furiously recalling her training with Miss Lesedi that her attempt to escape is halfhearted at best. Now firmly entrapped in the thing's stony grip, Fiorré begins to panic, squirming and tugging with all her might.

Acrobatics to Escape: 1d20 + 31 ⇒ (8) + 31 = 39

What is it that you fear? Lesedi asks her. A cage. To be imprisoned for what I am, to never know freedom again, she answers. Once upon a time, this would have set loose the Beast, as ineluctable as bloodscent's seductive perfume. Now, alas, it has abandoned her. Unless...

With great suddenness, Fiorré goes stock-still; a reaction only Funmi has seen before, and had perhaps hoped never to see again. Then, abruptly, the beastblood girl screams, shrill and terrifying and inhumanly, ear-splittingly loud, a nightmarish howl to rival the legendary wail of the banshee. For a moment her shape roils like liquid, flesh rippling with a mandala of eyes and fangs and antlers; then it wholly disappears into the cavity left by her body. In the next instant, before the rocks can tighten their grip, a kittenish, antler-crowned feline form bounds out of the opening, coming to rest behind the legs of Kuthek and Funmi with a distinctly tearful look up at them. "M-mew?" Fiorré says rather clearly in her sing-song accent.

Fiorré attempts to Escape as a free action on its turn via Kuthek's Liberating Step. On her own turn, Fiorré attempts to Escape, has a minor episode as a free action, Changes Shape, and Strides.

Also, man, f— this entire everything.

Fiorré feels the stones around her rising. Strap in, my lass, it's going to be a smashing time. Resisting the urge to respond to Sibéal's appalling bon mot with the eye-roll it deserves, the Iobarian girl grits her increasingly sharp teeth, whispering to Zintaya, "Look out, here it comes!"

Fiorré uses Charmed Life on the first of these. I'm not sure whether it applies to both 1a and 1b, though, so just apply +2 wherever it does apply.

Reflex 1a: 1d20 + 31 ⇒ (4) + 31 = 35
Reflex 1b: 1d20 + 31 ⇒ (13) + 31 = 44
Reflex 2a: 1d20 + 31 ⇒ (11) + 31 = 42
Reflex 2b: 1d20 + 31 ⇒ (4) + 31 = 35

As the pressure of smashing stone eases off of the two women, Fiorré pushes herself up to look the elvish woman over for injuries. This, in turn, gives Miss Calbieste the opening to slip out from under her. See what reward you get for your generosity, banphrionsa. Not even so much as a thank-you. Likewise ignoring Mayael's barbed tongue—protecting those in need is its own reward, thank you ever so much—Fiorré bounces to her feet with liquid grace, darting out of the crushing swarm to stand beside Zintaya.

The hydra stance seems less than useful here; instead the beastblood girl raises her hand as she whirls to face the thing, flipping her braid into manticore position and swinging it into the stony storm. Snowfall blurs into motion after it, though Fiorré is already well familiar with its uselessness against the entity.

braid strike: 1d20 + 29 ⇒ (18) + 29 = 47
blade strike: 1d20 + 29 ⇒ (15) + 29 = 44 Oops, forgot to subtract 5! Should still hit though.

braid damage: 2d4 + 11 ⇒ (2, 3) + 11 = 16 +5 precision, doubtful as it is.
blade damage: 3d6 + 11 ⇒ (4, 2, 6) + 11 = 23 +5 precision, though again...

Then... Fiorré casts a surreptitious glance at Miss Calbieste from the corner of her eye. Just before the attack, the elvish woman spoke of a history stained with lies and murder, and the helplessly trusting girl nevertheless notes that her path is taking her closer and closer to the exit. Sparing a moment, Fiorré focuses on the way Zintaya felt when they touched, the sound of her voice, the unique scent of the woman. And inside her, the song of the beastblood intensifies, her primal instinct attuning itself to Miss Calbieste's presence. Run all you like, my pointy-eared prey, the scarletsong sings, you'd best be swift if you wish to play.

Fiorré stands as a free action that does not trigger reactions via Kip Up, Strides to outside the swarm entity, Strikes with her braid, Strikes with her sabre at –5 using her quickened action, and uses her last action to Hunt Prey on Zintaya Calbieste.

Fiorré huffs in annoyance as the storm of swirling stones drifts past, her prideful pout turning to dull anxiety as the thing battens on to Miss Calbieste. The Iobarian girl is tensing to pursue, intent on burying the entity in Snowfall, when Funmi appears next to her, taking Fiorré by surprise. She listens to the elder Magaambyan speak, focusing her attention over the scarlet song in her ears. As Miss Ozinichi finishes, Fiorré shakes her head uncertainly. "Can't imagine I'll have the beastly thing's attention, not with my blade useless and all." Though her sing-song voice is but a murmur, it carries with uncanny precision across the din.

Still, while she has become notorious from north to Nantambu for her tendency to leap before looking, Fiorré is canny enough not to waste time on useless tactics. Striding fearlessly into the storm, the Iobarian girl raises her hand as if waiting to be called upon; as she does, she gives a sharp twitch of her head, sending her braid flying up to twine neatly around her off hand's forearm. Her dueling instructors—snooty elitists, the lot of them—had chastised her repeatedly for her self-titled "manticore stance"; but Fiorré, as much feral as noble, had always treasured her little trick. Gripping her braid lightly, the young woman swings it in a sweeping arc through the stony storm, using its elaborate and bulky mithril clasp as her striking surface. Almost as an afterthought, Fiorré sends Snowfall blurring through the air as well.

attack roll with fist-equivalent attack: 1d20 + 29 ⇒ (4) + 29 = 33
bludgeoning damage: 2d4 + 11 ⇒ (1, 3) + 11 = 15
attack roll with dueling sabre: 1d20 + 24 ⇒ (15) + 24 = 39
slashing damage: 3d6 + 11 ⇒ (2, 5, 3) + 11 = 21

But she's not done yet. Not waiting to see if her strikes have made any dent on the polypartite entity, Fiorré instead focuses her perception on Miss Calbieste's obscured form, waiting for... that. Springing forward just as the rocks rise in preparation for another crushing fall, the beastblood girl attempts to interpose herself between the stone and the fallen elf, to cover her and take its blows in her place.

Acrobatics to interpose: 1d20 + 31 ⇒ (14) + 31 = 45 plus an additional 1 if this is similar enough to Tumble Through to count. If this succeeds, Fiorré gains panache via Vexing Tumble.

Presupposing that that succeeds... Fiorré smiles sheepishly down at Zintaya—no Miss Calbieste now, not when the beastblood girl is on top of her from head to toe—wincing only slightly each time a stone strikes her. "I do hope you don't mind. But I promised to protect you, I did, with all my skill besides, and little good 'twas doing to stand there swishing my sword about and looking pretty." Fiorré's voice is perfect despite the pounding stones, and sweet and sincere as can be; every word as heartfelt as when the promise first was sworn, not a minute before.

Turn Summary: Fiorré Strides into the swarm's space, makes a Strike with the equivalent of her fist, uses her quickened action to Strike with her sabre at a –5 penalty, and then uses Vexing Tumble and her legendary proficiency in Acrobatics to attempt to become pinned in a protective position above Zintaya Calbieste.

Also, that greater choker of elocution is doing good work.

Reflex: 1d20 + 31 ⇒ (10) + 31 = 41

Fiorré is taken by surprise for a moment at the splintering of the earth. For a moment her mind is caught up with concern for Miss Calbieste and the others outside; then the beastblood girl's primal instincts take over, and she kicks off one side of the yawning fissure to land neatly on the other. Flicking a glance over her shoulder to make sure the elvish woman is on solid ground (such as anywhere in here now is), Fiorré draws her dueling sabre with a flourish. "Stay back, Miss Calbieste. I'll see that this thing no more haunts your slumber."

For a fraction of a moment, Fiorré eyes the rumbling and buckling floorboards and inwardly sighs. 'Tis like trying to dance upon the crashing wave. Ignoring for the moment that she can walk on water if she so chooses, the beastblood girl tenses her muscles, waiting for the right moment, and leaps, letting the quaking ground propel her across the chamber.

Athletics to Long Jump: 1d20 + 29 ⇒ (4) + 29 = 33

Leaping twenty feet from a standing start is child's play for Fiorré, who lands elegantly with her sword raised and angled downward in the hydra stance she knows so well. She vaguely hears Miss Ozinichi shout something from without, but the thunder of beastblood in her ears clouds the words. Kuthek has appeared from somewhere, too, but the Iobarian girl doesn't even spare a moment's thought for it right now. Snowfall twitches in her hand, flicking out in a series of probing strikes against the mysterious entity.

Fiorré spends one action to draw her weapon, one action to Long Jump into a flanking position using Quick Jump and Cloud Jump, and one action to Dueling Parry. She then uses her quickened action to Strike with Snowfall.

Strike attack: 1d20 + 29 ⇒ (1) + 29 = 30
Strike damage?: 3d6 + 11 ⇒ (2, 2, 3) + 11 = 18 slashing; no precision

Welp. Let's hope it can't Opportune Riposte.

~+~Inside the Farming Cooperative Hall~+~

At Fiorré's kind words, the elf's fragile composure breaks. She rushes around the desk and grabs the Iobarian girl by the hands. "It's the body! The body beneath the floor..." Her voice is tense, almost pleading. "The heart pounds, can't you hear it?! I’ve been so steeped in lies and murder for so long, one more death seemed so minor. But the corpse calls to me—I can hear the beating of his heart like an accusation, again and again and again!"

Words are tumbling out of her mouth now, the dam has burst: "They sent him to kill me when I didn't deliver their invitation, but how could I when I figured out how many would die! If I leave, all my work here will be undone, but how can I stay when I have turned on them, after so long? How!?"

Fiorré's eyes widen, but only for a moment. As Zintaya's hands close around hers, she gives them a reassuring squeeze. While not wholly prepared for the confession that follows, the Iobarian girl feels duty-bound at this point to offer what help she can. And in her heart, she believes, has to believe, that redemption is possible no matter the ill deed.

It is in this state of mind that Fiorré answers the elf's outpouring with a small nod of understanding and a reassuring smile, as if Zintaya Calbieste had confessed to something so minor as picking her pocket. "I do understand... even if 'tis a wee bit surprising. But, please, calm yourself and from the beginning start anew. I must understand in full if I am to help. For whom have you so long done these things? A cult, a conspiracy, a patron creature? What is this invitation, and what is this mass death it does foreshadow? And what work of yours is to be undone?"

The beastblood girl smiles kindly and gives the anguished elf's hands another squeeze. "And fear not. If 'tis so dire as all that, then these are foes of mine. And if you truly wish to avert their woeful plot, then 'twould seem to me you are my ally in spirit, and I shall protect you with all my skill, and help you find peace besides. You've naught to fear with I as your guardian true."

Fiorré ponders the quandary before her; to ask the elvish woman about the sound and the replaced floorboards—the conversational equivalent of kicking down the door and drawing one's sword—or to continue the dance of unspoken motives? Certainly Sibéal would charge in, but Fiorré is not nearly so brash nor so forward (or at least, not quite willing to admit to either).

Still... no harm in another few steps. The hint of a pout crosses Fiorré's pretty face—barely feigned, in point of fact; this sort of secrecy has always frustrated the straightforward young woman—as she leans forward. "But surely there must be something I can do to help, Miss Calbieste. Even if 'tis just making for you some tea before bed." Let her make of that what she will. Pulling back a little (coyness and teasing and playing hard to get, in contrast, are among the Iobarian girl's fonder pleasures) and quite unintentionally beginning to blush, Fiorré smiles sweetly at the elvish woman. "Such troubles had I myself, even as but a wee lass. Very sharp ears—um, metaphorically speaking—a keen nose, things of that nature. And all the city noises kept me up so. I've quite the familiarity, now, with certain teas and herbal remedies."

"Or..." Fiorré's expression grows sympathetic, even concerned. Inwardly, though, the Iobarian girl sighs. In for a copper, in for a crown, a hand of the cards trades apron for gown. "Again, Miss Calbieste, please forgive my brazenness, but... it rather seems as though something quite particular troubles you. And despite our only just meeting, I should like to help howsoever I can. A stranger in need invites a good deed, so they say." Fiorré folds her hands at her breast and gives Miss Calbieste her most endearing supportive look. "Is something keeping you up of nights? A rejected suitor, perhaps? Surely you must have no shortage of bonny lads and lasses after your hand." The Iobarian girl's tone is more sincere than flirtatious, but the latter is not wholly absent; just enough that if Miss Calbieste is so inclined, she might pick up on it. "Or perhaps some manner of beast or vermin?" Fiorré innocently lets her gaze flick to the recently replaced floorboards for a moment; not confrontationally, but empathetically, hoping to build trust with the beleaguered elvish woman by demonstrating her awareness.

Fiorré daintily takes a seat, legs crossed at the ankle and hands folded in her lap, as proper as can be. Tilting her head thoughtfully in a mirror of the elvish woman's brief gesture, she considers briefly before opting to lead with a gentle smile. "I've come to these lands first in search of my antecedents. My mother was of Galtan descent, and I had hoped to piece together records of her lineage. And then there is this masque upcoming, and it sounds ever so splendid. So..." The Iobarian girl looks aside shyly, waiting to see how Miss Calbieste interprets this aspect of the situation.

"As for the Harvest Festival, well..." Fiorré draws in a soft breath as she leans forward. Time for another charm offensive. "Perhaps I could be of assistance? I helped with harvest celebrations at home, you see, for the church. And, um, if you don't mind that I should say so..." The beastblood girl leans upon the desk, resting her chin on her hands and smiling sweetly at the elvish woman. "You do seem to be working ever so hard, Miss Calbieste. Perhaps 'twould be best to share the load? Work may be worship, but it pains me to see your health at peril so. Beside which, then you could look forward to the masque properly. 'Twould seem an occasion rare, and you deserve to enjoy it as much as anyone."

For all her sweetness and innocence, though, Fiorré is many things—some of them at the same time, even—and one of these, by virtue of childhood necessity, is vigilant. Her time at the Magaambya, too, taught her to trust her instincts and her perceptions. So it is that, while her concern for Zintaya Calbieste is perfectly genuine, so is her concern about the situation at hand. If nothing I heard, then that means something unheard. Which means... The beastblood girl thinks back to her time listening (as best she could) to Lesedi's lessons. Cainte meabhrach, perhaps. Do nightmare fiends have the telepathy? And she's been poorly in slumber. Hmm...

Well, one way to find out. Fiorré straightens up and clears her throat softly. "You mentioned sleeping poorly. If you don't mind that I should ask—and I do apologize if I'm overstepping, but—have you been suffering from nightmares or bad dreams?" The young woman smiles shyly. "I suffered such ill dreaming for some time, and in the process became something of a specialist in nightmare affliction. Perhaps, if you are troubled by the same, 'tis something else I could help you with?"

Though she is wholly sincere in her offers and her motives, the situation has placed Fiorré enough on edge that a part of her closely observes her would-be friend throughout. If Miss Calbieste is being haunted or otherwise troubled, Fiorré will protect her. If the woman is in league with the fiends, Fiorré will protect others from her. And if the elvish lass is simply working too hard... well, Fiorré knows how to help with that too.

Fiorré hesitates briefly at the door to the Meeting Hall, taking a deep breath. An elvish lass. 'Tis a bit of a surprise, but not one unwelcome. Resisting the urge to glance back at her friends, the beastblood girl clasps her hands behind her back and approaches the desk. "Um, hallo, Miss Calbieste. Or shall I call you Secretary?" Clearing her throat softly and forcing her way past the moment of uncertainty, Fiorré presses on. "Fiorré Braska Wintrelle, Rain-Scribe Attendant and scholar-lyrist, Winterveil and Princess of the Pale Moon." She gives the elvish woman a moment to take all that in.

"I do hope you don't mind my visit, what with all the work before you." Fiorré punctuates this with a small gesture at the desk. "I've only just arrived in Litran this very day, and, well... I'd rather hoped to make some local friends during my visit. Particularly with the masquerade upcoming. I'm, um, rather shy at times, and knowing no-one, like to be attending alone, 'tis somewhat daunting. And having come up in the service of Erastil by Abadar, this seemed a fine place to start." The Iobarian girl folds her hands demurely in front of her and smiles shyly at Miss Calbieste, her expression hopeful.

Performance to Make An Impression: 1d20 + 31 ⇒ (2) + 31 = 33

I guess nobody around here has heard of our Legendary Performer. T-T

Fiorré keeps her peace for a time, listening to the others discuss as she demurely sips at her tea. Between the excitement of the clothier and the goings-on at the church, it's the first chance she's really had to sit still and think, and the beastblood girl at least tries to use it wisely. Resisting the urge to pull out her writing set and journals and start taking notes—that sort of thing Is Not Done at teatime, at least by Proper Young Ladies—Fiorré instead does her best to focus on the task before her.

"Well, um... if 'tis Miss Calbieste we're a-courting—um, so to speak," Fiorré hastily adds, raising her teacup to her face with both hands to hide the encroaching blush, "I should love to speak with her on our behalf. I pledged to St. Erastil when I was but a wee lass, so I expect we shall have much to speak of." The beastblood girl looks thoughtfully off into the distance for a few moments, finger tapping in time at her lips, before returning her attention to her companions. "Um... though perhaps, on the way there, you might... refresh my memory of what we are looking to learn?" Fiorré coughs softly into her hand and smiles shyly at her companions. "I promise I shall take proper notes this time." The line has the distinct air of one uttered a dozen times for every tutor and instructor in Nantambu.

In truth Fiorré isn't morose for long, between the herbal remedy and the thrill of poking around an unexplored place. She's still a bit shy about things, though—particularly with a monitor around—and doesn't say very much as the exploration proceeds. The Iobarian girl does peek over Funmi's shoulder at the journal, but doesn't pry just yet. When their psychopomp escort prepares to depart, Fiorré hesitates briefly before stepping forward. "Um... farewell, Miss Isias. Thank you for your assistance." Then the beastblood girl scurries back behind the others shyly, hoping her words don't sound as stilted to everyone else as they do to her.

At the Apothecary
Fiorré settles in with another cup of the same tea, listening to the others to gauge how much the group is sharing with their host. Keznin's words to Chance visibly unsettle the young woman, who takes another sip of tea to cover her reaction. "I... hope we can do something for them. Nobody should ever be trapped like that." Fiorré does her best to keep her voice soft and subdued, but the steel beneath is audible even so.

At the mention of the Farmer's Association, Fiorré perks up. "Aye, I had hoped we might pay Miss Calbieste a visit soon. Though perhaps after we'd settled in. 'Tis a long road we've walked, after all, and no short time since I've seen proper accommodation from the inside. And one does wish to make one's best impression." The beastblood girl looks from companion to companion and clears her throat shyly. "Though, um, if 'tis no time for such, I shall no doubt survive. Worse things have come to pass in my time."

Fiorré is still pondering how to extract the sakhil's secrets when the razor scent of rime fills the air. She spins around, ready to act, just in time to see Funmi loose the arrow and strike down the pakalchi. The Iobarian girl blinks, for a moment seeming ready to protest; then, seeing the look on her teacher's face, Fiorré sheathes her sabre and smiles shyly. "Well done, Lorespeaker. 'Twould seem that I was a-tangled in her lies after all."

In the wake of her words, Fiorré's face slowly takes on a distinctly anxious cast. You must do better, banphrionsa. Lives are at stake while you play silly good-girl games. This time your teacher is able to cover for your failure. When next you fail, shall she pay the price? Another of your friends? All because you do not care enough to try? The beastblood girl instinctively hides her left hand behind her back—a habit so old as to become mindless reflex—as it clenches and spasms, hooked claws twisting out to carve the flesh of her palm.

Lost in the spiral, Fiorré barely registers Kuthek's words. The talk of the sakhil's stalling does pull her back, though. "Aye, I noticed as well that she played for time. 'Twas not as though I was completely taken in," she adds a little hurriedly; the last thing the beastblood girl wishes right now is to be dressed down or berated for her failure. "I had thought to fetch you all, but 'tis clear I needn't have worried. Though Sir Upwell and Miss Ozinichi are each right. We must be vigilant—um, more vigilant—lest time run short, and should move on with all haste. Hopefully to elsewhere find a safer lair." With this said, Fiorré slinks over to stand guard near Kuthek and Funmi, twisting her hands uncertainly and doing her best to be unobtrusive as she glances around in an attempt at vigilance.

The fiend's deceptions are no match for Fiorré's instincts; honed, ironically, in the crucible of such anxieties as the pakalchi delights in seeding. In the Mwangi tongue, the beastblood girl whispers to Funmi, "We are being deceived. She plays for time." Where it pertains to the sakhil's stalling, her voice carries a slight quaver; the anxious restlessness of one who would rather act than react. "Shall I away upstairs and inform the others? Both of the prisoner and her... anticipation? Perhaps this place is not so safe as we had hoped."

Still, Fiorré isn't going to let this monster have the last word. "No zealot indeed am I. Once, perhaps, but no more. But your evil is one I cannot abide." The Iobarian girl lets her saber slowly fall towards the floor, putting on a show of uncertainty. "Still... nor do I wish to see any creature, even such as you, suffer in shackles. So. If you are forthright with us, then I shall free you, grant you death swift and merciful. You have my word." As she addresses the pakalchi, Fiorré carefully inspects the floor between the fiend and herself, trying to determine if it is safe to cross.

Religion: 1d20 + 22 ⇒ (2) + 22 = 24
Religion, Hero Point: 1d20 + 22 ⇒ (20) + 22 = 42

For a moment Fiorré simply stares at the creature in silence, a half-dozen conflicting impulses clouding her thoughts. Even the most loathsome horror, when held in bondage, still tugs at her heartstrings and her snow leopard soul. But she endured a pakalchi's torments during her time at the Magaambya—very nearly lost all her friends to the fiend's manipulation—and made it through with the aid of those friends and the guidance of Miss Lesedi. Now it's time to pay it forward, to make sure her new friends do not suffer its evil... or worse, abandon her at its bidding.

Fiorré steps forward, close at Funmi's side; not obscuring the wizard's view or her line of fire, but ready to intercede should the fiend somehow attack. "Pakalchi sakhil," she murmurs to the Lorespeaker. "Preys on emotional insecurity and destroys relationships. 'Ware the thorns; their poison taints minds with mistrust." After a thoughtful moment, Fiorré adds, "You are a master of illusion, yes, Miss Ozinichi? Can you search for them here? Pakalchi are mistresses of cruel misdirection, and it would not be unthought of for her to lure us close, or even disguise our priest in her place in hopes that we would by our own hand slay them."

Even in the face of the fiend, Fiorré's voice still carries an air of schoolgirl recitation, though she can't wholly hide the bitterness in her voice at the mention of emotional manipulation. Certainly Funmi knows how vulnerable the beastblood girl is to such tactics; how hard she's worked to lower her guard and let people in, how much she cherishes those close to her. (And perhaps, too, knows how proud she'd be if she knew she was offering her teacher some knowledge of use.)

Turning her focus to the fiend, Fiorré draws her auroral sabre once more, though she does not approach yet. "You are a sakhil, a fiend of terror who preys on mortal bonds of love. Why should we desire to set you loose? We shall not see the folk of this city dance on your strings." As she speaks, the Iobarian girl watches the bound creature warily, vigilant against any sign of deception.

Fiorré lets the blankets fall away from the tip of her sabre, scanning the corpse for signs of injury or cause of death. With none immediately apparent, the beastblood girl leans a little closer and sniffs, drawing in a few breaths of the air around the body. How perfectly curious. He seems almost...

The all-too-familiar feeling washes over Fiorré like a plunge into deep waters, her hand tightening upon Snowfall's hilt as haunting memories dredge themselves up. Am lóin, ró-fhada le teacht. The beastblood girl steps back into the fresher air of the main room, taking a deep breath and then clearing her throat softly.

"I think perhaps Miss Chance has found our priest." Fiorré inclines her head daintily in the direction of the alcove, doing her best to keep her voice normal. "He's, um, rather quite—" don'tsayfreshdon'tsayfresh "—well-preserved. As if he's dead no time at all. Though 'tis magic's work, I judge." The beastblood girl smiles rather uncertainly, already edging away from the alcove, her eyes flickering hopefully from Aphotos to Chance. "I think not that he shall be any harm, though, so... perhaps you might handle the inquiry?"

Fiorré then glances around, taking note of their absent member. For a moment she seems poised to ask another question; then the beastblood girl begins drifting toward the entrance, eyes half-lidded as she sniffs at the air. Ah, the catacombs. Should have known. Fiorré looks to Kuthek as she sheathes her blade, unable to entirely hide her adventuresome smile. "You've things under control here, I'm certain. I shall go aid Miss Ozinichi, and see to our settling-in."

The words haven't but left Fiorré's mouth before she moves to follow Funmi. As she steps into the stairwell, the beastblood girl goes kitten-quiet, moving with long-practiced stealth. Remember, banphrionsa, you must move not in silence. Silence is deceitful, full of betrayal. Move in the space between silences. She nods imperceptibly at Mayael's long-familiar advice, following the stair and the trail of scent. When she catches sight of Funmi, the beastblood girl moves silently to tap the elder Magaambyan on the shoulder.

He angles a shoulder toward the young duelist and slips a packet from his sleeve. "Picked up a bit of this at the tea shop," he murmurs, shaking the waxed paper envelope of catnip. "Just in case. Been without necessary treatments myself, on occasion, and I'd prefer others avoid it." The avuncular warrior raises his eyebrows at her and gives her a lopsided smile. "I hope it's not presumptuous, but... you seem a bit anxious, is all."

Fiorré is indeed rather tense, though as ever, she barely realizes it until someone draws attention to it. The Iobarian girl listens in wide-eyed silence, nodding slightly as Kuthek speaks. Sure 'tis strange to every time be surprised by generosity and care. Perhaps one day it shall seem only natural.

Shaking herself from her reverie, Fiorré takes the proffered packet with a sweet smile. "You are ever so kind to me, Sir Eventide." For a moment she seems uncertain what more to add, fighting the ingrained instinct to offer recompense; then the Iobarian girl steps forward, standing on tiptoe to plant a chaste kiss on the kayal's cheek. Stepping back with the same fluid motion—and only blushing a wee bit—Fiorré smiles again, more shyly. "Thank you," she murmurs softly, her voice genuinely sincere.

Then, with a brief one-moment gesture, the beastblood girl retreats a few steps and turns her back before attending to a measured portion of the packet's contents.

If she receives no answer she will then ask if any of her companions have magicks that will pull back the covers i.e.

"Anyone here know the cantrip Mage Hand?"

Returning from her homeopathic sojourn, Fiorré listens to Chance's words with vague unease (the herbal remedy having taken the edge off the anxiety). Still, there is a difference between anxiety and fear; and Fiorré Braska Wintrelle has always had an excess of the former, but dangerously little of the latter.

Stepping carefully past Chance and into the alcove, Fiorré peers at the cot and its barely-seen occupant. Drawing Snowfall carefully, the beastblood girl sniffs at the air, trying to get a sense for the condition and time-of-death of the occupant.

Then Fiorré steps closer, carefully slipping the sabre's point beneath the covers and levering them aside to reveal the body.

Fiorré's blade blurs into motion, smoothly deflecting the whipping webs. She can feel herself starting to change in parallel to the monitors; fur conquering flesh, twisted claws pricking skin from within, teeth lengthening to serpent fangs. The beastblood girl draws a sharp breath, tightening her grip on her sword's hilt as she tenses to spring... and at the last moment, the morrignas lower their staves.

After a heartbeat's hesitation, Fiorré lowers her sabre in turn, taking a deep breath and forcing her body back into its human façade. She flashes a sheepish smile over her shoulder at her companions; hard to deny that she'd been looking forward to a little scrap to ease her tension.

Stepping carefully back and sheathing her blade, the young woman gives the psychopomps space to enter the ruin. She doesn't address them directly yet; fifteen winternights of etiquette lessons had somehow failed to cover visitations from avatars of death, or proper topics of conversation for such occasions. And in any case, Miss Chance seems better-suited to such dealings.

Instead Fiorré sidles up to Funmi and Kuthek. "Um... Miss Ozinichi? Sir Eventide?" the beastblood girl murmurs, smiling shyly and folding her hands demurely in front of her. "Would you like that I should get a fire started? Put the kettle on? I'm not certain if our guests should like anything to drink, but it might make this place rather more homely for we the living." After a moment's thought, she adds, "I could go a-searching for that basement, if you like, and start settling us in there instead."

The rustle of cloth from the door alerts Fiorré's hypervigilant instincts even before the newcomers speak, and a pulse of desperate energy crackles down her spine. Without hesitation or conscious thought—for even a moment could be the difference between protecting and avenging—Fiorré unsheathes her réalta hana sabre, the curved blade blurring an auroral arc in the air as the Iobarian girl sweeps it rapidly around herself in her habitual crowd-pleasing way.

Then the beastblood girl is in motion, nearly a blur herself as she darts past the others to neatly interpose herself between the newcomers and her companions. Fiorré slips elegantly into the hydra stance as she arrives; sabre high and angled downward, ready to bite back twice for each trespass.

As she looks the robed figures over, Fiorré draws a deep sniff of their scent. Dust and cobwebs... the mausoleum reek of old dry death. The beastblood girl glares fiercely at the duo, rosette-stippled fur rippling across her skin. "Intruders that we are, we are no dead flesh in Pharasma's house. And the only fools here are those who would threaten my friends." The beastblood sings louder and louder in Fiorré's ears, sword blurring into motion as she tenses to strike.

Then Chance's words cut through the thunder of blood. Without lowering her guard, Fiorré flashes an uncertain glance over her shoulder at the gnome. "Morrignas? Angels of death? Be they of your creed, then?" Returning her gaze to the figures, the Iobarian girl clears her throat a little awkwardly, though her blade remains en garde. "Um. Yes. We thought to shelter here, under the auspice of, um, Pharasma. No harm do we mean, save in self-defense, and we should prefer to not fight. Um... please?"

Fiorré Interacts to draw a weapon, Strides, and activates Dueling Parry. I'm not certain if Fiorré can still fit a Diplomacy check in here, or if her aggressive stance would spoil it anyway, but just in case... Diplomacy: 1d20 + 23 ⇒ (13) + 23 = 36

Fiorré does her best to follow the others' lead. Her own instinct is to enter through the damaged roof or a high window or the like, but that doesn't seem like it'll go over well with Miss Ozinichi or the others, who can't so easily follow and who might not want her off alone. She does consider insisting that she open the door just in case, but Funmi has done so before Fiorré finishes weighing the option.

As Funmi pushes the door open, Fiorré stands on tiptoe to peer over the elvish woman's shoulder, her feline eyes readily piercing the darkness within the temple. "My word, what a gloomy place," the beastblood girl murmurs quietly to her companions. "Are we truly to be safe here? 'Tis all but ready to collapse at our slightest breath." After a moment, Fiorré uncertainly lays a hand on Chance's shoulder, doing her best to offer gentle sympathy for the Pharasmin. She's about to tell the others to stand back and let her go first, but Aphotos beats her to it this time.

Come on, my lass, be a little more assertive. Fiorré almost asserts herself right back at her vivacious shadow, settling for a mere huff and brief pout instead. But she's not going to be left behind so easily. The beastblood girl slips past the others, nimbly following along behind the azarketi gentleman. While she's still slowed slightly by the unstable terrain, Fiorré maintains her feline grace as she treads broken ground and shaky footing.

As Aphotos notices his newest shadow, the beastblood girl smiles at him—daring, yet innocent—and winks. "Best someone should be here to pull you out of trouble if need be." Her tone is not greatly serious, yet there is sincerity there; protectiveness and vigilance beneath playful jesting. Yet it's not only concern for another's safety that drives Fiorré to follow. The beastblood girl looks on with intense curiosity as Aphotos levers open the tile, eager to see whatever secrets the temple hides.