FateGuard

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Alyss thought for a moment on Corben's words after acknowledging Eric's arrival with a small inclining of the head in his direction. She stepped away from Erilyn and then came to her decision.

"I stick out too much, my hair and my temperature is too noticeable, I do not wish to give you away." She explained.

She thought for a moment longer, then took the locket from her neck and handed it to Corben, stepping back again as soon as she had.

"It's a leaf of Snow Alyss. It cures most poison and helps the healing process... If any of you get hurt, take a small pinch of the leaf.... any more than that may risk hallucinations... Keep it with you, please... It probably won't be much more than a comfort... but it's all I have to offer." Alyss pointed out. "Be swift and be safe." She spoke quietly, then grew silent. The boy had offered to go, and the giant was staying... she was staying... who else would go and who would stay behind? She looked to Corben as a fine leader, as good as Eric, but in a different way, with different views and action.

She was rather glad that Arkevenn was staying behind- she likened his attitude to a ray of light in a cold and dark cave. He was levity in times of need, in her eyes.
 
Derek paused and nodded, "My apologies, Corben. I have...thing on my mind I need to talk about. The time simply hasn't presented itself," Derek sat down and looked back to the marshall, "I'll go. I know the southern docks very well, considering how rampant crime can be down there. I should be able to move freely as well. I've never been down there without the Regalia so no one down there really knows what I look like without it. Even if someone does happen to recognize me somehow most everyone down there is a drunkard. Anything they say will be taken as a drunken delusion if they even listen in the first place," Derek lazed about for a moment before standing up again, stretching, and looked over to his parents tomb once more giving them a wordless good-bye. He finally patted Alyss on the shoulder.

"Stay warm. Avoid the booze. I'll have Arkavenn drink it all if I have to and we know he'd be more than happy to do it," he smirked and looked up at his large comrade. Derek would have to remember before the night was over to mention that Alyss would be living with him so he would know where to find her. If she was working to keep her body temperature up on her own Derek had to make sure their leader knew at least. He made a note to do so quietly. There was no need to make a fuss or distraction among his comrades.
 
Once their assassin foe had ben dispatched in the hallway, Leonardo had taken to caring for the wounded as a tailor of the flesh. Knowledge learned from his countless hours in the hospital let alone moments of life and death on the battlefield paid off. No less than a dozen men and women, including Tahan, found themselves experiencing first-hand his special techniques for stitching wounds and dressing them in bandages. With his help those victims of the Wounded Hand's betrayal found their pain eased through the diligent work of a steady hand. Saint strengthened among many his reputation of healing as many injuries on the sidelines as he could create on the battlefield.

But such diligence required a great amount of energy from a man woken from his slumber in the night.

Upon receiving the order of confinement to the Chapter House while the fate of their order, Leonardo complied with sorrowful silence as the lot of them trudged inside the structure. One that contained the remains of all who had given everything to protect Gothenheim in service of the FateGuard. Saint saw a particular tomb which caught his gaze in a vice. Not one from centuries ago or the last few years. This one had been buried during his youth, changing his life forever. For that day was the funeral of she who had birthed him into the world. Pain burdened him at the thought of all that had come after her death. . . but unbridled pride welled up within his heart and sprung forth from his soul upon remembering all she had done. Dozens of stories that served as his bedtime stories even before the young Saint understood what it all meant.

Time had brought understanding though. . . along with scars.

Weary from all that had transpired he still managed to talk Corben into letting him rest out of sight from the rest in a locked chamber. Sound would scarcely find it's way inside unless a fierce battlecry managed to penetrate the thick wood of a mighty oak. Isolation would grant him the peace he required to recover from such a long night while the rest did whatever it was they pleased under what was no less than voluntary imprisonment. Right after the door shut his hand turned the locking mechanism in order to keep himself sealed within during his much needed slumber. Only a key held by Erilyn or Saint's own hand could release him from the self-imposed confinement. Guilt over the harm that had come to Tahan gnawed at him without relent for nearly an hour as he tossed around on an unmade bed before finally getting some rest.

Hours passed.

Fierce shouts invaded the chamber where the bandaged knight had locked himself away with such haste after arriving. Bandages left unchanged from the night before still clung to his skin without a single speck of dirt or dust clinging to them. Every blink of his eyes brought the world into sharper focus as Saint rose up from the floor trembling uncontrollably. All that he beheld around him was a room left in shambles as though an intense struggle took place. One that he knew came not from any intruder entering the room unwelcome. Still the shouting persisted, fueling the drive to get out and investigate the disturbance.

The room could wait.

It appears I missed a few things while I was out. . .

Saint managed to stagger his way toward the others with a groggy gait only to find a heated argument among his fellow FateGuard. Every step of the way he heard familiar voices exchanging words with one another in a somewhat less than civil way. All of them were on edge. Pieces of the conversation registered with his mind bit by bit as he leaned on the wall for support that only a few people would ever grant him without any hesitation. No attempt to announce his presence ever came while he watched from the sidelines for quite some time. Eric's arrival actually filled him with confidence in light of all the betrayal their group suffered last night. Confidence enough to speak up once Derek finished his little piece. For a man garbed in white he had managed to go unnoticed while the rest consumed themselves with their master plan.

"I know the twins well, Corben. Better than the rest of the FateGuard. If this involves them I could offer insight. Besides. . . given a change of clothes I could easily pass for a leper, don't you think? Though if you wish for me to remain here I shall send my prayers along to watch over them instead."
 
What Corben said troubled Eric, traitors within the Fateguard, an attempted assassination on the king? Not by new recruits either, but by trusted members well known for their deeds of bravery. Such actions seemed inconceivable, but Corben spoke the simple truth. Eric was surprised that so many members missed the summons, remembering just two nights ago how the Twins were on the case and aiding their fellow members, hard to believe they could be traitors. These were indeed troubled times.

Eric's eyes focused past Corben as he attempted to recall any information that could prove useful.

"If you're going out and about, I'd suggest a stop by the city library for some answers if the South Docks provide none. We've all been down there plenty of times, Elayna and Aloysius especially what with Aloysius' sister working there and Elayna's family donations." He paused as he recalled the numerous times he would stop by in the afternoons and see the two together. "They were always studying together or passing information on scraps of parchment. Sayra would sometimes join in with 'em. The library should be closed and the windows shuttered by now, but there are never any city guards posted anywhere but the front door."

Eric focused on Corben once more, "it'd be up to you where you want me. Not many people that recognize me would care if I paid attention to the summons, being retired and all… not like anyone recognizes me as ... leader of the Fateguard anyways. I'd prefer to stay here however and look over things. With so many restless defenders locked away in one spot there'll be more than enough conflicts in here."
 
Coldness seeped quickly into Atlas' being, washing away any questions or concern at the fore front of his mind. While he had slumbered away, the night had again brought in their dangers. One of their own - one that Atlas had seen not too long ago - had poisoned their king. And she was slain by none other than Corben...

His mouth became suddenly dry and he tried to swallow. It was true, Lillith was learning alchemy from him, and he allowed her access to his tome. But that wasn't the only concern. In his wares Atlas was missing a vial of acid, and a very potent one at that. It wouldn't take long for the Council to put two and two together. What if they had accused Atlas of supplying Lillith with the ingredients necessary for the poison? He had no proof to deny that claim, nor did he have proof to say he was innocent if they accused him of a conspiracy.

His hands clutched painfully at his tome, his knuckles turning a pasty white. The blood had all but drained from his face, his face unreadable. The more Corden spoke, the more guilty the Fateguard looked. Slowly his eyes roved between his comrades, noting the tension that was still there. Atlas was not one to acknowledge that they fought amongst one another, if anything he preferred to ignore that such a thing happened. But tonight it was so blatantly obvious. It was a naive notion to believe that as a unit they would never fight. It was why Atlas had chosen to hold his tongue during such arguments, better not to end to the tension, but add to their camaraderie. The color returned to his face then, along with motivation.

"I'll not be made a fool in front of the Council. We won't be made fools." Atlas' eyes, which normally carried within them curiosity and adventure, burned with passion. "I shall come with you as well Corben and help clear our names. I've spells in my tome to help disguise ourselves if clothes will not suffice. The Wounded Hand will harm us no more."
 

"Thank you for standing with us, Eric." Corben shook his predecessor's hand. "The Chapter House is yours until my return."

And so, there were eight of them, and they would move like thieves in the night. Richtor led the way into the deeper crypt, where the eldest of the Fateguard were buried - now little more than piles of bones and relics. Some of the tombs were not even named and the air was dank from the rise and fall of the water table. Ferrick's ever-burning torch had been brought in from the courtyard and entrusted to Richtor. It was as if they carried the soul of their fallen brother with them now. After passing through the vault, a cramped sepulchre revealed the tomb of Saint Einarr, one of the first of the Pilgrim Knights.

It was a stone coffin overlaid with a carving of the Saint, at rest as he clasped his hands together. It brought an urgent to pang to Corben, a grimace beneath the hood of the robe he had donned. The Sword of Einarr was Aloysius's weapon. He would be wielding it even now, wherever he was... whatever he was doing.

Could the nearest man Corben had to a friend truly be a traitor? Aloysius had been his eyes, his advisor and crutch in his early days as marshall. Aloysius had taught him how to deal with Derek, how to part Leonardo and Malwin, how to get Alyss to speak and where to find Arkavenn in the mornings. Each lesson had been given freely and patiently. Aloysius was perhaps the calmest of all the FateGuard... wise beyond his years...

'No matter,' spoke a stronger voice in Corben's mind. If Aloysius was traitor, then Aloysius would suffer the blade. There had been no hesitation when he dashed Lilith's brains across the floor of the royal chamber. With Aloysius, it should be no different. A blindness was needed in duty and justice.

Riktor passed the torch to Derek then braced both hands to the tomb. It slid aside easily, unveiling a stairway, claustrophobic and damp, that plunged into the sewers. The smell of Gothenheim rose up, like putrid souls, to claw at their senses. But Riktor was already leading the way. With a last glance to his seven companions, each disguised to their own degree, the marshall descended into torchlit darkness. Sewer water swallowed his ankles.

They would head for the dock quarter first, so they might beat the curfew and mix freely with the patrons of the Lighthouse Tavern.


* * * * * *​


Above them, in the common room of the Chapter House, the other FateGuard were at rest. If it could be called such. Alexander yelled as he swung his broadsword with both hands, forcing Dyne to duck. His own dual creed blades moved in faster circles, parrying and stabbing at the larger man. But with Alexander's gauntlets lending him strength, he matched each thrust with his larger blade. The two circled, knocking over furniture and scraping walls.

Behind them, at a table, another two picked over the remains of bread and soup. "So I was there, at the threshold of the Bishop's house, when the wolf demon came charging at me from the night." Castanamir was gesticulating wildly with one hand as he told his story. The other was frozen still, with Ket, his favourite falcon, perched on it and devouring a mouse carcass. "It got the first blow - put its claw clean through my back, almost to the spine. I knew it would have my soul if I didn't fight. So I put my axe-head in its mouth - straight in there, to keep the bastard's teeth apart. I swear, an hour passed while I held the fiend. Then the wound took me. Last thing I saw was Corben coming from an alley, and his blade cleaving the demon's neck."

Opposite him, Harrell, the Quartermaster of the House, sat at an angle so he could listen to Castanamir but still watch the duel. "Hah!" he replied. "You fought a pup. In the old days the wolf demons were as large as hovels. They fed on horses. We needed cavalry to bring them down."

Castanamir fed another mouse to his raven. "You speak as if you were there."

Harrell glanced at him, and gave a smirk that belied his silvered features. Behind him, Dyne tackled Alexander around the waist and crashed with him over a common room chair. The two were up again in seconds and clashing blades.

"Try the carrots," Harrell nodded to Castanamir's trencher. "From my son's stall."

"What for? No vegetable has taste in Gothenheim," the messenger retorted. "Two days ago, I took the loggers to Malorn Ridge. We found wild strawberries, growing in the creek. Mark me, old man, I've had shit that tasted better."

Dyne yelled as Alexander dealt him a savage headbutt. He staggered. One of the creed blades was dropped. But Dyne fought just as dirty. Jumping against the wall he pushed off and delivered a roundhouse to Alexander's neck. The big man tumbled through the doorway and into the west hall.

In the opposite corner of the common room, Jelyssa gave a little groan and turned over on the bench, pulling a blanket tighter. The herbalist could sleep through anything, it seemed. Harrell and Castanamir glanced at her as she settled. "Speaking of your son's carrot..."

Harrell threw his trencher across the table. Castanamir dodged, laughing, while his falcon squawked and flew to resettle on his window perch. "Are you the bearer of idle rumours as well now, Castanamir?"

"A peddler of jest, no more. Jelyssa would be a good match for you son, Harrell. You know this."

The old man turned his back and crossed the room. On another table, Derek's armour was waiting to be cleaned. He set to this as Dyne came tumbling back into the room with Alexander's bootprint on his chest. More sword clashes rang out, and the two men ended in mutual headlocks, wrestling on the carpet.

Harrell's grey eyes peered through the window, at the courtyard now soaked in moonlight. In the distance, the torches burned at Ganthor Castle, where the Council was still in session. "I am no longer sure what I do and do not know," the old man muttered.
 

Ashamed with herself for her antagonizing of Derek, Erilyn followed behind Corben with a quiet mouth but contrite thoughts. She did not believe so much in apologizing to him for the affair, since she was only apologetic for the way it was approached and not the outcome. Instead, she would prove herself and excel, making the more senior members of the Fateguard proud of her. That was her hope, at least. Things were not so black and white in dealing with the shadows that crept through Gothenheim; Erilyn was often unsure if she were making the right choices. She stood for what she believed and defended her conviction soundly, but there were times when it seemed as though all the outcomes were bad, that there was no winning. She was coming to terms with that still, realizing that she would defend the people to the best of her abilities and still perhaps be cast in a dark light.

The tunnels had clearly not been traversed in a long while, and why should they have been? They were sewers - dark and reeking, unwelcoming even with the flickering light from the torch dancing through the shadow. Riktor was the first in the tunnel, followed by Corben, and then the others descended. The water reached to Erilyn's lower calf and she shivered involuntarily before beginning to trudge after Riktor. The dock quarter would not be too far and they would likely arrive in good time, their hopes for mingling resting on that.

Each member of the Fateguard was attempting to be disguised in their own way, unrecognizable as themselves so that they could mingle without fear. For some, it was harder than others, though the truly distinctive members had elected to stay behind. For Erilyn, who was rarely seen in clothing outside of her mail, weighted down with sword and shield, she had left the chain mail behind and was wearing only the clothing she had arrived in instead. The shield had also been deemed too ostentatious for their task at hand. Quick adjustments with her clothing and the boon of finding a simple woolen hat that she could tuck her hair into left Erilyn looking like a youthful boy with the group, which she took advantage of as an excuse to bring her sword at least along with her at her hip.

"What are we to do if someone recognizes one of our number?" she inquired after a few minutes, trying to sound confident or at least serene and not as nervous as she felt. She hoped that she was not wounding their luck by asking such a pessimistic question so early into the venture.
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Tahan trailed the rest of the FateGuard. Being shorter, the water rose to just under his knee, and he had had the good sense to remove his cotton soles before grinding his toes into the gravelly, mushy stone bottom of the flooded channel. The scriptures tattooed on his legs briefly flashed before submersion, with a hiss and spark of dim white light, but were soon hidden by the brackish piss-and-shit water; this was why he lingered behind.

Squish, squish, he plodded along, the suction on his toes reminding him of the mud he used to play in, in the orphanage, whenever the black rain stopped long enough for the children to engage in simple lawn games.

This seemed like a good place for a confession. Though quiet, the arched tunnel carried his voice well.

"Elayna is suspected of paganism by our Church, for worshiping the goddess" - he hissed that word, displeasure clear in his voice - "Aurora."

It seemed that he was still scared into reticence in the presence of others.

 
Behind the youngest of the FateGuard loomed a silhouette of robes that did nothing to stop Tahan from speaking ill of Elayna. Only these robes were the brown of dirt, mud, and filth. Perfect colors for such a fetid smelling tunnel that the city's own protectors had to wade through just to prove their innocence. More than anything this would certainly put Saint's penchant for cleanliness to the test. Sullied robes in the eyes of those who had their agenda against the church. Mages robes had a strange similarity to those worn by servants of the Holy Church. Sleeves large enough give infants a free ride in overlapped one another to hide both hands from sight. Head hung low in what most would take as a sign of subservience kept his face obscured just enough. A terrible disguise for one of the FateGuard in a sense. Both dedicated their lives to the service of others. Although the isolation from mainstream society varied from member to member.

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"Tell them they are mistaken. Everyone knows the FateGuard are all in the chapterhouse."​
 
"I doubt we have to worry much about anyone recognizing us where we're going anyway. This time of night those who aren't in their homes are drunk for one reason or another," as Derek trudged through the sewers along with his companions he couldn't help but think of the irony in the fact that the best disguise for him this night and in this part of town was almost no disguise at all. Being clad in armor almost all the time had its advantages. His voice was somewhat distorted by his helmet and his physical appearance masked completely. The only thing out of place from his normally blue-dominant wardrobe a black hooded cloak that closed around his body. Alondite hung on his belt beneath the fabrics.

However lacking the Regalia of Ancient Kings changed how he would have to fight as well if it came down to such things. He couldn't swing his sword in wide arcs with all his might and ignore the attacks of his enemies. But with the lack of the extreme weight the Regalia put on his body he would be much faster with the enhanced strength Alondite gave him. But even knowing all this he couldn't shake his discomfort. He could not be the impenetrable wall his allies could take refuge behind. He sighed to himself as they approached what seemed to be the end of the passage, "Hold. I'll take point. I know the southern docks well enough to know that there could be a drunken brawl taking place outside for all we know."

Derek slipped by his comrades to the front where he cautiously pushed on the stone wall in front of him only to have it give way slightly. A hidden door. Peeking out Derek motioned everyone to follow. As everyone slipped out of the passage Derek surveyed his surroundings. The area directly around the exit to the passage had no one in it but along the various docks of the area activity was vivid. A sailor stumbled drunkenly about talking to his friends only to slip and fall into the water. His friends did little but point and roar with laughter. Another dock had two men squaring off over something Derek was sure would be of no consequence the following morning.

"The southern docks. Drunks, bums, sailors, pick-pockets, men who don't know how to keep their hands to themselves, and much much worse," Derek took a second look around, this time at his surroundings more than the people, "We're on the west side. We need to head that way if we're going to the Lighthouse Tavern," Derek pointed in the direction of the pub, "Shall we go? No point in wasting any time here."
 

Though the Farborns, (as men of Gothenheim called themselves), had only a century of history to their name, even those early years were muddied and contested ones. They say the Pilgrim Fleet came to port amongst the rocky shallows where the South Docks now situate, and that for one whole week the Pilgrims were untroubled. They moored the ships, built temporary shelters from cannibalised parts, and conducted the first hunting forays into the strange continent they had shored upon. But when the evil of the Outside came upon the founding fathers, it was with a violence that almost drove them to extinction.

Most know of the Battle of White Rock, which took place on the headland further up the coast, where Castle Ganthor now stands. The deeds of the seven wizards, who repelled the darkness and became the founders of the Eldritch Guild, are a proud legend in Gothenheim. But at the South Docks, a lesser known and messier battle was fought. The Outside came at the Pilgrims in their boats, spewing sea monsters, storms and ravenous plagues. Whole families were butchered by half-men wielding tridants, crab-claws and tentacles. Whole ships were swallowed by serpents. While the Mages battled at White Rock it was the Nephilerian Priests who defended the port. They urged the people to fight, to get the women and children to safety, to lash together what ships remained and hold them, fortress-like, against the tide. The battle of South Docks made legends of Tiberius Malorn, father of the priesthood, and Aegard Isalt, the first king and distant ancestor of Ganthor and Erilyn.

As Derek led the FateGuard towards South Docks, they saw that signs of that battle, from a century ago, still remained. Ships of four-score age were lashed together and shored up on rocks, joined by a network of ancient wharfs and jetties. Old sails had been torn and restitched to make signs for businesses and taverns. Masts and cannon shafts had become pillars; rigging had become bedding. This was a district that echoed the Barren Sea - the reminder of who the people of Gotheheim had been before they found this land: the wayward and the outcast.

Lighthouse Tavern was a peculiar landmark, propped between two great outcrops of wave-lashed rock. It was, in fact, two ships which had fused together on collision a century ago. They say that at the Battle of South Docks the captain of the first ship was possessed by demons and compelled to steer his vessel into the sister ship. The beams of each vessel had welded together in the collision, and no man has since been able to unknit them. The tavern was thus a surreal sight - quarterdecks on top of each other, forming offset levels, like a giant's staircase. The bar was at the top level, with seating, gaming tables and standing room on the respective levels below.

It was designed this way, so a drinker would have to walk the gauntlet of every gambler, thief and brawler in South Docks if he wanted to place his order.

The FateGuard paused on the jetty as rain came down. Ahead of them was the doorway, where drunks were slumped and a large man, like the cousin of Arkavenn, stood in scale armour and hefted a club which might, at one time, have been part of a ship's anchor. There was another door around the side, likewise guarded. The sound of merriment, raucous and shrill, flavoured the air with the his of waves and rain.

Corben regarded his companions - Derek and Tahan simply-clothed, Erilyn like a tomboy docker, himself and Leonardo like penitent monks, and the others in various disguises.

"We best divide ourselves," he said from beneath his hood. "Our priority is to find Sayra, and determine why she ignored the summons. If Elayna or Aloysius are here, we apprehend them too. And the Twins." He swallowed deepely. Corben did not savour the idea of fighting the Twins. With their senses, they would detect the FateGuard coming from a mile away.

He gripped the hilt of his dragon sword, beneath his robe. "We'll split ourselves between the two doors, and stagger our entrance. We meet back here in an hour, with or without Sayra. If you are discovered, retreat to the tunnel entrance. Atlas will do his best to relay any messages between us."

And with that, the eight of them dispersed through the gathering rain.
 

Slipping away from the group, one of the first in staggered entrance, Erilyn slipped through one of the doors and then stood, straight to her full height and walking with as much confidence as she could infuse into her every step. It was not good to be arrogant, but she would fail were she to try and act meek. She was not used to going to such places as this, too often concerned with training and holding long meetings over the state of the city. The atmosphere left something to be desired, but she was soaking up the new experience readily.

The noise was so loud in the tavern, Erilyn could hardly hear herself thinking and she furrowed her brow, scanning the room. She had only a few times met Sayra, as Erilyn was a new addition to the Fateguard, and did not know well her appearance, but she did not see anyone that seemed to suit what she remembered of her. Spotting instead some men who, by appearance, seemed to be fairly often in the tavern, she wound her way closer to them through the crush of people on all sides. She was going to try and keep the appearance of a boy, as she did not carry the same threatening air that the female twin had and might seem out of place. The last thing that Erilyn wanted right now was to draw attention to herself.

Sitting down near the men who had caught her eye, though not close enough to insinuate herself into their group, Erilyn flicked a glance around, looking for someone who might bring the drinks. The men near her were talking too low to hear and she considered the possibility that, by their appearances, they might well be criminals. If they had been talking louder, she had thought to try and engage them in conversation, but that seemed to not be working well. Instead, with another look around and an exasperated grunt, Erilyn leaned in their direction, darkening and deepening her voice as much as she could muster.

"Is there some skill to being served here that I do not know of?"

She had been hoping to engage them, her goal being further conversation with the purpose of gleaning knowledge. True to form, they seemed tight-lipped and turned their gazes to her with less than friendly expressions. Trying to retain composure despite wanting nothing more than to move away, Erilyn merely raised an eyebrow. One of the men, disinterested, turned away to focus once more on his drink. Another man gestured to a woman nearby, who made her way quickly over and turned out to be a beer wench.

Grateful she had a few coins on her, Erilyn ordered some of the ale, assured by the woman that it would be fresh and well-spiced. Still trying not to seem more interested in them than she ought to be, Erilyn cast the man who had aided her a second glance and propped her chin on her hand, elbow pressed firmly into the wood of the table.

"Are you here frequent enough to know if the ale will be worth the coin?"
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Riktor was the second to enter, his walk a feigned shuffling gait, his disguise that of a tradesman, his clothes dirty and frayed at the edges, soot and dirt streaked his face and he wore a matted and filthy beard, the latter grown with the aid of some subtle magics.
He shook off the cold as he passed through the doors, running a hand down his face an through his beard, wiping the detritus he dislodged on the thigh of his pants, limping to the bar, his eyes casually sweeping the room for any sign of the traitors, of which there was none, though in the gambling section he noticed that the dregs at one table, playing a game of cards had an empty seat, the disguised banner bearer took himself a large tankard of ale, paying with some scuffed coins of small value before moving awkwardly to the table to mingle with his newfound 'freinds'
 
The three Erilyn spoke to turned their stares again. The first drinker was bewildered, the second irritated, the third suspicious. He narrowed his gaze at the effeminate youngster and turned fully from the table to regard him. One hand held his tankard while the other rested, idly, on his belly.

"Tha's a mouthful you jus' said there, boy. Ye shit from both ends?"

His fellows laughed. He drove the point home with a "Piss off!" before turning back to his previous conversation.
 

Not used to using rough speech or anything less than proper, Erilyn supposed that she ought have expected such a response, but she didn't know much in using a more... informal speech. For the first time she could recall, she wished that she had spent a bit more time in taverns so that she had a better idea of what to say to appeal to the crowd of people present.

Taking a sip from her drink, Erilyn wrinkled her nose a bit with the bitterness of the initial taste, but found that she did like the spices in the brew. She cast a glance around the place, wondering if she ought to leave the men alone to keep from seeming strange to them for her persistence. She took another small drink and chose to try once more before giving up on it, hopefully cobbling together the speech she had heard from them to seem less out of place. She scrunched her face up and set the mug down with a clatter.

"You pissers prob'ly aren't e'en Farborn and din't learn what's shit from isn't" she said, not even looking to them anymore. She hoped very much that they wouldn't want to fight her for her words and would only be indignant or defensive. "Bet you din't e'en know the hero Sayra." She was glancing from beneath lowered eyelids, fully planning on burying herself in the crowd if they got violent instead of answering.
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Schwrick!

The first man's gutting knife left its sheath and he turned again, sharply, to the boy who'd made the ludicrous claim that someone living an ocean away from the Old World was somehow not born here. It was perhaps the pure bizarreness of the comment which spared Erilyn a punch.

"I SAID FUCK OFF, LEAD-TONGUE! DISTURB ME AGAIN AN' I'LL CUT YER 'AIRLESS BALLS OFF!"

He spat on Erilyn's own table, between her hands. Then held her gaze.

Either the boy would shut up, or be ready to run.
 
He was third to enter, with the hood of a tattered old cloak to cover his face. Atlas walked hunched over, his foot steps awfully hesitant. The mage was trying to pass off like an old man and for now it seemed to be working, although he couldn't see the many eyes that were upon him. He kept his eyes averted and fixed upon the ground as he walked through the crowd, getting pushed here and there. A bar maid who frantically moved among the people was stopped by Atlas grabbing hold of her sleeve.

"I'm feeling a bit parched, m'dear," he said, in a hoarse whisper. "A tankard of beer mayhap to quench my thirst?" He shoved some coin into the woman's hand, more than enough to cover the cost of his drink. Thrilled at the money, she hurried to get his order, while Atlas shuffled over to a table. His seat was next to an obnoxious group of men, but then again they all seemed rather obnoxious. When the bar maid set Atlas' drink in front of him, he murmured his thanks, and opened up his rucksack, using the table to hide his actions. Withdrawing a small vial of herbs, he dumped the contents into his drink, using his finger to mix it all together. His mixture was meant to strengthen the side effects of alcohol. It wasn't suppose to make the drinker pass out, but to make him relax, and loosen up his tongue.

Now came the odd part of making anyone in this room to drink his concoction. Atlas stood, remembering to remain hunched over. He worked through the group, trying to pinpoint who he should use this on. He winced as he caught snatches of Erilyn's conversation, the poor gal, perhaps he should help her?

While the group of men were distracted with Erilyn, Atlas reached around one of them. Ever so carefully he snatched their cup - thank god it was mostly empty - turned around and quietly poured his beer into the container. He set it down on their table, and quickly moved away with his empty cup. The mage was praying no one saw his trick, hoping that perhaps Erilyn would take advantage of the poor fellow who drank from the wrong cup.
 
Derek walked in behind Atlas observing the alchemist's actions. If he was trying to drug someone then he had to make sure to keep a low profile and not start any fight. Still, this was to some extent his element. Having taken the open seat at the last active table Derek strode up to the bar, "Ye got any apple juice?" the woman at the bar look bewildered for a moment until he gestured his head over towards the gambling, "I ain't th' kind of man to go gamblin' drunk as a pig. An' as drunk as these apes are 'ey won't know that I'm not actually drinkin'. Easy money," Derek had been in this particular bar so much that he knew exactly how to talk to blend in. Pondering Derek's words from a moment the woman shrugged.

"Whatever floats your boat, hon. Can't argue with that logic," reaching for a large beer mug she filled Derek's order. Apparently she found the idea amusing enough to make Derek's "ale" look as convincing as possible. Taking a large pull off his drink he strode over to an empty gambling table and started shuffling the cards. A few other patrons motioned toward Derek and sat down opposite of him.

"Wh'as your game, stranger?"

"Whatev'r the hell ye want it to be. So long as you might be willin' to tell me somethin' about someone I'm lookin' fer."

"...We'll jus' see," Derek smiled beneath the shadows of his hood and began dealing. A few hands in none of the five men at the table had made any real money. The other four men drank their alcohol contently while Derek had downed his mug already, "So whosit yer lookin' for?" asked one of the men.

"'Bout this tall, slim, long white hair, blindfolded girl?" the men gave Derek a look like he was crazy.

"Hang on a tick. I'n'that one of the FateGuard? Wha' in the hell would ye want with that freak?"

"Freak? Maybe. But have ye ever actually taken a look at 'er? The hips, the arse, the breasts in a dress so low cut that it's a wonder they don't just pop out of the damn thing? Tha's a body handcrafted by God himself and I'm bettin' I can get her out of that dress and give God's handiwork a look, a feel, and a whole lot of appreciation," there was a long pause at the table and the men roared with laughter.

"Yer a crazy son of a bitch to wanna try somethin' like that. I'd like to see ya pull that off," the leader of the men shook his head in amazement as his lackey's chuckled. Derek chuckled right back. The trap was baited.

"If ye can tell me where she is I'm thinkin' I might let ya," the men's laughter stopped. It was a tempting set up. Nadia always had a nice body and now that Derek had planted the idea of her naked in the mens' heads. One of the other men looked to their boss.

"...She is a piece, Liam..." the leader paused.

"...You just keep dealing the cards, stranger...for now," Derek's smile grew under his hood.

"Gladly."
 

More than a touch disappointed, Erilyn gave up on the men as a lost cause and wondered briefly how it was that she had avoided associating with their ilk for so long. She made a mental note that, after this affair was over, she'd work on trying to acclimatize herself with all of the districts and all of the different sorts of people because, truly, this whole fiasco was just proving to her how little she knew some of the more rough around the edges areas. Not wanting to get into a fight, and fully resigned that she was going to get nothing from the men, Erilyn began to edge away, especially since one of the men seemed to have noticed something amiss with Atlas and she didn't want to be on the receiving end of one of their fists.

Instead, Erilyn scanned the room and moved away, her gaze centered on the beer wench. Perhaps the woman, despite being of the same sort, would be more cooperative and soft-spoken. Erilyn could only hope that this would be the case, though it would be easier to explain away why a young man would have interest in talking to her, rather than trying to come up with an explanation for bothering the group of men back there. Closer to the bar, Erilyn ended up setting down next to a rather large man at the bar and the quizzical look he gave at first made her worry that he might have seen through her disguise. After a moment, though, he had nothing to say and turned away again.

To the woman, Erilyn tried to speak, but she was in something of a rush, which Erilyn supposed she should have expected. Sighing and glancing around, Erilyn turned to face herself ever so slightly towards the large man next to her, who at least seemed a more sedate sort than the men she's been trying to talk with earlier. Trying to seem a little abashed, Erilyn looked up at the man.

"Wouldn't 'appen to 'ave seen a beauty round, blue eyes an' black hair? They tol' me she serves here now an' then." Hopefully this approach, an enamored young man looking for a ladylove, would get a better response. If it weren't so urgent a task to complete, Erilyn would have given up with the surly group of men, but as it was, she was edgy about the night and trying to find what they needed before the night drew short.
​
 

Alyss had tried to keep busy while her allies were searching for answers.

She worked on her weapons- re-stringing her bow and sharpening her arrows, testing each before moving on to repair her armor, sewing up tears and holes, as well as making note of any dings or scratches in the small plates of metal that were mostly on her torso.

With that done, she sat down, taking a break to wonder about Malwin's whereabouts, and of her....father's betrayal... she wondered if she had ever looked upon her mother without knowing it... and when the thoughts became too much, and frost began to swirl around her, she shook her head of the troubles. She tried to focus on what she could change, what she could do. She could work on her archery... try to get better... no... She would get better... She'd train until she would be certain she could at least stand even in a match against her old teacher. She would prove herself, she would work harder... maybe after all of this was over, and if she did a good enough job... maybe people would see that she was an ally, not a enemy in their midst.

It wasn't a hope that she put much thought into, and it wasn't entirely realistic, she could admit- though, acceptance was something she craved. She wanted nothing more than to stop people from giving her sidelong glances at her, like she was a leper, to be avoided.

She ran her hands through her hair and then took a breath. The time to be sad and lost in thoughts was over- her time could be spent on helping.

Though, she was unsure of how she could really help at this exact time. She found Arkevenn and paused for a moment before speaking.

"I.... would like to ask if you could help me... I need... to practice other types of combat- my archery may not be helpful right now.... I... need help with more... up-close combat styles." She looked up at the man.
 
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