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Alwic give a half-hearted smile to Hamood.

"I am not sure if there is an actual start...I think we just sort of head off into the swamp and see where the path takes us?!"

Alwic gathers his friends about, and they begin to head down the path into the swamp.

Seri glances at the man's hand on her shoulder, then back at "her" team.

" Which one of you wants to tell this gentleman what will happen to him if he does not remove his hand right now!"

She turns and glances back at the fellow with a slight smile on her lips.

"Whoh now Seri...relax." Alwic says. "He is just being friendly and offering us a possible alliance. Let's not do anything that might make him into an enemy...we will have enough of those once we get out there!"

Alwic turns to the newcomer and hold out his hand.

"Alwic, and the fine lady you best unhand is Seri. My sister, Alwyn, and business partner, Boric, round out our little group. And you are?"

A charged stillness settles over the courtyard—one of those moments before a great undertaking when every sound feels sharper, every breath a little heavier.

Alwic’s fingers linger on the drawstrings of the sack, as though hoping one last inspection might reveal some forgotten charm or hidden reassurance. It doesn’t. Just the same meagre supplies they’ve counted a dozen times already. His jaw tightens, but he rises with the quiet grace of his kind.

Alwyn watches him, her expression a blend of resolve and worry. She’s always been the steadier of the two, but even she can’t quite hide the tension in her shoulders. The mention of the chandlery shop had been half a joke, half a dream—yet dreams have a way of becoming anchors when the world grows uncertain.

Across from them, Suri and Boric murmur in low tones. Suri’s hands move as she speaks, sketching invisible diagrams in the air—battle plans, escape routes, or perhaps just nervous energy. Boric, broad-shouldered and calm as a winter lake, nods along, occasionally glancing toward the elves as if checking that they haven’t vanished.

The courtyard itself is a patchwork of dust, bootprints, and anticipation. Other groups cluster in loose circles, poor people like themselves, hoping for a chance to improve their lives. The air hums with the restless excitement of people who know danger is coming and have chosen to meet it anyway.

When Alwyn drops the coppers into the beggar’s bowl, the faint clink seems to echo far louder than it should. The beggar’s eyes lift—clouded, unreadable—and he gives a small nod that could be gratitude or warning. Seri’s sneer is quick, sharp, and utterly predictable.

“Superstition,” she mutters under her breath, though not quietly enough.

“Or kindness,” Boric replies as he steps up beside Alwic, his voice low but firm. “Both have their uses.”

Alwic exhales slowly, letting the tension bleed from his shoulders. “Well,” he says, glancing at the gathering crowd, “it seems we’re nearly out of time.”

Alwyn touches his arm, a silent promise that whatever comes next, they face it together.

And somewhere beyond the courtyard gates, the road waits—dusty, dangerous, and full of the kind of opportunities that only the desperate or the brave ever dare to chase.

Boop!

This is Daniel....here is my submission for the game. Let me know if you need anything else. Thanks!!
BTW the name is what the group calls itself...it was Seri's idea!

Sorry am here...just a bit of connection problems

"What do you say to such a plan Tiger? Are you willing to play the 'maiden in distress'?"

I may be able to question some of my fellow merchants to see if they have news from afar...But I do not know how forthcoming they will be. Such information would be very valuable to a trade cartel."

Santiago waits for the young lady to finish speaking before introducing himself.

"Hola, you may call me Hawk for now. It is a great honour meeting the both of you."

“Indeed,” Santiago said, his voice edged with curiosity. “Let us see who this Blue Heron truly is.”

He held the door open for Elena, then pulled it shut behind them with a soft click. Pausing at the threshold, Santiago let his gaze sweep across the room, taking in the space and silently cataloging the faces within.

Santiago bent down, fingers brushing the dust as he scooped up the scrap of paper. His eyes scanned the words quickly, a shadow crossing his face. Without a word, he handed it to the señorita.

"So," he asked, voice low and deliberate, "what do you think?"

Santiago Valverde leans closer to the girl, his voice low but firm.

"Ho-hum, you say? Do you not hear the tremor beneath those words? They speak of calm because they fear the storm. A Governing Junta in Santa Fe—formed without Madrid’s blessing—this is no trifle. It is the first crack in the crown’s armour. Today, they counsel patience; tomorrow, they will beg obedience. And when that day comes, will you still shrug? Or will you stand with those who choose to govern themselves, rather than bow to a distant king who cannot even keep his own throne?"

He glances around, making sure no royalist ears are too near, then adds with a faint smile:

"The vase was only the beginning, amiga. Even the smallest fracture can shatter an empire."

With a wink, he goes back to drinking his wine and watching the others in the cantina.

Santiago’s pen paused mid-flourish. He looked up, the faintest curve of a smile playing at his lips. The official’s words were meant as reassurance, but to Santiago they were a reminder: the Crown’s grip was loosening, its attention fixed across the ocean. Here, in Buenaventura, shadows had room to grow wings.

"I think a cool drink is in order." he says as he walks back down the docks towards the town.

Finding a modest cantina in the Stilt House region of the town, Santiago opens the door. His boots were polished, his coat cut in the Spanish style, yet his gaze carried something sharper than noble arrogance.
He approached the bar, removing his gloves with deliberate calm.
“Señorita,” he said, voice smooth, “a glass of your strongest. The sea has been unkind today.”

The humid air of Buenaventura clung to Santiago Valverde like a second skin as he stepped onto the creaking planks of the dock. The scent of salt and tar mingled with the sharp tang of coffee beans spilling from burlap sacks, a reminder of the trade empire he now commanded. His boots were polished, his coat tailored in the latest Spanish fashion—every inch the loyal son of the Crown. Yet beneath the silk cravat, his heart beat to a different rhythm.

He paused to watch a group of stevedores wrestle with a stubborn crate, their backs bent under the weight of goods destined for men who would never know hunger. Santiago’s dark eyes softened. These were his mother’s people—the Quechua blood that ran in his veins tied him to their struggle as surely as the Falcon’s wings tied him to the night.

“Señor Valverde!” A port official hurried toward him, ledger in hand, sweat beading on his brow. “The shipment from Cartagena—delayed again. Pirates, they say.”

Santiago smiled faintly, the kind of smile that could mean anything. “Then we shall pray for calm seas,” he replied, voice smooth as aged rum. He signed the ledger with a flourish, the nobleman’s son playing his part to perfection.

But as the official scurried away, Santiago’s gaze drifted to the narrow alleys beyond the plaza, where shadows pooled like ink. Tonight, those shadows would be his cloak. Tonight, the Black Falcon would strike again.