Category:Clipped Wings: Difference between revisions

Given the recent efforts of our own Greth Rottgutt, I have chosen to make his establishment the location for a discussion that needs to be held. I will be arriving there around 1pm Elven, and have several announcements to make, after which I will be taking a few questions from those in attendance. I hope to see you all there.

Regards, Mistress Selbi Interim Administrator of Mist Harbor and the Isle of the Four Winds

When: Beginning on Sunday, January 5th at 1pm EST. The storyline times will be Thursday nights from 8pm-930pm EST and Sundays from 1pm-3pm. Start times are pretty set in stone, ending times are somewhat nebulous, though likely to be within 20 minutes of the listed time, in either direction. The storyline will EITHER end or go on hiatus before Duskruin begins in February (depending on where the story is at that point).

Where: Each iteration of the storyline will begin at Greth's, AKA the Stumbling Pebble II. The story will almost never REMAIN there, but it should be considered the gathering point for each start time.

Who: You! (Provided you're a Premium Subscriber and have an interest in playing along with us.)

Why: Reasons.

How: Show up and play your character! Expect lots of conversation/debate/polarizing subjects. Also, feel free to join us for lively OOC discussion of related matters in the #premium channel of the official Discord.

He poured himself a cup from the kettle, grabbed a handful of sugar cubes from the saucer, and returned to his divan with the black longcoat draped over it. In his sketchbook were other circles around the names GRETH and SELBI. He took his brush, loaded it with ink, and with brush in one hand and sugar cubes in the other he begans anew.

Plonk goes the sugar cube in its tea bath. A line goes between SELBI and THE MESSENGER.

Plonk! A note is added: "An obligation unfulfilled."

Plonk! A line between GRETH and THE MESSENGER.

Plonk! A series of question marks added between them.

Plonk! A line goes between SELBI and GRETH. A note "~~Common Debt~~? Enemy?

His dog Altahuan came galloping into the living room for that last sugar cube, claimed it, and got a pet on the mane.

A line from The MESSENGER goes to the top to WHO BENEFITS FROM US ALL FIGHTING.

Faerinn guzzled his too sweet tea and headed towards the bed. He removed Kitty from the covers who screamed like a human in protest. He sat cross legged in the middle with canvas over his lap and paints at the ready. He was poised for the additives to his tea to kick and for a hypnotic state to pull more details of THE MESSENGER from his memory.

A deep breath, followed by a countdown blanked his mind. The hands took the tools and went to work on the campus. Somewhere in the house an opossum slept in a chestnut horse's mane.

He stood, pacing the room, running the numbers in his head. The Council would want a report on the progress soon...and the news when it came to the Iyo was not good. Nehor did not worry overmuch, though, as the rest of the news was grand. Mistress Selbi had given them an enormous opening, one that his Flock had been quick to take advantage of. Just this evening, he and Mistress Lynaera had met with the investigator, Mister Faerinn. The evening before, with concerned visitors and residents of Mist Harbor as well as a rather productive one with Mayor Lylia.

Each had gone exactly as planned. The suggestions put forth to the townsfolk did not meet with too much pushback, and the various flock members positioned throughout the crowd took notes on who nodded too vigorously at Akenna's rudeness, or who seemed to be in disagreement too strongly with the propositions given. Their names and faces had been noted...for later. That, and the one Tatria had unwittingly helped them along by bringing up the children. Nehor smiled, smug at his own cleverness. Of course with the lost orphans having been so recent a thing, someone was bound to bring that up or something close to it. He had gambled on it being so. Much easier for the people to swallow their own suggestions, than if it had been him to bring it up.

Walking to the window, he drew back the curtains to look upon the town...torches and lamps flickering against the night. People moved easily through the streets, even at this hour, though they still did not have the easy confidence they had before the unfortunate Nazhor business. There was a general feeling of uneasiness in the air. The threat of the meek had passed, but many were still on edge. Suspicious, scared. Wondering what the next threat would be and if they could weather a new storm.

It was a perfect situation for his plans.

He had spoken briefly with Mayor Lylia, Mistress Xanthium having set up the meeting quickly after hearing of the Police Force proposition he would be presenting to Madam Selbi tomorrow. Some had submitted names for consideration, but he had filed them away alongside the burning scrap of paper that remained in the wastebin. Mistress Lynaera would be the name he brought forward to lead the group and along with the cadre of Faendryl Loyalists that the Mayor had promised him (and whom had proved so adept during the final battle against Nazhor) as a core, they would train up a force that would further the Flocks aims. Further HIS aims.

Faerinn was the last piece to this. His investigative skills would prove quite useful in tracking down the latest issue they had. This...assassin...or messenger? Whomever they were, they were a threat. Something Nehor had not planned for, did not control, was entirely ignorant on. Such a state was anathema to Lord Nehor. Information was life and it was information he lacked. Why did this person attack? Why did they use the method they did? Surely they could not think such a weak poison would succeed...so why attack at all, if lethality was not the goal?

So many questions. So little answers. Faerinn would find them. When he did, as per his newly sealed contract with the Flock, he would bring what he found to Nehor directly. Yes, perhaps he would come up empty handed...but if so, nothing was lost. Lynaera had been skeptical of the idea, but Nehor had held firm in this. The investigator had access to sources that would balk at sharing information with the Flock proper. This way, anything they divulged to him would be learnt by Nehor. Faerinn was an Honest Man and would honor his pact, would tell all he knew.

And even if he decided to betray them and not honor his bargain....

Taking out the copy of a small card he had given to Faerinn as he had left the meeting, Nehor held it to his ear and listened. Quite an interesting device the Council had provided. A Calling Card indeed. Nehor smiled as he closed his eyes, listening, as the sounds of a crowded bar slipped inside his ear and words began to be picked out amidst the tumult:

“Nehor is more skilled at this than I expected, his terms were way too reasonable. He’s got me where he wants me, and I know there is a catch I’m missing.” Nehor smiled, listening long into the night as the candle burnt itself out.

“You were off-balance from the first ball change.”

For not the first time, Xanthium wondered just how her grandfather always knew where she was. This time, that was the rehearsal hall in the Landing’s bard guild. Not only know she was here, but how the pales did he get in himself?

“But I started with the ball change, Grandfather.”

“So you did.”

The familiar smirk that accompanied the response was going to be etched in her memory deeper than her own name. Xanthium responded silently, giving him a long, searching stare instead, which he again easily countered. He grabbed her still-outstretched hand and hauled her into a spin, forcing her to fall into the fourth position, heels turned out, or be spilled upon the hardwood. She raised her arms up to match her feet, and twirled herself out into a pirouette, letting him be the one to keep up. He laughed, and they coursed across the floor together, letting their soft sounds of amusement and enjoyment be their score. Dyvim Kalal was one of the few elves she knew taller than she, and between their shared height and his centuries of experience, he was one of her favorite people to dance with.

Xanthium breathed in his presence and humor, feeling them untangle the knot of anxiety and longing that was always knitted into her belly. She switched back to her native Faendryl, with a momentary sensation of comfort from that, in not having to constantly think of the correct translation.

They paced across the imaginary corners of the floor, passing the lead back and forth with a few experimental turns. She pleased herself by occasionally outpacing him, their competitiveness and mirth a perfect remedy for her earlier awkwardness. Finally they came to a rest in the center of the hall, and he kissed her hand affectionately. His pale grey eyes creased with the smile, the only lines that ever crossed his face at all. It was a marvel, that face, and the raven-black hair that framed it- so he had been as for nearly two thousand years prior to her birth, and would be this way long after she turned to dust.

"Speaking of meter..." They spoke as they left the hall, walking out to Parsnips Street, where she saw the tail end of Grandfather's caravan making its way toward Moot Hall. He had brought Lady Rashere what he could, from his own plantation and that of his Agrestis allies. Naimorai Kestrel's blight raged on past her demise, this shipment would help, at least for a little while. "...what I wanted to ask you about. Does your foundry still do contract work for the Chronomages?"

He regarded her curiously and nodded, "We are far from being their only provider, but yes, we still produce the brass and gold suitable for their work. Why?"

"I told you about the mystery unfolding in Mist Harbor. It's nearly worthy of one those stories you used to tell me. Shadowy figures and magic weapons..."

"Those were not stories, Xanthium. They were warnings for you to pass on to anyone you might recite them to, to be wary of crossing your kin."

He had a point, as they wandered closer to the Town Square, she had to pick her way around the putrid piles of snow and garbage, while he appeared to glide unhindered, as if the gunk and refuse dared not to cross him, either. It reminded her of the way in which the shadows seemed to part for Socius to come and go during the events of this past Restday, as well as the assassin and their most unusual dart. She told her grandfather of the attempt on Administrator Selbi's life, as it was, and how the dart left an impression of non-conformity, as if it did not quite belong- before it vanished from each appearance.

"I heard the whir of a Chronomage device, when the Messenger- that's what Faerinn calls them- first appeared outside of Greth's bar. But I didn't see it. The dart might well be one of their devices, or at least known to them. It had that sensation, of displacement. I was hoping you might use your contacts to see if anyone would talk to me. Something I could pass on to those who seek out this strange attacker."

Xanthium thought of the faces and personalities she'd been getting to know; Xilona with her kind smile and ready humor, verbose and poetic "Lord High" Nehor, stolid and protective Greth, fierce Darcena. She whispered some detailed observations to her grandfather, telling him of each of them, and finally, what she'd learned about the giantess, little as it was. As she spoke, her recollection settled upon one face in particular, and she decided- if she was fortunate enough to find out anything from the Chronomages, he would be the one she would share it with. At least, to start.

"Xanthium, the Chronomages are notorious for being not just secretive, but veritably unknown outside of their services and their price for them. I am not sure even my status would warrant a meeting, much less useful information. But of course, I will try. Mist Harbor, you said? Once I am done here and meet with your father, I will travel hence. A few days. Best I can do."

He pulled her hand back to his lips for a farewell kiss, and she looped her arms about his neck instead, regretting that most all their visits were so brief. His hand left hers and lighted down upon her face, a familiar gesture that made her miss him already. With that, he turned to go, and the distance between them seemed to swell with the stench of the blight; the noise and clatter of the midday square grew to a cacophonous force. The chill that came with it sparked a memory, and she called back out to him, getting him to turn and meet her gaze.

"I know, you realize. I know I'm the spring lamb, Grandfather."

He stared back at her, and the grief that met her eyes nearly made her fumble. They held their positions, the sky darkening with a falling clouds. Finally, he nodded.

"I will try, Xanthium." His posture became more reserved, though his grey eyes kept the pain of her reference upon their silvered surface. "Go find some company. You will need it, soon."

With that, her grandfather vanished into the convoy, leaving her alone in the square.

*************************

<This is an attempt to fulfill Xanthium's "job" from QST this past Sunday, as she agreed to try and find out if the Chronomages have any details about the Messenger or the dart that was used. If you want to find out more, come to QST this Restday/Sunday at 1:00 PM EST! You won't regret it!>

In one minute, in a tiny lofted room, Mellny sleeps. In the next minute, awake! Yesterdays rush into her mind to dance a jig while the possibilities of today madly begin to twirl.

TalkyTalky Man! So. Many. Words. He got a disease, he said. A sickness called lokwacious. She don't know what that be exactly, but she hopes it involves pustules that engorge flaming on his skin, then burst in oozing sickly green goo fountains. Maybe some shaky shaky seizures and he drops, stretched out and jerky, foaming at the mouth while gasping out fragments of fancy words until he turns purple? Maybe his EYEBALLS will burst? She squirms happily, in that second before her eyes open.

Those arrows! That arrow? One? Two? Many? She doesn't know, but thrills to recall. The first piercing the grouchy shrew that be expert about stupid people. Zoomed out of a shadow blurring with blue and THUNKED into that mean-talking biddy. Smelt of death and lemon tarts and maybe a little cinnamon? Oy! Laid her out right good! Mellny emits a tiny OOOH of joy, in that second before her eyes open.

The giantwhiplady! Whatever promises she not be keeping must be all sorts of important for the twitching arrow with squiggles to be whistling after her. But, yeesh, that whip! So mighty fine, that whip, each little bone leaning to caress the next, all flexing and squirming and fitting together to lash smoothly as one. And the mossy dark elf, he says he got a good old whip, but he didn't pull one out or nothing. So he probably all talk. Mellny huffs, disappointed in a possibly only-pretend whip, in that second before her eyes open.

Glorious yelling! And that office? The screechy gnomelady said it were a comfortable place, so maybe she don't know much neither because those benches were awful hard. If the other bloke takes it over, he could buy some cushions. Soft and fluffy. A slew of them folks, like that elf girl and that tall dark elf and that half-elf and that other dark elf? Maybe they already spend too much time sitting on hard things. But cushions might make them holler less? Maybe no cushions. Mellny shifts restlessly and indecisively, in that second before her eyes open.

Oy! The arrow might come back! Or a new arrow? TalkyTalky Man might strangle and and stiffen dead, bound up by fancy words without air! That truefolk with the muffins might bake more? Maybe meet those kids that sleep in the day and see if they know any games awake? More loud words and thunkings and thumpings? Sides to pick? Middles to fill? What would the bloke do with that loud biddy's head? Cliffs and voices and spinning and oy, so much could happen. Did someone say muffins? She be hungry!

Mellny opens brightly blue eyes to another day filled with tantalizing possibilities.

Sometimes that is not a bad thing, when the powerful faction serves the same interests. But when it comes to Four Winds Isle, this is not the case. The Flock may not yet be more powerful, but their interests are not guaranteed to match Traiva's. That will be a problem if they overpower Socius.

She tosses the brush onto the vanity with a sigh of frustration. Nehor's blathering would too quickly get under her skin anyway, and eventually Ordim's alliterations and crumbs would also make her snap. And... and... She quickly realizes that running down the list has forced her jaw to tense, almost uncomfortably.

She rises and walks to the window to gaze down at the pond below. The water is still at the surface, reflecting the afternoon light, but she knows there is activity below the surface: the darting about of fish and reptiles, the waving about of the aquatic plants, the flow of small currents. But the surface calm gives no indication. Thankfully for Traiva, people are not so skilled as the pond at keeping their surface calm.

That could be a liability for the Defenders.

It is a liability for Socius.

Nehor said the Flock will not harm any who work against them. Socius made it clear that he would not hesitate to act against those who seek to harm the Isle.

Socius, she can trust. Nehor, she cannot.

She turns her head at the sound of her assistant's rap on the doorframe. "Excuse me, I did not want to leave this on your desk, it is for a meeting tomorrow morning." Traiva takes the paper and scans it quickly before nodding a dismissal. The timing may work around some other appointments, but she will surely get a summary if she cannot attend.

She returns to her vanity, gazing at her reflection. Her expression is calm, even...and fully controlled.

She peered at him through the door in her garden open only a crack, backlit by a flickering of candlelight that did nothing to reveal her features but illuminated a pillar of Faerinn's face - the side with the scars.

"Good night to you Faerinn," Naamit said, "But its late, and I'm in no mood for callers this evening."

"I just wanted to know how you were feeling well-" She shut the door, but he was faster and wedged his foot into the doorjamb. He didn't manage that with her very often. *Maybe it was a side effect of the drug?* he mentally mused. As Naamit continued to push on the door, Faerinn was thankful for whatever combination of strong bones, faulty nerve wiring, and magical slipper enchantments that kept his poker face in place.

"Also to show you these drawings of the dart since it may be fresh on your mind," he said and a grimace slipped out. "To confirm its the same one."

She retreated further into the gallery and left the door open. Faerinn followed behind her. He offered her a two stacks of parchment and a flask of water that just seemed to appear in his hands. She took the parchment.

"The first stack is from Restday, and the second are from yesterday. I drew them from memory less than an hour after their appearances. What do you think about them? What sort of impressions do they give you?"

"The dart from Restday and the one I saw yesterday...." She flipped through the pages between sips of hawthorne tea. "Assuming your memory can be trusted, that is. Your first one's line work is sharp and rigid suggesting looking down from a great height, almost nauseating. The other one you've mixed blue pastel to hint at sadness? Why bother?"

"I wanted people to feel that same thing when they looked at them that I felt."

"Well, they're the same once you stop trying to personify them."

"Makes me wish I knew a thing about runes, " Faerinn added. "Darcena mentioned they were familiar to something of Socius's, but I have no clue what she's talking about. What runes are associated with Socius?"

Naamit stared silently into her tea for a moment before returning Faerinn's sketches then searching the cubicles of parchment lining the wall. She came back shortly with rolled vellum in hand. Faerinn unfurled it and examined the sketch.

"Is this knife what I think it is?" he asked.

"One of Socius's before you started getting involved with Mist Harbor. He lent one to me once and it stuck around for about a week before it vanished."

"I didn't know those knives existed away from him much less returned," Faerinn glanced back and forth between the runes on both. "What color were these?"

"Red."

Faerinn rushed straight to his The Messenger Vision Board when he got home. Ok, well, first Faerinn feed Kitty, or she would just get into Rohese’s trash again. But then the vision board. Well, right after taking Altahuan for walkies, of course, because Faerinn did not want to clean that up again. Then this time, for sure, he attended to his vision board like he did every night before bed. He pruned and attended to it like a shrubbery until now it had blossomed to such lengths that it had spilled over with new facts and links from the original vellum onto to a small chalkboard held by a lobster statue.

On the other side of the statue was an oil painting of a silhouette cast in crimson shadows just glowering at him in its easel. Faerinn looked closer at the detail his subconscious finally gifted him - the ears. He glanced between the outline of the figure’s ears in the silhouette then back at his own reflected in the vanity mirror. There was a slight point to the silhouette’s ears, implying some sort of Elven blood, perhaps? Not enough of a point to assume full Elven heritage anyway.

Faerinn took up his brush and ink. He drew a line from “Socius > Knives” to "The Messenger > Dart", and labelled the line "Returner, glowing red runes". With thick blotches of ink, Faerinn marks out "The Messenger > Has Access to Chronomage Magic and Tools" and replaced it with an identical entry from the Socius box "Reality Bending Powers Resulting from Paternal Heritage". He then erases "The Messenger" altogether from the chalkboard and in its place he writes:

THE HALF SISTER

She went over the chest at the foot of her small bed to retrieve a shawl and wrapped it around herself. She never expected that even in a tropical place the mornings would be chilly. With a slight shiver she went back over to the kettle on the stove, plucked a tin from the shelf next to a small sprite figurine and pulled off the lid. She inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of the herbs and leaves inside. With a flick of her wrist a teacup appeared in her hand and she went about spooning the tea into her cup. She wondered to herself how many more days she had like this in her little home on the island? Days with simple, quiet mornings. Akenna had not had the luxury of an outsider home in so many years. While the forest was wonderful, and magical illusions were beautiful, outsider homes were solid and real. She could hear the crash of waves from her tiny little home, at first that had taken some getting used to at night, it was foreign to her ears, now it was a comfort.

The whistle of the kettle made her thoughts drift back and she took it from the stove, pouring water into her teacup. After putting everything back into its place, she went and huddled into her armchair. Staring out the hazy aqua windows at the cloudy dawn she sipped her tea. For the moment, this was one thing that the Flock couldn’t take from her or ruin, this was hers. They couldn’t sour it or make it terrible; they couldn’t take the dawn from her. They might take her home; they might even take all that she had grown fond of here on the island, but they couldn’t have this; at that thought, Akenna smiled over the rim of her cup.

Her nights had been restless recently; she had spent most of them tossing and turning with her mind racing through a jumble of random thoughts. Her days weren’t much better; so many silly things irritated her lately and she had often found herself just staring out of the window. Like now!

The tea in her cup had gone cold. With a frustrated sigh, she refreshed it and resumed her seat at the desk. She had woken early with the dark veil of night still drawn across the sky. Her first thoughts had been to write a rather sternly worded letter to Selbi regarding the possible misappropriation of funds and she had become distracted ... again.

In an attempt to try and isolate the issue around her distraction, she abandoned the letter and, instead, began to scribble down notes about all the aspects of her life that might be giving her cause for concern. Her quill slowed and her gaze drifted towards the window again. Glints of silver and gold danced across her vision as the early morning sunlight glanced off the Manse windows, mesmerising her.

Realizing that she had caught herself daydreaming again, she put her head in her hands and breathed another heavy sigh. Pull yourself together! At least she hadn’t thrown her teacup at the wall in frustration ... yet.

Glancing back down at the sheet of parchment, she saw various names clearly jotted amid the doodles. Without thinking, she dipped the quill back into the ink and began to connect the names in one unbroken movement. Once completed, she was amazed to see a perfect pentagram laid out before her.

Lumnis took pride of place at the spirit point or apex. Beneath, to the left and right, were her grandmother taking the position of air and Sighisoara notably aligned to water. Below those, again to the left and right, were Socius denoted by earth and Aendir by fire. Seeing the most significant individuals in her life represented as such suddenly made so much sense.

Resting her quill aside, Rohese pondered the symbolism and felt a weight lift from her mind. Finding herself in the center of this arrangement – of the magical circle - it somehow felt right.

Below them all, however, was another that didn't fit. Written in boldly emphasized black ink and oddly capitalised was the name, Nehor. Picking up her quill again, she scratched through it with several strokes in an attempt to remove him from her thoughts.

It hadn’t worked.

She regarded at it curiously, head cocked to the side and black eyes narrowed, wondering when that had happened. She let the wingless she held drop to the ground, an orc or troll or something--it didn't really matter, it was an enemy and that's all the recognition it merited--and not for the first time wished she still remembered what pain felt like. But she didn't feel pain anymore, nor fear, as such things weren't useful to her kind before the portal. Now it just marked her as broken.

The bones in her hand ground and slide between the surface of her skin, knitting themselves back together as she gathered what she needed to set the camp ablaze. She had been at this for hours, losing herself in the jungle, moving from one set of enemies to the next, considering her next move.

There were other enemies, but these did not dwell in the jungles of the island. She could not do as she did here for not all wingless in Mist Harbor were enemies, of this she was reasonably certain. Some might even be allies, wingless as opposed to the corruption she sees taking root as she was. She would have to consult with Traiva to determine which was which.

The camp burned around her, and she allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction, hefting the brick one of the enemy had been carrying. This she would deliver to another as the first warning.

The serenity of the moment was lost as the sound of a tea kettle whistled next door - his neighbor. Groaning, his eyes closed shut and rolled in his head as he began to relieve himself. The force of the stream hit the back the chamber pot with the urgency that only a late night of drinking could summon. The tea kettle’s insistent cry continued as he shifted, sustaining his pent up stream. Dismissing the irritation of the kettle, a wave of relief washed over him as he opened his eyes and his wry grin returned. Looking down he seemed impressed with himself for the persistence of his stream. All good things coming to an end, and with both hands he put himself away.

Washing and drying his hands at a nearby washbasin to complete the morning ritual, he returned to his bedroom. Glancing over at the feminine curve of the sheets as they clung to his bed’s occupant, he considered returning. Being already awake and fighting off the urge, he drifts over to a large desk laden with papers: Mostly half written song lyrics, epic tales in the works, and the occasion purchase for the Chalice. Slumping into the chair he pours himself a glass of blood wine and begins sifting among the papers. Retrieving a small notebook, and leafing through the pages he noted several events, meetings within the Elven court, and even the occasional gig. Stopping at today's date he leans back in the chair contemplating the bold word written in red ink.

His lips pursed to a thin line, and he nodded to himself. "So it shall be done," he whispered to himself, as it was indeed time to get on with it. As soft murmur coming from his bed's occupant enticed him, calling him back. Musing to himself, “surely there is time for a quick dalliance before business” as he strides back to his bed. Collapsing upon it, the figure beside him stirred seductively, rolled toward him and snuggled against his bare chest.

Oh, and by detained, I mean literally detained, not just errands were taking too long by the way.

However, don't worry or stop this meeting to come find me. I'll be back in time for the open meeting. I have experience with this sort of thing, and I'll go over it more later. Not only are they holding Socius's only family hostage, but the entire town now. We can't make this an open conflict yet. However, we don't have to just sit around and let them get anything done. We have a moral imperative to obstruct them whenever possible.

- Carry milk and water, these could counteract many of the common chemical irritants townsfolk and yourselves may encounter from anti riot measures. - Just because you can't touch the Flock and Selbi, doesn't mean you can't touch their stuff. Wreck it all. - Bards, what we do best is disrupt. Walking sanctuaries and anti-magic zones. Nothing is getting done there. Similar spells from other spheres will of course help. - Don't lift a finger to help even when you are being arrested, make them work for it. - I would usually advise having a pre-paid courier ready to contact the Guild of Barristers, but that's out. However, congratluations, I'm representing you all now.

Now we’ve gotten through all that. Aside from general civil disobedience, we need to find this lady who’s doing the attacks and secure Socius’ sister. Well I have good news for you that must not leave this room: these are not disparate tasks. You find one, you find the other.

Faerinn Greatsinger, ESQ

The woman makes a bee-line toward the Western Harbor.

An unusually short giantwoman enters the quaint tea shop with a brisk air. She stops to haggle with the cafe owner, Misty a moment over a tin of the rarest loose-leaf, as an uncharacteristically pleasant smile tones her every word. The conversation continues in hushed murmurs before the two nod in agreement. "No taxes." The giantwoman extends Misty a handshake and the woman clasps it enthusiastically. "Thank you, I understand" she murmurs.

"I am here for you. The Defenders of Mist Harbor are here for you, and we will defend you and yours, Misty. You and your business are important to the Isle," says the giantwoman with a firm nod. "Besides, whatever would we do without your tea?" The dark haired woman nods approvingly to the merchant and turns heel to leave, trotting briskly off to another store.

Conspiratorial tones continue with the next merchant. "Taxation without representation!" the man exclaims. "Close. This is resistance in action. Do not pay your taxes until Selbi and the Flock are put down. Their regime uses your funds for dark purposes and oppression. Do not aid them and do not forget the assault they laid on this town. It will never end with them in power." Eyes wide, the dealer nods with clear understanding.

The unusually short giantwoman meets with two large, burly giantmen in the street. One yes. One no. How curious. "Is it fear, resignation, ignorance or complicit acceptance? Either way, the message must be heard," she says to the two tall men. She directs one toward the Western Harbor and the other to the East, while she strides off to the pawnshop.

'Well good morning, Naamit! What do you have for me today!" exclaims the pawnshop keeper. "Good morning, friend. We need to talk," She says. The two carry on a brief conversation in the art of idle maundering before Naamit puts an end to the niceties. "Cendadric, you are paying taxes to help an illegitimate establishment. Stop. Simply resist. The flock mean you and everyone else here grave harm. I will provide you with Issimir guards, should they try to extort you further."

Cendadric, ever modest, gives a firm nod of agreement. "I will do this, Naamit. There is no worse tyranny than to force a man to pay for what he does not believe. For only two things are for certain to drive a man to ruin: Death and Taxes, and life is too short to live under tyranny anymore. Not after what happened with Nazhor. I will stop paying taxes as they aid the Flock now. I will comply with the Defender's instructions."

"That's right, friend," she says. "Thank you for your cooperation. We stand by you, just as you stand by the citizens and the Defenders of Mist Harbor."

His orders for food from the cafes and diners were off schedule, but the owners were happy for the extra business he brought regularly and the coin he brought. He paid them extra for their discretion, having the goods shipped to his shop and transported from there. The staff at Luna’s Rest were particularly pleased to see him, as he put forth his regular purchase of bloodwine from the backroom by the case. He was pleased that his arrangement with the owner was finally able to import one of his favorite labels and he always made sure he did not let that convenience go to waste.

He’d been given specific instructions on the delivery of the children. He had to wait. Which he did, to his irritation. He paced back and forth wondering what the Flock had done to finally convince Greth and Penre to relinquish them. Despite every single reason to remind them they were not safe - they were both stubborn in their desire to help.

Talinvor shut his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his fingers. A wagon had arrived with more than a handful of children and several brutish looking individuals. It wasn’t yet dawn, and looking up at the sky for a moment - seemed like it was still a few hours away. He stifled a yawn, and masked his irritation of having to deal with this at such an early hour.

Striding up to the contingent, he could see the children were afraid - and he flicked his grey eyes at the largest of the men. “How incompetent,” he glowered. “By the looks of it, you dragged them here.” Dismissing them, he knew immediately he would need to fix this. His eyes met on the spindly giantkin girl he remembered from before. The one that scooped up Faerinn’s socks and not candy. Smart girl.

Removing his hood, he smiled in the most charming way he could manage - which as a bard is quite good. He approached the girl and offered his hand. “I must apologize on behalf of these buffoons,” he crooned. “You should have been left to make you own choice, though since you are here, I encourage you to at least see what I have to offer - clean water, comfortable beds, new clothes and the best food to be found in all of Mist Harbor,” he added. “There was concern for your welfare, and you were indeed wise to not trust Greth.”

The girl clenched the hand of her sister for reassurance, but nodded. Talinvor grinned again, his words and reassurances putting them under his charm. He gestured toward the building with a grandiose sweep of his arm. As the children started to head toward the door, Talinvor bared his teeth and growled at the men as soon as the children were out of earshot. “You almost made my job harder,” he seethed but then caught himself. He began to hum between his words, “You should forget this place, what you did here tonight. Go back to your homes.” One after the other began to blink, but he continued his charm and humming as they each turned back the way they came until he could no longer see them. Turning, he jogged back to the children who were milling about at the door, and he captured the handle and opened it before them.

“Welcome to your new home, children” he replied, his voice dropping to a silken whisper that only they could hear.

The human youth turned around with a startled look on his face. He hid the paintbrush behind his back immediately as he recognized the guard behind the half-elf. A poster behind him dripped wet with yellow paint, the word "Flock" altered and appended in a rather vulgar fashion. The giantman guard grabbed the youth by the shirt and looked over to his half-elf companion.

Letting out an exasperated sigh, the half-elf retrieved one of the parchment rolls from under his arm and placed a nail in his teeth. He drew a small tack hammer out of his satchel and muffled out "Put 'im in irons, Dab." The giantman complied silently and clamped the youth in manacles. He dragged the scared boy behind himself south toward the constabulary while the half-elf went to work replacing the propaganda.

Light from nearby gas lamps cast a soft glow over the pawnshop, and the Flock courier had a hard time seeing his work through his shadow against the poster. If it wasn't for that hoodlum, he'd have had the giant with him to help tack up the parchments. He moved to put his armful of posters down... but the ground was damp from the water buckets dousing the last vandalism. They had just been here a half-hour prior replacing one that had been set aflame by a cloaked giantman smoking a cigar.

Exasperated, he let out a sigh and straightened himself. "Hey Dab," the half-elf had hoped his escort was still in range to come back and hold the poster up, "Hey DAB!" The man's shadow against the side of the storefront grew longer and wider. "Thank goodness... hold this here while I tack..."

The words came out muffled as his face was palmed by a very sizeable assailant. The half-elf tried to kick his good leg, but the massive form behind him already had him off the ground and hurried through the door to the pawnshop. Cendadric immediately began to protest as the large figure bolted the door behind them but was silenced when the masked individual shot his glare behind the counter. A quiet voice escaped from beneath the featureless eahnor visage, "Leave. You will be compensated."

Cendadric hurried his lockbox closed and secured and departed through the rear of the establishment.

"Where are the children, Birdbrain?" The giant figure thrust his half-elven quarry against the wood of the door, causing a louder noise than intended. A loud crack that accompanied the thump sounded like more money he'd have to spend in repairs.

"I don't know what you're..."

CRACK! Another slam against the door shut the half-elf's mouth as he bit down hard on his tongue. The glossy mask stared accusingly at the terrified courier. "You know where the kids are, or you know someone who does. The next word out of your mouth had better be a proper noun."

"M... my frien' Dab. Th' guard. He works for th' flock and sometimes goes wit Nehor. He may've heard somefin'."

"He the one that took the poor kid away to the cells?" The masked giant glanced down to see the half-elf's feet hanging a full ten inches above the floor.

"He's on duty tonight. He'll watch the kid there until they come ta try 'im! Vandalism's a crime ya know!"

A small ebon kunai slipped from a sheath at the giant's thigh and up to the half-elf's throat - the weapon looking positively diminutive in his massive gloved hand. "Well then... after I litter here, I should probably go turn myself in." A quick deep cut from the blade nearly decapitated the half-elf and spewed thick vitae on the floors and walls. No sound escaped. No flailing. Just a simple bugging of eyeballs as the husk of the courier dropped to the floor of the pawnshop. Leaving the front door bolted, the masked figure emptied a small pouch into a bulging sack from his duster and weighed it. Satisfied, he plopped the sack onto Cendadric's lockbox and slipped out the way the opulent shop keeper had gone. Moving off at a trot toward the constabulary, he connected a glaesine chain to his kunai and the other end to a hand sickle.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

There was nobody inside the office when the cloaked figure entered. He knew he didn't have long, so he immediately went to work. After a tripod of spears was brought over in front of the iron barred door, the figure leapt from the desk to grab onto a crossbeam. With impossible grace for his size, he swung himself up to mount the load bearing support. His movements seemed fluid and elven as he produced his chain and simultaneously began a small chant. A pair of ethereal eels snaked their way around the jailhouse, bringing a thick fog up from the ground before dissipating in a coiled dance near the entryway.

He didn't have to wait on his perch for long. The fog had barely ceased churning when the door opened. The thick blanket of greyish white shifted out of the entrants' way as the giantman dragged the poor lad toward the iron-bound door. Dab was simple and didn't slow his stride in light of the unusual state of the First Sergeant's Office, stopping in curiosity only as he looked upon the tripod of spears in his way. The next eight seconds were a blur.

The first three seconds saw a figure drop from the rafters, landing a twin hammerfist on top of the guard's too-small helmet. As the sentry's hands instinctively raised to the pain and encroaching metal, the assailant fell low, slamming his kunai through Dab's ankle and tossing the sickle to loop over the crossbeam overhead. The bellow of pain was loud, and may have caused unwelcome attention, but the graceful beast was fast. A quick jab into the guard's lower ribs drove the wind out of his lungs in a quiet puff, rending the bellow muted. The third and fourth seconds were spent waiting for the rattling glaesine chain to drop the sickle down to the stygian figure's waiting hand. Having been released by the guard, the youth ran over to the side of the room and huddled in a corner. Dab was still doubled over from having the wind knocked out of him, allowing his center of gravity to be shifted with a few powerful pulls on the chain.

The guard fell to the floor with a thud. A deep gasp escaped as he tried to catch his wind but was lost again as his skewered leg and lower half were lifted from the floor with consecutive massive tugs on the chain. By the eighth second, the giant was dangling precariously by a chain from the rafters - his helm having clattered to the floor and blood from his forehead leaving red drops along the underside of its kettle rim.

The assailant wrapped the chain around his corded and taught bicep, bracing himself and leaning backward to keep the giantman hanging upside down. He slid the tripod of spears under the giantman with his right foot and tugged a few links more on the chain. The guard panicked at the sight of the sharp weapons aimed up at his dangling form, the pain in his ankle and foot all but forgotten in the face of imminent death.

An eahnor mask glanced away from Dab to the poor youth with yellow paint caked on his hands and shackles on his wrists. "Take his keys. Free yourself. Open the cell. Leave."

The poor lad was dumbfounded and scrambled over to the hanging giant. He hopped up toward the giant's keyring, but the slowly rotating form was too cumbersome to get around. The figure took his sickle in one hand and splintered the floorboard at the chain's full length, leaving Dab suspended above the spears. He moved back to the giant and gave him a little shove. The giant began to yell. An eahnor face slammed into an unbroken nose and one of the two gave way. Dab immediately lost consciousness. "Great. Now I'll have to wait to find out."

He retrieved the keys from the giant's belt and released the poor vandal. "What's your name, sir?"

"I... I'm G-g-gera... I'm G-g-gerald," the youth stuttered. He rubbed his wrists and ran over to the iron door to unbar it.

"Well Gerald, get yourself to the healer. You look a bit roughed up." The youth ran past the masked figure and was caught by his wrist. "Here... this'll pay for that eye." He shoved a handful of coins into the youth's hand and watched some of the fog roll outside of the jailhouse chasing after Gerald.

He dragged the First Sergeant's chair away from the desk and parked it by the kama shoved into the floor. After closing and locking the constabulary door, he straddled the chair facing the Dab chandelier. He lifted his eahnor mask to above his eyes and lit a cigar. The pain was beginning to bring Dab to, and the guard moaned as he blinked away blurry vision from the blood rushing to his head.

"Where are the kids, Dab? You tell me and you live."

The guard mouthed something that looked like "Call for me...", but no sound came from his lips. The black skinned intruder stood up from the chair and replaced his mask. He walked up to the hanging giant and snuffed his cigar out on Dab's forehead. Dab winced but would not scream.

"I couldn't hear you," he said as he dropped the cigar stump to the floor. "Last chance."

Dab mouthed something again, no sound coming from his lips. He winced and reached up to the small of his back in pain. His mouth opened as if to say something, and his eyes closed tightly.

"Very well, nightie night for you again." The assailant placed his hands on either side of Dab's face to facilitate another meeting of eahnor mask with now-broken nose... and realized his mistake. A shackle and chain clapped closed on the assailant's wrist, securing him to Dab. A defiant and bloody-toothed grin from the hanging sentry brought the inquisitor's anger to a head.

Out in the street, a few passersby heard some of the screams from the jailhouse, but none would dare do more than hurry along their way. With all the turmoil in the town, not one wanted to end up on the bad side of whomever was causing those screams.

As the lamps died down and gave way to the rising sun, light penetrated the windows of the pawnshop - but wouldn't reach the splintered cracks on the back of the shop door. No light would find its way to the blood splattered around the entryway.

Light found its way into a fogless First Sergeant's Office - but not to the broken floorboards that once held a sickle. No light would shine to the top of the rafters where a chain had been sawed too quickly in release of a giantman.

Light found its way to the iron-barred door of the jail - but not to the spear tripod or the trail of blood that lead to the inside cells.

No light would shine on the skewered form of a giantman guard, or the stump at the end of his arm that pooled blood around the cell floor.

It was as though the island itself didn't want to know what had happened the night before.

It was dark when they came. She was expecting them... and everyone in town agreed that it would happen in the dark hours. So when the knock came, she was prepared. Her father's sword raised high, she crept around from the side of their little cottage and swung with all her might, grunting with the effort. The dark form moved with liquid grace, sliding aside effortlessly, and the weapon THUNKED into the doorjamb, the reverberations causing her hands to sting terribly. She let go of the weapon with a gasp, but fear and rage caused her to lunge at the form, fingernails slashing like a wild feline, her face a rictus of terror and fury. The form moved again, so fast that she could barely follow, and she found one hand jerked behind her, and her face pressed against the splintered walls of the only home she had ever known. She felt hot tears stain her face, and she shook from embarrassment, pain, and the terrible sensation that she had failed. One part of her hoped that all the noise wouldn't have woken her boys, but she dreaded their reactions when they found her corpse in the early morning hours.

The dark thoughts wound round and round in her mind, but then she felt something weighty press into the palm of the hand held behind her. Her face screwed up with confusion as she tried to puzzle out what it could be, then she felt hot breath on her ear and she recoiled. A quiet, even voice whispered, "Resist, Mother. All is not lost."

And the presence was gone, as quietly as the mist. She moved hesitantly away from the wall and pulled her sore arm around in front of her. Glancing down, she stifled a gasp. A large pouch of coins sat in the palm of her hand, and fresh tears flowed as she dropped to her knees. She shook with relieved gasps for a long few moments, then squared her shoulders, nodded once to the ground, and stood. She wrenched the sword from the doorjamb and made her way into the cottage, her jaw set with determination.

The silence was a living thing, and Xil felt it like a weight in the room. She moved uncomfortably, clearing her throat, but despite her best efforts, her gaze would not rise from the bartop in front of her. Again, she felt the words rising in her chest, forming into an... apology? Explanation? Epithet? The words fell apart once more, dispersing into disparate wisps of emotion that curled and coalesced into another layer atop the knot in her guts. She raised her mug to her lips and took a small sip, but even the alcohol tasted bitter and out of place. She couldn't place her emotions... there were simply too many of them warring for dominance. From one heartbeat to the next the riptide changed course, flinging her back and forth and causing random surges of adrenaline... from panic one moment, to rage the next, then to shame. And then the cycle would repeat itself.

The door opened, but she didn't bother to look up. It didn't matter who it was. She heard his voice, calm and measured as always, greeting the patrons. Like nothing was different. Like it was all the same as it had been. Her grip tightened on the mug, her knuckles turning an angry white, and she felt the words forming in her gut. This time they survived, and burst forth in a guttural growl.

"No," she growled.

He shuffled in front of her, and she felt his eyes on the top of her head. The rage empowered her, and she lifted her eyes to meet his. Placid hazel eyes met hers, as familiar as always, and the familiarity made her all the angrier. How DARE he look at her that way? As if it was all still the same? As if things just... continued on as they always had?

"Are you ready to listen now?" he asked, his tone even.

Xil glared daggers at him, but held her tongue. Even in her state, she knew he should not be the target of her ire.

"What ah been tryin' to tell you since you came in here, Xilly Girl... is that Ah'm OK."

Xil felt her eyes suddenly grow hot with tears, and she looked away, blinking furiously. Her tone was rough and ragged as she responded, her gaze remaining averted.

"But you might not have been. And I wasn't here."

Greth chuckled slightly, and Xil felt the rage return. The constant switching of strong emotions was quickly exhausting her, but she glared back at the placid bartender.

"Do me a favor, Xilly Girl... take a look at the floor behind you."

Xilona narrowed her eyes then glanced at the prominent smear on the floor behind her. Before she could look back, Greth had continued, his voice going quiet.

"Nobody... an' hear me clearly here... nobody... is gonna come in here an' end me. Do you understand? Not in here. This is my place."

There was a curious intensity to the bartender's face, and his tone was more forceful than she was used to hearing. Xilona watched him for a long time, her face growing calmer by degrees, until she nodded, just the once, and took a long pull from her drink.

He gazed tiredly at the vaguely avian mask on the wall, hating the thing with every pore of his being.

"Ends and means," he grumbled, though the words brought him no more comfort than they ever did. He heaved a sigh and began to dress. His finest garb, though it was starting to get a little tattered. He needed to replace it before the ruse fell apart completely, but he didn't have the funds. This particular role, he knew, had about run its course in any event. He finished dressing and stood, studiously avoiding the looking glass. It made him nauseous to see himself dressed in such a fashion, especially given what he had done recently while so garbed. He steeled himself, forcing ten long, slow, breaths in and out of his lungs, willing his heart to slow, and his hands to cease their trembling. When he had finished, he began the slow, painstaking construction of the smile he had been wearing for nearly a week now. It was an awful thing, and it made him taste bile every time he donned it. The smile was cold, mocking, and cruel, and carried with it a bargeful of arrogance. He knew it was in place when he felt as dirty as he could possibly imagine.

He fastened the lily to his lapel on his way out the door, his mind squarely on his mission. He could not fail... and so he would not.

She was gone. She'd taken his ring, and his hand, and his heart, and now she was gone, and those things were but a portion of what he had lost in the process. She hadn't paid, they said. She hadn't given enough. She hadn't been supportive enough. It was all garbage, and everyone knew it. They'd taken her because they could, and didn't give a damn about anything more than that. They'd taken her, and he had nothing left.

He hadn't eaten for two days, nor bathed, nor left his cottage. He sat and he waited. He hadn't paid his tithe in those two days either, and he knew they would come for him soon. He just couldn't find a way to care any more.

When the knock came, he did not rise. He didn't call out, or attempt to hide, or even look at the closed door. It wasn't locked, he knew, and even if it had been, it wouldn't have stopped them. They came in, loud and arrogant, and for the first time since she had been taken, he smiled.

He carefully opened the chest in his lap, feeling the tug of the mechanism inside, and then then percussive force that propelled the deadly shards throughout the small space. The flechettes, razor sharp, shredded everything they came into contact with, bathing the entire area in blood. His final thought was a happy one, as his eyes closed for the last time.

"Five less to deal with."

Mayor Lylia, I appreciate your efforts to be frank, and let me return the courtesy in the only way I know how, by being completely forthright in return. I shall take you at your word in this matter, as there are some residents of my Isle who have indicated that I may do so without reservation. However, I must be plain. I will brook no harm to my Isle or its residents, and I will not hesitate to seek justice where it is warranted when it comes to those I have sworn to protect. Do not believe that the relative distance between us would stay my hand, should I seek redress for wrongs perpetrated against my home. Avoid those circumstances, and we have no need of hostilities between us. As you are aware, there is currently a dire situation which is taking a large portion of my time and attention, but when it has subsided, I would like to meet face to face, that we might take better measure of each other, and know what to expect from any further interactions. Sincerely, Socius Leiffen

OOC Note: These were developed, as always, as a collaborative effort between myself and the players listed, where appropriate. Thank you all for playing along so wonderfully!