Unfortunately I think you're right. This AP has always invested me the most yet they never seem to last very long
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Lyra let Carli take the lead, settling into a chair with her coffee cradled in both hands as if it were the only stable thing left in the city. She listened—really listened—eyes attentive, expression composed, letting Carli’s account lay down the bones of the story. When there was a natural pause, Lyra added a few theatrical details. “It felt staged,” she said, voice mild, almost apologetic for saying it aloud. “Like someone had decided the ending before the first line was spoken.” She glanced down at the mug, then back up. “Thrune didn’t speak to calm anyone. He spoke to provoke.” A faint, wry twist of her mouth. “And Nox…” Lyra continued, careful to keep it factual. “I saw a dagger find her throat. She removed it like a nuisance, and the wound closed as if it had never been.” She let that sit, then added, quieter: “That’s when I knew we weren’t dealing with ordinary intimidation.” Lyra’s gaze flicked briefly around the office—doors, corners, the feel of the room—before returning to Laria. “We tried not to give them excuses,” she finished. “But they came with excuses already written.”
Oof. Feel better, no rush
“Laria’s place sounds safer than wandering,” Lyra said
Just checking because I'm a bit confused. Should I be reacting to something magical happening or are we just pretending Charlize has been here the whole time
Lyra blinked, snapping out of her thoughts as the question finally landed on her. “My apologies,” she said, a little breathless. “Things have been… rather mad since the protest, and I seem to have forgotten myself.” She offered Carlissa a small, polite nod. “I’m Lyra. Lyra Quill.” At the mention of her “friend,” a brief look of bewilderment crossed her face before she followed Carlissa’s eyes toward the raven. “Oh—him.” The corner of her mouth twitched into a small smile. “That’s Fleck. He appeared one day and has been watching over me ever since… whether I asked him to or not.” Fleck clicked his beak once from his perch, feathers ruffling as if deeply offended by the implication. Lyra’s gaze returned to Rexus’s note, and her tone shifted—more measured, more scholarly. “And yes—your instincts are right,” she added, looking to the group. “I do recall seeing mentions of the Sacred Order of Archivists. Iroran scholars, operating in secret here in Kintargo. Their work is… preservation.” Her fingers tap lightly on the table. “Keeping the true history intact. Protecting knowledge from revision.” Her thoughts flicked back to the riot, the alley, the speed with which a crowd became a hunt. Probably can’t go home. If they recognized any of us, they’ll be waiting. Lyra lifted her eyes to the others. “An inn would be best,” she said quietly. “Somewhere we can disappear for a night. Anonymous—at least until the streets cool down.”
Lyra read the note twice—once for the words, and once for what sat between them. Silver Ravens The name snagged in her mind like a hook. Her gaze slid, almost without her meaning it to, toward the window. Fleck was still there on the sill, dark against the light, head cocked as if he’d been listening in all along. Silver Ravens, she thought, and felt a strange chill. Of course it would be ravens. When Rexus opened the coffer, the gleam of the masterwork dagger drew her eye—and made her stomach tighten. Too many blades today. Too much blood. The memory of it clung. Lyra’s hand hovered, then she pulled it back a fraction, as if the metal might burn. “I can take the dagger,” she said at last, voice careful. “If only so it doesn’t go to waste.” Her mouth quirked, faint and humorless. “I have other ways to keep myself intact. I’d prefer to rely on those.” She looked back to the note, to the mention of the Sacred Order of Archivists, and her brow furrowed with a scholar’s reflex.
The sitting room was warm, tidy—carefully civilized in a city that had forgotten the meaning of the word. Lyra sat, but she didn’t let her shoulders loosen. Comfort felt like a trick now. Outside, through the shop’s front windows, Fleck settled onto the sill with a soft thump and a ruffle of black feathers, head cocked as if listening to the street beyond. A watchman. A reminder.
Safety is a distant memory, she thought. And I don’t think we have a choice anymore. Lyra drew a slow breath and met Rexus’s eyes. “You’re asking if we’ll aid Kintargo,” she said softly, voice steadying as she spoke. “After today, I’m not sure ‘no’ is an option for any of us.”
A small pause—then a slight tilt of her head, the faintest edge of dry humor returning, not quite a smile. “So yes,” she finished. “I can't speak for the others but I'll help.”
“Crissali’s Fine Tomes…” Lyra repeated, and this time the name brought something like relief into her voice—something familiar in a morning that had become anything but. She nodded once, already shifting her stance to guide him out. “I know it,” she said. “I’ve bought the occasional... ingredient there.” Her eyes flicked toward the street, measuring the safest angle to merge back into the flow. “It’s close. If we move with the crowds like we belong, we can be inside before anyone thinks to look twice.”
I have started a loot list, the link to which is on the Campaign Info tab. If someone would like to keep it updated, that would be appreciated. If no one else wants to, I'll keep it updated. I'm out of town right now and sheets is awful on a phone. I'll take a look at it on Tuesday.
Lyra moved in beside Draco and caught the injured man by the elbow, steadying him with a careful grip. Her eyes flicked once to the bodies on the stones—too much blood, too many questions—and then to the alley mouth. “Up,” she urged, soft but firm. “Just breathe and stand. We have seconds before someone turns this corner and decides what happened here,” Lyra said. “And I don’t intend to be present for the guessing.” She shifted his arm over her shoulder, testing how much of his weight he could bear. “Can you walk?” she asked briskly. “If you can, we move now. If you can’t, tell us where you were going and we’ll make sure you make it there.”
Lyra stood very still for a moment, staring at the blood on the stones as if she could will it back into the man who’d spilled it. Overhead, Fleck circled once and gave a sharp caw that bounced off the alley walls like a warning. She exhaled, slow and controlled, and forced her eyes away from the bodies to the alley mouth—then to the sprawled men in the familiar fan of prismatic light. “We don’t have time for this,” she said quietly, not accusing anyone in particular. “Backup could be on its way, and those four won’t stay down forever.” Her gaze lingered on the unconscious thugs. “When they wake, they’ll be blind and confused for a bit,” she added, practical now. “But ‘a bit’ is still enough to start shouting—and I’d rather not be here when they find their voices.” Lyra turned toward the downed man the thugs had been about to finish and took a step closer, keeping her hands visible. “If he can walk, he can come with us,” she said. “If he can’t, we carry him—quickly—and we leave. Now.”
As the thug fell dead at Lyra’s feet, she gave Carlissa a small, tight nod of thanks—sudden awareness prickling that, with a single wrong step, it could have been Lyra on the stones instead. This isn’t how this was supposed to go. she thought, swallowing hard. It was supposed to be peaceful. Her hand rose anyway—shaky, but steadying as it reached the familiar shape of spellwork. Lyra pointed at the nearest thug, and a small bead of acid streaked toward him.
Lyra stopped at the alley mouth, taking in the scene in one sharp breath. She lifted both empty hands and kept her voice low. “He’s down,” she said. “You’ve made your point.”
“No one’s died here yet,” Lyra added, careful. “Why don’t we keep it that way?” “So… take your victory,” Lyra offered. “Leave him breathing. We all forget what we saw.”
Lyra held her breath until the last thug hit the ground. Only then did she realize her fingers were shaking. She forced her hands down to her sides and took one step back from the unconscious men. Lyra tugged her gloves into place almost as ritual, then lifted her gaze to Carlissa. “No,” she said, quick and quiet. “I’m here alone.” Her eyes flicked to the cloaked tiefling, then to the nearest knot of townsfolk surging toward the exits. “You’re right—blending in is probably best. If anyone asks, we’re just… leaving. Like everyone else.” She slid into the flow behind Dante, keeping her shoulders rounded and her expression appropriately frightened rather than defiant. Fleck swept overhead once, a smear of black against the gray, then vanished into the chaos. Lyra let out a slow breath and moved with the crowd.
Lyra’s breath caught as the thug crumpled and the blood spread dark across the wet stones. No. No—this wasn’t supposed to be. They’ll say we started this. Lyra glanced over her shoulder at the approaching Dottari and then back to the thugs in front of her. We’re running out of time. Everyone needs to get out of here—now. She stepped closer to the fallen body, forced her hands steady, and shifted her stance to angle the spell away from her companions. Her fingers snapped through a quick, sharp sigil, and a fan of prismatic light burst outward to catch the remaining thugs. “Sleep,” she whispered. “Keep moving!” Lyra called, pitching her voice past the fight and into the press of fleeing citizens. “Don’t stop—help each other out!”
Just checking in
The moment Thrune’s window slammed shut, the park stopped being a protest and became a stampede. Lyra’s head snapped from the Dottari’s advancing line to the five thugs pushing toward the party—then to the crush of fleeing citizens behind them. No—this is exactly what they wanted. “Fleck—eyes,” she hissed. The raven launched from his perch in a flutter of black, cutting through the gray like spilled ink. Lyra’s gloved hand flicked up in a crisp arc, fingers snapping through a practiced sigil “Curtain call.” A burst of prismatic color fanned out in front of her—aimed to wash over the thugs and buy the crowd a gap to run. “Move!” she called, sharp but controlled. “Keep going—don’t stop!”
Lyra felt the crowd’s attention slip away, refocusing on their own worries. She let her eyes sweep the park: bodies packed shoulder to shoulder, voices stacking on voices, agitation thick as smoke. The sense of it pressed at the ribs—too much pressure, nowhere to go. A dam doesn’t break because it hates the river, she thought. It breaks because no one gave the water a channel. Lyra stepped onto the low edge of a stone planter, just high enough to be heard by those nearest. “Kintargo,” she called clearly to cut through the noise. “Look at them.” A beat. “They’re waiting for a story where we become the problem,” Lyra continued, voice light. “A thrown stone. A broken window.” Lyra paused, letting that sink in. “Don’t do their writing for them.” Her smile returned, quick and bright. “If you want to insult a tyrant, refuse to play your assigned role.” She lifted an open hand, inviting rather than directing. “Short and sweet, then—so even they can follow along.”And she offered the refrain like a line from a play everyone already knew: “Not their script!” Once. Then again, steady, unhurried— “Not their script!” And after that, she didn’t push. She let the crowd decide whether to take it, and stepped back off the stone edge. Fleck’s wings rustled once—approving or impatient. Lyra drifted again, leaving the refrain behind her like a seed and keeping her face out of the center of the storm.
Lyra’s eyes lifted at the change in sound. The opera house doors opened, and the Dottari emerged in a practiced file to form a loose cordon across the entrance. A dozen uniforms in wet light. Nervous hands. Tight jaws. Behind them, a presence paced with predatory patience, Nox, Thrune’s hound, always a half-step from a bite. Fleck gave a sharp, dry rustle of wings from his perch, feathers tightening as if the air itself had soured. Lyra’s smile stayed where it belonged: small, pleasant, harmless. Her gaze did not linger on the cordon, and it certainly did not seek the pacing woman behind it. Looking too long was an invitation, and Lyra had learned never to RSVP. Make waves without being seen, she reminded herself. The trick was to stir the water, not announce the oar. She turned her attention back to the small knot of people who had lingered near her—not directly, not in a way that made her the center of anything. She simply continued her thoughtful critique of the scenery, her voice carrying only as far as the damp air would allow. “It’s a curious choice of staging,” she remarked to no one in particular, tone light. “Guards who look like they’ve never seen a crowd before, placed in front of someone who looks like she’s seen far too many.” She adjusted her glove, eyes on the opera house doors as if the architecture were the real subject. “If one didn’t know better,” Lyra went on, “one might think they’re hoping someone forgets themselves. It’s the oldest trick in the theater—give the audience a villain so obvious they can’t help but react…” She let the sentence trail off. The pause did the work she refused to do openly. After a beat, her mouth curved—not kind, exactly, but amused. “But Kintargo has always preferred a more sophisticated comedy to a common brawl,” she added. “Laughter is much harder to arrest than a stone-thrower.” A faint tilt of her head, as if considering a performance she found poorly rehearsed. “And it’s considerably more insulting to someone who clearly practiced her entrance this morning.” Lyra moved then—slowly, easily—drifting through the crowd so she never became a fixed point for anyone’s attention. Not fleeing. Just… changing seats.
Lyra Quill arrived the way a sensible woman arrived at a protest under martial law: neither first nor last, and with nothing about her that begged for a second look. She slowed as she reached the edge of Aria Park and gave herself one last subtle check: scarf straight, gloves on, posture easy. Her parents’ voices—a rhythmic chant of stay quiet, stay safe, stay invisible—echoed in her mind. With a practiced flick of her internal wrist, she pushed them aside. ”If I stay any more invisible I'll cease to exist” she thought to herself. A soft thump of claws on wet wood announced her shadow. The raven settled on a nearby post, ruffled its feathers, and stared down as if the entire city had personally offended it. Lyra didn’t look directly at the bird, but her mouth curved. “Behave, Fleck,” she murmured, the name barely more than a breath. “This is a peaceful civic gathering.” She slipped along the outer edge of the crowd and let the noise sort itself into sense: outrage, grief, nerves trying to become courage. Plenty of heat. Less direction. That, too, was familiar. Lyra did what she always did when truth needed to travel safely—she wrapped it in something that could pass for entertainment. Not a speech. Just a few bright lines, offered to the air and anyone close enough to listen.
Lyra’s eyes flicked—briefly—toward the sealed doors, then away again, as if she were only admiring the architecture. “Still, it’s an interesting statement,” she went on, voice light. “Most rulers claim a seat of power. He chose our stage.” She let that hang for a heartbeat—just long enough for the implication to settle without her pressing it. “As if Kintargo isn’t meant to speak anymore,” Lyra added, almost thoughtfully. “Only to watch.” She didn’t wait for approval. She didn’t look to see who’d heard. She just let the words land where they landed.
Sorry yes she is there for staying up on current events.
Thanks for the invite. I'm looking forward to playing with you all. Lyra Quill is an aasimar who’s been taught her whole life to hide it and pass as human for her own safety. She’s obeyed, mostly, though she resents living in the shadows. She channels that frustration into political satire smuggled inside “harmless” entertainment. A raven familiar attached itself to her shortly after her magic awakened and has been an ominously helpful shadow ever since. She’ll be at the protest to stay informed, take the temperature of the crowd… and maybe slip in a few “safe” lines if the moment feels right.
Just a note. You have me listed twice. Once as my submission (Lyra Quill) and a second time in the interested/concepts (Slayde77)
I was finalizing my Spellbook and gear and realized I never rolled for starting gold. Let's fix that
Guess we'll be going with average
Here is Slayde's submission, Lyra Quill. Everything should be in the profile. I still need to do my spell book but I wanted to make sure I made the deadline. Let me know if there are any questions |