Bladebound Retainer Quest #7

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>Twitter: twitter.com/TaskForceKaz

[STATS]
>Combat: +++
>Social: +
>Knowledge: ++

[Abilities/Traits/Perks]
>Indomitable, Rank 1: Ignore the penalties imposed by Blood Loss. Does not negate health loss.
>Atelier of Death: Craft your own Bombs and Poisons
>Nimble Fingers: +30 to non-attack actions involving your hands (lockpicking, pickpocketing, etc.).
>Specter’s Dream: A technique to allow one to rest while remaining aware of one’s surroundings. (4/8/12 hour intervals each with their own bonuses).
>Knowledge: Nobility (Aderaveth): Take a flat 50 to Knowledge rolls concerning this subject.

>231 ACR (After Crimson Reckoning)
>Seven years ago

The stench of the dead found its way into everything.

Every gap in his breastplate, every orifice of his helm, every moving part of his armor. It had been practically ritual on this barren land, where only the remnants left were to those long dead in half-forgotten wars. The daily rite of scouring had quickly become the latest of mandatory practices for soldiers of God. In hallways of stone, in open encampments under the stars, the cloying scent would only thicken to putrefying proportions if not properly dealt with. But for all their effort, it seemed that no amount of prayers or incense could keep the odor entirely away.

Brother Martin once suggested that the smell itself was alive, that it was some sort of mite-sized buoyant scavenger that could not help but emanate the smell of carrion. He was long dead, killed just moments after the attack came. The catacombs had been his grave, his life turning the ashes of the long dead into crimson slurry as it poured from grievous wounds.

(cont.)

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Anders thought about Martin as he spurred his horse onward, hunched down against the howling winds that clawed at him. Martin the faithful, praying upon waking, meals and slumber; studious Martin, always glasses deep inside ancient tomes even during the hours of resting. But dead now, killed by something that many thought to be long dead.

He shuddered, but it was not caused by the surrounding environs. The weight pulled against Anders’ neck, the leather cord twisting on cold steel as it repeatedly bumped against his side. He risked a glance downwards, checking once again to make sure the blood-stained satchel was still in his possession.

There was no telling how much further he had to bear the burden. He had no map or wayfinder, a fact he had cursed repeatedly. In his haste to escape the fortress, the Godsblade Initiate had barely enough time to acquire the most rudimentary of supplies to ensure his survival in the lifeless land.

But it could not have been helped. The order came with the demand for immediate and absolute obedience. Flee this place, the Abbot had said, his voice sharp and piercing as the blade in his hands, Take it and warn them of what happened here.

Anders wanted to believe that it was something special about himself that compelled the Abbot to entrust him with such an important task, but he knew in his heart that it was not so. The role of guardian had only come to him because there was no one else at hand. Neither high rank nor deeds of courage belonged to him, and he had only donned the silver armor of the Godsblade three seasons past. His status was most assuredly still higher than laymen and women, but he was just a mere foot soldier in the service to the faith.

(cont.)

For the briefest of moments he wondered: was this the call to greatness that had beckoned the Saint so many millennia ago? He immediately pushed the thought away. Down that road lay the sins of pride and self-aggrandization. And who was he, an Initiate at twenty four years old, to match the Saint who wielded the divine energies of the gods as ordinary men would a sword?

No, his destiny was to be at the command of the High God, the deity whose Light had brought salvation to the people of Kaithe. Anders had entered the order as a child, raised among the innumerable orphans from the Church for the myriad sects of the faith, and like them knew no other life apart from training and devotion. He and legions of his kindred in the faith were the Soldiers of the Dawn, the army sworn to the service of Opran.

Why the faith needed Anders to serve his Initiate years in a faraway and desolate outpost was never made clear to him, but it was not his place to question the directive of his superiors. He had spent the entirety of his life following the commands given to him, and was glad for giving him a clear sense of purpose in these trying times.

He had heard the stories, of course, from mentors and travelers about people in neighboring lands struggling to find meaning in their lives. He always felt sorry for them, and was infinitely relieved that the Order existed within his life to give purpose as they saw fit. That uncertain encumbrance, at least, had been removed from his mind.

At this moment, his purpose continued to strike the underside of his arms, hard enough that his ribs began to ache. Anders cursed as he took his right hand off the reins and grabbed the satchel in a firm grip. His sword, strapped to his left side, rattled in its sheath as he maneuvered himself to a more comfortable position. He was loathe to the idea of sacrificing his shield hand to have a firmer grasp on the bag, but the rapid progress of his mount overcame his concern for attack.

(cont.)

He held it in his arm, as one would an infant in swaddling clothes. It was an allegory that aptly described both the posture of his limb and the spiritual burden that came with it. The emotional weight far transcended its physical mass, pulling at his heart with an ache he was not used to. It made him fearful, an emotion he’d not felt since the Trials.

Anders had never expected nor desired to bear such a responsibility. But he had been chosen because he still drew breath, and because Godsblade veterans better and longer experienced in the arts of war had thrown themselves at the enemy to safeguard his flight.

Galvanized by the enormity of his duty, Anders pressed on with renewed vigor. Words from the Rubric of Protection came whispered from his lips as he spurred his mount to go faster. He was sure they at least made five miles since the fortress. Once they made another fifteen, then and only then would he allow themselves rest.

The overcast skies prevented the full radiance of the sun to shine upon the wasteland, but it was all he could trust to guide him. In the halcyon days of his initiation, Anders learned that the wide expanse of dead earth and the mounds of ash could confuse and disorient the unwary sojourner.

On the old maps, the land was once a verdant forest known for the rich bounty of life it played host to, but in the years following the Reckoning, it went by the name fearful locals whispered behind locked doors. To both the holy orders and the men and women of Kaithe, this barren patch of earth was known as the Dreadlands.

(cont.)

>>Marcus
Beyond the snow-tipped forests, the distant mountain range consumes the sun, leaving nothing by faint orange slips in the evening sky. In the shadow of the mountain, just half a mile from the Journeyman Bridge, the Eagle Knights stop their march and strike camp in a clearing by the forest. The royal carriage comes to a gradual stop as you close your book, the rattling of the wheels disturbing the slumber of the Crowmonds.

Ellana is the first to wake up, rubbing the sand out of her eyes with a tired yawn. Her siblings are quick to follow, with Adrianna having to rouse her brother out of a deep sleep. You don’t blame him for being slow to rise. Reading while on the road, especially while riding in a moving vehicle, is very strenuous on the eyes.

“Good…good morning, Marcus,” Ellana says, stifling a yawn as she stretches. “Have we…have we made it to Uncle Kieran’s fortress yet?”

The corner of your mouth tugs upwards in a semblance of a smile. “It’s technically the evening, princess. And no, I’m afraid we have not. We cannot travel any further today. It’s dangerous to travel at night, even with a host of a hundred knights.”

She pauses, squinting through the curtains to find the distant sunset. “Oh I see…so where are we now?”

“The Journeyman Bridge. To be precise, half a mile away from it. This was the most secure clearing that the knights could find around the area-”

The sound of someone’s stomach rumbling cuts off your words before you can finish them. You blink as Ellana flushes red, a petulant look on her face. “…I’m hungry.”

You chuckle softly as you open the carriage door, unfolding the steps for your charge and her siblings. “I’m sure we can remedy that quickly enough…”

(cont.)

>>Outside
The Crowmonds receive their own special area, a clearing of their own shielded by a set of drapes that extend out of the carriage. They sit around a bonfire as they pick at the stew the servants have prepared. Their respective Crownguard eat along with them, eyes vigilant as they shovel food into their mouths, with Lupine in particular going at her meal with great enthusiasm without a care in the world.

Princess Adrianna’s face is equal measures of mortification and embarrassment at her retainer’s culinary manners.

By the time you finish your meal, the sun has disappeared, and the only sources of illumination are the fires of your camp and the overhead moon, bearing the entirety of its face to the world below. The knights begin to break off into shifts, the tell-tale CLINK-CLANK of their armor signs of their patrol. In the distance, the loud baritone of Lord Kieran can be heard as he orders his men about.

While most would be turning in for the night, the Crowmonds are not, having rested in the carriage prior. They are still wide awake, going about their own business under the watchful eyes of their retainers. Adrianna works on a bit of needlework. Allanus pours over his spellbook, with Silverow helping him through the tougher sections. The mage meets your look and returns it with a brisk nod before returning to his pupil.

Ellanna herself is merely taking in the sighs, humming folk songs to herself as she rocks back and forth on the log adjacent to yours.

>Choose one:
>Create some of your poisons
>Enter the Specter’s Dream
>Talk with a Crownguard
>Custom option.

>>Create some of your poisons

This will be fun to explain but better to be prepared

1nd>Create some of your poisons
2nd>Enter the Specter’s Dream

>>Create some of your poisons

...

>Enter the Specter’s Dream

>Create some of your poisons

>>Create some of your poisons

You reach towards your satchel, gently taking out the various tinctures and bottles that contain the raw ingredients you harvested from the forest earlier back on the road. Ellana breaks away from her humming at the noise of glass rattling against each other, looking on in amazement as you go about setting up your impromptu workshop. Once you’ve set your ingredients together, you go over the current recipes cataloged in your mind.

Bodylock. A poison that causes one’s limbs to tense and lock in place. Best used for rendering combatants helpless on the battlefield to be finished off for later or to render them incapable of battle quickly.

Hangman’s Noose. A potent serum that induces asphyxiation into its victims. It the poison itself can be countered, but seldom are those who can act quickly enough to take the counteraction. Best used in assassination missions, a favorite of Lucien’s.

And Widow’s Fang. Smeared onto blades, its translucency makes it almost impossible to detect by most until it’s too late. Rapid destruction of the tissue surrounding the point of impact. Just the sight of skin rotting is enough to induce panic into the most hardened of soldiers.

>Poison making, V.1
>Poisons are created by using Ingredients
>Ingredients can be either bought from herbalists or harvested in the wild
>For some poisons, a specific Catalyst is required
>Poisons are described: (Effect, Lethality, Speed)

>Creating poison requires passing a Knowledge Check
>Individual poisons have their own hidden DC
>Nat 100 = Mutated Poison, double potency
> Nat 1 = Failed Poison, waste of ingredients

>You now have:
>15 Ingredients
>2 Widow's Tears
>4 Slennush Mushrooms

>Current poisons:
>Bodylock (Paralysis, nonlethal, fast) [4 Ingredients]
>Hangman’s Noose (Asphyxiation, lethal, medium) [3 Ingredients, 2 Slennush Mushrooms]
>Widow’s Fang (Necrosis, lethal, fast) [5 Ingredients, 1 Widow’s Tears]

>Which poisons do you wish to make?

One of each for now to have our options open

2 Hangman's Noose
1 Widow's Fang
1 Bodylock.

15 ingredients 1 widow's tears 4 Slennush Mushrooms

I'll second this.

Hey Kaz, what's your opinion on Worm?

Two vials of Hangman’s Noose.

One concoction of Widow’s Fang.

And one decanter of Bodylock.

You haven’t made proper poison since your years with Lucien, but the motions come back to you quickly enough. It isn’t too difficult since these were the only three poisons he ever let you know. As a result, your proficiency in brewing them is more than adequate, even with years of abstaining from this kind of activity.

It goes without saying that he knew many more. Poisons that can further aid one in killing a man, whether through the tainted goblet or the dripping blade. When he thought you were asleep, you caught bits and pieces of information, tiny pieces of an incoherent puzzle you were never to make whole. But you know their effects well enough.

>Poison recipes are scattered all over Kaithe
>Some are for sale and can be found in books while others are not so readily available

But you quietly shove thoughts of legendary formulas out of your mind as you return to your work. Distractions are the last thing you want to have when making poisons of these severity, even low-level concoctions.

You mix, you crush, you scrape and you liquefy as your hands bring to fruition the poisons of your teachings.

>Roll 4d100 + 20
>Hangman, Hangman, Widow’s Fang, Bodylock
>Best of three

Rolled 64, 75, 79, 1 + 20 = 239 (4d100 + 20)

Rolled 66, 65, 13, 1 = 145 (4d100)

And there's the 1 we've been waiting for

WHAT THE FUCK ANOTHER ONE (1)

IT BEGINS

I'm so sorry

holy fuck we don not know how to brew body lock

Rolled 98, 18, 9, 52 + 20 = 197 (4d100 + 20)

I'm glad those 1's are on the bodylock roll.

I assume we bodylock ourselves for a bit.

Rolled 15, 81, 95, 67 + 20 = 278 (4d100 + 20)

>>Our first two natural ones
...let's just get the other two out of the way while things aren't high stakes yet.

Nah. Waste of ingredients. Any other low roll means less potent poison.

Guilty pleasure.

Writing...

JUST a Guilty Pleasure?


>Sophia Brown
>Madison Barnes
>Emma
>Danny, Annette and Taylor

You have no trouble brewing the Hangman and the Widow’s Fang. But you cannot say the same for Bodylock. The worst thing about it is that you had the damn thing near finished. And then your arm just twitched, a fatigued muscle from Bellatrix’s horse riding lessons earlier. You watch with a stricken look as two almost-complete bottles of Bodylock fall to the forest floor, spilling all over the ground and soaking into the soil.

“Damn,” You curse under your breath, gingerly removing the vials once you’re sure that they’re empty. Bodylock can only be taken in through an open wound or via the mouth. Even though you’re wearing gloves, you still treat the bottles with the utmost care, washing them out thoroughly with nearby snowmelt. “What a waste…”

The only silver lining you can draw from this is a mental reminder to be careful in the next time you brew. Especially with Bodylock. If this session was any indication, then your mind isn’t as keen on poison making as you would like to think it is.

>You obtained:
>Hangman’s Noose Poison (2)
>Widow’s Fang Poison (1)

>You have:
>1 Widow’s Tear

“I had no idea you were an herbalist, Painel.”

You look up to find an audience watching you go about your work. Ellanna and Allanus stare at the equipment, eyes wide in wonder and curiosity as she tries to puzzle out their various functions. Bellatrix keeps to herself, going in for her third helping of stew as her charge turns away from you with a faint blush on her cheeks. Mortified to be staring, perhaps. The Ingulan silently whittles away the hours of the night on an intricate wooden carving, lost in his thoughts.

Silverow approaches, taking care to step around the area of spilled Bodylock. He raises an eyebrow at your equipment: the barest requirements for a proper chemist’s lab, courtesy of Palme and a small loan of a thousand arums. There are better kits, that you have no doubt, as well as proper laboratories to concoct your work.

(cont.)

But you don’t need those proper places. As long as you have relative quiet and an ample amount of Ingredients and Catalysts, you can brew anywhere. Even with incredibly modest equipment.

“I myself devoted my time to the arcane arts while I was in the Ivory Tower,” Silverow muses as he watches you put away your equipment. “But I learned enough to know and recognize the movements of an experienced maker. I’ve never seen anyone mix that quickly before.”

You grunt as you close your satchel. “Thank you.”

He hesitates before continuing, “If you don’t mind me asking, what was it that you were making? My knowledge only goes as far as the methodology, not the names of ingredients and recipes.”

>"Antidotes. Just in case." (Lie)
>“None of your business.” (Deflect)
>“Poison, for our enemies.” (Truth)
>Custom option.

...if you're trying to ask if I'm fond of Worm, then yes, I am. The writing could use some work. Amazing world though.

>>“Something to deal with any animals we come across. Can't be too careful.""

>“Poison, for our enemies.” (Truth)

>Custom option.
"Stuff"

>>“Poison, for our enemies.” (Truth)

>“Poison, for our enemies.” (Truth)
No use lying.

>Infront of the kids
Niggas please

What? We kill people. They'll have to get used to it eventually.

We've made it a point not to flaunt it in front of them if at all possible. Why don't we just tell them our life story while we are at it?

Sounds good.

See shit like that makes it clear you are a fucking retard.

I'll second this since user is crying.

>“Poison, for our enemies.” (Truth)

>>Custom option

“Something to deal with any animals we come across,” You shrug off-handedly. “Can’t be too careful, especially in the late months of winter. Lots of things are coming out of hibernation. Bears, wolves, the nasty beasts that inhabit the royal woods.”

You have the feeling Silverow takes a moment to accept what you have to say, but he nods. “I see. If I recall correctly, wyverns commonly emerge from hibernation only when a good portion of spring has already passed. Although…”

“There are exceptions to every rule,” You conclude, standing up. You shake your legs to get the blood flowing back into them, pacing around the campfire. “And it never hurts to be prepared, especially with our line of work.”

The mage’s eyes flicker towards his charge, who struggles over pronouncing one of the runes. “Quite astute. We can never be too prepared. But it is best to do it in moderation. Paranoia is just as much of a detriment to security as much as inactivity.”

>Adrianna’s opinion of Marcus has improved.
>Silverow’s opinion of Marcus has improved.
>The Ingulan’s opinion of Marcus has improved.

Lupine lets out a crass belch that causes the both of you to jump. The abruptness of the noise is even enough to get the hairs on your end standing. Allanus and Ellana laugh while Adrianna puts her face into her hands. Uncaring, the knightess licks her lips and gestures towards the stewpot.

“Mind if I finish that?”

>>Midnight

Eventually, the energy brought on by the afternoon’s nap fades away, and the Crowmond children settle their tent for the evening. It’s not the grandest of tents ir the height of luxury, but it’s certainly a spectacle. Big enough to fit two small cots, one for Adrianna and another for Allanus and Ellanna to share, and a majority of the luggage and clothing.

(cont.)

The Ingulan offers to take the first watch, planting himself in front of the entrance with his bow at the ready. Silverow takes the back entrance, magical tome at the ready. In the meantime, Lupine sits by the low fire, gently going over her sword with oil and whetstone.

You will eventually need to relieve your comrades and take watch. But first, you decide to…

>Enter the Specter’s Dream
>Go exploring
>Read your book
>Custom option

>Enter the Specter’s Dream

>Enter the Specter’s Dream

>Read your book

>Enter the Specter’s Dream

>>Enter the Specter’s Dream
>>Read your book
I want to see if we can Sleep Read since we're aware of our surroundings.

You knell before the fire, evening out your breathing as you empty your mind of all thoughts and distractions. The sole thing that you focus on is the sound of your breath as your senses begin to slow down to a crawl. Already, you can feel your sense of smell beginning to go, the odor of the burning tinder becoming faint before it completely becomes unnoticeable.

From her side of the fire, you can see Bellatrix frown as your breathing slows down. With worry etched across her face, she puts her weapon down to move towards you. The smell of smoke returns as the sound of her calling your name fades away into nothing. Your hearing is now gone.

She waves a hand in front of your face, and you can see her lips move in what you believe to be a hushed call for your name. When you don’t respond, she gets closer and extends a hand towards your shoulder. The intent to shake you out of your apparent malady is clear within her steps.

Movement causes the trance to break, and a broken Dream renders you nothing gained. However, there are still parts of you that can move without compromising the Dream.

Your eyes flicker upwards, blinking towards the advancing knightess. Bellatrix blanches, stumbling back while reaching for a sword that isn’t at her hip. She’s seen them, then. The color of your eyes when you enter the Trance, and the myriad designs that dance across them.

You shake your head ever so slightly as she tries to move towards you again, not enough to break out of the Trance but enough for her to notice. This time, she stops, still staring at you with furrowed eyebrows, the most serious expression you’ve seen on her face. Eventually, she returns to her weapon, picking up the sword and running her grindstone along it, occasionally casting the odd glance towards you.

(cont.)

Edgy Sleeping: the most hardcore thing ever.

You don’t blame her for being weary. If it weren’t for the fact that you’d die, you would’ve attacked Lucien when he first showed you the technique when you were eight. On him, scarred, menacing and with a hair-trigger temper, the Specter’s Eyes gave you no end of nightmares. While you’re nowhere near the man’s moral bankruptcy or intimidating gait, it’s still to be expected that those not in the know would have their apprehensions.

Perhaps it is best to let them have their thoughts, at least within the circle of Crownguard outside of Palme. One day, you will need to tell them. That much is clear and obvious. But tonight is not that night. Nor will it be for the foreseeable future.

It is while observing the passage of the overhead stars in the winter sky that you pass away the hours of the night, recuperating and letting your body heal itself from the aches of the day. Trained assassin you may be, but you’re still a human being at the end of the day, and even you aren’t immune to fatigue.

>Choose one:
>Four hours. (Minimum rest, all Fatigue penalties eliminated, no bonuses)
>Eight Hours. (Moderate rest, all Fatigue penalties eliminated, +5 to Stat Rolls)

>Choose one:
>The Conspirator
>The Steward
>The Revenant

If you get someone to turn the pages for you, then maybe that will work. Maybe. You'd take a penalty roll for going about reading in a very unorthodox fashion.

>Eight Hours. (Moderate rest, all Fatigue penalties eliminated, +5 to Stat Rolls)
>The Conspirator

Wait picked the wrong first option.
>Four hours. (Minimum rest, all Fatigue penalties eliminated, no bonuses)

>Four hours. (Minimum rest, all Fatigue penalties eliminated, no bonuses)
>The Steward

>>Four hours. (Minimum rest, all Fatigue penalties eliminated, no bonuses)

>>The Steward

>>Four hours. (Minimum rest, all Fatigue penalties eliminated, no bonuses)

Presumably we have a watch shift as well, best to do our fair share, moderate rest is best used only when we will surely need it or there is no downside.

>Four hours. (Minimum rest, all Fatigue penalties eliminated, no bonuses)
>The Steward

Yeah we can do the full eight after we have our fight with Bellatrix.

Your name is Kieran Pullman, High Steward of Aderaveth and ruler over the Pullman Vale. And right now, your luck continues to plummet down the shit hole. Prior to your journey to the capitol of the Empire to join Emeron in exterminating the Highwaymen, you’ve experienced good fortune both in personal endeavors and public affairs.

The snow this year had been mercifully light in the Vale, allowing business within the territory to continue without too much impediment. The healers had completely finished the treatment of your back faster than you expected, given the severity of falling off a galloping horse. And, perhaps the best of all, Braeden tearfully announced that she was pregnant with your third child.

She did not know what it would be, but you pray for a girl. You’ve got two sons to be proud of, Kellam and Brendan, both on their way to becoming fine upstanding knights of the realm. A daughter to dote upon…now that would be nice to do. Having a godchild to spoil was nice, but Katrina von Roie was far from the typical lord’s daughter. Gods help Alistair and Kitianna with that spitfire of a daughter.

It was only a matter of time before your luck went downhill. Out of all the Lords Emeron assembled, you were the one who suffered the most losses. Twenty Eagle Knights would never don their silver helms, or see the Vale in spring. It was only by good fortune that Captain Stern was able to survive due to the rapid response of the healers, but he would not be able to ride for a good six months. The loss of your finest man was enough to have a noticeable effect on the morale of your men.

And then it reached peak bottom when an assassin tried to kill Lionel’s youngest child while dressed in the colors of your house. That certainly put a dampener on the festive mood of slaughtering the Highwaymen.

“Excuse me, milord?”

(cont.)

You turn to find young Tobias Stern, your current squire, standing at the front of your tent. He is the very image of his father, with the only thing lacking the prominent jawline that was so iconic of a Stern. That would come in time, though, with the grace of the gods. He would need it as well. Tobias’ face was more suited to a bard or minstrel than a knight under your command.

“What is it?”

He struggles with something under his cloak before there’s a sharp noise, and a hiss of pain to come out of his lips. It is out of reflex that he releases the bulge underneath his cloak, waving the bleeding digit in the air as a night raven flies towards you. You raise your eyebrow as you hold out a gauntleted arm, grunting as the birds’ talons scrape along the metal.

“The thing you should know about these birds,” You sigh, gently stroking ruffled feathers as you take sight of the vellum at its foot, “Is that only death will stop them from delivering a message. They’re born and breed that way to fight through any obstacle.”

“Yes, milord,” Tobias mutters, gingerly wrapping a stray bit of cloth around his bleeding finger. “I’ll take care to notice that for future events.”

You shake your head. “Carry on. Go get some rest. Gods know we’ll need it tomorrow.”

Your squire bows, swiftly making an exit. And just in time as well. The bird begins to shake its leg violently towards your face. You dexterously pluck the scroll from its offered limb and it immediately calms down, hopping off your arm to settle onto your unoccupied cot. It nestles into the sheets as you break open the seal, that of the Crownguard, and begin to peruse the message with a critical eye.

By the time you finish, you feel as if you’ve aged a hundred years. Palme’s level head kept Emeron in check while the torturers took to the assassin, kept him from throwing you and your knights into a dungeon. Good lad with a terrible temper. He is definitely Lionel’s son.

(cont.)

He did eventually apologize. Quite profusely as well. You didn’t even have the heart to give him a chastising. Love for one’s family makes one do irrational things. You know this quite well, more than anyone else among your circle of lords. After all, you married an Opranian instead of a lady of Aderaveth. One of noble standing in her people, but it would never be enough for the lords and ladies of the Empire.

But you cut yourself off from bittersweet thoughts as you return your attention to the scroll, hastily written in Palme’s cursive hand with all the urgency of the man’s words.

>The Stranger has perished by his own hand
>Healers say poison, not sure where he had it
>No more leads on our end, Armand is furious
>Watch yourself on the Journeyman’s Bridge
>The Magisters predict one final winter storm
>May the gods watch over you and the Children

Philosophers say that life without suffering is not life at all. Wise men say that sadness in life is a sign for the good things to come.

If that is the case, then you have certainly been living, waiting a long while for the good times to come once more.

====

>Marcus

You exit out of the trance only a few hours before dawn, and you can feel your sense slowly returning to their previous state. Standing up, you take a moment to let the blood circulate back into your limbs as you stretch. Bellatrix starts at the noise, jolting out of her slumber and scanning the area for any sort of threats.

There are none. So far. You shake her head and gesture for her to get ready. It’s time to relieve the Ingulan and Silverow.

The Ingulan is still awake, showing no signs of fatigue as you move to take his place. He nods politely to the both of you before shuffling off to the campfire. And as Bellatrix moves to replace Silverow, you can hear his yawn from all the way at the front of the tent. The mage waves at you sluggishly before curling up in front of the fire, snoring within a few moments of lying down.

(cont.)

You take up your position, hands and weapons at the ready at the slightest sign of trouble. It’s going to be dawn soon, within an hour or two. Three if winter was going to play tricks on them. This is the critical hour of vigilance.

Even from outside, you can hear someone muttering to themselves in their sleep. Given how the incoherent words and ramblings go on about the virtues of custard pudding, it’s definitely Allanus. You never had a sweet tooth at his age, but you can agree that custard pudding is quite the delicacy.

But it isn’t healthy to go on thinking about good food. The only thing you’ll do is make yourself as hungry as a pack of starved rodents. You’ve certainly been able to put away your fair share, even without the use of the dance to fuel such an appetite.

Perhaps you should check up on them, just to make sure they’re alright. You can hear all of their breaths, coming slow and steady in the pattern of slumber. Two light, soft breaths and the sound of a voice that now mutters about sweet rolls.

>Go inside to check on the royals
>Stay at your post and keep a look out

>Stay at your post and keep a look out

>>Stay at your post and keep a look out
Just to be on the professional side.

>>Stay at your post and keep a look out

>Stay at your post and keep a look out

Don't you fucking dare Kaz

>Go inside to check on the royals

The queen is actually Annete.

Markus and the other assassin are Uncle Red and Black

This is all Ellana's/Taylor's/Alice's delusion

Damnit why am I suddenly the guy whose gonna keep calling out Kaz

Dont he date what?

Twitter stuff

>Stay at your post and keep a look out

Skip out on questing to watch GoT, he won't cause he can't stream so it's all good

You decide to stay outside, tapping your foot as you wait for the time to pass. There’s no need to check on them. There are only three people inside there, three breaths at inhale and exhale with the slow and steady pace of sleep. Even outside, you can tell that they’re all safe, even if they occasionally toss and turn every so often.

There’s a sudden change in the wind that causes your nose to twitch. You take a moment to look overhead, straight up towards the sky. The gut feeling in your stomach is confirmed with the sight of the moon barely visible behind a perpetual wall of clouds.

It’s going to snow. You exhale deeply, shaking your head as you trace the engraving on the pommel of your dagger. In your experience, nothing good has ever come with snow. You don’t know when it’s going happen, but there’s a feeling in your gut that says that it’s going to be a big one.

Overhead, you can hear the cries of birds as they fly through the morning sky, seeking refuge from the coming storm. Flocks of geese and chickadees fly towards the south, accompanied by the figure of a lone mourning dove with no flock of its own.

>>Dawn

The morning isn’t much ‘dawn’ as much as it is the changing of the day. Barely any of the dawn’s orange hues come from over distant East of the Journeyman bridge. The only thing that is visible is the perpetual white of the overcast sky, and the sharp taste of winter in the air.

Lord Pullman seems to share your observations. Just minutes before it even begins to dawn, he begins to shout orders for the men to rouse themselves, get dressed and into their horses within the hour.

“Get your asses in those saddles, lads!” He shouts, “Can you all feel it? There’s a storm coming, and I have no desire to be caught in the middle of it. Hurry, you lot! We must cross the Journeyman Bridge before the worst of it comes!”

(cont.)

The royal siblings aren’t too happy to have their slumber interrupted, but they quickly go about getting themselves ready. A fresh set of clothes and a quick bite to eat, and Adrianna leads her siblings into the carriage once more.

The Crownguard are quick to rouse themselves as well. In spite of rubbing his eyes every few minutes, Silverow manages to get into the saddle of his horse without any trouble. The Ingulan bears no signs of fatigue save for a single yawn that is quickly stifled. Bellatrix is far from slow, given how fast she scarffed down a sausage link before clambering onto her mare.

You all surround the carriage as the groom readies for the departure. Already, half of the knights are on their way, with the last half waitng for the carriages' departure.

But before she closes the door, Princess Adrianna hesitates, staring at you with an unspoken invitation in her amethyst eyes. This does not go unnoticed by Bellatrix, who raises a cursory eyebrow at you and the reins in your hands.

>Ride on your mare.
>Ride in the carriage.

>>Ride on your mare.

>Ride in the carriage.

>Ride in the carriage.

If we don't wouldn't we be showing our earlier statement as bullshit?

>Ride on your mare.
We could recommend Silverow do go inside, he could help Allanus with his studies.

>Ride on your mare.
invite Silverow to tutor Allanus.

I vote to call Adrianna, Princess Titties from now on.

Second thought that's a good idea. If Adrianna inquires tell her it's good to alternate.

>Ride on your mare.

>Ride in the carriage.

>Ride on your mare.
>Get Silverow to hop in the carriage

The mage and the princess seem to be surprised when you first tell them about your idea, but they eventually see its merits after you explain it to them quickly. Adrianna seems to be relieved that a Crownguard is accompanying all three of them while Silverow is heartened by the fact he doesn’t have to ride. From the looks of things, it doesn’t seem that he’s that good at waking up in a moment’s notice.

With a flick of the reins, the groom sets the horses going, four mares in the decoration and livery of Pullman colors pulling the carriage along the road. Bellatrix takes the reins of Silverow’s horse, tying it to the back of her saddle before setting off behind you and the Ingulan. The last of the Eagle Knights are soon to follow, and by the time the last one leaves the clearing, you can already feel the first drops of snow to come down from the sky.

>>The Bridge

The Journeyman Bridge is a marvel of engineering, spanning a mile across one of the Great Vale’s many chasms. Both mortar and magic hold the stone together, brought together in union by the legendary Journeyman sometime nearly five centuries ago. It’s borne the weight of armies and merchants to come in and out of the Vale ever since then, where two armies clashed and battled during the Bladebound Rebellion.

But you are no magister. You are merely repeating the things that you’ve picked up from Magister Ansell in-between his lessons with Ellana and your recovery time. Gods, that was nearly two weeks ago. How the time flies-

“Oi!” Bellatrix’s harsh voice snaps you out of your thoughts. “Pay attention to the horse! You’re nowhere near the expertise where you can simply nudge and turn with just a gesture. Keep at it, Painel!”

(cont.)

That’s right. In exchange for a spar that’s more than likely going to get someone hurt, Lupine agreed to teach you how to ride. The long hours in the saddle hurt your legs, but you can already feel yourself improving. You’re no master, but you’re certainly far from the amateur you were the other day.

How much you have left to learn is still up in the air, though…

>Roll 1d100 + 20 Knowledge
>Best of three

Rolled 14 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

Snow!

Rolled 6 (1d100)

we learn all the things

Rolled 83 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

GERONIMO!

Not bad

Ouch

Shit

We're fine

Gonna call it a night for now. Back's starting to ache and my eyes hurting something fierce. I'll head to bed, rest up and resume first thing in the morning.

Please keep the thread bumped until then.

You can now ride a horse. Galloping is another matter though.

strawpoll.me/10598956

casual bump

...

bump

Sup Kaz

Bump