Lunatic Fringe

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Interest Check | Rules & Sign-Ups | Lore & OOC​

If you are interested in joining, please PM @Nav and we can discuss getting you involved! :D​

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The upper-level, subsequently also the entry level, of the little tavern was a hundred of conversations all being told in loud voices. The voices, which became nothing more than grey noise, were pierced with minstrels playing lively music from one corner of the bar. The crowd was human mostly, primarily men, though a few young Strumpet women wound up on tabletops, trying to steal attention and coin. The smoke twisted in its artistic way, forming curls in the gloom, illuminated only by the age-speckled oil lamps. Along the back wall was every hue of amber liquid in dusty bottles that lined the shelves of the derelict tavern, their brilliant greens and blues lost below the grey-white layer. The dust was so thick that it built a layer over them that was more like fur, or else fragments of the old cobwebs that hung from the rafters above.

The Golden Scribe was a lively place. For dozens of years, coaches pulled up to the old inn with tired horses, the patrons stumbling in hungry and cold. The bar curved around the large room that was packed with bodies to the opposite corner of the minstrels, where a pair of twin staircases led up to the dormitory rooms for rent and down to the basement.

There was no bar in the basement and, subsequently, no patrons. Thick wooden tables lined the dank space and to any outsider, the basement would have appeared discomforting and sinister. There was no-one in the candlelit basement but for an old gent who appeared to be reading from a book. The man appeared to almost belong, but not quite. He was dressed in scrubby robes and wore a cloak that was spattered at the bottom hem with mud, like most of the men upstairs wore, but there was something luxurious about his clothes. At one time, the garments were probably quite beautiful, exquisite, and expensive, though they had fallen in to disrepair and were then held together by patchwork and shoddy restitching of torn seams.

He was an older man who a fringe of grey-white hair that was swept back and neatly tied at the base of his neck. He had a wizened face, but his joints still moved freely and without pain. His lobeless ears rose into points, hinting at his heathenness with the brethren upstairs. An elf, right in the heart of the city was an elf clearly up to no good.

OBJECTIVES:
Introduce your character in whatever way you see fit. Your character is welcome to follow the letter and arrive to the basement of the Golden Scribe at any time. They can take note of their surroundings, interact with one another, or contemplate quietly the meaning of life. If you want to have extended conversations or interactions between yourselves, go ahead, though I suggest you do a collaboration over PM and post just one post for the sake of simplicity. You're welcome to also interact with our elven friend here, but he won't really respond until my next post. 8D

Next GM post: ~02/12/17 (Again, there is a site-wide update coming sometime around then, so my next post may be delayed due to site maintenance. Also, Valentine's Day may delay my post as well. Note my next post will not come BEFORE 02-12-17. If you need an extension, please don't hesitate to shout to me in a PM or in the OOC.

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[Jakers]

>> SOME NIGHTS AGO

"The Golden Scribe... on the twenty ninth of the fourth?" The words of Astana were echoed from the mouth of her master within the snug walls of the rich elf's remote cottage. The girl's body seemed to glow orange as she kneeled with a fireplace flickering behind her, and as she tried to explain the situation to her master, she could visually see his purple anger and tension filling the room. "Why on earth would a person like you want to go there? You're not so naive as to think they'll just let someone like you fit right in and sing little sonnets, are you? Have you lost whatever's left of your damned mind? ...If you're looking for artistic inspiration, staring at a cow pat would be more fruitful than a place like that."

"...It's not because I want to. And it's not for artistic inspiration, Sir, trust me. It's because I have to." Despite the looks of the blonde-locked elven man that towered above her as she lay on her knees, she said the words with strength. "An opporunity has been presented to me that I can't just turn away. Even if the conditions don't suit me... I have to try."

"Why do you have to? What in the damned world would make you have to go to a place like that? You will be risking your life and I won't allow it! You have too much talent to be dragged off by the hair in the middle of some man-stinking tavern to your demise." Clearly becoming angered as his squinting, birch-brown eyes looked down on hers, Astana knew she was starting to tread on thin ice. "Did I mention? If you're lucky enough to get a 'formal' hanging instead of being gutted on the spot, they sometimes pull out your organs while you choke for breath. The last thing you will see is your blood-dripping liver as your body writhes in pain and slowly loses all feeling." Her master, whilst usually reserved, polite, and kind - for an elf - had a volatile side that was mixed with a power complex. Despite the gruesome imagery, Astana seemed to ignore it, and moved straight on to explaining herself in the slow and graceful monotone she seemed to possess.

"It's... because..." She trailed off as her eyes moved around the room in the calm and lazy manner they always seemed to. "I... I can't explain it. You wouldn't understa--" The water Acerbus was cut off with a gasp as a palm smacked her across the side of the mouth, knocking her off her knees and onto a side-sprawl onto the floor. She coughed once, holding her stinging mouth as she looked back at her elven master's gaze.

"Don't you dare. Talented as you might be, remember your place. There is nothing I wouldn't understand if a damned-stinking Acerbus is capable of understanding it, you hear? I give you just about everything you need around here, so you can at least have the respect to tell me why you're risking SUICIDE!" The last word was emitted with a roar as a boot followed up and struck Astana in the side. A wheeze could faintly be heard from the girl as something seemed to crack.

Astana groaned, holding her side as she recovered on the floor. It was hard to pick words that wouldn't send her into a further beating, but her master seemed to be listening, though still obviously furious.
"Urgh... m... my apologies..." She sounded in pain, but not angry or upset; still oddly calm; still oddly forgiving. "I... I never thought you were beyond understanding, I just thought I wouldn't be capable of finding the right words... to explain my reasons to you..." A shaky hand reaching her pocket for the letter she'd received, she feebly held it up to the elven man. Her eyes slowly began to show emotion, and it was desperation as a droplet of water gently hit the carpeted floor. "...Please. Read this and understand. I have to at least try going there... p... please..."

> > > ~ ~ ~ < < <​

>> P R E S E N T

Reasoning with her master had been difficult, painful, and stressful those handful of nights ago, but she'd managed to do it. The young water Acerbus that was only known by few and barely to herself as 'Astana' skulked around the streets of Sorvan City, flickers of silky black hair covering her eyes as she tried her best to 'blend in' and 'act natural' as she headed to the given directions of The Golden Scribe. Usually, under no normal circumstances would she freely walk around in public - let alone go to a tavern - but she had been given a reason too great to push away because of fear. A note she'd received had intrigued her with a unique opportunity, and she couldn't be late.

They were coming, and she was too far away from the safety of the wilderness to start running now. Her abilities were in no way strong enough to combat the Orion Knights, even if she wanted to. Her time here painting for various masters and being fed with proper food had been a time of reserved joy; reserved joy that was being plagued by anxiety. She knew they were going to find her at some point; she could feel the invisible noose tightening under her neck in an explosion of gold and amber swirls. But it was not knowing when that was the hardest part. Would it be tomorrow? Next week? The day after?

In a way, the note had given her some form of hope. The note had confirmed her suspicions that the Orion were coming. To her, that was almost enough, but the note had offered something else. 'Another choice'. Whoever wrote it had made it sound so simple. He or she probably wanted a huge sum in return for their service; a huge sum of something that likely wasn't little paintings. But to let that anxiety run dry in the hope of being able to enjoy and live her life peacefully, Astana, a lost artist, had decided to follow the note's orders.

Dressing luxuriously was something she loved to do when in the varied households of her 'employers', but it was something she knew she couldn't get away with in a place like The Golden Scribe. Astana, in her usual clothing, would stick out like a sore thumb for a huge amount of reasons in a place like that. To try and fix that, she'd made some precautions. A smear of brown paint that matched the tone of her skin was enough to hide the small but strange silver marking under her eye. She'd left behind her embroidered robe and delicate jewellery - as much as it hurt - and instead worn some 'borrowed' rugged hide clothing that made her look like a traveler of sorts. Having to ruffle up her hair a bit after she'd had it specially done hurt the most of all, but it had to be done. The hope that letter had filled her with was too much of an opportunity to ignore for the sake of wanting to look how she wanted to.

By the time she'd finally reached the place - thankfully without any suspicious glances being thrown her way thanks to her getup - Astana's deep blue eyes observed the tavern from the outside. Mmm... it was easy to accuse a place like this of being ugly or a hangout spot for ruffians and people with no taste, but the tavern in her eyes held a beauty of its own. A unique ruggedness; stone that held a history behind it. For a place to be beautiful, it didn't have to be covered in patterns. Even if the music she could hear from the inside wasn't really to her taste, the place hadn't been as terrifying as Astana had been expecting.

The problem was, Astana knew she couldn't walk in there alone.

Even if she was disguised as a 'traveler', there was a simple fact that remained in the air: she was a woman, and not a normal looking one. Whilst it wasn't absolutely out of the ordinary for a woman to walk into a tavern as a customer alone, it was still a strange enough occurrence within a place mostly filled with rowdy men that would divert attention to her. Whilst she was confident of her disguise as to not instantly be recognizable as something quite bizarre, dozens of eyes looking at her was the last thing she wanted. She needed to walk in straight after an average looking man had walked in herself to ease the suspicion a bit, which would give her enough time to go straight to the basement.

And waiting for that man to mask her presence was what she did. Her body relaxed and her eyes watching clouds, Astana leaned against a hewn wall on the outside of the tavern as she waited for a man that would unknowingly act as a wall from prying eyes for her. For all she knew, she was the only one to have received the letter, so getting to the basement was easy enough after that.

 

[Aero Blue]

After the first few sleepless nights had turned into pained slumber, Hanselt had finally relented and accepted that the stables offered some comfort. Not the physical sort, of course; each individual strand of hay was like to stab into bare skin during one's rest. Something intrinsic and kindred existed, loathe as Hanselt was to acknowledge such a concept. In any case, the Acerbi had long since relinquished the hope of soft beds and warm meals, and found solace in the bed of jagged hay.

In this pretend solace, Hanselt Lemke was free. He was free of the pretense of being something other than a beast, and became accepting of indignities that would become him. Strangely, lowering himself had given him relief. He was not what 'they' claimed he was, but the same lies that condemned him rendered him lesser regardless. On nights permeated with the scent of horse manure, such a thought comforted him. He was nothing, and he would return to nothing. All would be well, as well as it could be, and that suited him just fine.

Yet that accursed letter seared itself unto Hanselt's consciousness, each marking of ink a brand. 'Another option'. The phrase turned the stomach. It was the phrase of false hope, of the dying light at the end of a collapsing tunnel. The phrase would capture the dreams of all would read it, and then tear them asunder. In a way, the phrase was more cruel than the king that had condemned him, more dangerous than the Orion Knights.

And it was irresistible.

Certainly, Hanselt recognized the possibility that it was an offer of poison, the knife beneath the cloak. Such would not deter him. After all, if the so-called 'Friend' were an assailant, he had at least spared Hanselt the indignity of dying in the stables. An indignity that mattered little to Hanselt at this juncture, but was a point of trust nonetheless. Friend or no, this meeting would be attended to.

In any case, Hanselt had always wished for an excuse to find himself in the Golden Scribe.

Hanselt saw to Bellerophon before his trip to the beacon of debauchery; he allowed the mass to congeal into the form of a hatchet, and adorned it upon his waist-sash. An imperfect form, to be certain, pure steel where there should have been wood. Still, it would do, particularly in a den of the inebriated. Thinking of the various ways to conceal his quicksilver companion was a favoured pastime – next time an exaggerated codpiece was in order.

The Golden Scribe wasn't quite so golden, although the establishment was built respectable enough. Respectable enough construction for unrespectable folk, Hanselt mused.

The effeminate Acerbi strode confidently into the premises, his malnourished form gaunt beneath his earthen robes. In years past, Hanselt had plenty of opportunity to drink and eat himself into corpulence. It would have been a welcome return to such a habit. Do as the locals do, after all. Hanselt whistled towards the strumpets as he moved his way through the drunken crowd.

He made out a staircase, and decided to linger nearby. Perhaps someone had been late to the party.

Besides, it had been so long since he could simply enjoy the show.

 

[Kestrel]

Sorvan City was like an arranged marriage; a union of mutual reluctance. Clarice gripped the folds of her cloak. Her eyes darted across the cityscape: rigid man-made buildings scattered around the roaming elven-laid roads. The nightlife was kept together by drink, as man and elf poured out of the streets in turns and varying states of stupor. Clarice her destination was the heart of it. The words of her invitation to an infamous elven pub echoed in the back of her mind;

I have watched you and I know what you are -
- I come to offer you another option -
- A friend

At the end of the city's streets, Clarice caught an eyeful of the Golden Scribe. It was a lonely establishment on the northern end of the city, like an abandoned bastard child of the Sorvan union. The building was three floors tall, topped by a roof that looked more like it belonged on an outland barn than on elven architecture. A lone, dark-skinned woman leaned against a wall just outside the entrance, staring in the distance as if she was waiting for someone. When Clarice noticed the woman's make-up, she averted her eyes, you're not fooling anyone with just a cape, honey, Clarice thought to herself. The Scribe had a reputation for girls like that.

Entering the Golden Scribe, floozies - matching it's outside, were it's decoration of choice. Tobacco the incense. Together, the pair were an old pub trick, Clarice had once been told. Cheap smokes broil the air, a sweating man was a drinking man and a drinking man a spending man.

Her eyes drifted from the long-legged parlours of tricks on the tables, to the ale-stained floor. Clarice searched for the paths between the pub's standing patrons and - right shoulder first - she waded through. Each step more careful than the last, she shivered at the thought of bumping into anyone. While the smoke masked the stink of sweat, it was but a thin blanket to the stink of the sewers. Clarice had tried to wash it out of her hair, but the gutter's scent still trailed her. The sewers below Sorvan City were the safest haven it had to offer an acerbus. A fellow refugee had stared at Clarice in disbelief that morning, "There's only one reason a young thing would smell like we do, they'll be able to tell right away." Clarice believed the woman's exact words had been. Good reason not to stay upstairs any longer than necessary.

"Excuse me," She stared at the hands of a man blocking her path to the staircase. Clarice looked up. Though his features were soft, his whistling and air were nothing like a wallflower's. "A... Friend is expecting me." She smiled carefully, "Could I pass?"

 

[Aero Blue]

The stables, for all their heavenly haylofts, were not typically a place to witness such base desires being fulfilled. Hanselt had on one occasion been placed in the position of innocent, and eagerly attentive, bystander. That was a particularly fond memory. The spectacle itself was not particularly breathtaking, but it was entertaining, and entertainment was sorely lacking for fugitives. The Golden Scribe, however, was not wanting for displays of merriment and debauchery, spilled ale and drool coalescing upon ragged beards, and idle – though loud – threats of fisticuffs.

When times were better, Hanselt had been more used to partaking. But for the moment, simply observing was far more than enough. There was a bliss in being the watcher, knowing that such crudely beautiful things remained eternal. He contented himself upon being the smiling sentry of the Golden Scribe for a moment longer, before she appeared. She who was young, with a voice soft, lilac sweet, and she who most certainly did not belong in a place like this.

Yet here she was, supposedly called to the same place he had been. Another Acerbus? Hanselt could not equate the auburn haired girl before him to the almost callous voice of the letter, and so – almost certainly – she was like he was. The true tragedy then, was that not only did she not belong here: she belonged nowhere at all. The realization brought a queer feeling, of sympathy, of pity, and of worry. Hanselt truly did not care if whoever awaited him shook his hand or put him to the sword, but watching one such as her meet the same fate would break his heart. It was well-meaning, and it was arrogance; Hanselt felt responsible for her fate, the fate of a stranger.

"I… also, am expected." Hanselt felt the twitching of nerves that he did not know could feel at all, "I've just been… very nervous. It'll be good, I guess, not being the only one to show up. Would mean too much awkward silence before the party."

Hanselt could feel himself focusing on his smile, rigid and anxious. He turned to descend the staircase, entering the floor below.

 

[Jakers]

As she waited for her attempt to enter the Golden Scribe somewhat discreetly, it wasn't long before a man approached the entrance. As he came into view, however, he didn't look like some ordinary drunkard. He was a young and feminine man, grey eyes little lights amidst pale skin. What was the strangest about the man was that, for some reason, Astana was visualizing a warm silver glow around the man. A glow like this was only visible to her; she experienced colors and strange visual occurrences like this when painting, or when she saw something that somewhat... inspired her. But for what reason was seeing silver around this stranger?

'That silver colour... why does this man stand out to me?' Astana watched as he entered, before hurriedly going back to 'looking normal'. The man was far too short and thin to hide behind; Astana herself was far taller than he. 'Was it his eyes? His clothes? His... face...?' Perhaps her slightly unstable mind was playing tricks on her again. It was then she realised she was being watched by someone equally unusual, and when she silently returned the brief but curious gaze, this next stranger's eyes averted. It was a girl who looked like she was just starting to reach the stages of adulthood; that was all Astana could make out from the brief inspection of the deep auburn-haired girl.

'She's going inside...? She looks far too young to be in a place like that, and isn't carrying any equipment that would suggest she's a performer, or for reasons other than drinking. For what reason would she...' Astana's thoughts trailed off as she suddenly smelt something in the air as the girl walked past to enter the building. A mulchy, dark green colour envisioned itself within Astana's mind. 'Tch... t-that smell... sewage. How odd...' Astana pondered why such an unpleasant odor was with the girl; she didn't look particularly dirty. But as if a spark hit her, she suddenly put two and two together. ' Hold on. Sire always said I was lucky to be in a place like his; most Acerbus in Sorvan City are forced into the sewers. Could that possibly mean...'

As the door closed behind the young girl, Astana's eyes widened a little. If she was able to figure that out, then... there was a possibility that girl was in grave danger. Was she just jumping to conclusions? Was there a coincidence, and that girl was going into the Golden Scribe for legitimate reasons? Astana assumed she was the only one who'd recieved this note, but now - if her suspicions were correct - it appeared her assumption was wrong.

'Even if the place is full of the intoxicated, that smell could be what gives her away. Someone sharp enough may jump to the same conclusion I did.' Astana bit her lip silently. 'I... I have to go in and confirm my suspicions. And I have to at least try to ensure nobody notices her.' Spotting a man coming up next, this one was her ticket. He seemed ordinary enough, but was nonetheless just what she was looking for. Large, bulky, and with a dirtied apron around his waist; likely a blacksmith off duty. He shot her a brief glance before entering, but little did he know that Astana was silently behind him, using the man's large stature as a wall.

Now that she was inside the tavern, Astana's worry for the young girl dropped considerably.
'I see. She must've stuck to the smoky areas of the room... the smoke is so pungent that it seems to infiltrate one's mind, let alone their nostrils. Nobody will notice... clever.' Even if her young age was strange to see, the factor that truly 'gave her away' was completely undetectable in this tavern. Now, she only had to worry about herself. Astana's attempt at a disguise was definitely stopping her from getting revealed straight away, but her out-of-the-ordinary skin colour and face shape was still causing a few curious stares from those who were still somewhat sober.

Not wanting to stick around in plain view for very long, Astana dodged a few arguing drunks, politely declined an offer to dance from a man who was clearly off his rocker, before making it to the stairs. Stopping in her tracks, she realised she wasn't alone at the stairwell. The short, feminine man she'd seen earlier was heading down the stairs, and the young girl she'd worried for had made it to the staircase without problem. Almost bumping into her in her rush to make it to the stairs, the dark-skinned women halted dead in her tracks.

"Oh, my... it's you..." Astana whispered in surprise, looking behind her gently to make sure nobody was listening or following. It was convenient this place was out of the view of most, and doubly convenient that most of the patrons seemed to be pissed out of their mind. Continuing, "Pardon me, but... did I hear that man say he was 'expected'? If you're going to the basement as well, does that mean you and that man are also..." She trailed off in the very rare case that someone was listening, and in the rarer case that her assumptions about the situation was incorrect.

 

[Dipper]

The tavern stood in stark contrast to the rest of the city, all attempted elegance and shoddy woodwork. It was an inconspicuous meeting place, for the most part, one no self-respecting man would find himself at. The seedy nature of the tavern would ward off any potential visits from the Knights, and he took solace in that. He'd live in a gutter if it kept them as far away from him as possible; among the filth if he had to.

The clothing he donned would mark him as an outsider among the patrons, but it was comfortable, and he'd put some effort into maintaining his appearance once he'd gotten the note. The soot had been washed away, and a thin cotton shirt hung loose from his shoulders, tucked neatly into the waistband of gold-embroidered black breeches.

Akjari almost laughed. Had she found him at an establishment such as this, his late wife would have taken him by the ear and scolded him raw.

"You're going to get yourself into a fight, and then what? You'll be dead!"

"Oh, please don't bring that up agai--"

"Like last winter, remember? You were out for a week!"

She'd been a spirited woman. Not so much controlling as she was concerned. She worried over the smallest thing and fretted whenever he got so much as a scratch on the job. He missed her dearly. Now, however, with his status as Acerbi, he… would not seek her out.

Akjari rubbed a hand down his face. He pulled himself to his full height, stretched, then entered the tavern, his note clasped firmly in his hand.

It reeked. That was the first thing to come to mind when he set foot in the tavern. The musk of unwashed patrons in close proximity to one another was only overpowered by a wretched tang of the alcohol on their breath. Perhaps he was sensitive to the stench, having never entered such a place. There was a puddle of some unmentionable liquid frothing in a divot in the floor which he sidestepped carefully. The balmy scent of candles wafted over the stench, underlined by a faint burning.

He steeled himself against the smell and soldiered on through the crowds of patrons to the back, where the stairs were blocked by a small group. None of them looked to be patrons. Too well dressed, he realized, and all of them sober. Or so he believed.

Akjari approached, movements deliberate, slow, and cautious. This was the place he'd been told about, yet it felt off, like the basement out of an old tale. The horrors that would go on down--

Akjari paused and pushed the thought away. Now was not the time for silly child's fantasies. Surely he'd work himself up until his shoulders were wrought with tension. What would that accomplish? A slip in the precarious control he exercised over the fire? He could not allow that.

The acerbi cleared his throat to get their attention before speaking. "I was told to come here," he murmured. "Would you mind?"

 

[Joan]

Yolanda sighed softly as she re-entered Sorvan. She hadn't planned to be here ever again, really, but her water supplies were nearly gone, and Sorvan was the only place she could make it to in time to replenish them.

Just get the water and get out, Yolanda, she thought firmly to herself as she walked through the gates. That damned letter was still in the back of her mind, but she did her best to ignore it as she looked for the best place to get refreshment.

She wound up purchasing some seeds as well, and as she pocketed them, she casually asked the vendor what day it was. He gave her an odd look before telling her, and she paused briefly in the action of picking up the last pouch of seeds and her now-filled waterskin. It was the same date on the letter. The exact same date.

It's probably a trap of some sort, and you know that, she chided herself furiously as she walked away.

But what if it isn't? The letter wasn't wrong, after all. There's next to no chance of me making it to a natural death. And that part about "watching you"...If whoever this is had really been watching me before leaving the note, they would have had plenty of opportunities to ambush me. Besides, that third option sounds like I could actually have a chance at a normal life.

Even if it is a trap, I can probably take whoever it is.

When that last thought came, she knew her decision had been made the moment the vendor told her the date. The next hour found her outside the Golden Scribe. She had taken some time to smudge her clothing with clay, pull her hair back, and don a ragged cloak with a hood that concealed her face. This way, she would hopefully avoid drawing the attention of the patrons...hopefully.

Here goes nothing, she thought with a shrug. She opened the door cautiously and slipped inside, weaving through the crowd of drunk males. She located the staircase leading to the basement soon enough, as well as the crowd of interestingly-dressed and surprisingly sober people near it.

Upon spotting them, she hung back a bit, listening to what was said. Looks like I'm not the only one called here... She hesitated briefly, then stepped forward and pulled her letter out of her pocket, holding it where the people by the door could see it clearly. She didn't speak, since if these people were what she thought they were, the letter would likely speak for itself.

 

[Sav]

Solomon Timm

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Sorvan City, The Golden Scribe
Autumn
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Solomon found himself in Sorvan City, which was about a day's ride from Eastwood. He had convinced himself that he was coming to the Golden Scribe to sample it's whiskey, not because of some unsettling letter that had been slipped beneath his door. The very thought of it put the fire acerbus into a sour mood. The letter disturbed every notion and belief he had about his life in Eastwood; the idea that he was at least semi-safe and lived in secrecy was no longer believable. In fact, Solomon had packed up the majority of his belongings and all of his wealth and left Eastwood without a second thought.

He had no idea who sent the letter, based on the signature, the person claimed to be a friend but give a person ink and paper and they can claim to be anything they want to be. At this point, Solomon had been sitting at the bar for two hours. He kept his valuables on his person, stolen sword on his hip. Upstairs, Solomon had rented a room and that's where the rest of his belongings resided. Dog included.

In Eastwood, Solomon had made sure to keep his face covered with bandages and a heavy hood. However he had bore those particular coverings for so long that should he have chosen to wear them in Sorvan City, anyone from the Mines would be able to recognize him. So the Acerbus sat uncovered, hand wrapped around a heavy glass. The man, despite being a miner, was relatively clean. Free of soot and general filth, his coat smelling like the same earthy oils and herbs he used on his horse's body and mane.

Apparently, Solomon was one of few who held his hygiene in high regard because over the course of the hour about three individuals brushed past him and every single one smelled like a variation of shit. In fact, the smell was so bad he turned around. Amber colored eyes watched four people disappear down the stairs--the same stairs he was expected to travel down to meet this supposed 'friend'.

Now, how much of this could be accounted for by coincidence? Four people, going to the same area. Four rather suspicious looking people at that--sober and strangely dressed. Especially the last male, who seemed--in Solomon's distorted opinion, underdressed. The fire Acerbus got the chills just from looking at him, a thin shirt that probably retained no heat what so ever. Then again, he got the chills in 65 degree weather so there was no telling. Perhaps, his own overcoat made him stand out in the crowd? Presently, it was draped across the back of the chair he sat in--whiskey always warmed his insides.

Solomon downed the rest of his drink, refusing to mull the weather and his state of dress over any longer. The thirty-something looking man stood, paid for his drink and grabbed his overcoat, making his way towards the basement. Solomon cut through the crowd and went under the arch that led to a series of doors. One door appeared to be a closet of some kind, another was perhaps a bathroom. The third door was opened and revealed a descending staircase. In the small space, those fools crowded around the entrance, everyone seemingly hesitant to make their way down stairs into the dark. Three Ugly women--two? And a thinly dressed man. They certainly made quite the sight.

Solomon, voice low yet still audible. "This certainly looks like the start of a bad joke---four Acerbii walk into a pub, half from the sewer the other half from the street." Solomon pushed through them to get a better look down the steps. He had enough Whiskey on his lips that one could simply take him for another drunk but then again, he was also confident in his predictions. "I wonder if our 'friend' knows how this joke is going to end..." And with that being said, the brown haired man began down the wooden steps--pausing mid-step when he didn't hear the following footsteps of the others.

"You lot will only serve to draw attention, either leave or come along."​

 

[rechonq]

The letter had certainly placed Moura in a predicament. It was the oddest thing he had seen in a while and he had seen some pretty odd things at the docks. I guess this was a much different sort of odd that only pertained to him. Logical thought brought about the idea that the letter shouldn't be that threatening, but the eerie sensation it brought about was hard to shake off. He didn't think it could be from the Orions. It didn't fit their mantra. If they suspected him, then they would have captured him, proven it and killed him on the spot. He had heard and seen all to many circumstances where that is exactly what happened to a poor soul the Orions got a hold. Assuming they still had souls. Moura liked to assume that. There was the chance that they did deal in secret works and he'd never heard of it, but the only reason for that would be because they couldn't actually find the Ascerbi, but it didn't seem like they had that problem either. Unless, there were some Ascerbi that couldn't be identified like the others, but even if he was one that couldn't be identified, he could play it off as still being a human. So many variables all pointed to this actually being a 'friend', but the fact that they were able to find him when he thought he blended in so well was disturbing.

It wasn't hard for Moura to enter the tavern. He had only been there at least every other week for the last few years. That was unless the Orion were investigating it rather heavily, but even they didn't last very long in there. The patrons were very loyal to their own, and Moura had managed to become one of those. It wasn't really hard though. Just drink with a few of them, tell a few jokes, complain about the king's filthy taxes and the even filthier Ascerbi and suddenly you were a part of them. They were quite certain that no Ascerbus could ever infiltrate the stronghold that was "The Golden Scribe", or at least it was that way in the drunk's minds. Upon entering in his normal garb that just about matched all of the other outfits if the could be called outfits, he made his way over to the bar and ordered himself a drink. It wasn't really in his budget, but today could be his last day, so he figured he could splurge a little. The sight of dancing women and the rancid mixture of smells was no shock to Moura. It was just another pointless day at "The Golden Scribe". He ogled the women for a bit as he gulped at his drink. Some of them were actually rather nice and sweet. At least they were around him, but they were probably just after his money... but the jokes on them. He had no money.

In fact, despite the 'great relationship' he had with everyone here. He barely knew anyone beyond their name and shallow facts. Any real relationships and they might actually figure him out, but he couldn't well be a shadowy figure in the corner. That drew almost as much attention as blatantly using his powers. Which did help to keep him a blur in most people's minds. He always distorted the light bouncing off of him just a bit. Most drunks couldn't see straight anyways and he would just be a face that couldn't be recalled after brushing past him. It especially helped to rid the purple from his eyes. He didn't need something exotic like that, just bland grey eyes. Living a dull life, while maddening at times, seemed better than living in the sewers.

Moura had finished his act of coming for a drink and entertainment. He pushed off from the bar and brushed his way through the crowded place towards the stairwell downstairs. He hadn't been paying to much attention to anyone who might be going down there. He figured they would already be waiting. It wasn't like he was just going to show up anyways. He had a little plan that could hopefully get him out of trouble if that's what this was. His brushes were normal for the patrons that cared little for other's welfare, but as he got closer to the stairwell, they began to get more brunt and brash. Just before he made it over to the cellar stairs, he knocked over a rather burly man's drink. He knew the man would throw him and he positioned himself to be shoved right towards the stairs. Of course with a little extra drama on his part, he would fall right down them. The man was certainly satisfied with Moura's fall and even a little entertained with it as let out a bellowing guffaw before turning back to the girl on his arm. Moura was happy to be of service, even if that service was being thrown down stairs.

It wasn't until he was toppling over the first step that he saw everyone though. He hadn't thought about the possibility of there being others that were brought too. He realized that was very short sighted of him considering there were many Ascerbi. He shifted himself as best he could and tried to slide down the stairs on a path that no one populated. He slid down on his back and even though it would leave some bruises it didn't hurt that much. He stopped upon reaching the bottom of the stairs and figured he ought to figure out who they were. He had a pretty good guess, but better safe than sorry. He lifted his head and eyed them. "Eyy, who're you's?" He barked before even getting up. He hadn't noticed the gentleman reading in the dim cellar yet.

 

[Jakers]

Keeping quiet at the top of the stairs as two more approached - one man, finely dressed and muscular asking for passage, to which she hurriedly moved to let him pass, and a silent cloaked woman who held up the exact same letter Astana got, which confirmed her suspicions. Whilst it was comforting, in a way, to know more of her kind were around this city, the situation was beginning to scare the artist who was clearly out of her element.

'How many are there? This is too much... at this rate, we're going to be given away.' Astana bit her lip silently, and was just about to go down the stairs, before she caught the gaze of another man. This one was quite old and looked like he'd been in the Golden Scribe for a while, and he certainly didn't look too pleased. When his glare caught hers, Astana looked away as a red spark embedded itself in her vision, as if the coldness of his stare had scarred her. 'H-Has he figured us out? Is he coming to kill us? His stare seems to loathe me, and I don't even know who he is.'

Astana's heart virtually stopped when the rugged man said the word 'Acerbii'. That confirmed he knew, and he could've been the spark that sent the Orion darting over, and her neck straight into a noose. It wasn't the hardest situation to solve, but still, how did he know so quickly? However, her mind went into a euphoric state of relief when the man finished his sentence. It seemed like he, too, was an Acerbus, and he had a point. The punchline of this joke was going to be their deaths if they just stood around.

"Ah... he's correct. We need to move downstairs... quickly, but naturally. Come." Astana whispered to those still lingering at the top of the stairs, before beginning to head down herself. Despite the large and growing amount of the Acerbus, it didn't seem like anyone had spotted them. This thought quickly phutted out of her mind, however, when a loud rumbling and banging had come from the top of the stairs, as if someone had fallen over. Turning her head in bewilderment, Astana watched as a young-ish lad - probably drunk out of his mind - slid down the stairs like an intoxicated snake.

'Ah, no... is... is he a patron who's about to realise everything? This can't be happening! Was coming here... a bad idea?' The tall woman glared down at the drunkard who'd taken a tumble and was sliding down the stairs, and despite her concern that he might be a man out to find out this group's identity, she still offered him a hand up instead of running for it.

"Please, enough of the shenanigans and get to your feet... you might break something at this rate." Whether the man took her hand or not, she folded her arms, masking her anxiety of the drunk man with a curious stare from her two bright and deep blue eyes. "We're just meeting someone, but... never mind who we are for now. Are you... quite alright?" Whoever he was, he was probably hurting all over from falling like that. Astana wished she could use her water magic to relieve that pain, but now certainly wasn't the time for it, seeing as the fellow could've been just an oridinary man who would yell at the sight of Acerbus magicks. In the case he was just an ordinary drunkard, Astana would have to try and use a little charm to try and shoo him away.

This was turning out to be quite the ordeal. It'd started with just that feminine man and the teenage girl, but the people at the stairs had doubled since then. Whilst nothing disastrous had happened yet, Astana was starting to get the feeling that this was a trap.

 

[Rae]

"A friend."

The thought was laughable. Selia had long since ascertained that there were no real friends in this life or the next. People were born, people died. Naturally, gruesomely...it didn't matter. Fear, hatred, betrayal. Those were the facts of life, facts that she remembered vividly in her dreams--her nightmares. Still, she was self-preserving if she was anything else, and the idea that the Orions were onto her was far more terrifying than her own memories. Here and now, those were the present and important things. Although she highly doubted the person who had come to her door many nights ago was truly a "friend," she knew in her gut that this was a better alternative. She had a chance by going to the Golden Scribe, and a chance was better than nothing.

So, here she was, drinking solemnly with her sightless eyes in plain view. Of course, she had made it a struggle getting into the tavern, bumping into tables and feeling her way about like the disabled person she was supposed to be. Though she had gotten a few strange stares upon entering the tavern, no one had paid her mind as soon as she sat down and ordered an ale. It had been many months since she'd tasted the foul drink, and she had little intention of becoming inebriated. But, to look the part, one must act the part. Among the sounds and the smells, Selia waited, her intuition telling her that she would not be alone in meeting this friend. After all, what would be the good of inviting a lone Acerbus like herself, especially one who was completely blind? Every so often, she would take a sip, grimacing slightly at the foul taste but taking no time to comment. A few drunkards attempted to make conversation, but she easily deterred them by sheer disinterest and feigned stupidity.

There.

She felt it beneath her feet, which were firmly planted on the floor. The steady gait of one, two, three, four...six in all. They all moved with purpose--some confident, others terrified--towards the staircase leading to the basement, and Selia chuckled. Were they trying to get themselves killed? Another man hilariously got himself shoved down with the rest of them, and she could only guess whether it was staged or the actions of a complete drunk. She counted in her head the seconds before she thought it safe to follow them. She stood up, tripping purposefully as she made her way to the stairs. It took several moments longer than it had the rest of them, as a truly blind woman would have little idea where to place her feet. At least, that's what the drunkards would expect to see. The truth was, even without her Acerbi magic, she was hardly helpless. Just by sound and smell, she could make her way around easier than she made it out to be. But, the patrons need not know that.

When she finally made it to the staircase, she stumbled her way down, gripping the walls quite dramatically. The act was more than a little irritating, as she despised looking weak to anyone. But, unfortunately for her, it was impossible to hide the obvious blindness of her eyes. When she was finally out of sight and out of mind of the patrons, Selia straightened, moving with practiced ease and pulling the cowl of her cloak back up. She was likely the first to notice the man reading the book simply because she could sense his movement and weight, but she made no comment. Instead, she sat in one of the old, imbalanced chairs and waited.

 

[Dipper]

Ajkari swallowed a bitter retort as he glowered at the man's receding back. Like children flocking to an insect in the dirt they were gathered, all for the same purpose, all of the same stock. All Acerbi had their tells, the subtleties that marked them as what they were among the rest; unique.

He scoffed. Unique. The word was meant to be positive, but now it felt twisted.

He turned to the other acerbi, brow furrowed in a mixture of frigid indifference and curiosity. "You would do well to hide yourselves. These men crawled out of holes, not manors." The warning rang clear in his voice; thieves and scum on the prowl would have no qualms desecrating the corpse of a dead Acerbus.

With that, Akjari tugged the collar of his shirt before descending the stairs, pausing at the end to wait for his eyes to adjust, then moving further into the room. It was a basement alright, dimly lit and dink with the scent of alcohol and, what was that? Piss? Disgusting. Worse than the slums, for while the denizens were forced to wade through inches of mud, the tavern's bones were filled with bodily fluids best left… in the body. His own hand was wet with the dampness of the tavern when he rubbed his eyes.

As his visioned sharpened in the dimness, he could make out the man in one corner, and the other Acerbii. The rest of the congregation made their way down as well in their own time, and the basement appeared just large enough to fit all of them.

Perhaps their friend was no friend at all. Paranoia clutched his chest and held tight. His shoulders tensed as if preparing for flight. No danger came, and the elven man in the corner seemed uninterested in their presence for now. No Knights. No hunters-of-men looking for a bounty. Akjari let himself relax some, and leaned against one wall to cool the building heat below his skin.

For a time, he peered at the strangers. The man who appeared overdressed, the elf, the others clothed in odd fabrics too ornate for his tastes. His eyes lingered a bit longer on the other man before he turned his gaze on one of the far candles. A group with nothing to share but their pasts, their escape from the Veil; people, he decided, that would likely be seeing one another again in the future.

"What brings an elf to a tavern?" he wondered in a soft breath, half question, half statement. He remembered the note.

 

[Joan]

Yolanda tucked the letter back into her pocket as soon as one of the people in front of her appeared to recognize it. This partially had to do with a new arrival, a heavily-dressed man, commenting on how they would draw attention if they hung around. He was right, of course, and Yolanda chided herself for not realizing the spectacle the group must make as they began moving down the stairs.

She was contemplating what multiple Acerbii being invited meant when her progress down the stairs was interrupted by what appeared to be a drunken man tumbling down the steps. She quickly pulled to the side and concealed herself behind one of the larger men, eyeing the youth warily as the dark-skinned woman rushed to his side. She almost groaned when the woman spoke. That's not going to fool anybody, except a real idiot! Then again, I suppose he is drunk... She noticed another woman passing and raised her eyebrows slightly. What are we at now? Seven, including me?

Leaving the dark-skinned woman to try and persuade the drunk to leave them alone, she slipped past the others and entered the basement. She glanced around and quickly spotted the elf reading calmly, as if nothing was going on around him. She paused, considering the elf.

I suppose this is supposed to be the letter-sender...Strange, there's something about his face... She found herself approaching the elf slowly, as if drawn by some force inside of her. As she reached his table, the realization hit her, and with it, a wave of cold numbness that made every portion of her body tingle.

It can't be...He's supposed to be dead! She took a clumsy step back and hit a chair, which she proceeded to fall into with a bit of a clatter. She quickly composed herself and sat straight up before the chair could fall over, though her eyes remained fixed on the elf's face. She still didn't say a word, however.

 

[rechonq]

Moura took the hand that was extended to him. He sloppily got to his feet as he took in all of the folks around him. It took him a moment to surface from the deep blue eyes in which his attention drowned, but he quickly refocused. Compared to the rest of the garbage in the tavern, they stuck out not quite sorely, but enough to identify them as probable Ascerbi. "So you's just a buncha freaks tha' decided 'a hang out here." Moura looked around a little more and saw the man sitting in the corner with the dim light.

A few of the other Ascerbi had ignored him and moved on to the business at hand. It was quite evident they were all gathered for the same reason as him. He might have done the same as them and ignored a drunk too, or he might not have. It would have depended on his mood. As he looked the mysterious man over more, he noticed his elfen heritage. It wasn't uncommon for an elf to rat out an Ascerbi or take them in for their own experiments, but something about seeing an elf in the basement of "The Golden Scribe" seemed really disarming. "I suppose since I'm a part of this freaky group, I can drop the act. Plus, I think I'd rather fall to this trap, if it is such a thing, than keep up that act." He turned to the woman that helped him up and took her hand again. "Thank you for the help again." He said just before kissing the back of her hand. He let her go and turned with the rest toward the mysterious elf in the corner.

One of the group asked what brought an elf to the tavern, but the way things were going, the answer to that question was pretty obvious. Elves weren't that uncommon to the tavern either. There were a few upstairs right now. The elven dancer had a charm to her that caught Moura's attention quite often. "So friend, what is this other option you offer us?" His question came with a few assumptions, but he felt based in his hypothesis. It was pretty evident this was either a trap or as the letter said, a friend helping a group of Ascerbi. He made the assumption he was the friend and that this was going to be a good encounter. If it wasn't things would change very quickly and there was no point in being negative about the situation.

 

[Jakers]

The first words of the drunk man in reply filled Astana with dread, and she visibly winced a little.
'Oh, dear... he... he said 'freaks'. Men associate that collective term with my kind a lot. That surely means he's going to call the Orio-' Her thought quickly drifted off and took an abrupt turn into one of relief as the man revealed that he, too, was an Acebri, putting on some sort of 'act'. 'Oh... th-thank goodness. I thought I was going to be forced to knock him out. ...And I probably wouldn't even be able to do that, let alone escape in time before this tavern's hatred exploded.' An encounter like this reminded her of the thin rope she was hanging onto by being here, but the 'drunk' had just turned out to be a false alarm for now.

Giving a single, solitary blink as her hand was kissed, it took Astana a few moments to process why the stranger had touched her hand with his mouth. She... could vaguely remember. It was some sort of polite gesture, one usually done from a man to a woman. It was certainly new, whatever it was, even if she couldn't figure out if her reaction was positive or negative.
"Oh... ah... how sweet," Astana managed to say after some stuttering. "You're quite welcome." It was mostly clear that she was just being polite in return rather than being genuine. Technically, that was the first time she'd been 'kissed', even if it obviously wasn't romantic.

After some evaluation, she'd decided that the new experience of someone else's lips touching her own skin felt a little too bizarre for her liking. Maybe that was because it was coming from a complete stranger, but still, she couldn't see herself wanting that done to her often. It had invoked some sort of musty scarlet colour in the back of her eyes; a scarlet colour that had made her feel a little queasy. Nonetheless, it was nice to be on the receiving end of human contact that was affection rather than beating, for once.

The thought drifting away as her eyes fluttered from the back of her hand to the room ahead, Astana watched as just about everybody had made it into the room by now.
'I suppose I should go, as well. If this 'friend' turns out to be faux and I'm lynched before sundown, then so be it. Perhaps that's fate telling me that I'm too gullible or trusting to survive in this world.' Her belief of fate was a way to staunch the fear of being murdered by the hands of men, but at times it proved a flimsy shield. Regardless, it provided the lost artist with enough confidence to follow the others rather than trailing off back to her old master's manor. He probably wouldn't let her back inside, anyway.

A blue eye peeking through into the room, Astana only looked with half of her body at first, examining those inside. All of these people... all of these Acerbus... she could see the colours swirling from their bodies and pooling up at the top of the room. Like smoke; smoke that had nowhere else to go. The golden oranges; that beautiful metallic silver; patches of red, splotches of tan brown and white... seeing more of her kind filled her with so many emotions, and she felt like she was going to burst if she didn't paint it. Despite her desires, she managed to suppress the urge, as now clearly wasn't the time.

Slowly drifting out of the doorway and fully entering the room, Astana's eyes looked about for somewhere to sit. Some chairs looked appealing at first, but a table seemed a bit more comfortable, with a wider space to relax on. Climbing onto one of the tables and sitting in a slightly hunched and cross-legged position, the artist, for some reason, didn't seem to know how furniture worked. She briefly noticed a tumble from a hooded woman, but just passed it off as an accident. Besides, her attention was in on the one man that hadn't been on the stairway: the old, wizened elf.

Of all the features he possessed, one stood out to Astana: for some reason, he seemed to move like a youth would. She found this strange, but instead of prying the question further, she passed it off as something along the lines of: 'the man must have an excellent diet?'

'So... this is our 'friend'...? He picked a bit of an ominous space to situate us all in. But, on the other hand, he doesn't seem to be heavily armed... and I didn't see any figures waiting outside, or anything of the like. ...I wonder what he's reading?' Astana gently bent back the edges of her toes from cross-legged position in thought, before slacking them and returning to her original position. 'Whoever he is, there's no choice but to see what he's got in store for us. Perhaps he's about to speak... I should keep quiet.'

 

[Nav]

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​

Acerbii… what a peculiar and strange breed, the old elven gentleman thought quietly to himself.

They brought with them a terrible stench, though he had expected that much. What he hadn't been expecting, naturally, was the sheer number in which they arrived. They came washed with all sorts of personalities and the elf's eyes, cold and metallic, rivalling the most excellently polished suit of armour, immediately found the individual sauntering down the stairs with a terrible accent and a swagger. It was at that point that he rose politely from the table. He wondered when the last time he had heard someone say 'eyy' before, but he knew it had been many years… as no one of his own kind would speak with such informal language of a heathen.

"What is to say an elf does not have an interest in a drink?" he shot back without looking at the Acerbii inquiring. He didn't need to take in the man's appearance to answer his question. Instead, his eyes continued to wander, weaving in and out of the crowd like a lazy river. Some of the individuals present surprised him, others he had expected to arrive. "Do I also not have a palette to be entertained and quenched?"

More approached, including a woman's face he knew well. Ah, Yolanda. Dearest Yolanda. His eyes darkened upon her, his eyes flickering with a signal of recognition but his lip did not twitch. Instead, he parted his hands and waved them, motioning for his company to sit. Rather suddenly, it seemed all attention was on him.

"My Lords, my Ladies, I welcome you all and I am most pleased you have decided to arrive in such dangerous times and circumstances to our little pub here in Sorvan," he began, his voice coarse like fragmented rocks in a hessian sack, "I would not have called you had times not been desperate, but as King Sephiran continues to grow bolder…" he paused a moment, glancing towards the portway that connected the stairs to the lower level and with a wave of his hand, a door appeared—it was shut and worn, protecting them from further intrusion.

"As I was saying, as King Sephiran continues to grow bolder with his newly fashioned Orion Knights, it has come to my attention that neither I nor you, separated by breed and… education," he waved his hand suggestively to Moura, "will win this war. I will make this short because I have no interest in belated chatter. My name is Tel'Naire Tal trodden and I come offering you a solution. I have studied a great number of things over a great number of years. You need soldiers to defeat King Sephiran. I need a renewed existence out from underneath the King's thumb. As such, I'd like to propose a momentary truce and arrangement in ours breeds'… differences. I need soldiers, you need someone to help you open the Veil a second time."

"There is more to the Veil than souls waiting to become Acerbus. There is power, renewed magic, The Zjaar. You lot scatter around like confused simpletons, meant in the politest form possible. You may go, if this of no interest to you… the door will unlock itself for your timely exit. For those interested… nigh is the time of the sword."

OBJECTIVES:
Now that your characters are in the basement of the Golden Scribe, they've been given a proposition by their new elven friend, Tel'Naire. They have been given options. You are welcome to respond in any way you think would be best for your character. They can leave through the door created by Tel'Naire back up to the main floor of the pub (this is not a way out of the story, don't worry, but please don't proceed outside the pub yet) or they can stay and ask questions amongst themselves or with Tel'Naire. Note: interactions do not have to include Tel'Naire, so feel free to interact with other players, too!

Those who ask questions directly to him will receive short GM responses of his interactions with them. These are not official GM posts, but just smaller posts so I don't have to block text responses to everyone at the end of this cycle. XD

Other options include attempting to attack Tel'Naire, if your character is feeling particularly ballsy and aggressive. If you plan on attacking, please PM me so I can make sure we have some organization. If you have other wild and crazy ideas, shoot me a PM and we can discuss, but I'm good with just about anything at this point, I just wanna make sure anything you want your character to do won't interfere with the next GM post (just in case).

Hmm... I wonder what this 'Zjaar' he's talking about it?

Next GM post: ~02/22/17. If you need an extension, please don't hesitate to shoot me a PM or post in the OOC.

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[Aero Blue]

As the first one to descend the rabbit-hole, Hanselt was blissfully removed from the happenings behind him. Some manner of drama or another that thankfully did not escalate into catastrophe. In any case, the Acerbii were assembled. The auburn-haired. The dark one of sapphire eyes. The two tall men of stern disposition (and impressive musculature). The one who may have been even more effeminate than he was! The calloused girl. The blind one. Truly, what an impressive fellowship this strange elf had managed for himself.

Hanselt felt himself shrinking beneath the elf's cold regard. The elf in and of himself was not particularly intimidating to Hanselt. Yet a man on the run could not stand having his measure taken. Hanselt had to admit that he felt relief as the elf's gaze wandered, unfocused. He had the strangest eyes, he did, glazed with the severity of metal.

It was strange – though a mere formality it was – to be called 'Lord' once more. There had been a time when it meant undeserved kindness, now it was simply empty. Polite decorum for the savages, perhaps to render the lot more pliable to acquiescence. He had an agenda, obviously; the only thing left to do was weigh the man's words…

… and discern just how hard this elf wanted to fuck them over.

The elf began with typical empty rhetoric – of tough times, of the oh so tyrannical King Sephiran, oh how dare he be so terrible! Of war, of some wondrous solution divined by the mind of Tel'Naire Tal. Of soldiers, of…

Ah, soldiers.

In the elf's defense, the bit about the veil, of the Zjaar, was certainly relevant. Hanselt, however, had deafened himself to it. Rage mixed with saddened remembrance of his Lily informed his tone, as he spat at the elf.

"Nigh is the time of the sword? That sounds poetic but, in case you haven't been paying attention: we've been getting nighed by swords for quite some time now. It's nice that you want soldiers, but you're in a room of Acerbus, and we've been sheep for the slaughter.

And besides, your name means about as much as the libido of a eunuch; who are you, really?"

 

[Jakers]

To Astana, the old elf spoke words that left anxiety and doubts in her stomach. He spoke of war. He spoke of swords. He spoke of achieving some form of 'power', and to her, this wasn't the answer to 'beating' the King at all. There had to be another way, lest the blood of men, elves and Acerbus would flow into a tarnished golden river. The lost artist known as 'Astana': a soldier. No... she couldn't see it working at all.

'He wants me as a 'soldier'? Me, a soldier?' Astana's eyes glazed over and became as still and lifeless as marbles for a moment. '...This couldn't be further from what I was expecting. Whilst it isn't a trap, as it stands, it's an offer I can't accept. Despite what they do to our kind, I'm not about to start slaying men. I will not stray away from who I am.' The artist watched as the first one spoke, the silver man from earlier, and her eyes tracked the saliva bullet that was glowing with some sort of amber hatred. It looked like she wasn't alone in her disagreement for the arrangement, though this man's motivations were vastly different to hers.

Astana waited for the young man's answer to be delivered before she had the courage to talk herself. Closing her eyes for a moment, Astana gently lifted a finger like a student in a classroom, waiting for Tel'Naire's approval before speaking.

"Sir," Astana began, her voice taking up that ethereal monotone as she began to speak from her heart. "If you've come looking for a fighter... I'm afraid you've got the wrong person. I know not the way of the sword, and my 'otherwordly abilities' aren't designed to kill. They've been given to me to heal and create. For that reason, I don't think I can follow you." Lowering her hand, it looked like Astana was about to get up and attempt to leave at that moment, though she remained half-seated atop her table.

"...From what I can understand, your goals are to try and achieve power and overthrow the King with an Acerbus army... I'm not misunderstanding these goals, am I?" Astana turned her head slightly, and her expression seemed oddly sad as she spoke again. "If we were to succeed in felling the King's rule, what would you plan from there? Equality and 'peace' for all races, or would we suddenly look down on men and abuse them as their numbers thinned?"

She may have been misunderstanding, but the outcome of this elf's plan only gave her visions of wavy fire that couldn't be doused by the waves of tears. The suffering in the world at present was high, but this plan... whether it was a 'success' or a 'failure', it would ravage the world like an inferno. With that thought in mind, she spoke her last sentence in wait for an answer.

"Because if the latter is the case, in a way... wouldn't that be like going back to square one?"

 

[rechonq]

Moura listened to the speech intently. He grinned as the elf mentioned his apparent lack of education. It seemed his act worked pretty well. That was about the only thing he grinned at. His proposition was disgusting. The other two were right. This being was turning out to be no better than Sephiran himself. Power was not a solution to problems. This insufferable idiot had the nerve to ask them to bring more souls from behind the Veil, simply for the sole purpose of burdening a war that would make his tolerable life even more comfy.

He stood still while his mind raced over the numerous factors that went into deciding whether he wanted to tolerate this elf or storm out now. 'Well, there's no helping this idiot. Not sure what I should do now though. Somehow he found me easily enough. Going back to a normal life seems out of the question. Even if I could go back, I don't think I would now. Knowing he's out there actively attempting to bring about more pain and suffering, I don't think I could ignore it. I really don't want to be in his presence anymore, but I don't want to let him out of my sight either. He can't be allowed to release more souls.' Moura's hands were clenched tightly in a fist. Holding back a rage to lash out at the man right there. 'At least a few of the others see a flaw in this power play. The world doesn't need a war. It needs understanding. That will never happen though. He's a prime example why. Drastic measures can help bring about change. The question stands, is this the change that is needed? The humans are right. Our existence is an anomaly. The Veil shouldn't have been opened in the first place. I can understand a gathering to end the horrid treatment of the Ascerbi, but we would just be gathering for the slaughter. The ignorant masses would flock beneath the influence of Sephiran and wipe us out.' Moura's hands squeezed even harder and he clenched his teeth at the resulting predicament his mind concocted. Little did he realize he had been warming the room pretty quickly as well.

He took a deep breath and calmed himself. Their current situations and lives sucked, but it was even more unfair to call more from behind the Veil. This power, 'The Zjaar', seemed interesting, but power corrupts. He'd like to believe he could remain himself even with a great power, but only having power would prove whether he could or not. Life was all about power though. Everyone just wanted a bigger slice of the pie. He couldn't disagree with that, but he was genuinely fine with no slice of pie. He was content with just helping the selfless around him have a little slice of pie of their own. Besides, he didn't know what being behind the Veil was like, but he firmly believed it was joyful and peaceful. Bringing souls away from there for a war would just be cruel. Someday, he would get to return to there as well. Where he would someday meet all of the ones he'd loved and probably remember them too. "Excuse me, I won't be assisting you in your journey. Bringing souls back from the Veil to fight a war is not a cruelty that I will be a part." Moura calmly turned and began to walk away. He stopped before the door and looked back over his shoulder. "The Veil should have never been opened in the first place. I hope you never achieve your goal."

He turned back to the door and let himself out. He turned back to everyone and gave a rather cheesy grin as he began to close the door. When the door was about half shut, his grin turned to that of rage and he slammed it shut with whatever force he could muster. He clenched his fists and teeth again and let out a low growl. The stairwell warmed up rapidly as well. A moment after his surge of rage passed, he sat down in the stairwell right there. His eyes welled up, but no tear fell. 'Why do I feel like I just made a mistake? I'm stupid. I can't believe I let anger make me leave. I should have watched him or at least gotten more information. Blagh, this whole situation is messed. I think I'll go find that Zjaar power first. Maybe, I can head him off at the source. Ha, that's a high hope, but meh, it'll give me something to do. Ohhh, I guess I'll move eventually.'