Arren Illiathan: Turning points

Alia shielded her eyes from the blinding sun. Somehow out here near Alk'Hara the sun was twenty times as strong as in Danmier. She wasn't sure why this was, perhaps it was closer to Alk'Hara than Danmier. Some said that the sun was born here and others said that this was where it was going to die. Either way, Alk'Hara was the land of the sun, and if ever there was a people of the sun, they surely lived here.

She gripped the wheel of the ship tightly in her hands, calloused now from the weeks she'd spent handling rope and the coarse grained wood of the Couatl, her familie's ship. Her ship. Captain Nerro had fallen ill almost a month ago and they could wait no longer. Their goal was to make it past Dan'Mezier around the Rhak'Tar mountains all the way to Lucinelli, avoiding the larger Alk'Haran ports, but this was made impossible by two things, sickness and War.

Over the past few months Alia had grown fond of Nerro. At first the old captain had tried to kick her off of his ship, but once she pointed out that she owned it and was acting in Arren's stead, the captain softened to the idea. Since that day Nerro had taken to teaching her everything he knew. He practically treated her as his own daughter, which at times made sea life quite frustrating. However, he made sure that the other sailors took orders from her in spite of the fact that she was a woman. Once Nerro had fallen sick, Alia was grateful for this, the men respected her authority to lead and in spite of her lack of experience, her ability to do so.

At first Nerro's sickness seemed only natural. Many of the seamen aboard the Couatl became sick during their voyage over the past months, but only briefly. Nerro had a fever and chills for nine days before finally becoming bed ridden. The mucus he spat up was black as the ink of an octopus and he had a distinctive smell, almost like that of hazelnuts, a smell which up until now, Alia had enjoyed greatly. Nerro's condition had left the ship under Alia's command. When Nerro first ordered that command be left to her, not only was the crew quite surprised, but so was Alia. She had gone to the man and pleaded that he reconsider, the first mate, Jolan was an admirable fellow, fully ready to have his own vessel, but Nerro insisted saying, “Alia my dear, when first we met me thought you a silly girl living a silly fantasy. But you proved me wrong. I'm not saying that woman's good for sailing, most ain’t worth a lick at it, but you you've got the sea in your blood, and Quainess, well, she's the goddess of the sea an' maybe you've got a little of her in ya. I don' know if you'll ever find your brother, or if he'll ever come back to Andmar, Arren's a good lad, my favorite lad I ever met what was as smart and bookish as he, but you my dear you're an Illiathan too and if he's dead, then it's up to you to keep your family afloat. Take this ship and captain her, and you can do anything you set your mind to. You captain this ship, and before your death, all the Isles will know your family's name and the she captain of the Couatl.”

That had been the last thing that Nerro had said to her. After a quick word with Jolan, Nerro had ceased to have the energy to speak, breathing had become enough of a struggle as it was. So now Alia piloted the Couatl, her ship, to the capitol of Alk'Hara, Den'Mezzier.

It wasn't really that she had a choice in the matter, two Alk'Haran ships of war escorted her to the harbor. They had set up a barricade off the coast of the Burning Wilds, bringing all merchant ships to harbor before reaching Lionne, the country with which Alk'Hara was waging war. The two ships flanking her were sleek, and low to the water, bearing two masts and a large triangular sail in the front, they were built for speed, and although the Couatl was a fast ship, it was much larger than either vessel and not equipped with half as much fighting or fire power, Alia had no choice to surrender to them, although they were serving her needs wether they knew it or not. She just hoped the old captain could find the help he needed within the city, whatever money it took, she didn't want to loose the old man.

Just then Meldin appeared from below the deck. His smile was as disarming as his looks, impossibly handsome and completely hers. Alia hadn't known what to think of the young man when she had met him. Meldin had only said that he needed passage to Lionne, if that was indeed where they were going. He then produced an entire gold piece for payment. Although from a minor family, she wasn't accustomed to such liberal use of so much money. He seemed a fop at first, arrogant and naive to the world. In truth he reminded her a bit of Arren, there was an innocent beauty about him in addition to his good looks, but more than that, he had offered unconditional friendship from the beginning of the journey when the rest of the men aboard had scorned her for being a woman, bringing bad luck to them. She had to admit, she still knew little of him, she didn't even know what family he belonged to. Like Arren, he was clearly fleeing something. Something dangerous enough that he had resorted to taking the first ship all the way across the Isles. Perhaps that was part of his appeal, the man was a mystery to her when so few men in life were. Her other brothers had been so straight foreword that it had pained her at times, only caring about swords and women. The men aboard the Couatl were the same. But Meldin had proven himself a good friend and although he knew little of medicine, spent most of his days and nights by Nerro's side. The captain had been quite harsh with the man, even professing a straight dislike of him, threatening to kick him off the ship. Alia had to plead with him to keep Meldin aboard. She suspected that Nerro's dislike was for the fact that Meldin had been warming her bed for the past two weeks. Alia was a woman, and could be with whosoever she chose and she made damn sure Nerro knew that, but the man still wasn't satisfied. Perhaps she'd never know why Nerro fiercely detested Meldin but it mattered little, the old captain was prejudiced as the day was long, calling Alk'Harans dirtbodies and elves worse. She supposed, like all old men, she should love him for his better qualities and forgive the prejudices that age brought on.

Meldin had now ascended the stairs to the aft of the ship and stepped behind her. Strong arms embraced her from behind and blonde hair smelling of mulling spices brushed her cheeks. The weeks ahead promised to be difficult but with Meldin by her side Alia felt she could escape Den'Mezzier and find her brother once Nerro was in the hands of caring clerics. Meldin Had promised to help her find her brother, and she believed him. It was refreshing to be in the presence of a man so virtuous, she hoped one day to marry a man like him, strong, proud and fair of heart. Unfortunately fairytales like that seldom came true.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Arren looked up into the face of death. The Sand Blade stood over nine feet tall, all of which was was corded muscle chiseld bone. His face was fierce and angular, his Elven ears accenting the sharp lines of his face like gashes of flesh across the side of his head. He had only ever met a few sand elves but none were as impressive as the figure before him. The sword, settled casually across his back was of equal hight to it's wielder and thin as a razor blade, with only the slightest curve and a flat tip where a point should be. An awkward looking weapon, but in the hands of a sword master, perhaps the deadliest weapon in existence.

Arren had spent over a week of sleepless nights in anticipation for this moment. He knew that the elf was after them and he knew that the sword master meant to kill him as he had slain the pirate prince Kellimesh. Arren's right hand instinctively reached for the blade at his side and grasped the long slender hilt of the Salt Blade, Arren had a magical sword too, the same sword that Kellimesh had used to fight the Sand Blade and he had a feeling that he'd fare no better. With this realization cold fear crept over him, freezing his fingers in place over the hilt of the sword, his heart pounded in his ears and he felt as though all the air in the heavens wasn't enough to keep him alive.

Fortunately for them, Arren was holding something far more powerful than a sword, and the only reason for their continued existence: the queen of Alk'Hara. They had found her deep in the under ground, locked behind some sort of magical glass by black skinned elves, Korrick, poor fellow was still reeling from a moment's imprisonment, it was no wonder that the almond eyed woman was still unconscious. This last day in his life had aroused more questions and brought him closer to more answers than any day previously in his entire life, save the day of his birth.

Why was the queen of Alk'Hara, the most powerful woman in the entire realm held captive by these vile elves? Where had they come from and how long had they been there? Arren had seen little in the long dark caverns through which they had traveled but the one thing he had seen was their city, black, beautiful, twisted and vast. If these elves were in fact responsible for the convoluted goings on within the Isles as of late, there was no telling how many cities there were or how large they could be. It was unnerving to think that there were entire civilizations of evil beings plotting on the destruction of the five kingdoms, dwelling, thriving beneath their feet.

The nearly naked woman in his arms stirred lightly. It was strange holding the Queen of Alk'Hara, barely covered in a tattered cloak, so vulnerable, so beautiful in his arms. He could see why the prince of pirates had fallen for her, people always looked so beautiful while sleeping, he only hoped that once awake she proved as fair at heart, or they could still be dead men. At first Arren had thought that she was a corpse but for her faint breathing. Since then, it had grown stronger, perhaps this slight movement was a sign of her regaining consciousness, Arren hoped, but he knew she could not save them now, could not absolve them of perceived sins.

The Sand Blade had accused them of being assassins and by his mind they probably were. He stared at them, his gaze impenetrable, the face of a true warrior. What was he hiding behind those eyes? What could he be thinking? Arren was carrying this warrior's queen, the woman he had sworn his life to serve. Although Sword Masters swore their allegiance to no one and vowed to serve the entirety Macinar, there were two who seemed to deviate from the norm, the Sand Blade and the Sword Master of Inlakes, the capitol of Lionne. Perhaps that was what hid behind the giant's eyes...if the queen were here, then who was he serving? Cast guilt upon others lest they see the guilt within your own eyes? What evil had this man done in the name of some false queen? If he were a Sword Master would he have not questioned the orders of a ruler to put the realm at war? Perhaps this man, like the person who sat upon the throne of Alk'Hara was hiding behind a false mask. Wear the title of a Sword Master and few will question your motives. The Salt Blade flew from it's scabbard almost of it's own accord, as though the spirit of Kellimesh drew it where his own hand had faltered. The former fear melted from Arren's body replaced by an implacable rage. Who was this giant of a man and what right had he to accuse?The mantle of a Sword Master was to protect, not deal death wherever seen fit. It was time for this man to answer to the names of the dead. It was time for Arren to accept his fate and take up the duties of the Illiathans, stewards of the bastard house of the bastard sword, heirs of the ancient sword master the Silver Blade. With the strength of generations of Iliathans behind his voice, Arren spoke. "Sand Blade, it is you who are the assassin, prince slayer and war bringer, razer of Lionne. Here I hold your queen, the lady of Alk'Hara! From whom then ,Sword Master, do you take your orders? We have saved your lady from the depths of the earth, the cold hands of black skinned elves, and you call us assassins? Assassin! I spit the word. You, Sword Master, have brought this realm to war, and you, Sword Master have slain the lover of this woman here in my arms. If you truly serve the realm, if you still hold the title to which you cling, then lay down your sword, lay down the Sand Blade and take your queen into your arms. Help us protect this realm from the evil which you have helped unleash. If not, then by the gods we will suffer your death or find damnation in our failure, for I will bleed for you, give my honor to all of Macinar and keep none for my self, all you must answer is this, Sand Blade, are you an evil man?"

Path of Prophecy: Chapter 8 Intro- Shadows of the World

    She has lost all track of time in such darkness. Last she could recall it had been 5 weeks since she had seen light. After that days just turned into mist, and all cycles of life became chaotic. At home if she stood in darkness long enough, her eyes would strengthen and in time she could make out the shapes around her. Not here. Here the darkness devoured everything. The shadows were cold and heavy like wet silk. She could feel it feeding off her. It penetrated her, and she wept again.

    Where once there was gold, now there was heavy irons. Where once there was oils and jewelry, now there were wounds. She was stronger than others had been. Others had given up and simply died after a few weeks. Their bodies and minds simply couldn't bare to live anymore, and went their separate ways. Not her. She was made from strong bloodlines. She was of ancient lineage, and had suffered many trials and pains in her life. But she was losing hope. There was nothing. No food or water. Simply shadow that filled her. It seemed to keep her alive, while draining her soul slowly. She couldn't move. She didn't even remember what it was like to breathe. But she held on. All of her focus, will, and devotion went to staying alive. Staying awake. Never giving up. She had to. It was her duty.

Deep in the shadows of the world, the living darkness fed on her spirit. And what a feast it had.

Journal entry: Korick

" Always a bloody line." Korick reaches into his pocket an pulls out out a worn little booklet.

I'm findin myself gettin pulled into a conspiracy that could bring down nations. Luckily I have good company, the lads seem a little to eager for my liking though.If i had my druthers we'd find a nice little corner an watch thing play out a little but no we have to go chase down Prince Kalimesh's ultimate secret er what not. well if their determined to get themselves killed I might as well tag along, they've been good for a laugh so far... nah its more than that. Hell Ive come to really like these blokes. saved my arse more times than I'd like to admit. Arren's calm pragmatism pared with his undying optimism, Geldazar Honest and pour as molten steel and Idwel.

Truth be told my an Idwel think a little to alike for my own comfort. He has a knack for giving voice to my darker thoughts. but whereas I may think it he is more than willing to act on it. I worry for the boy. His powers are dark an twisted, he is truly a boy lost in the dark. May Rematon protect him from what he wields and Ehmerod bless him with his song.

"Finally, two kegs of dwarven ail!" Korick slips the booklet into his pocket.

Journal Entry: Arren Illiathan

Another sleepless night. Arren hadn't written his sister in a long time, he feared that his letters were falling on deaf ears. This was troubling him for some time, where was she, and why had she never written him back? Arren felt like those he cared for were gone, left in a storied life while he pressed forward, past wherever he had been, past the life of a merchant and into a catapulting series of events over which he had no control. He resolved that when he was back in civilization he would seek her out.

Arren rolled over in his hammock strengthened by his decision to contact his family, and perhaps take matters into his own hands, damn the death warent on his head, he was an Illiathan, and must take up the mantle of his family sooner than later, he had run long enough. He closed his eyes finally, to sleep.

The ship creaked about him, he could feel the darkness consume the small cabin, it felt oppressive. Another noise made sleep nearly impossible, the deep rumbling of a drunken dwarf below him, snoring, clutching a jug of hoppy Free Islander ale. He had developed a fondness for the surly dwarf. Korrick made a perfect traveling partner, clever, sturdy and stubborn, no matter where Arren went, the stout mountain of a dwarf followed, only silent when he put his mind to it, the short fellow was overly opinionated and never hesitant to put those opinions to voice.

Geldezar and Idwell slept across the hall in the other cabin. Their room was always quiet, aside from the occasional kaw of that infernal crow. The boy Idwell had ceased to scare Arren, as did the decay of Geldezar, he had come to terms with them shortly after the death of the Shiek. Arren figured that he could only fear death for so long, and although Geldezar reminded him of the delicacy of his own flesh, the strength of his spirit and friendship showed through his fragile form. The boy on the other hand reminded him of himself. When he was younger, Arren had viewed the world with contempt, while he educated himself about philosophy and the ways of the world hidden for him in the pages of books, he resented other's ignorance toward the matters. Eventually he came to see the inherent wisdom in the most humble of men, but Idwell had not come to this point, perhaps he never would. Fortunately, Arren had not possessed the magical powers that were seemingly randomly bestowed upon Idwell, to tell the truth Arren would still be scared of the boy if it had not been for the fact that when his companions thought him in danger within the camp of the Sons of Candor, Idwell put his life on the line to save him. From that point Arren began to see Idwell in a different light. Perhaps the boy would never further change his strange and fearfully violent behavior but Arren felt responsible for the boy as Arren's brothers must have for him and he was determined to show him the compassion that he had been blessed with as a child.

With this fond thought Arren rolled back over to let sleep find him at last.

Creeeak, Crik, thud. thud. The sounds of the ocean were incessant.

Something cold still gripped him. He couldn't take it anymore, he quietly stepped down from his hammok and reflexively gripped his sword. Fear. Cold fear crept up the blade of his sword through its pummle, spiraled through his fingers and down his arm, resting at last in his heart.

"The Sand Blade"

The words found his lips before he thought them. Korrick rolled over smacking his lips, and continued snoring. The tiny cabin was stifling, Arren quickly slipped out of the room and rushed up the short flight of stairs to the deck of the small ship. The fear was heavier than the entire ocean upon his heart, he gasped for air and leaned over the railing of the ship, retching, wishing he could expel the entire sensation into the sea.

Nothing would come up. No fear, vomit, bile, no words. Briny air rushed into his lungs and he gasped for air. The Sand Blade was the most terrifying of the Sword Masters, his blade let more blood than a thousand barber's razors, and he served only the queen of Alk'Hara, who was a warmongering madwoman, as was evidenced in her latest actions.

Arren lifted his sword and began swinging it, rehearsing ancient footwork passed down by his family, the forms of the Sword Master who sired his bloodline. Could the half remembrings of an ancient swordsman's teachings serve him here? Arren wanted to throw himself upon his blade and end it here. He couldn't protect his friends from this man, and the sword in his hands had lost to the Sand Blade once before. There was nothing he could do except practice. Practice and hope that the day when the queen's assassin found him he was that much faster and that much stronger that he might actually stand a chance. So, Arren swung his sword wearing the wood smooth beneath his feet waiting for the dawn to find him, or sleep. He could not stop before then. He must be ready, or they would all die.

Journal Entry: Idwel

I have been on the road with Geldezar, Korrick, and Arren for some time now. I have had many disagreements with them, Korrick and Arren especially, and they came close to killing me once out some misplaced fear and ignorance. But I suppose they didn’t, did they? I have grown comfortable around them. Though they might not be completely accepting of my abilities, they do still take me with them…

Idwel lifted his pen up from the page and looked over at his sleeping companions thoughtfully, and old memories trickled down the back of his mind. He would never forget what those cowardly disgusting townsfolk had tried to do to him when he was younger, and that monster, that horrible thing wearing a father’s skin. He could still not bring himself to trust anyone else, those people out there who would kill him in an instant if they knew what kinds of things he could do. A decision was made, and a flash of resolve swept over Idwel.

“They’re mine” he whispered under his breath. He turned and scratched Kyzzick behind his neck. “They’re mine, and I’ll not be letting anyone else have them now, will I?” Kyzzick blinked and cocked his head to the side, letting out a quiet click. Idwel mused on how this old creature seemed to enjoy being coddled like some sort of pet, on occasion. “They will warm up to my gifts, I know they will.” Long locks of Idwel’s hair snaked around behind him and began to put his journal away. “and I will keep them safe, by whatever means.”

Noiselessly, Idwel drifted upwards to the treetops with Kyzzick on his shoulder, coming to a stop at the very top of a dead gray tree. He looked up at the moon, as he had found himself doing quite often lately, wondering what kinds of horrors it would herald in next. Kyzzick’s eyes took on the dull icy glow they always did when he had something important to show him. “What have you to teach me tonight then?” Idwel smiled, as a cloud of darkness wrapped around them both.

Journal Entry: Geldazar

Stepping out of the armorer's shop, Geldazar rolled his shoulders back and stood tall. A small smile crept up his ravaged face and his normally hunched form seemed to melt away. The creak of new leathers beneath his travel stained green robes accompanied a pleasured sigh. The weight of months of travel, chain linked armor, and splintered heavy shield wood did not hang on his body and mind. A new confidence of purpose and spirit burned within his heart. The encounter with the old ape God of the island had revealed a new facet of the jewel of Geldeneir and her ineffable beauty. Her life extended far beyond what Geldazar had previously understood. And this new understanding flowed through his arteries, veins, muscles, organs, and extended to every capillary of his flesh. He took in a sharp breath, a prayer of Geldenier on his lips. With a knowing smile upon his face, he began to glow, a golden illumination rapidly spread across his skin, light enveloping his flesh and garb. For an eternal second his form was dazzingly bright to look upon, radiating a gentle warm heat of life, pure flowing spirit. And with a sharp exhale, his form returned to that of flesh, cloth, and leather. He felt no need for his old heavy armor, for life itself needs no armor. Geldenier's holy blood was enough.

"Now where have my friends gone off to?" thought Geldazar, "I hope they haven't gotten themselves into any trouble."

Chapter 7 Intro: Sand and Fire

The last of the Ivor soldiers were being placed on the burn pile when he finally left the battlefield. The smell had become too much. He paced out into the desert while his men finished the clean up. Nothing more than servants. He hardly needed them.

The assault had been planned weeks ago. When he had looked over the expected numbers, he was almost excited for the challenge. This had been nothing short of disappointing. Another battle without so much as a scratch. Heavy handed swordplay from fools stumbling around in their heavy armor. He spat.

He hated that it was so hard to find a good fight. The last opponent to make him break a sweat was dead, and all his work had gone to waste. He knew that greedy Shiek couldn't be trusted to protect the blade. The blade itself wasn't much, but it stood for so much. The man they call the Pirate Prince had fought well. He moved like water, and showed no fear. It was a shame he had orders to kill him. But whatever his queen asked of him, he did without question. He loved to serve The Sphinx.

He removed his own blade from his back. As always, his arm felt more complete with it in hand. He would never set it down, if it didn't scare so many. Long and black, with the slightest curve. A paper thin blade that stretched 7 feet from base to tip. Souless. No magician could have known the rivers of blood he would be responsible for when making this weapon.

Now he was to fix all the problems that little man had caused for his queen. Return the blade. Find the assassins. He was sure they could be found in the same place. He was impressed that the Ivors had used such a cunning attack to undo the plans they had made. Usually they were strangers to deception and subtlety. An interesting turn of events, to be sure.

He turned away from the burning desert sun, his many heavy tiam'pathas flapping in the strong wind. He returned to the battlefield, sword in hand. With a gesture he told the men it was time to move on. They had to set sail, once again. Only now with their new ship. A fine gift from his queen.

Salted Folly

Arren Illiathan could not sleep. This was the first comfortable bed that he'd lain in since Camdella, there were no fleas and only a few lumps in the fresh straw mattress. He fluffed the worn down pillow on the bed and rolled over to his side, staring out the watery glass window. The nights here were hot by comparison to those in Andmar. Hot and humid, sweat stuck to his body like a greasy film. He wanted to open the glass windows to feel the slight breeze that blew through the portside town of San Balliares but then, of course, the wretched insects would suck him dry. So, Arren just lay there, miserably waiting for morning to rise. The moon slowly made it's way across the sky, it's slight sliver now out of view of the window, yet it still cast a faint light through the distorted pane. The sound of raucous sailors could still be heard drifting through the floorboards. They were talking of Alk'Haran women that they'd had. Arren realized that he'd only ever had one woman, a fair skinned Dornish girl who's father owned half the merchant ships in Dornheim. They had stayed in the man's manor for almost a week, waiting out a terrible storm, unfortunately, the Dornish merchant lord discovered where his daughter kept mysteriously sneaking off to and shackled him to a whipping post swearing to cut off his head in the morning. That had been another long sleepless night which had had an end. Arren never knew what Nerro had told the man, but after twelve long hours tied to the post in a raging storm he was set free, and the weather abated soon after. Since that day, Arren was never allowed to sail into Dornish waters. Arren's past seemed like another life time, he was steeped so far into affairs foreign to his childhood. He rubbed the scar around his left eye, and put on his glasses.

He hadn't written to his sister in nearly a fortnight. He rose from bed and sloppily donned his trousers and shirt, thought about it and buckled his sword, the Salt Blade, to his side. The Sons of Kandor had warned him not to wear it in public, but Arren looked at it another way, if they saw him wearing this sword, maybe people would give him a wide birth. He gathered his parchment, wax, pen ink and sands and made his way down to the tavern hall. The sailor's conversation had moved on to their distaste for the Sons of Kandor, when they saw him stepping down the stairs they silenced their conversation, Arren noticed one of them eye his sword and nudge his companion. By the time Arren had settled himself at a table the three men had moved to the other side of the bar. It had worked, nobody would bother him with the Salt Blade at his side. Arren removed his glasses from their hard wood and leather case and began writing in relative peace, using the fire from the hearth as a much better light source than the single candle in his room. He had completed half the letter, describing the events of the past twenty days by the time he noticed the large man in front of him. He looked up.

"Nice sword, where'd you get it?"

"Pardon?" Arren would try playing dumb.

"Where's the prince, thief?"
Arren stammered, and began to rise to his feet.

"Let's bring this thief to justice boys, for prince Kalimesh!"

The man's large fist swung quickly toward Arren's head, he barely had time to duck the blow and ram his shoulder into the man's ribs. He heard a crack and then shoved the man to the ground striding past to the other sailor who stood his ground smirking. Arren whipped around in time to see the dagger enter his side. The third sailor had snuck behind him while the large one was talking. Arren fell backward onto the table with his parchment, ink spilled with blood, and he drew his sword. Salt Blade made a raspy sound as it escaped it's scabbard. All three men descended upon him at once, Arren quickly rolled off the table and spun in a tight spiral, his sword expertly struck all three men as they closed in on him, slicing the meat of their thighs, they quickly crumbled to the floor. Arren hesitated for a second, he could dispatch of the thugs now, but then he caught the aghast eye of the barmaid, she had seen the whole exchange. Instead, Arren turned over a table and ran, he ran as fast as he could into the dark port town, bleeding in his wake. There were some battles that Arren could never physically win. His own pride it seems was his folly, Arren realized now how his brothers had died, they had too much pride in their skills and in their weapons, others had seen that and taken their lives for it. Arren just hoped he wouldn't make the same mistake.

Journal Entry: Idwell

The raw strength wielded by the creatures of this exotic land is immense.

I have encountered two of their 'gods' thus far, and while I doubt the divinity of one, it was still an impressive force of primal destruction.

I am curious to see what other 'gods' dwell within these jungles, and whether or not we will survive our next encounter with one.

For now we are wrapped up in some trifle with a mercenary group, I don't know the details yet but I did have fun testing out some of my new works on them, watching them scurry about like panicked rats.

Delightful