OPEN SIGNUPS Maeblood

[Grumpy]

Location: The Eastern Bank of Toll | Tag: Aridam by @MiharuAya (Mentioned) ​

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They came in a ragged column, drifting in like smoke on the wind. A scattering of families still intact despite the odds, but the majority were broken pieces of something once whole. A mother and two children. A father and his daughter. Siblings, clutching one another tight. Fragments that would never again be mended in this life. That such a wretched procession could make it through the dangers of the Maeblood was largely down to the trio that led them. Hard-faced, clad in colours that blended them into the forest gloom, walking with the practised care of veteran travellers. Practised, but not confident. Never confident.

Maeblood Rangers respected the forest too much to ever be so reckless.

Standing just beyond the eastern walls, a ring of earthworks, palisades and stone that separated Toll from the dangers outside, Baelith watched the refugees with a quiet apprehension. Something on the wind was bothering him, but he could not put his finger to it. Left with no other options, he put such worries aside. Controlled that which he could control. As the Rangers approached he turned his head to gaze down upon them, nodding a greeting. He knew each of them by name, for they were frequent travellers across his bridge. Dael was their pathfinder, one of the few mortal men who could truly claim to have explored the length and breadth of the Maeblood. His support came in the form of Tonwin, a stocky woman carrying a bow as tall as her and who could put an arrow through a man's eye faster than he could blink. The last was Kioen, their herbalist - young by Ranger standards, whose supplies of food and medicines would no doubt be stretched to breaking point by the unfortunates following behind them.
"More refugees from the east," Baelith observed, sweeping his gaze across the figures emerging from the thinning trees. Dael glanced back over his shoulder then grunted.
"Getting bad out there," he said, voice weary, "that's the second village we've found burned out."
"Bandits? There have been such attacks before." It was Kioen who spoke then.
"Not bandits. Bandits go in with a mind to take something." He shook his head. "Whoever hit these towns burned everything. Houses, food, livestock. Gods, even people. Enough supplies to last a winter, and they just torched the lot of it. Survivors don't even know what hit them. I've never seen the like."

"We cannot take them all in," Baelith informed them. "Those with kin here, perhaps. Those with the skill to contribute. But Toll is stretched thin as it is. Cruelty is not my goal, but I must attend to my people first."
"It's the way of things," Dael said, "we ask only that you let them pass through."
"You would extend your protections to them all?"
"We took them in. It's our responsibility to get them to safety." Tonwin gave a bitter laugh at that.
"Or what passes for safety in the Maeblood, these days," she remarked, "no guarantee the west will be much safer."
"Least the west isn't currently on bloody fire, girl," Dael muttered. Not wishing to witness a spat between comrades, Baelith hefted his gargantuan weapon from it's resting place in the earth before him and set it against his shoulder.
"Bring forward your charges, then. Those who wish to pass will be granted the Rangers' Exemption. Those who would stay may make their case to my people."

The feeling of unease lingered. There was something on the wind, wafting in from the east. Whether it came from the fires said to be spreading out there or from something closer Baelith could not say, but it was enough to keep him rooted in place as the refugees began to filter past. Hollow faces gazed up at him, a cavalcade of emotions writ large upon them; the various shades of fear, mostly, but his reputation had spread widely enough that a handful looked relieved at the sight of the towering Knight of Toll. Whatever danger he might potentially pose to them, they clearly felt that what they were fleeing from was far worse.

About half the refugees had made it through the gates when Baelith stirred, twisting upright on some unspoken cue. There was something in the air now, almost overpowering. The scent of cinders and ashes, as though the wind was carrying in the traces of a distant forest fire. Sweeping his gaze across the remaining figures, he fixed upon a figure clad in robes that looked like they had been half-consumed by an inferno. Singed and blackened, reeking of smoke, the scent blending into the smells emanating from the figure wearing them. The top half of his face was wrapped in a layer of bandages that hid his eyes, the bottom half hidden by a soot-blackened beard. If it was just the robes that caused the stench Baelith might be less concerned, but the rot went deeper than that. There was a taint in this figure that nothing could hide. He stank of furnaces and industry, of hungry fires and chemical burns.

As the man tried to pass, Baelith's arm stretched out to block his path.
"Hold," he ordered, and the man stiffened. The other refugees paused as well, looking on nervously as their procession came to an abrupt pause.
"...is there a problem, sir knight?" the man asked, voice crackling like an open flame.
"Your eyes. Show them to me." The man pulled at his beard.
"They were wounded in the fires, sir. A burning beam caught me as I tried to escape-"
"-that is not what I asked. Show me your eyes." Confronted, the man was attempting to back away from the towering form of the Heower.
"I wish no trouble. If there is a problem, I will leave." Before he could retreat any further, Baelith moved. Like a tree caught in a gust of wind, slow at first and then with the momentum to carry him. His arm extended to snatch the bindings at the figure's eyes, yanking them back. Pulling them free.

Light spilled out from behind them as they came away.

Baelith gazed down into the man's empty sockets, lit up like candles set into the hollow of a wall. Flames dancing where human eyes ought to be, moving in a breeze all of their own. The robed figure was grinning, an inhuman rictus. Baelith could feel the heat spreading even from two paces.
"Be cleansed!" the man spoke as though in benediction, even as his skin began to blacken and the first licks of fires pushed out from his flesh, "be cleansed in the blessed fires!" Nearby the refugees were screaming, backpedalling from the man as though he could erupt into a blaze at any second. Baelith, meanwhile, lunged forwards.

Ignoring the searing heat that immediately began seeping into his gauntlet, he lifted the smouldering man like he was a child. Swinging him upwards, southwards, sending him hurtling out towards the open water of the River Mae like an athlete throwing a stone. The man ignited in the air, a vicious bark of flame that made the people still on the bridge recoil. Then he hit the river with a gout of spray and smoke, disappearing beneath the water. Baelith watched the spot for a long moment, waiting to see if something would emerge.

Nothing did. Whatever was left him had been claimed by the undercurrent.

Silence settled in the wake of all the panic, as the Rangers lowered bows already nocked with arrows.
"Every time I think I've got a grasp on this bastard forest," Dael growled, "it goes and pulls my feet out from under me." Tonwin was watching the water still, eyes narrowed with anger.
"Aithenge's corpse, how long was he with us?"
"Since the village," Kioen confirmed, "I took him for walking wounded. I didn't think... he..." The herbalist trailed off, even as Baelith was turning back to face them.
"How many refugee groups have the Rangers helped to cross west?" he asked. Dael gave a shrug.
"A handful, had I to guess. Been a week or so since last we were at camp."
"Then more like him have crossed." Baelith turned to look down upon the cluster of refugees that were only just now creeping out from cover. "You may continue," he told them, still in that calm, soft voice. The warning scent still lingered on the air, but it was dissipating now that it's source had been claimed by the river.

"I require a service of you," Baelith informed the Rangers, even as the refugees began to funnel past once again. "A message to be carried, to the Heower known as Aridam. Tell him that safe passage through Toll will be granted in return for his... insight on matters here." There would be no further surprises hidden amongst this group of exiles. But in other packs and bands of refugees filtering out through the Maeblood there would be others, sparks floating off on a wind carrying them far and wide. They simply needed to land in a dry enough spot, and the flames would spread. Baelith needed to understand such a threat, before the fires spread to his town.

And who better to teach him than an embodiment of the inferno?

 

[Asmodeus]

They had named it Lodestone Lodge. But they were long dead now.

​

So were the people who came after them. Three hunters, who in life gave two shits what their lodge was called. But now they would share a grave with its original builders. One could only hope the former went to Westgloom while the latter went to Northrot. Else they would all be stuck together, and have nothing to talk about.

Auvorer might have dwelt on that notion a little longer, had she not been distracted by the sight of a teapot.

The stag-skulled woman approached the item by stepping over the huntsman's corpse. Bent ribs and a split belly had made him extra pliable when he fell. Now he was folded between the door frames. A portly trip hazard. A noble baby gate.

Fitting that Auvorer had run him down in the kitchen, since the man had been a connoisseur in life. And had taken such pains to describe the diseases he wanted Auvorer to craft, three winters ago, when he visited her den with proposals for a plague to stricken deer, slow foxes, ground ducks and sedate pheasants.

Auvorer, naturally, had mixed the concoction. And had promised three years of fortune for the huntsman and his friends, before she collected her payment. Although she had whispered that last part, as the huntsman walked away with his vial. On reflection, he should have had better hearing. But perhaps that was why he needed a bottled plague to even the odds.

But enough of that story. Auvorer has other mixings in mind.

Traversing the kitchen, her robe snagged on rusted pots and pans, dragged through mud and caught on splintered wood. This room was long neglected. The three hunters had only come to the lodge to drink or sleep, and what food they butchered was wrapped outside and taken back to Toll. Years had passed since the kitchen had known a loving housekeeper. Now even the rats had fled from it, at the coming of Emeria's wolves.

What they had left behind was a lattice of decay. A fruit crumble of rot. An entropic casserole, baked in a vermin slum.

She reached up and cupped the teapot, lifting it gently from the shelf above the stove. Her bloody palms left marks, but none too vivid on the vessel's purple clay. It was a quaint keepsake - something an old spinster might have kept, half-filling it each evening as she counted the days till she joined her husband in the hereafter.

No... there was a better description...

It was like something Mother would use.

Auvorer set the teapot on the stove. Stared at it. Fetched a ladle to plunge into a fetid rain barrel kept in the corner. The boiling process would remove the dirt and the larvae - that was the purpose of boiling, was it not? She remembered as much.

Auvorer poured slowly from the ladle into the pot, watching the liquid swirl. A moment later she got onto all fours. Sniffing and scratching, she pulled up lengths of wood from the kitchen debris. Beams and cabinet pieces not yet taken by rot. She bundled these with stirring spoons and vegetable boxes, and crammed them into the hearth under the stove.

She had once done the same with her brothers. They had competed to carry the largest handfuls of kindling to Mother. Auvorer had always been last. Fifth place. Oft because her brothers had pushed her over in the forest.

"They're as good as stable hands!" Mother would say, while smiling to the kitchen staff, who stood awkwardly while the lady of the house insisted on making her own tea.

Father would find Auvorer in the woods, struggling to pick up what she had dropped. He would send her off to fetch the leaves instead. As 'the woman' should do.

Now the fire? How to make it? How does one make fire?

A half-hour passed. Auvorer broke from her pondering and retraced her steps. At the doorway she reached down, hooked her fingers in the huntsman's nostrils, then twisted. There was a wet sound before she returned to the hearth and knelt to whistle into it. Her lips were pressed to a bloody mouth organ - the huntsman's severed nose. Through his airways, magic sparked. Hot mucus sprayed the kindling and caught alight.

She tossed the nose where the rats would find it. Then, straightening, she watched little bubbles form inside the teapot. She heard it start to rattle. She looked along the shelves, till the hollows of her skull aligned with an earthen jar.

A place to keep secrets. Like her sister used to...

And there it was: the end of all reminiscence. Another black curtain descending over her memories, to veil the then from the now.

Only it wasn't black; nor a curtain. It was white, and lined, and crimson-framed. Two rows of teeth, closing upon a young girl's fle--

Auvorer lashed out and struck the jar, knocking it from the shelf. Dried leaves and bitter dust spilled from it. A half of the contents tumbled into the bubbling teapot. The remainder burned and smoked upon the stove top.

Good enough.

When the fury had passed from her, she picked up the steeping teapot, half filled with dirt and leaves, and carried it away. The vessel sizzled in her hands - a dinner bell to sound her way.

Stepping over the huntsman, she returned to the corridor that ran through the hunting lodge. Her antlers scraped against others - these ones mounted on the walls alongside dried pelts and taxidermied birds. Among these hunting trophies she felt like the one animal they had forgotten to kill, stumbling from their meat locker to run amok.

The second huntsman lay in the corridor, his skin as purple as the teapot and his bloated face upturned. He had drowned as he tried to run. Auvorer would have to ask Liriel how she achieved such a kill.

The third hunter was somewhere outside, having been caught by Emeria. From the sound of her wolves, darting through the gardens as they circled the lodge, it had been an equally grisly demise. Auvorer only hoped they hadn't been too noisy. Even out here, in the counties bordering the Scar, a heower must be careful not to draw the attention of the Maeblood Rangers.

Ah yes, the Scar!

She smelled the border beyond the shattered bay windows, as she turned into the lounge. The eastern counties had the smell of a bonfire on a clear, starry night. They tasted of mulled wine, passed around a campfire by rebel troubadours. They sounded like a stagehand, testing a thunder machine backstage. For even from this lodge, one could spy volcanic clouds at the edge of Maeblood, where lava rifts glinted like bloody smiles, and the factories of Morspark flickered by gaslight.

"A spot of tea, my darlings?"

She called through the ravaged house, where wolves bayed and blood dripped. Perchance the others were close by.

Hearing a response - perhaps from Liriel, perhaps from Emeria - she stepped fully into the lounge and closed the door behind her.

In the corridor she had left, darkness fell again on the lifeless eyes of the hunting trophies... and on the rubies that studded a life-size statue of Aithne.

The visage of the fey maiden smiled, as she always had, towards the porch of Lodestone Lodge. Offering a warm welcome, if not protection, to all huntsmen who would enter.

Location: Eastern Border - - Tags: Liriel / @DANAsaur ; Emeria / @Esprit ; Aithne / @Princess Rose

credits

 

[MiharuAya]

Aridam
@Grumpy​

The forest enveloped Aridam in its shadowy embrace, a realm often perceived as dark and foreboding, where perilous creatures lurked, eager to pounce at the slightest misstep. Yet, for him, this was not a place of fear, but one that felt like home. The tranquility of the woods provided a refuge for his thoughts, allowing him to delve into the depths of his mind. Around him, the gentle melodies of singing birds and the rhythmic chirping of insects wove together a symphony that echoed the very essence of life within the forest, creating a harmony that soothed his restless spirit.

As he wandered through the trees, memories of the festival lingered in his mind. It was an experience that had pushed him beyond his comfort zone, yet he found himself unable to shake off the stirred emotion inside of him. There was an indescribable feeling, a spark that flickered at the edges of his consciousness, urging him to explore it further. Deep down, a part of him yearned to return to that vibrant atmosphere.

But that was just wishful thinking.

Aridam had a job to do and duties to perform. He simply couldn't abandon his responsibilities to chase fleeting emotions and selfish desires. The weight of his obligations kept him grounded, reminding him that some paths, though tempting, were not meant for him to follow.

The Heower was heading towards one of the eastern villages when a scent caught his attention. Aridam paused along the trail, recognizing the smell as human. However, he found it strange to encounter one so deep in the forest. "Come out, I know you're there," He shouted into the forest.

A group of rangers emerged from the forest, appearing ragged and worn. "Are you the Heower known as Aridam?" One of the men spoke, intentionally keeping his distance.

Aridam scowled, "It depends. Who's asking?" He replied, annoyed.

"Baelith has requested your presence. If you agree to come, he will grant you safe passage through Toll."

Aridam stood, torn between his desire to wave the man away and a deep-seated curiosity about the Knight's intentions. If he was willing to grant Aridam passage, it had to mean that something significant was at stake. The weight of the moment pressed upon him, igniting a flicker of intrigue that he couldn't easily dismiss.

"Fine, let's go. But you'd better keep up, or I'll let the beasts snatch you away." Aridam warned, starting down the trail. As they walked through the dimly lit path, a sense of paranoia enveloped the rangers. Shadows danced around them, twisting and turning, as if monsters were lurking just beyond their sight, reminiscent of the fears that had haunted them in their childhood. They huddled close together, whispering and whimpering, desperately seeking comfort in each other's presence. Amidst their anxiety, Adriam couldn't help but chuckle to himself, finding amusement in their fear.

As they approached the village of Toll, Aridam noticed the familiar scent of embers lingering in the air. It was a smell he recognized all too well, and it never signified anything good upon entering a village. An uneasy feeling settled in his gut; something was certainly amiss. As they moved past groups of ragged refugees, his instincts were confirmed. Despair hung heavily in the air, whispering of troubles that ran deeper than he could see.

When he approached the bridge, he walked towards Baelith with a solemn expression, "What's going on here? Why have you called for me?" Aridam questioned, still peering around at the unusual sight.

 

[DANAsaur]

The Drowned Saint

Liriel occupied herself while waiting for tea, wandering the hollow halls.

She moved in slow, deliberate circles like silt stirred from the bottom of a still pond. Her bare toes traced the cracks in warped floorboards. Her fingers brushed moss from a broken pew. She adjusted the tilt of a toppled icon without knowing why. There was no reverence in the gesture, only habit. Mercy clung to her like mildew.

The lodge had not been tended in years. It was neither ruined nor preserved. Only waiting, in the way of things that had once held meaning. Silence lived here. It was not the clean quiet of abandonment but something older and closer. It pressed against her shoulders like a shawl of damp wool. Heavy. Familiar. She did not mind its weight.

She can smell Auvorer's scent clung to the lodge like ash on porcelain. See Emeria's wolves had passed through as well. Their pawprints are marked by blood.

The lodge has been seen. Touched. Changed. But not healed.

Liriel entered the tea room. At the center was a table warped by years and use. She had cleared it with soft, slow hands, damp with river-dark moss. She moved curled papers aside and brushed away dead beetles, the flaking ash, and a stitched doll with no mouth.

She made space. Not for plates or spoons but for silence. She then began placing the trinkets she brought placing each with care: a waterlogged prayer bead that was cracked and hollow. A bone comb with hair still tangled in its teeth. And a bell with no clapper tarnished to green.

The trinkets were not reverence. Not mourning. Just… remembrance. A reminder that they were there.

When the table was finished, Liriel sat down with her back straight and her hands folded in her lap. She did not close her eyes, hum, or speak. She was just... there.

A moment passed. Then another. Soon, Auvorer entered, moving like a shadow with weight, her blistered hands curled around a steaming teapot.

Liriel watched the steam drift between them like a question left unanswered when the tea was poured.

Being here, surrounded by Heowers, felt strange.

Perhaps that was why she had said yes. Perhaps it was loneliness.

No. She had not named its loneliness. Not yet.

But in recent weeks, she had lingered longer at the edges of villages, watching the living speak in words she no longer used. She had listened to laughter behind closed doors, to the crackle of firelight. She found herself drifting not toward silence but toward sound.

She exhaled slowly.

"Villagers from the East are moving away," she murmured after a while in an attempt to create conversation. Her voice was distant, like a prayer offered to no one. "Some are moving to the Toll. Some have already settled near my home."

Liriel sipped her tea. The liquid was bitter. It was not unwelcomed.

"Strange.." she murmured, quieter still, "They fled the fire... only to kneel in its smoke. "

---

Location: Eastern Border
Tags: Auvorer (@Asmodeus), Emeria (@Esprit)

 

[Esprit]

The man had died screaming.

It was a fearful sound, the desperate cry of cornered prey. It was a choking sound, stifled by a sudden inability to draw air into his lungs. It was an agonized sound, fueled by the pain of countless blades flaying his skin and dismantling his flesh. It was the sound of vivisection, of a living creature sacrificed upon the altar of knowledge.

Emeria watched the process intently, as she always did, looking for the truths buried within layers of meat like a monk poring over sacred texts. His sun-tanned skin recounted the trials of a hunter, scarred by wild thickets and bestial claws. The well-developed muscles of his arms and upper back revealed his training in archery, long hours spent drawing back the limbs of a recurve bow. The adipose deposits around his waist confessed a gradual descent into self-indulgence, decades of discipline slipping away in a few years of effortless poaching. The deteriorating cartilage in his joints whispered of the aches and pains that accompanied a lifetime of physical strain, likely contributing to his recent decline.

Enlightenment, as usual, was nowhere to be found.

Her interest waning, Emeria leaned over the body – now hardly recognizable as that of a human – and plunged a hand into its open chest. She came away holding the hunter's heart, dripping with gore. As she turned and walked back to the lodge, lupine forms emerged from the surrounding overgrowth and set upon the carcass with the ferocity of starving beasts.

Emeria stepped inside and closed the front door, muffling the crunching and squelching noises coming from the garden. She followed the corridor until she reached a doorway containing an eviscerated corpse. Another of the building's previous inhabitants, no doubt slain by one of the Northrot Heowers. She trod over the dead huntsman, startling a rat that had crept out to nibble on his entrails, and found the kitchen empty, its stove still smoldering with the remains of Auvorer's fire. For several seconds her gaze rested on a barrel of stagnant water, recalling distant memories of violent, wet coughs and lips stained with bloody phlegm. Then she blinked and looked away, resuming her search of the room. On a half-rotted shelf Emeria located what she sought: a stack of dusty dishes. The grime came off easily enough with a blast of scouring wind, and she placed the raw heart in the center of a newly cleaned plate.

Now carrying a grisly meal, she wandered out of the kitchen, frightening a second rat that scurried off with something in its mouth. She heard Auvorer call from further in the house and quickened her pace slightly, only to pause as she encountered the final hunter in the hallway. Emeria examined the cadaver, noting the signs of asphyxiation, an apparent drowning on dry land. It was a curious sight, the kind of bizarre death that only divinity or sorcery could have reasonably wrought.

She moved on, passing by a shattered window to arrive at the lounge. She had just opened the door when there was a loud crash, and a pair of dark shapes raced past her into the room, one after the other. Fortunately, both avoided the table where Liriel and Auvorer sat, their instincts warning them to stay clear of the ominous duo. It was a brief pursuit; soon the larger creature snapped up the smaller one, and now there was a wolf standing on a low sofa with its jaws locked around a squirming rat, which in turn had its teeth stubbornly lodged in a severed human nose.

Emeria entered the lounge while the wolf shook broken glass from its pelt. She stared at the animal for a long moment, then wordlessly pointed at the open door. The wolf sheepishly jumped off the furniture, slinking out of the room to enjoy its prize. As she approached the table and sat down, a gust of wind blew the door shut and swept aside debris left by the commotion, clearing the floor of glass fragments. She accepted a cup of tea from Auvorer with a polite

"Thank you,"

and set down the plate bearing a fresh heart in return – an unspoken offering, before she tossed it to the wolves.

"Perhaps they had no choice,"

she replied to Liriel.

"Humanity is a fragile thing; too close to the flames, and the blaze engulfs them. Too far away, and they disappear into the night."

Emeria looked down at the time-worn trinkets on the table, tapping a finger against her teacup in silent thought. At her touch, the turbid liquid in the cup became clear, leaves and dirt precipitating out of the beverage. She took a sip of her tea, then gently placed it back down.

"Followers of the Eastern Spark have always been volatile,"

she said eventually.

"Their faith is one of insurrection and zeal, warring against the futures glimpsed by their mad prophets. But these recent fires are dangerous, even for them. They will not be permitted to set the forest alight."

---

Location: Lodestone Lodge, Eastern Border | Time: Afternoon/Evening? | Tags: @Asmodeus – Auvorer, @DANAsaur – Liriel​

 

[MiharuAya]

Rasma
Open Interactions
Rasma's Shop​

In the early hours of the morning, just before dawn broke, an unexpected knock echoed through the stillness of the house. Rasma, having spent a sleepless night with his companions, had found solace in the warmth of their bodies, tangled in their comforting embrace. The persistent sound of knocking, however, cut through his contentment like a shard of ice, relentless and demanding attention.

Rousing himself from the cocoon of blankets and extremities, he reluctantly threw off the warmth that had cradled him so sweetly. Each step down the staircase felt heavy, as if the weight of the night still clung to him. With a weary sigh, he pulled himself into the dim light of his shop, wondering who could be so insistent at this hour.

As he opened the door, Rasma was greeted by the unsettling sight of two men clad in robes, their faces adorned with eerie grins. The air around them was thick with the acrid scent of ash and smoke. Despite an uneasy feeling prickling at the back of his mind, he felt compelled to invite them in, just as he always did with his customers.

"Magnificent muse of Maeblood, Rasma, we beseech you. We need your assistance," one of the men began, his voice trembling with a mix of reverence and desperation. He bowed his head deeply, his hands clasped together in a gesture of earnest supplication.

Rasma couldn't help but feel that the honorifics tossed around him were more than a bit excessive. Yet, as he stood there, he found himself warming up to this unexpected treatment fit for royalty. With a scrutinizing gaze, he addressed the two men before him. "What is it that you seek?" he asked, suspicion lacing his voice.

The bowed man lifted his gaze, revealing a look of determination. "Our leader has sent us to gather this list of items," he said, his voice steady despite his humble posture. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, extending it toward Rasma.

As the Heower scanned the list, a sense of familiarity washed over him. Most of the items seemed straightforward, and he was pleased to note that many were already within his reach. Yet, as he continued reading, his brow furrowed slightly; a few of the items were quite rare, their acquisition a challenge he hadn't anticipated.

"What are you planning to do with these things?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at the humans gathered before him. The assortment of items they sought seemed foreign, not fitting for any typical tinctures or brews he was familiar with. A feeling of suspicion gnawed at him, igniting a sense of unease about their true intentions. "Who did you say your leader was?" he pressed, seeking clarity amidst the brewing tension.

The hooded men came to a halt, their eyes darting between one another before shifting back to Rasma, their grins unsettlingly wide. "We are with the Carmine Church," one of them finally spoke, his voice dripping with an unsettling calmness. "Rest assured, we are only interested in these matters to aid our flock." The air around them felt heavy with unspoken intentions, leaving Rasma to ponder the true nature of their presence.

Rasma let out a weary sigh as he weighed his options. "Fine," he said, finally relenting, "but it's going to cost you ten gold pieces. And I'll need you to return later for a few of these items, as I don't have them on hand." With that, he began to gather the requested goods, carefully placing each one into a small sack, his movements methodical as he prepared for the transaction.

As Rasma completed his task, he handed over the item to the peculiar duo in exchange for their payment. They nodded in agreement, promising to return later for the remaining goods. Once they finally exited his shop, Rasma felt a wave of relief wash over him, grateful to have the strange pair gone from his space.