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

Another voice Nehor doesn’t recognize cuts in. “I'm not even going to be humoring this. We are redoing our whole...*justice system* this weekend. I don't have time to deal with your slander against our leaders-"

Papers rustle as the clerk returns the forms.

"When its written its libel, but in this case corroborated by a dozen eye witnesses. Look at this letterhead these are official prosecution via citizen forms."

Papers rustle again as Faerinn pushes them back across the desk.

"Please just leave. I don't want to have to talk to the guards again today. "

Rustle.

"Sure, just file these."

Rustle, rustle, as the tug of war continues.

"Sir, please-"

The warmth usually in Faerinn's voice drained out. "I'm not leaving this office until you file this paperwork."

A second voice broke in, "We need you to come along with us, Sir."

A third voice follows, "We don't have to be polite to this mutt!"

"Take your hand off me or I'm keeping it," Faerinn said.

Then there are sounds of scuffling, clothes rustling, a brief grind of metal on metal, and screaming.

A fourth voice comes in that Nehor does not recognize, "That's an officer of the law you're manhandling!" The fourth speaker tries to add admonishment, but is cut off by his brother in arm‘s incoherent screaming.

“Oh, beans, oh, beans, look at Juice’s arm, the way it’s twitching and a thrashing - it’s gonna explode!,” said Guard number 1,” The half-elf's putting a sorcery in his bone! We gotta stand down.”

“Oh, please, oh please Mr. Half-Elf,” ‘Juice’ bellowed. “Don’t disrupt my prize winning wrasslin’ arm! I didn’t mean it! I’m just a product of society and-“

“Oh, it’s just an arm hold,” Faerinn purred the warmth returning to his voice. There’s a sound of paper rustling as Faerinn extracted something from his pocket. “Grit your teeth and read the name on this card, please.”

An awkward moment of silence followed for far too long. “Oh no, can you not read?”

“I can,” Juice countered,”But I’m under a lot of pressure here and you’re putting me on the spot!”

The sound of a pop and a sigh as Faerinn cracks his own neck.

“Ok, y’all! This card says I am here under official Flock business, and your are to render all the assistance you can for my investigation. Now can y’all do that? Do I gotta call the Big Bird himself down to explain this to you?”

“Anything but that!” Beans pleaded. “That would be our whole lunch break!”

“You better do what he says and file those forms, Clerkus,” Trav added.

“That’s not my name- Fine where do I file these under?” Clerkus responded.

“S for Selbi, or B for Birdbrains,” Faerinn suggested.

“Is there anything else I can help you with today, Sir.”

“Yes, give me your coffee mug. “

“Why would you need that?”

“Don’t question the Flockmaster’s business!,” Faerinn shouts and Juice yelps in pain. “I’m requisitioning it for my investigation.”

“Ok-“

“And fill it with all the quills you have on hand.”

The melodic pinging of metal against ceramic sings as the mug is filled.

"Ok, ok!"

The sounds of booted feet scuffing carpet and the clanking of chainmail is heard as Faerinn throws Juice into the other guards tumbling them over.

"You might want to ice that arm. Your buddy has a lot of compression on his ulnar nerve, for some reason, but his arm will return to normal soon." The sound of wood creaking is heard as Faerinn opened the door. "But if not, maybe the Flockmaster will reward your faith with your own magic arm."

The paneled ebonwood door opened smoothly, and two women, both very different yet with equally stern expressions, entered the room. Lord Nehor stood, adjusting himself smoothly before offering both a bow.

"My thanks for bringing her here." Nehor drawled, all gratitude and smiles.

The elf curled her lips upward, ever so slightly, a twinkle of amusement in her eyes that belies the deadly grace with which she carried herself. In simple words, she replied "You are welcome." Tatria watched the exchange with a bemused expression. Gesturing for both women to sit, he takes one himself and begins to explain why he asked her here. Nehor addressed the girl in polite tones, his volume and cadence perfected over years of stagecraft. "Tatria was it? I was told that it might be in both our interests if we has a conversation."

Nehor smiled thinly, adjusting the cuffs on his sleeves as he regarded her. "Fat owl been talking again?" was the short reply, tone free of the amusement implied by the words Shaking his head simply, Nehor explained to her to the purpose of the visit. How she had been the only one to speak up for the children at the community meeting, and she alone had expressed concern for their welfare. Nehor went on to claim how this gesture, this show of genuine care, had touched his heart.

The lass was skeptical at first. Almost angry, confrontational. She brought up several rumors she had heard.

Bluntly, she spilled forth the first: "Say flock burns children. Defenders say they not allow Flock to take children."

Sorrowfully, putting all the practice and effort he can muster into his body language as well as his words, Nehor carefully explains how that such things are not true. How it was Nazhor that was responsible, ultimately, how the Flock had been instrumental in striking him down. How Socius, the butcher, had failed his people and the children both and thus no longer was worthy of the responsibility of caring for the Isle.

Throughout the conversation, Lynaera watched, her keen elven eyes always moving...ensuring the doors and windows were secure and free of watching eyes or listening ears. She chimed in when appropriate, backing up Lord Nehor's words, adding to the believability of the performance.

Slowly but surely, as the conversation went on, Tatria turned from argumentative to curious. From skeptical to accepting. Finally, when Nehor noticed her nodding along with his words, his claims that Greth's was no appropriate place for children, that they needed a safe space. Not barracks, but a place just for them. Education and comfort and, above all else, safety. When Nehor saw that the lass nodded...not just with politeness (this one had no sense of manners, and lacked all guile or pretense) but with conviction...he broached what he had intended from the start.

Carefully stressing his words, Nehor continued: "It is why Mistress Selbi has placed us in charge. We wish to make sure that nothing like that ever happens again. That no children burn because the leaders would not do what they need to protect children."

Tatria frowned, listening.

Nehor soothingly whispered "Greth means well but his place is...unsuitable." Lynaera quietly added, "And Greth can only help so many at a time."

Tatria piped up in agreement: "No place for kids, water is bad."

Speaking calmly to Tatria, Nehor continued, "It really is simple. The Flock has a safe place being made ready. It should open tomorrow, in the fact. We need volunteers to help guide the children and ensure their safety."

Lynaera and Nehor glanced at one another. "We would like to offer you a position. We need someone who genuinley cares for children to help see to their comfort and well being. Would you aid us? Would you help us bring the kids to safety?"

Tatria looked between the pair, a thoughtful expression on her stern features. Slowly and carefully, she replied: "Will make sure kids stay safe. You will take them if I say yes or no so I say yes."

Nehor smiled, exuding warmth and approval. They stood, exchanged a few more words between them. The Flock would provide her the resources she needed. She would be allowed to watch over the children under the care of the Orphanage and its staff. All she had to do, when the time was right, was to sneak the children out of Greth's.

Tatria left, a look of determination on her features. As the door closed, Lynaera and Nehor studied each other.

"Do you think she'll succeed?" Lynaera asked, her tone full of doubt.

"With the proper support. I shall make arrangements." Nehor confidently replied. He turned to the papers at his desk, studying them as he thought. After a moment, he added "And if she fails, we still have taken a tool from the Rebels. Such things are important, to deny the enemy resources. It will also be good optics. We will be seen trying to help someone who cares for the children shelter them. If the Butcher and his ilk try to stop us? Well. They are seen preventing children from reaching safety."

Nehor leaned forward in his chair, a grim expression on his face. "This is a conflict that will be won, not with force of arms, but with winning of hearts and minds. We must use a firm hand at times, to be sure, but it is these little things that will make the difference."

Lynaera nodded, still doubtful. Both sat, talking well into the night of what the future may hold.

Somewhere, in the distance, thunder rumbled.

A storm was coming.

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.

Pushing back the hood of her cowl and allowing it fall over her shoulders, she was met with a sea of anxious faces and a barrage of questions.

"No one tells us anything!" "Is it true that Greth was attacked?" "I heard all those poor orphans he was looking after have been snatched!" "Someone said Socius tried to kill Nehor with a dart!"

All the wild speculation and genuine concern, however, was drowned out by general grumbling and outrage over "no-good" governments and corrupt administrations.

"Hush now, one at a time!" Someone handed her a cup of freshly brewed tea, which she gladly accepted, and she took a seat in an attempt to calm the mood.

"We’ve suffered enough!" A shabbily dressed man limped forward after his outburst and sheepishly cleared his throat.

Rohese noticed that the right side of his face still bore the raw red scars of a nasty burn, despite his attempts to conceal it from her. Rising to her feet once more, she approached him and tenderly held his hand in her own. She was sharply reminded of the horrific events last year where the townspeople had been attacked. A solitary tear ran down her cheek.

Struggling to find the right words, she simply nodded in agreement and added, "I know."

"Jus’ tell us what we should do or we should trust!" His frustration and skepticism, along with those around him, was clearly evident and it tore at her heart.

Rohese surveyed the room, taking in each and every face now looking to her for answers. She was fairly sure that some of them were Flock sympathisers and word of this gathering would probably reach Nehor but that couldn’t be helped; besides, she had nothing to hide.

How am I ever going to convince them? Honesty. That was her only weapon against the Flock.

Taking a deep breath, Rohese calmly and carefully shared everything she had been made aware of over the last few days, even her own reservations about some of the decisions being made in the name of "restoring balance."

Slowly, but surely, the crowd settled and began to nod along as if they understood and appreciated the complexity of the situation in which they found themselves.

"All I can ask is that you trust us; trust that we are doing all we can to put things right so that you and your children can live in peace and do not suffer anymore." She smiled – hoping it was reassuring - and finished her tea before adding, "trust your instincts and what feels right."

Placing the empty cup on the nearby table, she watched with no small measure of relief as everyone started to discuss ways in which they could help or at least cope with the uncertainties of the days that were likely to follow.

I've done all I can. It's up to them now.

Glancing around the room one last time, she noticed a small group of children playing a game of dice in the corner. She wandered over to them and knelt down. A hushed discussion took place amid a lot of giggling and playful nudges. Rohese then handed them each a piece of colored chalk.

Taking in each of their eager expressions, she began to regret her actions but opted instead to clarify her proposal with a gentle smile.

"Remember what we agreed: nothing offensive or destructive, just draw something that you think your friends will find funny. Promise?"

"We promise, Miss Roh!"

"We promise!"

With a conspiratorial wink, she rose gracefully to her feet and slipped away into the night.

Rohese smiled softly at Greth, stepping towards him and planting a tender kiss on his bruised cheek.

"Forgive me for calling so late but I am here to fulfil Socius's request. Is he ready to be moved?"

Greth cast a perfunctory glance at the door behind the bar and nodded. Resting a small hand over his, Rohese took in the injuries he had suffered and sighed.

"We have to trust that Socius knows what he is doing."

"Right you are, Miss," Greth replied, somewhat reluctantly. "I’m not rightly happy about this but if you think it's for the best too, then so be it."

Rohese gazed fondly at the gruff barkeeper and quietly thanked Xilona for the introduction.

"I have prepared a bed for him at Cyraeni's house, just along Gardenia Lane. It's a peaceful spot, tucked away from prying eyes, so Penre should be safe there and I will do everything in my power to aid in his recovery."

Seeing his brow furrow, Rohese hastily added, "I would welcome any help you might wish to give in terms of a guard and, please, could you see that Darcena is informed of his location."

Greth absently nodded and Rohese noticed a pained expression cross his face.

"We will find those children and see that they are safe too," she added. "It wasn’t your fault!"

Rising to her tiptoes, she kissed him again on the cheek.

"Take care and I will see you very soon."

Making her way back to Cyraeni's, Rohese noticed that one of the propaganda posters now boasted a bird image with a pair of bright yellow penguin feet and a ridiculously large green bowtie. She giggled to herself before hastily pulling the hood back over her head to conceal her obvious amusement.

She mentally checked off another name from her list. There was still so much to be done before she could retire for the night.

Penre would soon be resting in a comfortable bed and receiving around-the-clock care.

I must send that letter of introduction to Socius tonight; I promised Juspera.

I need to consider how to approach the Council of Thrones regarding business dealings with Mist Harbor.

Lylia. Why did that conversation with Xanthium bother her so much? What could the Mayor be thinking! Rohese shook her head and was reminded of her own words earlier that evening. Trust your instincts.

And then, of course, there was Nehor. Despite her best efforts, she was still concerned about that outrageous man. There was definitely something there earlier - a moment - something in the eyes and the way he looked at her. Rohese shrugged it off. I have more important matters to deal with first.

A courier handed Socius a folded sheet of white parchment with an avian-stamped silver wax seal. It read:

12th day of Lormesta in the year 5120

My dear Socius,

It was a pleasure to see you today. First, I want to thank you for stopping by the Museum last month and supporting the Elanthian Vogue event. I’m sure the Lady Avawren won’t mind me saying that she is somewhat enamored with your portrait in the Gallery journal. It is in safe hands.

Secondly, I am writing to let you know that your request has been granted. I have spoken with Greth regarding Penre’s relocation and he will see that your orders are carried out. Please be assured that I will do everything in my power to keep him safe and ensure his recovery.

And finally, please forgive my impertinence, but I have a small favour to ask of you in return. I have been approached by Juspera to see if you might be willing to meet with her and the Magister Raelee Svala. I can vouch for both of them in terms of their respectful behaviour towards to me but I am hesitant to say more as I am not particularly comfortable with certain aspects of their reputations. It is worth nothing that Akenna is not happy at all about the Hall of Mages being involved but I shall leave that for you to determine further. I am, of course, more than happy to accompany both parties, should you or they ask it of me.

As always, your friend and confidante.