Original Submissions by Maglos of type 'Logs'

• 

  An Unprecedented Meeting
  Added on Jan 22, 2011

  Thrend Lyksae arranges a trip to visit the Elan Pah, an alliance of elves. While his hatred of the elven tribes in general affects him, he presses forth to use his talents in understanding tribal cultures and languages to attempt to work against a threat. Unfortunately for Thrend, his "understanding" of tribal cultures didn't include some key bits of knowledge about the nature of certain individuals. He is forced to control himself and not say what he is thinking (or do what he secretly desires) on several occasions.

  ---

  The Desert Rose [ES Quit]
  
  Entering this busy bar is like stepping into a dimly-lit cave, the thick stone walls keeping it comfortably cool inside and adding to the cave-like feel of the place. A constant buzz of conversation fills the room, which is populated by elves from a variety of tribes. Narrow arrow slits on the western wall are draped with sandcloth to block the heat of the afternoon sun, but still let in a scant measure of filtered light. The sandcloth covers are rolled up and tied at dusk to let in the cool night breezes. The bar is on the north wall, and tables and chairs, most of them occupied, are grouped about the room in the shadows. On the south wall, a clear area provides a spot for dancing or entertainment to be performed. An elaborate archway in the eastern wall allows entry to a vibrantly-hued room,smoke writhing out past its entry curtain.
  
  The desert elf outpost message board is propped up against the wall here.
  
  A thick rug of shiny quirri hide lies on the floor beneath the arrow slits.
  
  A multi-ringed dartboard hangs on a wall here.
  
  The corded, bronze-hued male elf is standing here.
  
  The slender, crooked-nosed woman is standing here.
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man is standing here.
  
  The stern-eyed, weathered half-elf is standing here.
  
  The leanly muscled, topknotted elf is standing here, looking a bit winded.
  
  A sinewy, ebon-skinned elf leans against the western wall, surveying the bar.
  
  The dark-haired elf is standing here.
  
  A slender, cold-eyed elven woman stands behind the bar, pouring drinks.
  
  The burly, red-haired woman has arrived from the south.
  
  The red maned, anakore-tattooed elf has arrived from the south.
  
  The braided, ebony-skinned elf has arrived from the south.
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf has arrived from the south.
  
  
  Dragging fingers through lank braids, the braided, ebony-skinned elf stops using her sweat-stained loose-fitting, gwoshi-hide headwrap.
  
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf starts cleaning.
  
  
  The braided, ebony-skinned elf puts her sweat-stained loose-fitting, gwoshi-hide headwrap into her stained hooded, greenish-grey greatcloak.
  
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf brushes the dust off of light-red and brown streaked warpaint.
  
  The corded, bronze-hued male elf starts cleaning.
  
  
  The corded, bronze-hued male elf dusts himself off.
  
  
  
  You start cleaning.
  
  You dust yourself off.
  
  The corded, bronze-hued male elf gestures a clawed arm for a large stone table as he moves across to take his seat.
  
  
  
  The slim arrow slits allow a partially-obscured view outside, to the
  
  broad tunnel that provides one of the entrances to the outpost.
  
  [Near]
  
  A war beetle is reclining here.
  
  A war beetle is reclining here.
  
  A grey-scaled, silver-shelled inix is reclining here.
  
  A reddish-shelled inix is reclining here.
  
  A rugged elf with copper skin stands here, on vigilant watch.
  
  A tall, darkly-tanned elven woman stands here.
  
  A coppery elf woman of apparent youth stands here alertly.
  
  Remarking as he lifts a hand to his his ribcage breastplate, the leanly muscled, topknotted elf says to the corded, bronze-hued male elf, in allundean:
  
  "Heru, I have come to speak for my tribe, as you asked. I didn't mean to wear Mother's flesh, but it was given to me during the earlier problems."
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf sits on a thick rug of quirri hide.
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, A grey-scaled, silver-shelled inix opens its jaws, letting its tongue dart out to lick its nostrils.
  
  You look up at the leanly muscled, topknotted elf.
  
  Leanly muscular, this elf bears the athletic frame of a warrior. Primal strength is stretched taut along his lanky form, providing bulk where otherwise there might be none. This might make him a somewhat imposing presence to other races, given that this bulk is supplemented by a stature easily crossing five cords. Forearms and hands alike are marked with a wide array of scars. Some look to have been mere nicks, while others are gruesome, puffy swaths of poorly mended tissue. The elf's face is bound within flesh of a dirty golden hue, the contours of which emphasize a heavy, surly-looking brow. At most times, his chapped lips are locked in a natural frown cradled by a square jaw. He keeps his head closely shaved with the
  exception of a black topknot.
  The leanly muscled, topknotted elf is in excellent condition.
  
  His skin has a stonelike quality.
  The leanly muscled, topknotted elf is using:
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He is carrying:
  
  nothing obvious
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man starts cleaning.
  
  The corded, bronze-hued male elf sits at a large stone table.
  
  
  Settling on the corded, bronze-hued male elf's right, the braided, ebony-skinned elf sits at a large stone table.
  
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man dusts himself off.
  
  
  The leanly muscled, topknotted elf starts cleaning.
  
  
  The leanly muscled, topknotted elf dusts himself off.
  
  
  The slender, crooked-nosed woman sheathes a bloodied quirri-hilted, serrated bone scimitar.
  The freckled, light-skinned man stares at the leanly muscled, topknotted elf for a few moments, his gaze fixed firmly on him.
  
  
  The slender, crooked-nosed woman sheathes a curved, mantis-carved obsidian scimitar.
  
  
  You think:
  
  "Mother's flesh? He is an abomination."
  
  
  His attention flitting aside for but an instant, the leanly muscled, topknotted elf looks down at you.
  
  Gaze lit for him, the corded, bronze-hued male elf says to the leanly muscled, topknotted elf, in allundean:
  
  "..Go an' watch the beetle an' inix for the Ivory, then."
  
  Reaching out to slide the nearest off, the braided, ebony-skinned elf gets her ceramic mug from a large stone table.
  
  
  The slender, crooked-nosed woman nods to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
  
  At 1) a small wooden bar are:
  
  a few empty seats.
  
  At 2) a thick rug of quirri hide are:
  
  the raw-boned, top-knotted elf, and a couple of empty seats.
  
  At 3) a large stone table are:
  
  the corded, bronze-hued male elf, the braided, ebony-skinned elf,
  
  and some empty seats.
  
  
  His lips drawing into a frown, the leanly muscled, topknotted elf asks the corded, bronze-hued male elf, in allundean:
  
  "You do not wish me to speak?"
  
  
  Briefly, the sinewy, weather-worn man looks at the leanly muscled, topknotted elf.
  
  
  With a pause, the corded, bronze-hued male elf says, in allundean:
  
  "..Nah mind.."
  
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf stands up from a thick rug of quirri hide.
  
  
  The corded, bronze-hued male elf shouts, in allundean:
  
  "Sahael! Close'a gates ah?"
  
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf walks east.
  
  
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man eases onto a seat at a large stone table.
  
  
  You sit on a thick rug of quirri hide.
  
  
  The slender, cold-eyed elven woman turns and looses a loud, three-note whistle through the murder holes.
  
  Just past the arrow slits, the tall, darkly-tanned elven woman closes the gate.
  
  
  At 1) a small wooden bar are:
  
  a few empty seats.
  
  At 2) a thick rug of quirri hide are:
  
  the freckled, light-skinned man, and a couple of empty seats.
  
  At 3) a large stone table are:
  
  the corded, bronze-hued male elf, the braided, ebony-skinned elf,
  
  and some empty seats.
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, The tall, darkly-tanned elven woman shouts upwards, and the gates begin to grind closed.
  
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in allundean:
  
  "Kija! You bring anything to smoke?"
  
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf has arrived from the east.
  
  
  Ok.
  
  
  
  You get your knot of dark-red, golden-flecked spice from your loose, crimson silk knapsack.
  
  It is very light.
  
  Just past the arrow slits, the tall, darkly-tanned elven woman shouts something.
  
  
  Grunting as he lifts his thick arms to his chest, folding them there, the leanly muscled, topknotted elf says to the corded, bronze-hued male elf, in allundean:
  
  "If they want to speak with our tribe, they'll have to get used to it. I'm the only Akeita in the Pah who's not Gifted."
  
  At a large stone table, the braided, ebony-skinned elf speaks, easing back against the chair.
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf beams you a jovial grin.
  
  
  
  You begin speaking sirihish.
  
  With a tilt of her head, the slender, crooked-nosed woman asks the corded, bronze-hued male elf, in allundean:
  
  "Thanks. Ah din't know about this meetin - just kinda ran inta it. Should we wall up our minds?"
  
  
  The red maned, anakore-tattooed elf smirks, casting a glance at the braided, ebony-skinned elf.
  
  The braided, ebony-skinned elf gets her bleached-bone spice tube case from her fine pouched belt.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  You build a psychic barrier around your mind.
  
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf sits on a thick rug of quirri hide.
  
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf puts his pile of allanaki coins into his dusty mesh carrying sling.
  
  The braided, ebony-skinned elf opens a bleached-bone spice tube case.
  
  
  
  You begin speaking allundean.
  
  With a light sniff, the corded, bronze-hued male elf says to the leanly muscled, topknotted elf, in allundean:
  
  "Come an' sit."
  
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man slings a long bone spear, inlaid with stones across his back.
  
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf looks down at you.
  
  
  The slender, crooked-nosed woman heads over to a large stone table and pulls out a few chairs.
  
  The braided, ebony-skinned elf gets her pinch of black, viscous spice from her bleached-bone spice tube case.
  
  
  Grunting as he lopes forward to claim a chair, the leanly muscled, topknotted elf sits at a large stone table.
  
  With a gaze turned for you, the corded, bronze-hued male elf says to you, in allundean:
  
  "We have'a chair for you here, Chosen."
  
  
  
  As he holds up your knot of dark-red, golden-flecked spice, you say, in allundean:
  
  "Unfortunately, this is only warspice...most of what I have is warspice."
  
  
  At 1) a small wooden bar are:
  
  a few empty seats.
  
  At 2) a thick rug of quirri hide are:
  
  the raw-boned, top-knotted elf, the freckled, light-skinned man,
  
  and one empty seat.
  
  At 3) a large stone table are:
  
  the corded, bronze-hued male elf, the braided, ebony-skinned elf,
  
  the leanly muscled, topknotted elf, and a few empty seats.
  
  Keeping a hand on one empty chair, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says to you, in allundean:
  
  "Over here Chosen Sir, ah picked out one what don't wobble too much."
  
  
  
  [Standing first]
  
  You stand up from a thick rug of quirri hide.
  
  You sit at a large stone table.
  
  Balancing a pinch of black, vicious spice on her thumb, the braided, ebony-skinned elf offers it towards the corded, bronze-hued male elf.
  
  
  The slender, crooked-nosed woman sits at a large stone table.
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, A reddish-shelled inix stretches its hind legs, arching its back.
  
  
  
  
  You get your knot of black, viscous spice from your loose, crimson silk knapsack.
  
  It is very light.
  
  The corded, bronze-hued male elf shakes his head loosely, reaching out to swipe a mug from a large stone table.
  
  
  The corded, bronze-hued male elf gets his ceramic mug from a large stone table.
  
  
  With a passing gaze, the red maned, anakore-tattooed elf looks down at you.
  
  
  Head dipping once, the braided, ebony-skinned elf puts her pinch of black, viscous spice into her bleached-bone spice tube case.
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  At your table, you say in allundean, casually, as he holds up your knot of black, viscous spice:
  
  "And the rest of this knot. Not much left."
  
  The braided, ebony-skinned elf closes a bleached-bone spice tube case.
  
  
  
  You give your knot of black, viscous spice to the corded, bronze-hued male elf.
  
  The braided, ebony-skinned elf puts her bleached-bone spice tube case into her fine pouched belt.
  
  
  !
  
  You give your knot of dark-red, golden-flecked spice to the corded, bronze-hued male elf.
  
  
  Lifting his arm as he observes the departure of its stoney texture, the leanly muscled, topknotted elf says, in allundean:
  
  "There, that'll be better. Heh."
  
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf stands up from a thick rug of quirri hide.
  
  
  The braided, ebony-skinned elf sips from her ceramic mug.
  
  
  At your table, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says in sirihish, to the sinewy, weather-worn man, with a warm smile:
  
  "So far just gittin everyone settled down, spice and alla that."
  
  At one end, the raw-boned, top-knotted elf sits at a large stone table.
  
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf puts his booklet of rolling papers onto a large stone table.
  
  Motioning towards some full mugs on the table, the braided, ebony-skinned elf says, in tribal-accented allundean:
  
  "Drinks for those that want it."
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, A reddish-shelled inix stretches its hind legs, arching its back.
  
  Taking a chair next to her, the sinewy, weather-worn man sits at a large stone table.
  
  
  The stern-eyed, weathered half-elf sits at a large stone table.
  
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf gets his ceramic mug from a large stone table.
  
  
  
  
  You get your blue and purple ceramic bottle from your loose, crimson silk knapsack.
  
  It is very light, and about half full.
  
  
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf holds his ceramic mug.
  
  
  
  It's about half full of a reddish liquid.
  
  
  
  Ok.
  
  
  At your table, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says in sirihish, reaching for a mug with another smile to the braided, ebony-skinned elf:
  
  "Aw, thanks Treya!"
  
  
  Clumsy, the corded, bronze-hued male elf moves to sort spice before him on a large stone table.
  
  The braided, ebony-skinned elf beams a smile at the slender, crooked-nosed woman.
  
  
  The slender, crooked-nosed woman gets her ceramic mug from a large stone table.
  
  
  At your table, the sinewy, weather-worn man says in sirihish, nodding sideward to the slender, crooked-nosed woman:
  
  "Ah figured as much."
  
  
  
  The slender, crooked-nosed woman holds her ceramic mug.
  
  
  
  At your table, you say in allundean, holding up your blue and purple ceramic bottle:
  
  "And some flame, I believe, for any that want it. Ah...here."
  
  
  You give your blue and purple ceramic bottle to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
  
  
  The braided, ebony-skinned elf closes a sizeable leather backpack.
  
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man holds his blue and purple ceramic bottle.
  
  
  You are carrying:
  
  a loose, crimson silk knapsack
  
  
  On a large stone table (here) :
  
  a booklet of rolling papers
  
  some ceramic mugs
  
  a couple of short lengths of bone
  
  At your table, the corded, bronze-hued male elf says in allundean, with a few nods across a large stone table, first to the braided, ebony-skinned elf:
  
  "This is Treya of'a Sun Runners. She is my second in'a Elan Pah.. an took care of our meets with'a Ivory in'a past."
  
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man looks down at his blue and purple ceramic bottle for a moment and then turns his head to the slender, crooked-nosed woman.
  
  
  At your table, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says in sirihish, lifting her ceramic mug up:
  
  "Ta easier days and smooth sands."
  
  
  
  You get your ceramic mug from a large stone table.
  
  It is very light, and full.
  
  The braided, ebony-skinned elf's head tilts in a nod.
  
  It's full of a yellowish green liquid.
  
  
  Slugging it back in a loud gulp, the slender, crooked-nosed woman drinks green honey mead from her ceramic mug.
  
  
  
  You don't smell anything special.
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf drinks green honey mead from his ceramic mug.
  
  
  
  You drink the green honey mead.
  
  You do not feel thirsty.
  
  You are full.
  
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man shrugs briefly and then tilts his blue and purple ceramic bottle back.
  
  The braided, ebony-skinned elf sips from her ceramic mug.
  
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man drinks firestorm's flame from his blue and purple ceramic bottle.
  
  Sorting a few lines before him on a sheet of spice-paper, the corded, bronze-hued male elf slides his knot of dark-red, golden-flecked spice to the table center.
  
  The corded, bronze-hued male elf puts his knot of dark-red, golden-flecked spice onto a large stone table.
  
  The corded, bronze-hued male elf puts his knot of black, viscous spice onto a large stone table.
  
  
  You think:
  
  "...there is a fucking mutant right here in front of me, got to be."
  
  The stern-eyed, weathered half-elf leans back in his seat, crossing his arms casually.
  
  At your table, the corded, bronze-hued male elf says in allundean, with a nod across to the raw-boned, top-knotted elf:
  
  "Tohego of my tribe. Soh. He fought beside me this week against'a cursed Ashlayer an' many clawfoot."
  
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man's as he chugs down the contents of his blue and purple ceramic bottle, a small line of red liquid begins to run down his cheek.
  
  Inching closer and winking at the braided, ebony-skinned elf, the slender, crooked-nosed woman whispers something to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
  
  
  After some nods around the table, the raw-boned, top-knotted elf gets his knot of black, viscous spice from a large stone table.
  
  
  The red maned, anakore-tattooed elf folds his arms, leaning against the wall.
  
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf gets his booklet of rolling papers from a large stone table.
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf draws a dusty durrit-claw skinning knife.
  
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf starts cleaning.
  
  
  The slender, crooked-nosed woman whispers something to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf brushes the dust off of a bloodied durrit-claw skinning knife.
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf starts cleaning.
  
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf quickly wipes the blood off of a bloodied durrit-claw skinning knife.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  The slender, crooked-nosed woman stops using her ceramic mug.
  
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man lowers his blue and purple ceramic bottle onto the table with a satisfied sigh and then nods sideward to the slender, crooked-nosed woman.
  
  
  At your table, you say in allundean, nodding simply as he gestures to the burly, red-haired woman, who nods slightly from her position near a large stone table:
  
  "And this is Lorre, my bodyguard and one of the Lyksaean Warriors. She, myself, and the Faithful Lord slew another similar one..."
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf wipes his durrit-claw skinning knife on his dusty brown hide loincloth and sets to shave a corner from his knot of black, viscous spice.
  
  
  At your table, you say in allundean:
  
  "...north of the Muark lands."
  
  
  The slender, crooked-nosed woman puts her ceramic mug onto a large stone table.
  
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf stops holding his ceramic mug.
  
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf holds his knot of black, viscous spice.
  
  
  The slender, crooked-nosed woman gets her ceramic mug from a large stone table.
  
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man stops holding his blue and purple ceramic bottle.
  
  
  
  You are carrying:
  
  a ceramic mug
  
  a loose, crimson silk knapsack
  
  
  The braided, ebony-skinned elf sips from her ceramic mug.
  
  
  
  It's less than half full of a yellowish green liquid.
  
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf stops holding his knot of black, viscous spice.
  
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf carefully rolls a pinch of spice with a booklet of rolling papers.
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf sheathes a durrit-claw skinning knife.
  
  
  The corded, bronze-hued male elf drifts a nod across to you.
  
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf puts his ceramic mug onto a large stone table.
  
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man gets his ceramic mug from a large stone table.
  
  
  The leanly muscled, topknotted elf shoots a slight grin over toward the corded, bronze-hued male elf, for whatever reason. As he does, he lifts a hand to strip the helmet from his head.
  
  
  Licking her lips, the slender, crooked-nosed woman chugs another mugful down.
  
  
  The slender, crooked-nosed woman drinks green honey mead from her ceramic mug.
  
  
  The leanly muscled, topknotted elf stops using his stained sandy-yellow chitinous helm.
  
  
  You stop using your pair of spiked, chitin-backed gauntlets, revealing a crimson and grey seven-pronged star.
  
  
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf puts his booklet of rolling papers onto a large stone table.
  
  
  The corded, bronze-hued male elf looks up at the burly, red-haired woman.
  
  
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man holds his ceramic mug.
  
  
  Setting the empty mug to one side, the braided, ebony-skinned elf discards her ceramic mug.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  A staff member sends:
  
  "Sorry to interrupt, Shal here, can you log this beast of a meeting and send it to me as well as your clanfolkz?"
  
  
  The slender, crooked-nosed woman drinks green honey mead from her ceramic mug.
  
  
  At your table, the corded, bronze-hued male elf says in allundean, with a light sniff as his attention centers on you:
  
  "Wha' would we speak on, Chosen?"
  
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf lights his solidly packed tube of spice from a nearby candle and draws a hearty puff, releasing the smoke through nose and mouth.
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man's eyes move between the corded, bronze-hued male elf and you as he lifts his ceramic mug to his lips.
  
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf holds his solidly packed tube of spice.
  
  
  A thin trail of rich, heady smoke trickles from the raw-boned, top-knotted elf's mouth as he smokes a solidly packed tube of spice.
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf's eyes become glassy-red and half-closed.
  
  
  
  You send this message to the staff:
  
  "I always log, so yep, got it under control."
  
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man frowns down at his ceramic mug as he lowers it.
  
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man stops holding his ceramic mug.
  
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf stops holding his solidly packed tube of spice.
  
  
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man puts his ceramic mug onto a large stone table.
  
  
  The slender, crooked-nosed woman wipes some dribbled liquid from her chin with the hem of one of her pair of scrub-camouflaged, sandcloth sleeves.
  
  
  The slender, crooked-nosed woman puts her ceramic mug onto a large stone table.
  
  
  The corded, bronze-hued male elf looks down at you.
  
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf gives his solidly packed tube of spice to the corded, bronze-hued male elf.
  
  Just past the arrow slits, A grey-scaled, silver-shelled inix puffs through its nostrils and bobs its head.
  
  
  At your table, you say in allundean, letting out a sigh as he sets your ceramic mug on a large stone table:
  
  "The chief thought on my mind is likely one of the foremost thoughts in yours."
  
  The leanly muscled, topknotted elf turns his attention toward you, remaining silent for the moment.
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man gets his ceramic mug from a large stone table.
  
  
  Posture slouched against the back of the chair, the braided, ebony-skinned elf looks down at you.
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man holds his ceramic mug.
  
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man drinks green honey mead from his ceramic mug.
  
  
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf sits back with a lingering smile and crosses his arms loosely.
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man sips from his ceramic mug.
  
  
  At your table, the corded, bronze-hued male elf says in allundean, with a short nod:
  
  "One Fang..was las' believed to be in'a Xytrix Za, but we begin'a believe he is not one of'a Servants."
  
  
  
  At your table, you say in allundean, as his hands encircle your ceramic mug:
  
  "One Fang is his name, then?"
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  
  At your table, the corded, bronze-hued male elf says in allundean, with his settle back in seat, lifting his ceramic mug, glancing across a large stone table:
  
  "Tha' was it, Kah?"
  
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf gets his ceramic mug from a large stone table.
  
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf holds his ceramic mug.
  
  
  Nodding to the corded, bronze-hued male elf, the slender, crooked-nosed woman whispers something to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
  
  
  The stern-eyed, weathered half-elf narrows his eyes slightly, his weathered features becoming slightly drawn as he listens.
  
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf shrugs at the corded, bronze-hued male elf and tilts his mug back.
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf drinks green honey mead from his ceramic mug.
  
  
  Lips twisting in a thoughtful grimace, the sinewy, weather-worn man whispers something to the slender, crooked-nosed woman.
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  Just past the arrow slits, A grey-scaled, silver-shelled inix puffs through its nostrils and bobs its head.
  
  
  At your table, you say in allundean, pursing his lips thoughtfully:
  
  "Private Zak here has made his way to speak with you only recently about some things. I wished to come to answer any...questions...that you may have, if you have any."
  
  
  The slender, crooked-nosed woman whispers something to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
  
  At your table, the corded, bronze-hued male elf says in allundean, with a delayed nod for you:
  
  "One Fang. He's been quiet late."
  
  think Not that I want to really talk to that mutant fellow but he's in charge of a group of them. No getting around all of that.
  
  
  
  You think:
  
  "Not that I want to really talk to that mutant fellow but he's in charge of a group of them. No getting around all of that."
  
  The braided, ebony-skinned elf's attention drifts from you towards the corded, bronze-hued male elf.
  
  The leanly muscled, topknotted elf remains a silent presence at a large stone table. His eyes flit from one speaker to the next.
  
  
  
  You think:
  
  "...fuck. It could be worse, I suppose. I could have shown up and instead of seeing some mutant talking about abominable stuff, it could have been a whole fucking group of flying elves."
  
  
  You feel slightly relieved.
  
  At your table, the corded, bronze-hued male elf says in allundean, with his mouth pursed:
  
  "..Our aim is simple, an' carried by many now. We don' need to play games with words here. Wha' Thralls does'a Ivory know, an' do ya know where any are?"
  
  
  With a faint nod, the sinewy, weather-worn man whispers something to the slender, crooked-nosed woman.
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf looks at the leanly muscled, topknotted elf.
  
  
  The red maned, anakore-tattooed elf runs a tongue over his teeth, peering towards the arrow slits for a moment.
  
  At your table, you say in allundean, nodding simply:
  
  "Rondus Fale is one that has been confirmed. Lapitia Fale also seems suspect."
  
  At your table, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says in sirihish, blinking:
  
  "They're dragons?"
  
  
  
  At your table, you say in allundean, his tone cool and calm as he glances to the slender, crooked-nosed woman:
  
  "Surprise."
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  At your table, the corded, bronze-hued male elf says in allundean, with a distracted look for the braided, ebony-skinned elf:
  
  "..The Black Pit ta.. like Sharak."
  
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man's eyes widen as he stares at the slender, crooked-nosed woman.
  
  The braided, ebony-skinned elf's head bobs a few times.
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  At your table, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says in sirihish, with a shrug:
  
  "Ain't ne'er heard of a Fale what looked like a dragon before. Learn somethin new every day ah guess."
  
  
  
  At your table, you say in allundean, continuing slowly:
  
  "I have heard disturbing news about a Merchant House as well. This has been disputed by some sources and confirmed by others."
  
  Just past the arrow slits, someone opens the gate from the other side.
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, someone closes the gate.
  
  The slim arrow slits allow a partially-obscured view outside, to the
  
  broad tunnel that provides one of the entrances to the outpost.
  
  [Near]
  
  A tall, darkly-tanned elven woman stands here.
  
  A war beetle is reclining here.
  
  A war beetle is reclining here.
  
  A grey-scaled, silver-shelled inix is reclining here.
  
  A reddish-shelled inix is reclining here.
  
  A rugged elf with copper skin stands here, on vigilant watch.
  
  A coppery elf woman of apparent youth stands here alertly.
  
  
  
  A doorway leads out into a small shop.
  
  [Far]
  
  Nothing.
  
  [Near]
  
  An auburn-haired, dark-eyed elf lounges near the bottom of the stairs.
  
  A thin, tanned elf stands behind the counter, selling goods.
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  
  The red maned, anakore-tattooed elf narrows his gaze.
  
  
  
  The corded, bronze-hued male elf's attention settles on you.
  
  
  
  The slender, crooked-nosed woman's glances shifts toward the western wall as the sound of creaking gates enters the room.
  
  
  Leaning in, the sinewy, weather-worn man whispers something to the slender, crooked-nosed woman.
  
  At your table, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says in sirihish, murmuring:
  
  "Critters is all still there."
  
  
  The red maned, anakore-tattooed elf intently scans the area.
  
  
  The slender, crooked-nosed woman nods to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
  
  
  The stern-eyed, weathered half-elf's eyes flick to the murder holes, looking carefully through.
  
  
  At your table, you say in allundean, his gaze now resting on the corded, bronze-hued male elf as he speaks:
  
  "I could not confirm it, but you ask what we know. There is suspicion about Kadius."
  
  
  At your table, the corded, bronze-hued male elf says in allundean, with a cut nod for you:
  
  "Ah'm told, Rondus is dead."
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, A grey-scaled, silver-shelled inix puffs through its nostrils and bobs its head.
  
  
  You think:
  
  "I do not trust them much, but they have killed ashcallers. They know the threat they pose..."
  
  
  At your table, the leanly muscled, topknotted elf says in allundean, speaking up for the first time as he turns to regard you:
  
  "Why's there suspicion about them?"
  
  
  The slender, crooked-nosed woman whispers something to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  Brow furrowed, the sinewy, weather-worn man whispers something to the slender, crooked-nosed woman.
  
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man's gaze shifts and settles on the leanly muscled, topknotted elf, his lips pursed tightly.
  
  
  The slender, crooked-nosed woman nods to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
  
  
  Attention drifting from one speaker to the next, the braided, ebony-skinned elf scratches at a dark, dried bit of crust on her gloves.
  
  
  The braided, ebony-skinned elf starts cleaning.
  
  
  The braided, ebony-skinned elf works at cleaning a bloodied pair of dark leather, golden stitched gloves.
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man gives a sour grunt.
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, the very tall figure in a dusty desert-camouflaged sandcloth duster opens the gate from the other side.
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, the very tall figure in a dusty desert-camouflaged sandcloth duster has arrived from the north.
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, the very tall figure in a dusty desert-camouflaged sandcloth duster closes the gate.
  
  
  Leaning sideways, the raw-boned, top-knotted elf looks west.
  
  
  The leanly muscled, topknotted elf merely stares at you, his expression one of expectance.
  
  Just past the arrow slits, The very tall figure in a dusty desert-camouflaged sandcloth duster looks over some mounts.
  
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf stands up from a large stone table.
  
  
  The stern-eyed, weathered half-elf's features seem to illuminate with realization, his gaze becoming distant as his eyes widen.
  
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf walks south.
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, the raw-boned, top-knotted elf has arrived from the south.
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, The very tall figure in a dusty desert-camouflaged sandcloth duster nods to the raw-boned, top-knotted elf.
  
  
  
  At your table, you say in allundean, finally shrugging his shoulders belatedly, speaking almost grudgingly:
  
  "The information collected...is not solid. Do you have anything to dispute that claim of suspicion?"
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, the very tall figure in a dusty desert-camouflaged sandcloth duster opens a pouched, brown hide belt.
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, the very tall figure in a dusty desert-camouflaged sandcloth duster closes a pouched, brown hide belt.
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, the amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf lowers the hood of a dusty desert-camouflaged sandcloth duster.
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, walking through among the mounts, the raw-boned, top-knotted elf asks the tall, darkly-tanned elven woman something.
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  The braided, ebony-skinned elf starts cleaning.
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, dusting off her hood, the amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf says something to the raw-boned, top-knotted elf.
  
  
  At your table, the corded, bronze-hued male elf says in allundean, with his settle back:
  
  "..We have enough names for now."
  
  
  
  The braided, ebony-skinned elf flicks some matter to the floor then rests both hands on her lap.
  
  Just past the arrow slits, A grey-scaled, silver-shelled inix opens its jaws, letting its tongue dart out to lick its nostrils.
  
  
  The lithe, sandy-haired elf has arrived from the east.
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, eyeing her up and down, the raw-boned, top-knotted elf asks the amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf something.
  
  
  The lithe, sandy-haired elf gently drops to the ground.
  
  
  The slender, crooked-nosed woman looks up at the lithe, sandy-haired elf.
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, The amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf nods and floats to the ground softly.
  
  Silently, the lithe, sandy-haired elf lowers down next to the corded, bronze-hued male elf in a seat nearby.
  
  Just past the arrow slits, the amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf stops floating around and lies down to sleep.
  
  Just past the arrow slits, A reddish-shelled inix puffs through its nostrils and bobs its head.
  
  
  The lithe, sandy-haired elf sits at a large stone table.
  
  
  Shifting his gaze, the red maned, anakore-tattooed elf looks down at the lithe, sandy-haired elf.
  
  Just past the arrow slits, The raw-boned, top-knotted elf raises his eyebrows.
  
  
  At your table, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says in sirihish, nodding to the lithe, sandy-haired elf:
  
  "This here's Shattered, fer them what ain't never met'er. Scuse me, ah gotta see ta th'conversation outside."
  
  
  The slender, crooked-nosed woman stands up from a large stone table.
  
  
  
  At your table, you say in allundean, nodding once to the corded, bronze-hued male elf, his expression relaxing a bit:
  
  "I think so, as well..."
  
  
  
  You look up at the lithe, sandy-haired elf.
  
  Standing average height for one of her race, this elves lanky body is
  
  defined by few outstanding features. She possesses a small, pointed nose,
  
  two brown eyes, and thin pale lips. Her hair flows down her shoulders in an
  
  unkempt set of tangles and split ends, covered with a variety of dirt and
  
  sands of varying colors from around Zalanthas. A few sun spots and
  
  scratches adorn her ruddy and brownish skin, scattered about on worn arms
  
  and legs that display packed muscle groups common to desert travelers.
  
  The lithe, sandy-haired elf is in excellent condition.
  
  Her skin has a stonelike quality.
  The lithe, sandy-haired elf is using:
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  At your table, the corded, bronze-hued male elf says in allundean, with a simple nod towards the lithe, sandy-haired elf:
  
  "This is Shattered. She knows more of'a Thralls than I do."
  
  Just past the arrow slits, shrugging, the amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf says something to the raw-boned, top-knotted elf.
  
  
  The slender, crooked-nosed woman lets out a sigh and heads out to the yard.
  
  
  
  The lithe, sandy-haired elf looks down at you.
  
  
  
  The slender, crooked-nosed woman walks south.
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, the slender, crooked-nosed woman has arrived from the south.
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  Just past the arrow slits, warmly, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says something to the amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf.
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, wrinkling his brow, the raw-boned, top-knotted elf says something to the amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf.
  
  
  At your table, the corded, bronze-hued male elf says in allundean, with a look across to the lithe, sandy-haired elf:
  
  "..How did Rondus fall?"
  
  
  
  You think:
  
  "...dear Sun King, had I known I would be surrounded by a cadre of fucking abomination-looking-things, I would have never come."
  
  
  The stern-eyed, weathered half-elf looks at the lithe, sandy-haired elf.
  
  
  A thoughtful expression crosses the braided, ebony-skinned elf's features as she huffs out a soft breath.
  
  
  
  You begin speaking sirihish.
  
  Just past the arrow slits, raising a hand as a broad smile crosses her lips, the amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf asks the slender, crooked-nosed woman something.
  
  Just past the arrow slits, raising a hand as a broad smile crosses her lips, the amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf asks the slender, crooked-nosed woman something.
  
  Just past the arrow slits, watching the amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf and the raw-boned, top-knotted elf for a few minutes, the slender, crooked-nosed woman asks something.
  
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean, her voice soft as she draws in a faint breath, strange, eldritch words overtoning each word in ghostly whispers:
  
  "Rondus Fale was known by a southern Templar."
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, shaking her head, the amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf says something to the slender, crooked-nosed woman.
  
  
  
  You begin speaking allundean.
  
  Just past the arrow slits, letting out a chuckle, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says something to the amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf.
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, with a vague nod, the raw-boned, top-knotted elf says something to the amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf.
  
  
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean, gesturing with a hand across the table at those gathered:
  
  "It is no secret to the Black City and Fale is intertwined in dealings with the Dragon, it has been proven too many times."
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, gesturing to the raw-boned, top-knotted elf, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says something to the amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf.
  
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man fixates his gaze on the lithe, sandy-haired elf, his eyes widening slightly.
  
  Just past the arrow slits, thumbing her chest, the amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf says something to the raw-boned, top-knotted elf.
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, A grey-scaled, silver-shelled inix opens its jaws, letting its tongue dart out to lick its nostrils.
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, her hand waving over to the amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says something to the raw-boned, top-knotted elf.
  
  The corded, bronze-hued male elf looks at the lithe, sandy-haired elf.
  
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man looks at the lithe, sandy-haired elf.
  
  
  
  You think:
  
  "...I need some spice."
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, with a snicker, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says something to the amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf.
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, The amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf chuckles softly.
  
  
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean, gesturing then to you, her voice intoning as the whispers flicker into temporary ghostly lights about her form:
  
  "It may be a surprise to you, Thrend Lysake..."
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, the raw-boned, top-knotted elf says something to the amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf.
  
  
  At your table, you say in allundean, his tone furtive as he shifts his glance to the corded, bronze-hued male elf:
  
  "I could use some of the Tho, Kija."
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  With a nod across to you, the corded, bronze-hued male elf says, in allundean:
  
  "Table center."
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, nodding, the amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf asks the raw-boned, top-knotted elf something.
  
  
  
  On a large stone table (here) :
  
  a booklet of rolling papers
  
  a knot of dark-red, golden-flecked spice
  
  a few empty ceramic mugs
  
  a few ceramic mugs
  
  a couple of short lengths of bone
  
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean, drawing in a breath as she sets her hands on the table, speaking to you:
  
  "What is your interest in the Dragonsthralls?"
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, tipping his head toward the arrow-slits of the building, the raw-boned, top-knotted elf says something to the amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  Just past the arrow slits, glancing over to the east and letting out a soft sigh, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says something.
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  At your table, the corded, bronze-hued male elf says in allundean, with a nod across to the lithe, sandy-haired elf:
  
  "..They hunt them, as we do, as Tor does."
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean, offering a faint shake of her head at that:
  
  "Tor."
  
  Just past the arrow slits, glancing to the east, the amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf asks the slender, crooked-nosed woman something.
  
  
  
  At your table, you say in allundean, glancing back to the lithe, sandy-haired elf as he replies, bluntly:
  
  "My interest is to see as many of their corpses rotting on spears, swords, axes, or bashed in by the clubs and maces of House Lyksae...before the coming conflict."
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, the amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf says something to the slender, crooked-nosed woman.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  Just past the arrow slits, with a nod, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says something to the amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf.
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, The amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf nods.
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, starting south, the amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf asks something.
  
  Just past the arrow slits, chuckling, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says something to the amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf.
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, The amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf chuckles and nods.
  
  
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean, offering a nod as she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath:
  
  "That is good, but the spirits do not divine if your purpose is truth, yet."
  
  The stern-eyed, weathered half-elf frowns thoughtfully for a moment, gazing down at the table top.
  
  At your table, the corded, bronze-hued male elf says in allundean, iolite gaze settled on the lithe, sandy-haired elf:
  
  "..We know any other thralls?"
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, heading south, her eyes widened, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says something to the amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf.
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, the slender, crooked-nosed woman walks south.
  
  Just past the arrow slits, the amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf walks south.
  
  
  The slender, crooked-nosed woman has arrived from the south.
  
  The amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf has arrived from the south.
  
  
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean, opening her eyes and gazing back at the corded, bronze-hued male elf, after a moment of thought:
  
  "No."
  
  Just past the arrow slits, The raw-boned, top-knotted elf wanders around, checking on the mounts.
  
  Shifting his gaze towards the entrance, the red maned, anakore-tattooed elf looks up at the amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf.
  
  
  With a soft nod of his head, the sinewy, weather-worn man looks up at the amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf.
  
  Indicating an empty chair at a large stone table, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says to the amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf, in allundean:
  
  "Ya kin rest yer ass, ah'll stand fer now, we kin switch when ya need ta stretch."
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  At your table, you say in allundean, glancing to the lithe, sandy-haired elf, brusquely:
  
  "Then let me elaborate. I personally withstood attacks from Sharak and Horoz. They killed my last bodyguard."
  
  The amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf nods with a smile to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
  
  The corded, bronze-hued male elf's attention settles long on the lithe, sandy-haired elf.
  
  The amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf nods to the slender, crooked-nosed woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, The raw-boned, top-knotted elf leashes the beetles and inix to a wooden beam and strolls back to the tavern.
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, the raw-boned, top-knotted elf walks south.
  
  
  The amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf sits at a large stone table.
  
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf has arrived from the south.
  
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf looks down at the lithe, sandy-haired elf.
  
  
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean, shifting her gaze to you, drawing in a faint breath:
  
  "So you were the Chosen he pulled out of the White Walls?"
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf wanders in from the market, appearing mildly surprised as he spots the lithe, sandy-haired elf.
  
  
  The slender, crooked-nosed woman whispers something to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf sits on a thick rug of quirri hide.
  
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man frowns and shakes his head at the slender, crooked-nosed woman.
  
  
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean, nodding slowly to the stern-eyed, weathered half-elf:
  
  "Fair enough. I honor your words."
  
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf rests on a thick rug of quirri hide.
  
  
  
  At your table, you say in allundean, shaking his head:
  
  "I was the Chosen he -tried- to pull out of the Ivory."
  
  The braided, ebony-skinned elf clucks her tongue once.
  
  
  
  You think:
  
  "This is fucking insane."
  
  
  
  You think:
  
  "Why did I ever agree to come out here?"
  
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man whispers something to the slender, crooked-nosed woman.
  
  
  The stern-eyed, weathered half-elf smiles faintly, watching the lithe, sandy-haired elf.
  
  Leaning back briefly, the amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf whispers something to the slender, crooked-nosed woman.
  
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean, offering a faint inclination of her head as she draws in another breath:
  
  "It would not grieve you, then, to know it was I who saw to his end."
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  Pushing up from his chair, the sinewy, weather-worn man says to the slender, crooked-nosed woman, in sirihish:
  
  "Here, you sit. Yer the only one what can make use of it, anyhow."
  
  
  At your table, you say in allundean, smiling thinly to the lithe, sandy-haired elf:
  
  "I am...pleased to hear that."
  
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man stands up from a large stone table.
  
  
  The amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf looks over those assembled at the table and raises a hand to the braided, ebony-skinned elf.
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, A reddish-shelled inix puffs through its nostrils and bobs its head.
  
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean, shifting her gaze to you:
  
  "..But I wonder, why would a Servant of the Dragon impose upon you?"
  
  Nodding toward the arrow-slits, the raw-boned, top-knotted elf says to the corded, bronze-hued male elf, in allundean:
  
  "Benu of the Sand Jakhals."
  
  
  Crinkling her nose, causing it to bend comically to the left, the slender, crooked-nosed woman whispers something to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
  
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man gives an amused grunt.
  
  
  Smiling softly, the amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf whispers something to the braided, ebony-skinned elf.
  
  
  At your table, you say in allundean, with a sudden chuckle, his voice grating:
  
  "Because I tried to trap him in the City. Our plan almost succeeded, but he escaped at the last moment."
  
  
  The braided, ebony-skinned elf's lips curve at the edges towards the amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf.
  
  Leaning to her other side, crouching between her and the sinewy, weather-worn man, the slender, crooked-nosed woman whispers something to the amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf.
  
  Just past the arrow slits, the very tall figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak opens the gate from the other side.
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, the very tall figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak has arrived from the north.
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, the very tall figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak closes the gate.
  
  
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean, nodding towards you, her voice intertwining with the ghostly whispers around her:
  
  "What force did you bring to stop him?"
  
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, the very tall figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak runs south.
  
  
  The amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf nods gently to the slender, crooked-nosed woman and leans back in towards the table.
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, A grey-scaled, silver-shelled inix puffs through its nostrils and bobs its head.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man stops holding his ceramic mug.
  
  
  Setting it down, the sinewy, weather-worn man puts his ceramic mug onto a large stone table.
  
  Speaking up and watching those gathered, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says, in tribal-accented allundean:
  
  "You should -all- be shielding your minds right now, as if it wasn't a given."
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  
  At your table, you say in allundean, his gaze set firmly on the lithe, sandy-haired elf:
  
  "Me? Only my wits and the Lyksaean Warriors. The Templarate used their own methods."
  
  
  Voice taking on a warm, gentle tint, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says, in tribal-accented allundean:
  
  "To be truly alone is deep magick."
  
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man steps back from a large stone table and crosses his arms before him.
  
  The amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf nods lightly to the lithe, sandy-haired elf.
  
  
  The braided, ebony-skinned elf shifts slightly on the chair, readjusting her rounded, darkly-stained leather quiver before relaxing, one thumb hooking on her belt.
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf lounges on a thick rug of quirri hide, paying little attention to a large stone table.
  
  
  Tilting her head and pushing a knotted twist of brown hair from her cheek, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says to the lithe, sandy-haired elf, in sirihish:
  
  "That's how come ah'm helpin Nahkt over here this way, wit whatever allundean he ain't unnerstandin. Elsewise ah'd be in'is head instead."
  
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean, softly, to you:
  
  "There are ranks within the Servants, fairly similar to the Sun Legion's militia, you see?"
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  
  You think:
  
  "deep magick my fucking shithole. This is kankshit."
  
  
  emote grunts an affirmative to ~shattered
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man grunts an affirmative to the lithe, sandy-haired elf.
  
  
  The slender, crooked-nosed woman whispers something to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
  
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean, softly:
  
  "Sharak was a lesser servant, serving an androgynous ghost. Horoz was even a little less than that."
  
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man nods to the slender, crooked-nosed woman.
  
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf has lost link.
  
  
  
  l
  
  The Desert Rose [ES Quit]
  
  Entering this busy bar is like stepping into a dimly-lit cave, the
  
  thick stone walls keeping it comfortably cool inside and adding to the
  
  cave-like feel of the place. A constant buzz of conversation fills the
  
  room, which is populated by elves from a variety of tribes. Narrow arrow
  
  slits on the western wall are draped with sandcloth to block the heat of the
  
  afternoon sun, but still let in a scant measure of filtered light. The
  
  sandcloth covers are rolled up and tied at dusk to let in the cool night
  
  breezes. The bar is on the north wall, and tables and chairs, most of them
  
  occupied, are grouped about the room in the shadows. On the south wall, a
  
  clear area provides a spot for dancing or entertainment to be performed. An
  
  elaborate archway in the eastern wall allows entry to a vibrantly-hued room,
  
  smoke writhing out past its entry curtain.
  
  The desert elf outpost message board is propped up against the wall here.
  
  A multi-ringed dartboard hangs on a wall here.
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf is reclining on a thick rug of quirri hide.
  
  The amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf is sitting at a large stone table.
  
  The slender, crooked-nosed woman is standing here.
  
  The lithe, sandy-haired elf is sitting at a large stone table.
  
  The corded, bronze-hued male elf is sitting at a large stone table.
  
  The braided, ebony-skinned elf is sitting at a large stone table.
  
  The red maned, anakore-tattooed elf is standing here.
  
  The burly, red-haired woman stands at attention.
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man is standing here.
  
  The stern-eyed, weathered half-elf is sitting at a large stone table.
  
  The leanly muscled, topknotted elf is sitting at a large stone table.
  
  A sinewy, ebon-skinned elf leans against the western wall, surveying the bar.
  
  The dark-haired elf is standing here.
  
  A slender, cold-eyed elven woman stands behind the bar, pouring drinks.
  
  
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean, gesturing with a hand across the table:
  
  "What I think a lot of people miss, though you have seemed to pick up on, Thrend...is that the conflict isn't truly Echri."
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf has reconnected.
  
  
  
  You think:
  
  "If she says the conflict has something to do with magick, I could not give more of a flying fuck about it."
  
  
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean, exhaling faintly, a few whisps of Suk-Krath's sparks traversing her form:
  
  "..It is the Servants that need to be removed, because they will.."
  
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean, pausing, towards the slender, crooked-nosed woman:
  
  "..You are transmitting this psionically?"
  
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf looks up at the slender, crooked-nosed woman.
  
  
  Shuddering, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says to the lithe, sandy-haired elf, in sirihish:
  
  "Fuck no. Ah said that's why ah'm whisperin here ta Nahkt. Ah'm translatin."
  
  
  The red maned, anakore-tattooed elf lands his gaze on the slender, crooked-nosed woman.
  
  The braided, ebony-skinned elf's eyes shift towards the slender, crooked-nosed woman.
  
  
  pemote gaze latches onto %shattered face, a muscle in his cheek twitching.
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man's gaze latches onto the lithe, sandy-haired elf's face, a muscle in his cheek twitching.
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, A reddish-shelled inix stretches its hind legs, arching its back.
  
  
  
  The slender, crooked-nosed woman says to the lithe, sandy-haired elf, in sirihish:
  
  "Ah put ma wall up soon as ah came through th'gates."
  
  
  You think:
  
  "Yep, I was right. Fucking abomination."
  
  
  At your table, the stern-eyed, weathered half-elf says in allundean, clearing his throat, glancing across the table:
  
  "Are there uny servants of Echri trat kavi ychiened beieg Dragony themselves? Durhaps I may by misumdorsoanfing."
  
  
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean, apologetically, with a nod:
  
  "I heard something. I apologize, sweetheart."
  
  
  The lithe, sandy-haired elf returns her gaze towards you, collecting her hands together on the table again.
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean, to you:
  
  "..The Dragon consumes, but the Servants will rip apart the world. They will kill everything you love and know, first, so that Life can be drawn without conflict."
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, A reddish-shelled inix puffs through its nostrils and bobs its head.
  
  
  You think:
  
  "...Sun King, give me the clarity to think clearly about what to say and do, or I might say something incredibly stupid."
  
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean, softly:
  
  "If the Servants never come, Echri will arrive at an entire planet mounting an offense, and he will easily lose."
  
  
  Brow furrowed, the sinewy, weather-worn man whispers something to the slender, crooked-nosed woman.
  
  Moccasins drag against the floor as the braided, ebony-skinned elf shifts her legs back against the chair, teal gaze shifting from the lithe, sandy-haired elf to you.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  The lithe, sandy-haired elf trails a hand across the table, a line of rich soil materializing and following her fingers as she half-closes her eyes.
  
  
  
  You think:
  
  "I feel like I am meeting with an army of gith to help me fight an army of mantis."
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean, after a moment's pause:
  
  "That said.."
  
  
  Shaking her head and frowning, the slender, crooked-nosed woman whispers something to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
  
  
  
  You think:
  
  "This is insane. I suppose since in this case the mantis are much more dangerous....it is worth it. Until the mantis are destroyed at least."
  
  
  The stern-eyed, weathered half-elf nods slowly.
  
  
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean, softly:
  
  "We can organize our priorities. Even lesser servants are very dangerous."
  
  The slender, crooked-nosed woman whispers something to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
  
  
  You think:
  
  "Remember, Thrend, choose your battles...magickers must be killed, but there is a time and a place for them to be destroyed."
  
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean, to you:
  
  "I will go out and take a risk here. There is at least one spy here who will inform the Northern Templarate, another the Southern Orders, and yet one more a Thrall itself."
  
  
  The lithe, sandy-haired elf shifts her gaze around those gathered, a faint smile crossing her normally solemn features.
  
  
  Sourly, the sinewy, weather-worn man whispers something to the slender, crooked-nosed woman.
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf lifts his eyebrows at the lithe, sandy-haired elf.
  
  
  Blinking, the slender, crooked-nosed woman asks the lithe, sandy-haired elf, in sirihish:
  
  "Here, right now?"
  
  
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean, to you:
  
  "..Seek the Council."
  
  
  At your table, the leanly muscled, topknotted elf says in allundean, lifting a hand as he listens to the lithe, sandy-haired elf:
  
  "It's not me."
  
  
  The amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf raises her brows as she gazes at the lithe, sandy-haired elf.
  
  The braided, ebony-skinned elf's lips twitch.
  
  
  The red maned, anakore-tattooed elf smirks, shaking his head.
  
  
  
  At your table, you say in allundean, quirking a brow towards the lithe, sandy-haired elf:
  
  "Council? The Triumvirate?"
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  You think:
  
  "Speak plainly, abomination."
  
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man's eyes settle on the lithe, sandy-haired elf, his expression flat.
  
  
  With a grumble, the slender, crooked-nosed woman whispers something to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
  
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean, waving a hand and shaking her head:
  
  "Pah. No, not your Pure. Deeper south, Chosen..the very thing your city repulses is what you seek."
  
  
  
  At your table, you say in allundean, blinking a few times:
  
  "You mean..."
  
  
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean, wrinkling her nose and closing her eyes:
  
  "The highest eschelons are poisoned."
  
  
  
  talk (taking great care to say the word without absolutely spitting it out)Magick?
  
  At your table, you say in allundean, taking great care to say the word without absolutely spitting it out:
  
  "Magick?"
  
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean, opening her eyes again, ghostly white whisps swirling around her:
  
  "..Specifically, what magick-wielders?"
  
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf sits up properly now, listening unmasked to the conversations at a large stone table.
  
  
  
  You think:
  
  "Oh, Sun King...smack this "Shattered" aside her head and make her speak plainly so that your servant may understand what the FUCK she means."
  
  
  With a grunt, the sinewy, weather-worn man whispers something to the slender, crooked-nosed woman.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  With a grunt, the sinewy, weather-worn man whispers something to the slender, crooked-nosed woman.
  
  The slender, crooked-nosed woman whispers something to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
  
  Just past the arrow slits, A grey-scaled, silver-shelled inix stretches its hind legs, arching its back.
  
  
  At your table, you say in allundean, smiling thinly towards the lithe, sandy-haired elf:
  
  "You'll have to...forgive me. The thing which my city despises...is utterly abhorred by my House."
  
  
  The red maned, anakore-tattooed elf intently scans the area.
  
  
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean, to you, her voice slowing a little:
  
  "I am not offended, since I do not use magick in any traditional sense."
  
  Just past the arrow slits, A grey-scaled, silver-shelled inix puffs through its nostrils and bobs its head.
  
  
  You think:
  
  "And by me. Of course."
  
  
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean, to you:
  
  "Your anger can be your weapon, as long as it doesn't traverse the gulf to hate - that is the path of Echri."
  
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man whispers something to the slender, crooked-nosed woman.
  
  
  The corded, bronze-hued male elf settles into his seat, attention languid on the lithe, sandy-haired elf.
  
  
  The slender, crooked-nosed woman whispers something to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
  
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean, to you, softly:
  
  "Gathered together in the quarter of Allanak is a Council of Gemmed Mages. If you seek where poison, Nilaz, and the Dragon lay, look no further, for now."
  
  
  
  At your table, you say in allundean, simply:
  
  "Nilaz. I have heard of this...word. It is associated with dead and death things."
  
  
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean, offering a faint inclination of her head:
  
  "It can be, but it also represents pure neutrality. Nilaz also indicates nothingness. Which means..the absense of Life."
  
  The braided, ebony-skinned elf clucks her tongue softly.
  
  
  Shuddering again, this time more obviously, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  
  "It's nasty shit Sir. Most regular magickers don't even wanna deal wit'em."
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  At your table, the stern-eyed, weathered half-elf says in allundean, nodding firmly:
  
  "I have encountered a Nilazi myself."
  
  
  The leanly muscled, topknotted elf leans back into his chair, arms crossing against his chest. He maintains a peculiar, focused watch on you.
  
  
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean, shifting her gaze to the table and intoning to you slowly:
  
  "..Thus, anything associated with Nilaz should probably worry you."
  
  Curiously, the sinewy, weather-worn man whispers something to the slender, crooked-nosed woman.
  
  The slender, crooked-nosed woman nods to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
  
  
  At your table, the stern-eyed, weathered half-elf says in allundean:
  
  "Five rigures, ssumblina across the sorth eoad. Neither dead nor alive. They would be killed, ius stand again."
  
  
  
  At your table, you say in allundean, his gaze alighting on the lithe, sandy-haired elf again:
  
  "I'll go with dead, then. So this Council needs to be destroyed?"
  
  Just past the arrow slits, A grey-scaled, silver-shelled inix stretches its hind legs, arching its back.
  
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean, softly, to you, with a faint shake of her head:
  
  "Not entirely, but the current representatives are mostly beings of darkness."
  
  
  You think:
  
  "I feel like an elf at a roundear party."
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, A grey-scaled, silver-shelled inix opens its jaws, letting its tongue dart out to lick its nostrils.
  
  
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean, closing her eyes:
  
  "I have not moved my hand in this matter yet. Perhaps it will be left to the North to determine their devotion to the cause."
  
  
  At your table, you say in allundean, bluntly:
  
  "To be entirely honest, that's not good enough. Do you have names?"
  
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean, to you, gently:
  
  "And to be entirely honest, if you, Tuluki, are not seeking the deaths of Council members actively for -what- they are, there is already a problem."
  
  
  At your table, you say in allundean, letting out a harsh laugh in response to the lithe, sandy-haired elf:
  
  "Oh, I am ready to actively seek their deaths for what they are right now."
  
  
  You think:
  
  "Being abominations is a damned good enough reason for me."
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean, to you:
  
  "Seek the Fire Caller Valla, and the Wind Shifter Naclyn. This is not my gift to you.."
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  
  think ...well, says me, who is talking to some sort of magick-touched woman.
  
  You think:
  
  "...well, says me, who is talking to some sort of magick-touched woman."
  
  
  You feel confused.
  
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean, gesturing to each elf gathered:
  
  "..it is the Elan Pah's gift to you, to represent their interest in a mutual effort together with House Lysake."
  
  
  The slender, crooked-nosed woman whispers something to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
  
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean, correcting herself:
  
  "Lyksae."
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man nods to the slender, crooked-nosed woman.
  
  
  The braided, ebony-skinned elf's eyes slide towards the corded, bronze-hued male elf.
  
  
  At your table, you say in allundean, in response to the lithe, sandy-haired elf:
  
  "I'd say the "mutual effort" is more like two folk fighting against a foe from different angles...rather than together from the same direction."
  
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean, to you, softly:
  
  "Maybe that's the problem."
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  The red maned, anakore-tattooed elf lowers his brows.
  
  
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean, softly:
  
  "I will tell you this - when the true Thralls begin to appear, they will breathe death upon entire armies. Without unity, there is utterly no hope."
  
  
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean:
  
  "That you choose to make a journey to this Outpost today indicates to me that unity is not out of the question for you. At the very least, let's work towards it."
  
  
  Her brown-eyed gaze flitting between you and the lithe, sandy-haired elf, the slender, crooked-nosed woman whispers something to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
  
  The stern-eyed, weathered half-elf nods firmly to the lithe, sandy-haired elf.
  
  
  
  At your table, you say in allundean, blinking a few times, his forehead furrowing:
  
  "...I would have to bring any such measure before my House first. I can tell you that the entire situation makes a...strangely compelling argument."
  
  
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean, her voice softening, a little warmth within the depths of the arcane whispers around her:
  
  "Truly consider it, together, as Zalanthan's all, we are very powerful."
  
  
  At your table, you say in allundean:
  
  "...but when I look at it from here, I cannot see how working...alongside...the Pah, rather than from another angle...is not the same thing."
  
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean, looking then to each person individually at the table:
  
  "Love. Hope. Belief. Forgiveness. These are -all- of your weapons against Echri, no matter who you are, or what sword, magick, or psionics you wield."
  
  At your table, the leanly muscled, topknotted elf says in allundean, lowering an eyebrow skeptically toward you, even as he leans back into his chair:
  
  "Fact is, even if you hate our Gifted and don't wish to work with us, you'll have to. Whatever we could do, the enemy will do worse."
  
  
  You think:
  
  "What kind of bardic shit is this? Love, hope? Sounds like a bad Konviwedu composition."
  
  
  
  You think:
  
  "Sun King, I am going to go crazy."
  
  
  The corded, bronze-hued male elf drinks green honey mead from his ceramic mug.
  
  
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man clenches his teeth tightly, his jaw making a very soft grating noise as he stares down at a large stone table.
  
  
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man's gaze shifts to your ceramic mug.
  
  
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean, softly, to you:
  
  "Thrend..the time has come to put old hatreds aside and attempt to understand each of us equally as life being threatened on this planet."
  
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man blinks a couple of times, then eagerly downs the rest of your ceramic mug.
  
  
  You drink the green honey mead.
  
  You do not feel thirsty.
  
  
  The corded, bronze-hued male elf tips his ceramic mug to his mouth, a brief grin showing.
  
  
  The corded, bronze-hued male elf drinks green honey mead from his ceramic mug.
  
  
  At your table, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says in tribal-accented allundean:
  
  "Nobody gathered here expects it to happen immediately. Very few, likely, even believe it can be done."
  
  
  Eyes on you, the sinewy, weather-worn man whispers something to the slender, crooked-nosed woman.
  
  Licking her lips as she interjects, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says, in sirihish:
  
  "If ya don't mind me buttin in...maybe ah kin splain ta th'Chosen...or at least say somethin what might make'im not look like he's about ta bust a vein."
  
  
  The stern-eyed, weathered half-elf turns, gazing at you with a neutral expression.
  
  
  At your table, the braided, ebony-skinned elf says in tribal-accented allundean, raising a gloved hand to thumb at her nose before speaking:
  
  "There was a time that Soh and Blackwing hunted gifted but they put aside their hatred and work together with all. It takes time but you have to decide what is more important.."
  
  
  At your table, the braided, ebony-skinned elf says in tribal-accented allundean, lowering her hand:
  
  "Life or old hatreds."
  
  
  
  At your table, you say in allundean, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand as he glances to the slender, crooked-nosed woman, his expression only slightly relaxing:
  
  "I'll take a listen to the Kuraci first, then."
  
  
  
  You think:
  
  "I cannot decipher what to do."
  
  
  The lithe, sandy-haired elf falls silent, drawing her attention to the slender, crooked-nosed woman.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  Padding over to your side of the full table and crouching again, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says, in sirihish:
  
  "Aright.."
  
  
  You think:
  
  "They make a compelling argument, but...my House. Me. Fuck, I can't believe I'm even -considering- this."
  
  
  
  You think:
  
  "I'm not considering it, no."
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  
  You think:
  
  "I'm only bringing THEIR idea to my House. That's all."
  
  Taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  
  "Ya see, Sir. Ain't no one askin ya ta learn ta like magickers or even wit elfs fer that matter."
  
  
  The stern-eyed, weathered half-elf's face becomes drawn with impatience, his gaze still locked on you.
  
  
  You begin speaking sirihish.
  
  The corded, bronze-hued male elf puts his ceramic mug onto a large stone table.
  
  
  Her shoulders lifting, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  
  "Ah'm a grebber, ah weren't ne'er taught one way or another, so ah do as ah like, and fuck anyone what don't like it. But that's me."
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  Nodding toward several elves seated at a large stone table, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  
  "But these folk here, is willin - and even askin - ta work -wit- Tuluk. A city what'd kill'em on sight if they was ever caught near th'gates."
  
  At your table, the leanly muscled, topknotted elf says in allundean, scratching at his chin as he observes you:
  
  "So, I don't know much about the Pits. Why do they call you Chosen? Who chose you, and what for?"
  
  
  At your table, the corded, bronze-hued male elf says in allundean, as he slides his ceramic mug over a large stone table:
  
  "We'll call our meet'ere. More'a think on than speak."
  
  Her tone softening, the slender, crooked-nosed woman asks you, in sirihish:
  
  "All they're askin, is fer ya ta put yer feelins about'em on hold. Fer awhile. Ta help deal wit th'bigger prollem. Fair enough, Sir?"
  
  
  You begin speaking allundean.
  
  The corded, bronze-hued male elf touches a fingertip to his lips on a glance for the leanly muscled, topknotted elf.
  
  
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man nods slightly towards the slender, crooked-nosed woman, then shifts his attention to the leanly muscled, topknotted elf.
  
  
  Shifting her gaze to the corded, bronze-hued male elf and leaning over, the lithe, sandy-haired elf whispers something to the corded, bronze-hued male elf.
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  Rising up from the table slowly, the lithe, sandy-haired elf stands up from a large stone table.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf looks up at the lithe, sandy-haired elf.
  
  
  With a look after the lithe, sandy-haired elf, the corded, bronze-hued male elf says, in allundean:
  
  "You spoke well. Shade."
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf inclines his head up to the lithe, sandy-haired elf.
  
  
  Gazing across the table and speaking softly as she rises, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says, in tribal-accented allundean:
  
  "We can win this battle through love and forgiveness. We need to give each other a chance."
  
  
  
  The leanly muscled, topknotted elf lifts his shoulders to the corded, bronze-hued male elf. With a sigh, he falls silent, leaning into his chair.
  
  
  
  At your table, you say in allundean, his response coming to the fore easily:
  
  "The Sun King chose my people"
  
  
  Her gaze warming as she regards you face, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  
  "Thanks Chosen, Sir. Ah knew ya'd unnerstand."
  
  
  
  emote nods simply towards ~leanly.
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man nods simply towards the leanly muscled, topknotted elf.
  
  The slender, crooked-nosed woman rises and returns back to stand between the amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf and the sinewy, weather-worn man.
  
  
  
  The stern-eyed, weathered half-elf dips his head to the lithe, sandy-haired elf.
  
  
  
  You think:
  
  "Love and forgiveness?"
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  Lowering her voice into a solemn plea, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says, in tribal-accented allundean:
  
  "You are all wise, and you all have a choice to make. I pray to you all that you choose the path of protection for these beautiful lands."
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  The lithe, sandy-haired elf says, in tribal-accented allundean:
  
  "Never lose hope, never lose faith. It is always there, beside you all."
  
  
  You think:
  
  "I'll love and forgiveness a mace aside that bitch's head if she keeps flouting such airy shit."
  
  Aside, the sinewy, weather-worn man whispers something to the slender, crooked-nosed woman.
  
  With a faint smile, the lithe, sandy-haired elf says, in tribal-accented allundean:
  
  "I've spoken more than enough. A fine Barani to you all."
  
  Lifting her hand to wave at her, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says to the lithe, sandy-haired elf, in sirihish:
  
  "Ah - twas good ta see ya agin ole friend. We'll talk, another day. Smooth sands."
  
  
  
  The lithe, sandy-haired elf slowly fades from view.
  
  
  
  The Desert Rose [ES Quit]
  
  Entering this busy bar is like stepping into a dimly-lit cave, the
  
  thick stone walls keeping it comfortably cool inside and adding to the
  
  cave-like feel of the place. A constant buzz of conversation fills the
  
  room, which is populated by elves from a variety of tribes. Narrow arrow
  
  slits on the western wall are draped with sandcloth to block the heat of the
  
  afternoon sun, but still let in a scant measure of filtered light. The
  
  sandcloth covers are rolled up and tied at dusk to let in the cool night
  
  breezes. The bar is on the north wall, and tables and chairs, most of them
  
  occupied, are grouped about the room in the shadows. On the south wall, a
  
  clear area provides a spot for dancing or entertainment to be performed. An
  
  elaborate archway in the eastern wall allows entry to a vibrantly-hued room,
  
  smoke writhing out past its entry curtain.
  
  The desert elf outpost message board is propped up against the wall here.
  
  A multi-ringed dartboard hangs on a wall here.
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf is reclining on a thick rug of quirri hide.
  
  The amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf is sitting at a large stone table.
  
  The slender, crooked-nosed woman is standing here.
  
  The corded, bronze-hued male elf is sitting at a large stone table.
  
  The braided, ebony-skinned elf is sitting at a large stone table.
  
  The red maned, anakore-tattooed elf is standing here.
  
  The burly, red-haired woman stands at attention.
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man is standing here.
  
  The stern-eyed, weathered half-elf is sitting at a large stone table.
  
  The leanly muscled, topknotted elf is sitting at a large stone table.
  
  A sinewy, ebon-skinned elf leans against the western wall, surveying the bar.
  
  The dark-haired elf is standing here.
  
  A slender, cold-eyed elven woman stands behind the bar, pouring drinks.
  
  
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man blinks a few times, then glances to the corded, bronze-hued male elf.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  After observing the sandy-haired elf fade away, the leanly muscled, topknotted elf turns his head, grinning.
  
  Just past the arrow slits, someone opens the gate.
  
  
  
  You think:
  
  "Fuck me. Damn it."
  
  l
  
  The Desert Rose [ES Quit]
  
  Entering this busy bar is like stepping into a dimly-lit cave, the
  
  thick stone walls keeping it comfortably cool inside and adding to the
  
  cave-like feel of the place. A constant buzz of conversation fills the
  
  room, which is populated by elves from a variety of tribes. Narrow arrow
  
  slits on the western wall are draped with sandcloth to block the heat of the
  
  afternoon sun, but still let in a scant measure of filtered light. The
  
  sandcloth covers are rolled up and tied at dusk to let in the cool night
  
  breezes. The bar is on the north wall, and tables and chairs, most of them
  
  occupied, are grouped about the room in the shadows. On the south wall, a
  
  clear area provides a spot for dancing or entertainment to be performed. An
  
  elaborate archway in the eastern wall allows entry to a vibrantly-hued room,
  
  smoke writhing out past its entry curtain.
  
  The desert elf outpost message board is propped up against the wall here.
  
  A multi-ringed dartboard hangs on a wall here.
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf is reclining on a thick rug of quirri hide.
  
  The amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf is sitting at a large stone table.
  
  The slender, crooked-nosed woman is standing here.
  
  The corded, bronze-hued male elf is sitting at a large stone table.
  
  The braided, ebony-skinned elf is sitting at a large stone table.
  
  The red maned, anakore-tattooed elf is standing here.
  
  The burly, red-haired woman stands at attention.
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man is standing here.
  
  The stern-eyed, weathered half-elf is sitting at a large stone table.
  
  The leanly muscled, topknotted elf is sitting at a large stone table.
  
  A sinewy, ebon-skinned elf leans against the western wall, surveying the bar.
  
  The dark-haired elf is standing here.
  
  A slender, cold-eyed elven woman stands behind the bar, pouring drinks.
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, someone closes the gate from the other side.
  
  
  
  Gaing toward the now-empty space on the floor, the slender, crooked-nosed woman whispers something to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  
  Setting it on a large stone table, you discard your ceramic mug.
  
  
  
  At your table, you say in allundean, letting out a grunt as he speaks, his lips pulled back tightly against his teeth:
  
  "I think we've covered enough for this discussion."
  
  At your table, the corded, bronze-hued male elf says in allundean, iolite gaze settled for you:
  
  "Ah don' have anything to say. They've said ta much. You're ready to ride?"
  
  It is late morning on Barani, the 131st day of the Ascending Sun,
  
  In the Year of Ruk's Peace, year 37 of the 21st Age.
  
  
  
  At your table, you say in allundean, nodding to the corded, bronze-hued male elf:
  
  "Yes. Quite."
  
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf stands up from a thick rug of quirri hide.
  
  
  The braided, ebony-skinned elf's lips twitch at the edges.
  
  
  Looking toward the slits in the wall, the sinewy, weather-worn man whispers something to the slender, crooked-nosed woman.
  
  
  
  At your table, the leanly muscled, topknotted elf says in allundean, lifting his chin as speaks to you, adopting a cordial tone:
  
  "Nice meeting you."
  
  
  
  Rising to his feet, you stand up from a large stone table.
  
  
  The stern-eyed, weathered half-elf stands up from a large stone table.
  
  
  Pushing away from his chair, the leanly muscled, topknotted elf stands up from a large stone table.
  
  
  With a grunt, you say to the leanly muscled, topknotted elf, in allundean:
  
  "Spice's yours. Enjoy it."
  
  
  The slender, crooked-nosed woman whispers something to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
  
  The raw-boned, top-knotted elf says to the corded, bronze-hued male elf, in allundean:
  
  "I'll run with them to the White Road."
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  The braided, ebony-skinned elf gets her ceramic mug from a large stone table.
  
  
  
  You pull your pair of spiked, chitin-backed gauntlets onto your hands.
  
  
  With a nod aside to the raw-boned, top-knotted elf, the corded, bronze-hued male elf says, in allundean:
  
  "Good."
  
  The stern-eyed, weathered half-elf walks south.
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, the raw-boned, top-knotted elf has arrived from the south.
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, the stern-eyed, weathered half-elf has arrived from the south.
  
  
  With a tipped nod for you, the corded, bronze-hued male elf says, in allundean:
  
  "Tohego will be ya guide to the white road, his eyes ah sharp."
  
  Pushing off her seat, the amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf stands up from a large stone table.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  Thoughtfully, the slender, crooked-nosed woman asks the corded, bronze-hued male elf, in allundean:
  
  "Want me ta stick around?"
  
  
  Just past the arrow slits, The raw-boned, top-knotted elf frees some mounts from a wooden pole and arranges them near the gate.
  
  
  
  Nodding to him, you say to the corded, bronze-hued male elf, in allundean:
  
  "Shade, then..."
  
  Just past the arrow slits, the raw-boned, top-knotted elf opens the gate.
  
  
  
  You begin speaking sirihish.
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man whispers something to the slender, crooked-nosed woman.
  
  
  The corded, bronze-hued male elf stands up from a large stone table.
  
  
  Pushing it aside, the braided, ebony-skinned elf discards her ceramic mug.
  
  
  With a rise from his seat, the corded, bronze-hued male elf says to you, in allundean:
  
  "Shade."
  
  Turning southward, the amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf says, in tribal-accented allundean:
  
  "I'll make my way to the Gem. Be safe."
  
  
  The amber-hued, obsidian-eyed elf walks south.
  
  
  
  Nodding to the sinewy, weather-worn man and the slender, crooked-nosed woman, you say, in sirihish:
  
  "Thanks for the ride."

  The Desert Rose [ES Quit]
  
  Entering this busy bar is like stepping into a dimly-lit cave, the thick stone walls keeping it comfortably cool inside and adding to the cave-like feel of the place. A constant buzz of conversation fills the room, which is populated by elves from a variety of tribes....
  Continue Reading...
• 

  Not very subtle, are you?
  Added on Jan 22, 2011

  Thrend and a potential partisan run into a problem. Thrend, in his typical proud, selfish, and arrogant manner, decides to take matters into his own hands on the sly, using the disturbance to test that potential partisan and rid the City of one undesirable.

  ---

  -------
  Thrend arrives at the Sanctuary after being informed about some disturbance. (think this was in a previous log but I didn't dig it up)
  -------
  
  The Sun King's Sanctuary [NESWUD]
  A polished, white marble floor covers the ground of this expansive
  room, gleaming under the light of a large glass chandelier that hangs
  overhead. A semi-circular bar, made of hard-grained wood painted a deep
  black, extends from the eastern wall, several high-backed barstools sitting
  around it. The walls of this room are brightly decorated, with several
  elaborate paintings placed carefully for unobstructed view, and shelves
  holding many exotic potted plants, blooming with bright red and white
  flowers. Two large stained-glass windows, decorated with elaborate sun
  symbols, adorn the northwest and southeast corners of the room.
  Several decoratively carved tables fill this room, while a polished
  leather couch nearly ten cords in length sprawls along the northern wall. A
  stately spiral staircase sits in the center of the room, winding upwards
  toward the common rooms of the second floor. The sounds of laughter and
  music can be heard from a doorway along the western wall, while the scents
  of cooked meat waft in from the east. A small, straight stairway sits along
  the northern wall, ending at a slightly raised loft and a large carven
  baobab door sits in the southern wall, leading out onto the North Road
  outside.
  The Tuluk bulletin board is here propped up on a stand.
  The ochre-eyed, lissome man is standing here.
  The weatherworn, fuzzy-haired old man is sitting on a supple, black leather couch.
  The broad, harsh-looking woman is sitting at a black-painted bar.
  The svelte, bronzed man is sitting at a black-painted bar.
  The lithe, tanned man is standing here.
  The short haired, heavy-set man stands here mug in-hand.
  The tall, well-groomed man sits here on a plush couch.
  The gaunt, black-haired man is here, leaning on the bar.
  The plump, tawny-skinned woman sits on a stool, strumming on her mandolin.
  The long-haired, middle-aged man stands behind the counter.
  The burly, red-haired woman has arrived from the south.
  
  You lower the hood of a hooded, mace-stitched grey linen cloak.
  
  At 1) a supple, black leather couch are:
  the weatherworn, fuzzy-haired old man, and a few empty seats.
  At 2) a black-painted bar are:
  the broad, harsh-looking woman, the svelte, bronzed man,
  and some empty seats.
  At 3) a long, white painted table are:
  some empty seats.
  At 4) an intimate, dimly lit table are:
  a couple of empty seats.
  At 5) a highly polished table are:
  a few empty seats.
  
  
  The lithe, tanned man nods politely to you.
  
  In a hooded, mace-stitched grey linen cloak (used) :
  a green chitin archery brace
  a pile of coins
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman clenches and unclenches her fist, ignoring the lithe, tanned
  
  man.
  
  
  Heading to the stairs, the ochre-eyed, lissome man walks up.
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man makes his way through the tavern, wrapping your hooded, mace-
  
  stitched grey linen cloak more tightly around his form.
  
  
  At a black-painted bar, the broad, harsh-looking woman speaks, to the svelte, bronzed man.
  
  Easing down onto a stool, you sit at a black-painted bar.
  
  The lithe, tanned man sits at a black-painted bar.
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman notices you and lowers her head to her, awkwardly.
  
  The svelte, bronzed man inclines his head in a nod, respectfully, in your direction .
  
  You are using:
  inv
  a black-scaled leather surmac
  a black-scaled leather gorget
  a new black-scaled leather longvest
  a black-scaled leather vambrace
  a leather and chitin strap-sheath
  a pair of black leather and chitin scaled gauntlets
  a slender crimson and silver ring
  a ruby and moonstone inlaid, silver signet ring
  a glossy, black leather swordbelt
  a silver-etched, stone-spiked mace
  a bloodied narrow-hilted, jaded khopesh blade
  a hooded, mace-stitched grey linen cloak
  a grey, black, and crimson silk sash
  a pair of black-scaled leather leggings
  a pair of black-scaled leather boots
  
  You are carrying:
  
  nothing.
  Glancing down a black-painted bar, you look at the svelte, bronzed man.
  This human male looks like he has lived a life in the wilderness.
  He has scraggly hair hanging haphazardly to just about shoulder length. He is
  above average height for his race, and seems to carry himself well, his
  movements seeming natural, not laboured. His svelte figure is adorned with
  many tattoos of random beasts. Bronzed all over, his muscles appear more
  toned. His skin is hairless from neck to foot, no doubt due to his life in
  the intense heat. His blue eyes bring his face to life, a playful
  glint within.
  The svelte, bronzed man is in excellent condition.
  
  The svelte, bronzed man is using:
  a tough tandu-leather cap
  a blue and purple inked band
  a long, agate-headed spear
  a rough canvas backpack
  a pair of carru leather sleeves
  a scrab shell wristguard
  a studded hide wrist-wrap
  a tattoo of a six-pronged star
  a hooded, sandy-brown reinforced sandcloth duster
  a sweat-stained pair of sandcloth and leather leggings
  a pair of grey hide boots
  
  He is carrying:
  nothing obvious
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman notices you and lowers her head to you, awkwardly.
  
  It is early morning on Waleuk, the 160th day of the Ascending Sun,
  In the Year of Suk-Krath's Anger, year 43 of the 21st Age.
  
  At your table, you say in sirihish, lacing his gauntleted fingers together in his lap:
  "Such a fine morning."
  
  
  At your table, the broad, harsh-looking woman says in sirihish, turning her broad back towards
  
  the lithe, tanned man:
  "A real nice morning, Chosen Lord."
  
  
  At your table, the lithe, tanned man says in sirihish, Nodding his head in agreement:
  "Definitely so Chosen lord"
  
  
  At your table, the broad, harsh-looking woman says in sirihish, to the svelte, bronzed man:
  "Notice the Coward isn't speaking anymore?"
  
  
  At your table, the lithe, tanned man says in sirihish, With a grin to you:
  "I think someone needs a drink Chosen Lord"
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man glances briefly over to the broad, harsh-looking woman and
  
  then to the lithe, tanned man.
  
  
  The svelte, bronzed man nods minimally.
  
  
  The slim, golden-haired woman has arrived from the north.
  
  
  At your table, the broad, harsh-looking woman says in sirihish, rolling her eyes:
  "I'm trying."
  
  
  The lithe, tanned man gives the long-haired, middle-aged bartender many coins in exchange for
  
  a finely made glass goblet.
  
  
  The lithe, tanned man offers his finely made glass goblet to you.
  
  At your table, you say in sirihish, flicking his attention back to the lithe, tanned man:
  "Aren't you a bit old to be cajoling folk into trying to kill you?"
  
  He is older than you.
  He is about the same size as you.
  He weighs about the same as you.
  The lithe, tanned man is in excellent condition.
  The lithe, tanned man does not look tired.
  
  
  Holding out his finely made glass goblet, the lithe, tanned man says to you, in sirihish:
  "I was speaking of buying a drink for you Chosen Lord"
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman's eyes flick to you and she unclenches her fists.
  
  
  The svelte, bronzed man nods in agreement.
  
  
  The slender, tea-skinned male has arrived from the south, panting softly as #me steps through
  
  the doorway.
  
  
  The lithe, tanned man looks up at the slender, tea-skinned male.
  
  
  The dark-blond, tall human has arrived from the south.
  
  At your table, you say in sirihish, waving a hand in dismissive response to the lithe, tanned
  
  man:
  "No, thank you. I'm going to be training shortly."
  
  
  The weatherworn, fuzzy-haired old man looks up at the dark-blond, tall human.
  
  
  The slim, golden-haired woman runs north.
  
  
  Pulling out a stool, the slender, tea-skinned male sits at a black-painted bar.
  
  
  The dark-blond, tall human says to the slender, tea-skinned male, in sirihish:
  "Hey there."
  
  
  The dark-blond, tall human opens a dusty sizeable leather backpack.
  
  
  The dark-blond, tall human closes a dusty sizeable leather backpack.
  
  
  The dark-blond, tall human sits down at the bar.
  
  
  The dark-blond, tall human sits at a black-painted bar.
  
  
  The dark-blond, tall human looks at the slender, tea-skinned male.
  
  
  Lips curling upwards as he bobs his head, the slender, tea-skinned male asks the dark-blond,
  
  tall human, in sirihish:
  "How goes?"
  
  
  At your table, the dark-blond, tall human says in sirihish:
  "Everythin' pretty normal, and yourself ?"
  
  
  The lithe, tanned man shrugs his shoulders and downs his finely made glass goblet in one gulp.
  
  
  The lithe, tanned man drinks reynolte-dry from his finely made glass goblet.
  
  
  The dark-blond, tall human looks at the lithe, tanned man.
  
  
  The lithe, tanned man looks at the dark-blond, tall human.
  
  
  At your table, the slender, tea-skinned male says in sirihish, drawing a deep breath before
  
  speaking:
  "A'right... 'Tok out on th' road 'gain."
  
  
  The dark-blond, tall human sheathes a dusty razor-edged, obsidian tomahawk.
  
  
  The dark-blond, tall human sheathes a dusty one-handed, crescent-bladed axe.
  
  
  Ignoring the lithe, tanned man, the broad, harsh-looking woman looks at the slender, tea-
  
  skinned male.
  
  
  At your table, the slender, tea-skinned male says in sirihish, shaking his head with a short
  
  chuckle:
  "Couldn' find m'spears, an' some skinny's followin' me 'round."
  
  
  At your table, the lithe, tanned man says in sirihish, Looking down at the broad, harsh-
  
  looking woman:
  "Okay lady, maybe it's time we settled things, what do you want from me?"
  
  
  The dark-blond, tall human looks at the broad, harsh-looking woman.
  
  
  Slowly gazing down the bar, the slender, tea-skinned male looks at the svelte, bronzed man.
  
  
  The weatherworn, fuzzy-haired old man chuckles, glancing towards the bar.
  
  
  The dark-blond, tall human looks at the weatherworn, fuzzy-haired old man.
  
  
  At your table, the broad, harsh-looking woman says in sirihish, narrowing her eyes at the
  
  lithe, tanned man:
  "You and I go somewhere noone's going to care, and I punch you until I feel better."
  
  
  The svelte, bronzed man has lost link.
  The svelte, bronzed man has reconnected.
  
  
  The dark-blond, tall human chuckles quietly.
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man smirks ever so slightly.
  
  
  At your table, the dark-blond, tall human says in sirihish, to the broad, harsh-looking woman:
  "What's the problem ?"
  
  
  The svelte, bronzed man nods affirmatively.
  
  
  At your table, the svelte, bronzed man says in sirihish:
  "That's the only reasonable solution I can see. "
  
  
  The dark-blond, tall human looks at the svelte, bronzed man.
  
  
  At your table, the broad, harsh-looking woman says in sirihish, to the dark-blond, tall human:
  "I'm going to make him bleed. No problem."
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman looks at the dark-blond, tall human.
  
  
  At your table, the dark-blond, tall human says in sirihish:
  "Yeah, but why ?"
  
  
  At your table, the lithe, tanned man says in sirihish, Shrugging his shoulders:
  "I was out in the woods and she tried to take my sid"
  
  
  At your table, the lithe, tanned man says in sirihish:
  "I wouldn't give it up, she got mad, here we are"
  
  
  At your table, the dark-blond, tall human says in sirihish, with a frown:
  "Is that so ?"
  
  
  At your table, the broad, harsh-looking woman says in sirihish, after looking him over:
  "After I kick him in the balls I few times, I'll tell you."
  
  
  The dark-blond, tall human looks at the lithe, tanned man.
  
  
  The dark-blond, tall human looks at the broad, harsh-looking woman.
  
  
  At your table, the dark-blond, tall human says in sirihish, to the lithe, tanned man:
  "You're a woodworker ?"
  
  
  At your table, the broad, harsh-looking woman says in sirihish, narrowing eyes at the lithe,
  
  tanned man:
  "Coward, don't lie. You called me stupid, then have taunted me since."
  
  
  Raising a brow, the slender, tea-skinned male looks at the broad, harsh-looking woman.
  
  
  At your table, the svelte, bronzed man says in sirihish, to the lithe, tanned man:
  "Was this before or after you insulted her mother?"
  
  
  The dark-blond, tall human stands up from a black-painted bar.
  
  
  At your table, the lithe, tanned man says in sirihish:
  "this was very much before"
  
  
  The dark-blond, tall human says, in sirihish:
  "Fuck, I gotta leave."
  The dark-blond, tall human walks up.
  
  
  At your table, the broad, harsh-looking woman says in sirihish, to the lithe, tanned man:
  "Well, Coward? We going somewhere?"
  
  
  At your table, the svelte, bronzed man says in sirihish:
  "And before you called her fat?"
  
  
  At your table, the lithe, tanned man says in sirihish:
  "this was before i called her fat also"
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman opens a rough canvas backpack.
  
  
  At your table, the svelte, bronzed man says in sirihish, nodding:
  "I see."
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman gets her small portion of a travel cake from her rough canvas
  
  backpack.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman eats her small portion of a travel cake.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman closes a rough canvas backpack.
  
  
  At your table, the broad, harsh-looking woman says in sirihish:
  "And when you stole my shield?"
  
  
  At your table, the lithe, tanned man says in sirihish, Raising an eyebrow:
  "You mean the shield that I picked up after you tried to hit me with it and the same one
  
  that neck ran off with?"
  
  
  At your table, the lithe, tanned man says in sirihish, Looking over at the svelte, bronzed
  
  man:
  "All I was trying to do was take a rest in the woods and this is the result"
  
  
  At your table, the broad, harsh-looking woman says in sirihish, frowning:
  "I tried to put you in a headlock when you were laughing at me, you idiot."
  
  At your table, you say in sirihish, shifting his attention back to the lithe, tanned man and
  
  the broad, harsh-looking woman:
  "It seems that you two wish to resolve the matter."
  
  
  At your table, the broad, harsh-looking woman says in sirihish, after a sigh:
  "Sorry, Chosen Lord. I'm trying...I really am..."
  
  
  At your table, the lithe, tanned man says in sirihish:
  "I personally have nothing to do with her, I am just trying to find out what her problem
  
  is"
  
  
  At your table, you say in sirihish, blinking at the lithe, tanned man:
  "Then resolve the matter. Stop insulting the woman like a Southron, it is unbecoming."
  
  
  At your table, the broad, harsh-looking woman says in sirihish, to the lithe, tanned man:
  "Come on then. I'll never talk to you again after I pummel you for a while."
  
  
  At your table, the lithe, tanned man says in sirihish, Glancing over at you:
  "She only wishes to resort to violence and violence mind you for something she started,
  
  I personally want her to stay out of my affairs, before you came in, she was the one taunting
  
  me"
  
  
  At your table, the lithe, tanned man says in sirihish:
  "see what I mean?"
  
  
  At your table, the broad, harsh-looking woman says in sirihish, to the svelte, bronzed man:
  "Was I?"
  
  
  At your table, you say in sirihish, peering at the lithe, tanned man, then the broad, harsh-
  
  looking woman:
  "Alright. Both of you, come with me. I have the solution."
  
  
  Rising to his feet, you stand up from a black-painted bar.
  
  
  
  The lithe, tanned man stands up from a black-painted bar.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman stands up from a black-painted bar.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman falls in behind you.
  
  
  With a subtle smirk, the slender, tea-skinned male looks up at the lithe, tanned man.
  
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man lets out a longsuffering sigh and glances back to a black-
  
  painted bar.
  
  
  You raise the hood of a hooded, mace-stitched grey linen cloak.
  
  
  North Road [NESW]
  The stark white of this wide stone road lies nestled between the rise
  and fall of a conglomerated jumble of eclectically styled buildings.
  Passing through the city, the road is kept clean of any blowing sand and
  forest debris. The pale backbone cuts a decisive line east across the
  bustling metropolis towards what remains of the Old City.
  The pale white of the road merges with a newer road just to the east.
  Further in the distance, the crumbled ruins of the old city can be seen
  rising up above the newer walls that have been built up around them. Set on
  the north side of the road is a large two-story tavern. On the south side
  of the road is a large wagon yard.
  A down-trodden group of Allanaki refugees shuffles down the road.
  The lanky, russet-haired lad lounges by the tavern.
  The wiry, obsidian-haired Jihaen templar is standing here.
  The broad, harsh-looking woman has arrived from the north.
  The burly, red-haired woman has arrived from the north.
  
  
  The lithe, tanned man has arrived from the north.
  
  
  The lithe, tanned man falls in behind you.
  
  
  The svelte, bronzed man has arrived from the north.
  
  North Salt Road [NSW]
  Rows of pale stones form the backbone for this broad avenue, settled
  into the ground with graceful fervor. Decorating the edge of the street,
  the buildings and storefronts are universally adorned with garish and tawdry
  sculptures, bas reliefs, and murals. The road is filled with a continual
  throng of humans and demi-humans alike as they scurry about the bustle of
  daily life.
  The sounds of a rowdy commotion spills out onto the streets from the
  building to the west. A trio of humanoid sculptures are caught before the
  junction between two roads, the crowds passing around them. An odd-looking
  sculpture surrounds a stone bench off to one side of the road.
  The tawny, blonde-haired woman strolls down the street, eyes bright.
  A few colorful individuals sit in a circle on the street corner, drumming.
  The lithe, tanned man has arrived from the west.
  The broad, harsh-looking woman has arrived from the west.
  The burly, red-haired woman has arrived from the west.
  
  
  The Red Sun Commons [NESW]
  The chaotic roar of the tumultuous clamor within the commons fills the
  air with a constant din, building into a flooding crescendo as deals are
  bartered. Throngs of humans and demi-humans flock from one multi-colored
  tent to another, ducking in and between the various stands that have been
  erected along the breadth of the commons. Craftsmen and tradesmen alike
  wander the sandstone grounds, mingling themselves with the rest in search of
  opportunity. The scents of the commons, myriad and varied in their potency
  and origins, mingle together to create a somewhat acrid and sweaty feel to
  the atmosphere.
  A mound of dung, heaped shoulder high, stands here.
  A sour-faced dwarf hunches here, buying dung.
  The lithe, tanned man has arrived from the north.
  The broad, harsh-looking woman has arrived from the north.
  The burly, red-haired woman has arrived from the north.
  
  
  The Red Sun Commons [ESW]
  The chaotic roar of the tumultuous clamor within the commons fills the
  air with a constant din, building into a flooding crescendo as deals are
  bartered. Throngs of humans and demi-humans flock from one multi-colored
  tent to another, ducking in and between the various stands that have been
  erected along the breadth of the commons. Craftsmen and tradesmen alike
  wander the sandstone grounds, mingling themselves with the rest in search of
  opportunity. The scents of the commons, myriad and varied in their potency
  and origins, mingle together to create a somewhat acrid and sweaty feel to
  the atmosphere.
  The lithe, tanned man has arrived from the east.
  The broad, harsh-looking woman has arrived from the east.
  The burly, red-haired woman has arrived from the east.
  
  As he slows to a stop in the Commons, you say, in sirihish:
  "Alright. Here's what I propose."
  
  You look at the lithe, tanned man.
  This man is of very average height with his hair at a length no longer
  than the bottom of his ears. His skin is rather unremarkable, lightly
  tanned from exposure to the sun and slightly smooth. His eyes are a dull
  brown with no outstanding features and set evenly in his head beneath rather
  neatly groomed eyebrows. His hair is a dark black blend with streaks of
  grey running through it. His body is lithe and lightly muscled, resembling
  the normal Zalanthan human physique.
  The lithe, tanned man is in excellent condition.
  
  The lithe, tanned man is using:
  a long-handled, flint lumber axe
  a sizeable leather backpack
  a blue and purple inked band
  an unlit large wooden torch
  a hooded, black sandcloth windcloak
  a pair of rough canvas pants
  a pair of grey hide boots
  
  He is carrying:
  nothing obvious
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman stands apart from the lithe, tanned man, eyes on you.
  
  
  The svelte, bronzed man has arrived from the east.
  
  You say to the lithe, tanned man, in sirihish:
  "The woman here wishes to challenge you, so I suggest you both oblige each other and beat
  
  on each other until one or both parties are satisfied."
  
  
  The svelte, bronzed man keeps his distance.
  
  
  With a frown, the lithe, tanned man says, in sirihish:
  "That's what she wants, I want her to stop her violence toward me"
  
  
  The mighty sun begins to crawl across the western sky.
  
  You say to the lithe, tanned man, in sirihish:
  "As it's not appropriate to do this just anywhere, I suggest on the grounds of my Estate
  
  in the sparring yard."
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman smiles at the lithe, tanned man.
  
  
  Nodding, the broad, harsh-looking woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Sounds fair to me, Chosen Lord."
  
  The svelte, bronzed man frowns.
  
  
  The weatherworn, fuzzy-haired old man has arrived from the east.
  
  
  The lithe, tanned man says, in sirihish:
  "she has assaulted me three times, I'd say she has more than had her turn"
  
  
  Looking him up and down, the weatherworn, fuzzy-haired old man looks at the lithe, tanned man.
  
  
  Rolling her eyes, the broad, harsh-looking woman says to the lithe, tanned man, in sirihish:
  "I'll just use my fists."
  
  
  Nodding agreeably, the svelte, bronzed man says, in sirihish:
  "Seems like the only solution."
  
  
  The weatherworn, fuzzy-haired old man glances at you, inclining his head as he does.
  
  Quirking a brow curiously, you ask the lithe, tanned man, in sirihish:
  "do you taunt bahamets?"
  
  You ask the lithe, tanned man, in sirihish:
  "And then complain afterwards when they rip into your organs?"
  
  
  The svelte, bronzed man grins.
  
  
  The lithe, tanned man says, in sirihish:
  "I disagree with the solution since it is only fair for one party, besides, she did her
  
  fair share of taunting"
  
  Lifting his linen clad shoulders in a shrug, you ask the lithe, tanned man, in sirihish:
  "You disagree with -my- solution?"
  
  Staring at the lithe, tanned man with a deep frown, you ask the lithe, tanned man, in
  
  sirihish:
  "Are you aware of where you are, citizen?"
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman folds her muscular arms, watching the lithe, tanned man.
  
  
  With a nod, the lithe, tanned man says to you, in sirihish:
  "Aye Chosen Lord, I am aware of where I am, but if the Law is to be just and fair, then
  
  hauling off citizens at your whim because of another party that has no claim"
  
  Narrowing his pale green eyes on the lithe, tanned man, you say to the lithe, tanned man, in
  
  sirihish:
  "This is not the first time you have deemed yourself wiser than His Chosen. And where
  
  you are is, in point of fact, the Red Sun Commons."
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman looks with shock at the lithe, tanned man.
  
  
  The lithe, tanned man says, in sirihish:
  "then surely we are no better than living in the south"
  
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  
  The weatherworn, fuzzy-haired old man sends you a telepathic message:
  "This fella... well he ain't too smart, but I guess you can see that."
  
  
  The figure in a hooded, mace-stitched grey linen cloak smiles politely over at the lithe,
  
  tanned man.
  
  
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  Beckoning with one hand, you say to the lithe, tanned man, in sirihish:
  "You've got quite a bit of spunk for a citizen. I think I can use people like that."
  
  
  The lithe, tanned man moves closer to you.
  
  Waving her off, you say to the broad, harsh-looking woman, in sirihish:
  "He's quite right, Rosie. You should certainly stop taunting him."
  
  You stop leading the broad, harsh-looking woman.
  
  
  The svelte, bronzed man looks shocked.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman nods to you.
  
  Stepping lightly, you say to the lithe, tanned man, in sirihish:
  "We'll head to the Lyksaen Estate. I'll get you outfitted properly."
  
  ------
  Thrend takes the "potential partisan" to the Estate. The follow conversation occurs on the way there.
  ------
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You contact the broad, harsh-looking woman with the Way.
  
  
  Glancing back to the lithe, tanned man, you ask the lithe, tanned man, in sirihish:
  "You don't already have employment with some other patron, do you, Omanet?"
  
  
  The late, red sun descends toward the western horizon.
  The red orb of Jihae, the red moon, begins to vanish as it slowly sets.
  The pale face of the white moon, Lirathu, rises over the agafari trees.
  
  
  You send this message to the staff:
  "Just an FYI, Thrend is going to have Rosie beat the hell out of Omanet inside the
  
  Lyksaen Estate, and then let him disappear quietly."
  
  You send this message to the staff:
  "I would have just gone for the "beat the hell out of Omanet" but he has insulted His
  
  Chosen in front of many witnesses. That's a no-no."
  
  
  Lowering his shoulders, the lithe, tanned man says to you, in sirihish:
  "I hope I have not offended you Chosen Lord"
  
  Tugging down his hood, you ask the lithe, tanned man, in sirihish:
  "Offended me? How could you have offended me?"
  
  You lower the hood of a hooded, mace-stitched grey linen cloak.
  
  Pausing before the gates, you ask the lithe, tanned man, in sirihish:
  "You do realize, however, that speaking such things in public--outright against His
  
  Chosen and His City--are not to be done, yes?"
  
  
  The lithe, tanned man glances around him.
  
  Sheisett's Plaza [NEW]
  Here, massive gates lead out of Tuluk's Noble's Quarter. The road has
  been laid by a circular pattern of white alabaster and red jasper stones,
  creating a massive work of art that portrays a blazing sun. The gates
  themselves, lying at the north end of the circle, are made of a
  crisscrossing pattern of polished agafari, both attractive and
  extraordinarily sturdy. The pattern formed by the gates' wood ends at the
  top by curved spires, blackened at their tops.
  The lithe, tanned man has arrived from the north.
  The burly, red-haired woman has arrived from the north.
  
  
  Nodding as he speaks, the lithe, tanned man says to you, in sirihish:
  "Aye Chosen Lord, I do understand"
  
  
  Dipping his head agreeably, you ask the lithe, tanned man, in sirihish:
  "Are you familiar with the Red Sun Commons?"
  
  Lowering his head as he speaks, the lithe, tanned man says to you, in sirihish:
  "I do admit that I have erred"
  Nodding his head, the lithe, tanned man says, in sirihish:
  "Aye, I am familiar with the commons"
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  
  Gesturing grandly towards the gates to the south, you ask the lithe, tanned man, in sirihish:
  "And here we are, the Lyksaen Estate. Have you been here before, Omanet?"
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the broad, harsh-looking woman:
  "Find my mind when you are near the gates, Rosie."
  
  The lithe, tanned man looks up toward the gates in awe.
  
  His face lighting up, the lithe, tanned man says, in sirihish:
  "I have not Chosen Lord"
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  You think:
  "Rosie will kill him, I'm fairly sure."
  
  You think:
  "A good way to prove herself, too."
  
  Nodding once, you say to the lithe, tanned man, in sirihish:
  "Well. I'll show you about the Courtyard."
  
  The burly, mohawked man stops using his etched, red stone key.
  The burly, mohawked man unlocks the gates with an etched, red stone key.
  The burly, mohawked man opens the gates.
  The burly, mohawked man steps aside, allowing you to pass.
  The Courtyard of House Lyksae [NEW]
  The overall impression of this courtyard is one of greyness, as that
  color has been used in the stones forming the walls to the east, west, and
  south. To the north is a gate of charred bone, offering a slightly
  contrasting shade of grey, as well as the occasional glimpse of a more
  colorful world beyond it. Even the landscaping, such as it is, is grey,
  with stout short bushes at each of the courtyard's four corners. The focal
  point in all this greyness is a statue at the center of the courtyard,
  surrounded by a series of lightening circles of stones, the centermost being
  black, and those at the edge being a pale dun.
  To the west, a door leads into the manor house, inset with a panel of
  bright crimson silk in the shape of a rising sun. To the east, through a
  door painted with a mace, is a more humble building.
  A sizable stone building has been built against the southern wall.
  A muscular man, sculpted life-size from granite, stands here triumphantly.
  The weathered, burly-armed man stands watch at the gates.
  The lithe, tanned man has arrived from the north.
  The burly, red-haired woman has arrived from the north.
  The burly, mohawked man closes the gates from the other side.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  The lithe, tanned man looks back as the large mohawked man closes the gates behind him.
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman sends you a telepathic message:
  "I'm there now, Chosen Lord."
  
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  Clearing his throat, you ask the lithe, tanned man, in sirihish:
  "Different regions of His City are governed by His Chosen--were you aware of that?"
  
  You send a telepathic message to the broad, harsh-looking woman:
  "I'll get you inside shortly."
  
  You dissolve the psychic link.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You are unable to reach their mind.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You are unable to reach their mind.
  
  Shrugging his shoulders, the lithe, tanned man says to you, in sirihish:
  "I was aware of that but not exactly who is in charge of where"
  
  Dipping his head, you say to the lithe, tanned man, in sirihish:
  "I'm the Governor of the Red Sun Commons."
  
  Nodding his head as he speaks, the lithe, tanned man says, in sirihish:
  "I see now"
  
  
  The last spire fades to darkness as Suk-Krath abandons the city to night.
  
  Pursing his lips thoughtfully, you say to the lithe, tanned man, in sirihish:
  "And you called His City no better than the South."
  
  
  Wrinkling his brow, the lithe, tanned man says to you, in sirihish:
  "Begging your pardon Chosen Lord, but I was actually saying that in context, relating to
  
  my prior comment concerning the young lady in question"
  
  You say to the lithe, tanned man, in sirihish:
  "Well, I am a man with many solutions, for many problems. Hold here for just a moment,
  
  good citizen."
  
  You stop leading the lithe, tanned man.
  
  The weathered, burly-armed man stops using his etched, red stone key.
  The weathered, burly-armed man unlocks the gates with an etched, red stone key.
  The weathered, burly-armed man opens the gates.
  The weathered, burly-armed man steps aside, allowing you to pass.
  Before the Gates of House Lyksae [ES]
  Lengthy slabs of mekillot bone have been laced together with woven
  ropes of kylori sinew to create an imposing and austere set of gates that
  bar movement to the south. The tips of the bone slabs have been hewn to
  sharpened protrusions and blackened with fire, creating a churning swirl of
  sooty black that cascades down the length of the bleached bone.
  The azure and amber of the granite paving stones form a broad circle
  before the gates of the estate, twining around in ever-decreasing spirals.
  Circling this courtyard are stands of loreshi shrubs that lend a darker and
  more earthen contrast to the outer ring of the plaza.
  Secured to the wall by a wooden frame is a fire-scorched copper wardrum.
  The broad, harsh-looking woman stands here to the side.
  The burly, mohawked man stands staunchly before the gate.
  The burly, red-haired woman has arrived from the south.
  The weathered, burly-armed man closes the gates from the other side.
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man beckons to the broad, harsh-looking woman.
  
  Simply, you say to the broad, harsh-looking woman, in sirihish:
  "Keep your temper in check."
  
  You think:
  "...how to -do- this?"
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman falls in behind you.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman nods to you.
  
  The burly, mohawked man stops using his etched, red stone key.
  The burly, mohawked man unlocks the gates with an etched, red stone key.
  The burly, mohawked man opens the gates.
  The burly, mohawked man steps aside, allowing you to pass.
  The Courtyard of House Lyksae [NEW]
  The overall impression of this courtyard is one of greyness, as that
  color has been used in the stones forming the walls to the east, west, and
  south. To the north is a gate of charred bone, offering a slightly
  contrasting shade of grey, as well as the occasional glimpse of a more
  colorful world beyond it. Even the landscaping, such as it is, is grey,
  with stout short bushes at each of the courtyard's four corners. The focal
  point in all this greyness is a statue at the center of the courtyard,
  surrounded by a series of lightening circles of stones, the centermost being
  black, and those at the edge being a pale dun.
  To the west, a door leads into the manor house, inset with a panel of
  bright crimson silk in the shape of a rising sun. To the east, through a
  door painted with a mace, is a more humble building.
  A sizable stone building has been built against the southern wall.
  A muscular man, sculpted life-size from granite, stands here triumphantly.
  The weathered, burly-armed man stands watch at the gates.
  The lithe, tanned man is standing here.
  The broad, harsh-looking woman has arrived from the north.
  The burly, red-haired woman has arrived from the north.
  The burly, mohawked man closes the gates from the other side.
  
  
  Turning her attention towards him, the broad, harsh-looking woman looks down at the lithe,
  
  tanned man.
  
  
  The lithe, tanned man looks up at the broad, harsh-looking woman.
  
  Pointing over to the broad, harsh-looking woman, you say to the lithe, tanned man, in
  
  sirihish:
  "This is Rosie. I believe you two have met."
  
  The lithe, tanned man says, in sirihish:
  "we have been acquainted a few times, yes"
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman's eyes narrow on the lithe, tanned man but she says nothing.
  
  You ask the lithe, tanned man, in sirihish:
  "You said things were not fair. Well, who determines what is fair?"
  
  You stop leading the burly, red-haired woman.
  
  
  The lithe, tanned man says to you, in sirihish:
  "I guess it depends on who is in charge Chosen Lord"
  
  Nodding in agreement with the lithe, tanned man, you ask the lithe, tanned man, in sirihish:
  "And who, precisely, is in charge?"
  
  You ask the lithe, tanned man, in sirihish:
  "I think it fair for both of you to have your conflict and be done with it. Am I not a
  
  fair Chosen Lord?"
  
  
  Nodding as he speaks and looking around the courtyard, the lithe, tanned man says to you, in
  
  sirihish:
  "from where I stand Chosen Lord, that would be you"
  
  You think:
  "Patience, Thrend. Perhaps he can be useful somehow besides dying."
  
  
  Dropping his arms, the lithe, tanned man says to you, in sirihish:
  "She is free to have her conflict chosen Lord, I tire of her constant attacks, but I
  
  will not fight her"
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman looks about to say something then closes her mouth firmly.
  
  Quirking a shaped eyebrow at the lithe, tanned man, you say to the lithe, tanned man, in
  
  sirihish:
  "And why not? You have instigated the entire ordeal."
  
  
  The night has begun.
  
  You say to the lithe, tanned man, in sirihish:
  "You wish to fight like a Southron--hurl blunt insults as though they are weapons, then
  
  hide behind false claims when the seeds you have sown have grown into an unmanageable mess."
  
  You say to the lithe, tanned man, in sirihish:
  "Oh, His City is -very- fair, indeed, Omanet. And very different from the South--for,
  
  had you been in the South, you would have been slain outright for slandering the very City you
  
  live in."
  
  
  The lithe, tanned man says to you, in sirihish:
  "I will not dispute your words Chosen Lord, however I still stand behind the fact that
  
  there are other factors at work that noone is willing to listen to"
  
  
  The lithe, tanned man says to you, in sirihish:
  "Let us have this be done with Chosen Lord, let us let herhave her way, I am man enough
  
  to face consequences"
  
  Dipping his head, you say to the lithe, tanned man, in sirihish:
  "Indeed. I think that would be appropriate."
  
  
  The lithe, tanned man says to the broad, harsh-looking woman, in sirihish:
  "have your way woman, I won't fight you"
  
  You say, in sirihish:
  "Come with me, you will square off in the yard."
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman looks to the lithe, tanned man and shrugs.
  
  Glancing distastefully to a life-sized granite statue of a muscular man, you say, in sirihish:
  "I will not have blood spilled or violence done beneath this memorial."
  
  An Orderly Mess Hall [EW]
  Everything in this cooking and dining area has been arranged with
  military precision, tall baobab cabinets standing at attention on either
  side of the cooking ovens. Sturdy baobab benches are in precise formation
  with their matching tables, which are in turn squared off on the northern
  side of the room. But although there is not a single touch of disorder
  about the place, it is not precisely clean, either, being tinged with smoke
  from the cooking and curing of food.
  A couple of sturdy baobab tables are here.
  A sturdy baobab tun is full of clean drinking water.
  The smoke-smudged, wide-eyed young woman stands before the stoves here.
  The broad, harsh-looking woman has arrived from the west.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman narrows her eyes at the lithe, tanned man.
  
  Beckoning briefly, you say to the lithe, tanned man, in sirihish:
  "Come laong."
  
  
  The lithe, tanned man falls in behind you.
  
  A Dimly Lit Barracks [NWD Quit Save]
  This windowless room is relatively cool and dim, although a bit
  stuffy. Earthy scents waft into it from the adjoining rooms: smoke and
  victuals from the mess hall to the west, and dust and sweaty bodies through
  the doorway to the north. Hammocks are strung from the rafters and support
  beams, each slightly personalized by an article of clothing or some personal
  effect. At the head of each hammock hangs a thick woven-grass net in which
  additional belongings are stowed. In the southeast corner, beside a table,
  a trapdoor leads down into the ground.
  A thick rug of quirri hide is here laid out near the hammocks.
  A plain chest of maroon baobab hardwood sits here.
  An elongated, heavy trunk made of agafari lies here.
  A simple wooden chest sits here on the floor.
  The stern, iron-braided woman watches over the trapdoor.
  The slim, porcelain-skinned maiden sits behind a needle-covered table.
  The lithe, tanned man has arrived from the west.
  The broad, harsh-looking woman has arrived from the west.
  
  
  A Covered Training Yard [SU Save]
  This spacious yard is walled in on all four sides, with a door leading
  into the building to the south. Hard-packed reddish sand forms the ground
  here, dusty and stained in spots with what might be blood. At the center of
  the yard is a circle lined in granite tiles marking out the main sparring
  area, but officers can be seen giving private instruction outside this area.
  Overhead, a series of wooden catwalks provide a measure of shade while also
  serving as a vantage point for the guards that patrol them.
  A shadow falls over the area, driving off the uncomfortable heat.
  An empty hefty wooden barrel sits here.
  A dwarf sized chunk of raw salt is here.
  A couple of simple wooden chests are here off in a far corner of the yard, away from the
  
  sparring area.
  An elongated, heavy trunk made of agafari lies here.
  The lithe, tanned man has arrived from the south.
  The broad, harsh-looking woman has arrived from the south.
  
  In a heavy agafari trunk (here) :
  a new hammer-carved wooden shield
  a couple of short bone sparring swords
  a short bone sparring spear
  an used round tortoiseshell shield
  a long wooden-bladed training halberd
  a couple of wood-bladed training staves
  several slim wooden training daggers
  some wooden training longswords
  a few slim wooden training clubs
  a few slim wooden training axes
  
  l in chest
  In a simple wooden chest (here) :
  an untanned rough, mangy hide
  some long lengths of bone
  
  
  You are carrying:
  
  nothing.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman looks from the lithe, tanned man to you.
  
  Nodding towards an empty ring of sand, you say, in sirihish:
  "Enjoy yourselves. It seems both of you have a lot to learn."
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man stands stoically by a dwarf sized jagged boulder of salt.
  
  
  Moving out further into the yard, the broad, harsh-looking woman asks the lithe, tanned man,
  
  in sirihish:
  "Why will my life be numbered in moments?"
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman stops using her open sleeveless robe.
  
  You begin watching the broad, harsh-looking woman.
  
  
  The lithe, tanned man moves out into the yard with a grin on his face.
  
  
  Tossing it to the ground at the edge of the circle, the broad, harsh-looking woman drops her
  
  open sleeveless robe.
  
  You think:
  "Hmm. She needs to learn to be more subtle."
  
  You think:
  "Definitely."
  
  You think:
  "But...she does have that violent spirit. And that is something we need."
  
  
  Watching him with narrowed eyes as she stretches, the broad, harsh-looking woman asks the
  
  lithe, tanned man, in sirihish:
  "Only speaking in my mind?"
  
  
  The lithe, tanned man whispers something to the broad, harsh-looking woman.
  
  
  Pushing the lithe, tanned man away, the broad, harsh-looking woman says to the lithe, tanned
  
  man, in sirihish:
  "Speak louder."
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman balls up her fists, approaching the lithe, tanned man.
  
  
  The lithe, tanned man drops his fists to his side.
  
  With a heavy sigh, you say to the lithe, tanned man, in sirihish:
  "The other difference in the South and His City that I'm afraid you're unfamiliar with is
  
  that no one will ever find out what happened to you. Before you insulted -me-, you had a
  
  chance."
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman swings just after you speaks.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman attacks the lithe, tanned man.
  The broad, harsh-looking woman hits the lithe, tanned man, barely grazing his body.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman hits the lithe, tanned man, barely grazing his body.
  The broad, harsh-looking woman swiftly dodges the lithe, tanned man's hits.
  
  
  The lithe, tanned man swiftly dodges the broad, harsh-looking woman's hits.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman stops attacking the lithe, tanned man.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman swiftly dodges the lithe, tanned man's hits.
  
  Dipping his head towards her, you say to the broad, harsh-looking woman, in sirihish:
  "And you have a lot to learn, as well, partisan. You should not have stated your
  
  intentions."
  
  
  The lithe, tanned man drops an unlit large wooden torch.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman swiftly dodges the lithe, tanned man's hits.
  The broad, harsh-looking woman swiftly dodges the lithe, tanned man's hits.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman swiftly dodges the lithe, tanned man's hits.
  The broad, harsh-looking woman swiftly dodges the lithe, tanned man's hits.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman looks towards you and nods, before swinging again at the lithe,
  
  tanned man.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman hits the lithe, tanned man, barely grazing his foot.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman hits the lithe, tanned man, barely grazing his body.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman hits the lithe, tanned man, barely grazing his leg.
  
  
  The lithe, tanned man unslings a long-handled, flint lumber axe from his back.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman hits the lithe, tanned man, barely grazing his body.
  The lithe, tanned man's eyes roll back in his head.
  A long-handled, flint lumber axe clatters to the ground as the lithe, tanned man releases it.
  The lithe, tanned man crumples to the ground.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman scowls, knocking out the lithe, tanned man as him unstraps a
  
  long-handled, flint lumber axe.
  
  As he inspects the lithe, tanned man, you say to the broad, harsh-looking woman, in sirihish:
  "Not a bad form, for using no weapons."
  
  
  Standing over top of you, the broad, harsh-looking woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Thank you, Chosen Lord."
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman says, out of character:
  "oops"
  
  Crossing his arms and staring at the broad, harsh-looking woman, you say to the broad, harsh-
  
  looking woman, in sirihish:
  "He is yours. Tell me what must be done to this one."
  
  
  Looking down at the lithe, tanned man, the broad, harsh-looking woman says to you, in
  
  sirihish:
  "He told me that I should run to the south, he would have me killed."
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman looks down at the lithe, tanned man.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman reaches down to pick up the lithe, tanned man by his hair.
  
  
  Looking over, the broad, harsh-looking woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "I think he's talking from his ass. But, who knows."
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman swings her fist at the lithe, tanned man again.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman attacks the lithe, tanned man.
  The broad, harsh-looking woman hits the lithe, tanned man on his head.
  
  Dipping his head in agreement, you ask the broad, harsh-looking woman, in sirihish:
  "We'll need to dispose of the body when you have killed him. You will need to learn to
  
  think on your feet--so tell me, what happened to this man?"
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman takes the lithe, tanned man by the hair again, looking over at
  
  you.
  
  You ask the broad, harsh-looking woman, in sirihish:
  "He ran off on the way to my Estate, and I did not see him again, did I?"
  
  
  Balling her fist once more, the broad, harsh-looking woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "I don't think anyone saw him again, Chosen Lord."
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman attacks the lithe, tanned man.
  The broad, harsh-looking woman solidly hits the lithe, tanned man's head.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman grins down at the lithe, tanned man before unstrapping her
  
  stone-studded baobab flail.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman draws a stone-studded baobab flail.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman stops using her curved agafari shield.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman brandishes her stone-studded baobab flail in both hands.
  
  
  Raising her stone-studded baobab flail, the broad, harsh-looking woman says to you, in
  
  sirihish:
  "May want to step back, Chosen Lord."
  
  You say to the broad, harsh-looking woman, in sirihish:
  "A better option would have been to pretend that you were not angry with him, earlier."
  
  
  her Stone-studded baobab flail raised, the broad, harsh-looking woman says to you, in
  
  sirihish:
  "I tried. I did."
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman attacks the lithe, tanned man.
  The broad, harsh-looking woman brutally bludgeons the lithe, tanned man on his head.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman raises her stone-studded baobab flail again, the left side of
  
  his head caved in.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman attacks the lithe, tanned man.
  The broad, harsh-looking woman viciously bludgeons the lithe, tanned man on his head.
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man watches impassively.
  
  
  The giant crimson sun rises in the east.
  Jihae, the red moon, rises up into the sky.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman kicks at the lithe, tanned man with her feet, frowning.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman says, in sirihish:
  "Still breathing."
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman raises her stone-studded baobab flail high once more.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman attacks the lithe, tanned man.
  The broad, harsh-looking woman brutally bludgeons the lithe, tanned man on his head.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman hits the lithe, tanned man a couple of times with her stone-
  
  studded baobab flail.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman attacks the lithe, tanned man.
  The broad, harsh-looking woman bludgeons the lithe, tanned man's head, inflicting a grievous
  
  wound.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman attacks the lithe, tanned man.
  The broad, harsh-looking woman bludgeons the lithe, tanned man's head, inflicting a grievous
  
  wound.
  
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman finally steps away from the body of the lithe, tanned man.
  
  Glancing to the body of the lithe, tanned man, then back to the broad, harsh-looking woman,
  
  you say to the broad, harsh-looking woman, in sirihish:
  "You have a bit to learn, I think...but good work."
  
  You say, out of character:
  "afk a moment"
  
  
  Looking over after wiping some blood from her stone-studded baobab flail, the broad, harsh-
  
  looking woman says to you, in
  sirihish:
  "I'll get rid of him. I'm willing to learn, Chosen Lord."
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman sheathes a stone-studded baobab flail.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman moves away from the body of the lithe, tanned man to an open
  
  sleeveless robe.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman picks up an open sleeveless robe.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman wears her open sleeveless robe about her body.
  
  
  After putting her open sleeveless robe on, the broad, harsh-looking woman says to you, in
  
  sirihish:
  "I learned if I'm patient, I get what I want."
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman holds her curved agafari shield.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman picks up a long-handled, flint lumber axe.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman puts her long-handled, flint lumber axe into her rough canvas
  
  backpack.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman picks up an unlit large wooden torch.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman puts her unlit large wooden torch into her rough canvas
  
  backpack.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman picks up the body of the lithe, tanned man.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman swings her body of the lithe, tanned man over her shoulder,
  
  grunting.
  
  nod broad
  You nod to her.
  
  You say to the broad, harsh-looking woman, in sirihish:
  "We need to get this moved somewhere. Let's see..."
  
  You think:
  "How to get rid of the body?"
  
  You think:
  "Could hack it into pieces..."
  
  You think:
  "...then shove him in a trunk. Maybe."
  
  Gesturing with one hand, you say, in sirihish:
  "We'll pack him on an inix, cover it with a rug."
  
  
  A Dimly Lit Barracks [NWD Quit Save]
  This windowless room is relatively cool and dim, although a bit
  stuffy. Earthy scents waft into it from the adjoining rooms: smoke and
  victuals from the mess hall to the west, and dust and sweaty bodies through
  the doorway to the north. Hammocks are strung from the rafters and support
  beams, each slightly personalized by an article of clothing or some personal
  effect. At the head of each hammock hangs a thick woven-grass net in which
  additional belongings are stowed. In the southeast corner, beside a table,
  a trapdoor leads down into the ground.
  A thick rug of quirri hide is here laid out near the hammocks.
  A plain chest of maroon baobab hardwood sits here.
  An elongated, heavy trunk made of agafari lies here.
  A simple wooden chest sits here on the floor.
  The athletic, olive-skinned man is standing here.
  The stern, iron-braided woman watches over the trapdoor.
  The slim, porcelain-skinned maiden sits behind a needle-covered table.
  To the north: the broad, harsh-looking woman walks south.
  The broad, harsh-looking woman has arrived from the north.
  
  A Dimly Lit Barracks [NWD Quit Save]
  This windowless room is relatively cool and dim, although a bit
  stuffy. Earthy scents waft into it from the adjoining rooms: smoke and
  victuals from the mess hall to the west, and dust and sweaty bodies through
  the doorway to the north. Hammocks are strung from the rafters and support
  beams, each slightly personalized by an article of clothing or some personal
  effect. At the head of each hammock hangs a thick woven-grass net in which
  additional belongings are stowed. In the southeast corner, beside a table,
  a trapdoor leads down into the ground.
  A thick rug of quirri hide is here laid out near the hammocks.
  A plain chest of maroon baobab hardwood sits here.
  An elongated, heavy trunk made of agafari lies here.
  A simple wooden chest sits here on the floor.
  The broad, harsh-looking woman is standing here.
  - she is carrying the body of the lithe, tanned man.
  The athletic, olive-skinned man is standing here.
  The stern, iron-braided woman watches over the trapdoor.
  The slim, porcelain-skinned maiden sits behind a needle-covered table.
  
  An Orderly Mess Hall [EW]
  Everything in this cooking and dining area has been arranged with
  military precision, tall baobab cabinets standing at attention on either
  side of the cooking ovens. Sturdy baobab benches are in precise formation
  with their matching tables, which are in turn squared off on the northern
  side of the room. But although there is not a single touch of disorder
  about the place, it is not precisely clean, either, being tinged with smoke
  from the cooking and curing of food.
  A couple of sturdy baobab tables are here.
  A sturdy baobab tun is full of clean drinking water.
  The smoke-smudged, wide-eyed young woman stands before the stoves here.
  To the east: the broad, harsh-looking woman walks west.
  The broad, harsh-looking woman has arrived from the east.
  
  The Courtyard of House Lyksae [NEW]
  The overall impression of this courtyard is one of greyness, as that
  color has been used in the stones forming the walls to the east, west, and
  south. To the north is a gate of charred bone, offering a slightly
  contrasting shade of grey, as well as the occasional glimpse of a more
  colorful world beyond it. Even the landscaping, such as it is, is grey,
  with stout short bushes at each of the courtyard's four corners. The focal
  point in all this greyness is a statue at the center of the courtyard,
  surrounded by a series of lightening circles of stones, the centermost being
  black, and those at the edge being a pale dun.
  To the west, a door leads into the manor house, inset with a panel of
  bright crimson silk in the shape of a rising sun. To the east, through a
  door painted with a mace, is a more humble building.
  A sizable stone building has been built against the southern wall.
  A muscular man, sculpted life-size from granite, stands here triumphantly.
  The burly, red-haired woman stands at attention.
  The weathered, burly-armed man stands watch at the gates.
  To the east: the broad, harsh-looking woman walks west.
  The broad, harsh-looking woman has arrived from the east.
  
  You enter a sizable, gray stone building.
  A Spacious Stable [Leave Save]
  Rows of box stalls line the interior of this spacious, high-ceilinged
  building, each one suitable for even the largest inix to reside in
  comfortably. The creak of leather and the sounds of animals eating fills
  the area. The flagstone paved ground underfoot is strewn with straw.
  Slaves can be seen hurrying up and down the corridors of the stable, bearing
  food, cleaning implements, and various bits of harness and leather.
  A few large, wooden crates have been stacked in an empty stall.
  A gargantuan lizard with glossy black scales stands here foraging for food.
  A slender, striped cheotan lizard crouches here, nostrils flaring.
  A huge, four-legged, reddish-shelled lizard is here, nosing about for forage.
  A large yellow sunback lizard stands here.
  A gargantuan lizard with glossy black scales stands here foraging for food.
  The broad, harsh-looking woman has entered a sizable, gray stone building.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman follows you, the arms of her body of the lithe, tanned man
  
  hanging down.
  
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man indicates a glossy, black-scaled inix with one gauntleted
  
  hand.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman straps her body of the lithe, tanned man to a glossy, black-
  
  scaled inix's back.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman wipes bloody hands on the inside of her open sleeveless robe.
  
  
  A reddish-shelled inix puffs through its nostrils and bobs its head.
  
  "A moment."
  You are already standing.
  
  Alas, you cannot go that way.
  
  You stop leading the broad, harsh-looking woman.
  leave
  
  
  You step out to...
  
  The Courtyard of House Lyksae [NEW]
  The overall impression of this courtyard is one of greyness, as that
  color has been used in the stones forming the walls to the east, west, and
  south. To the north is a gate of charred bone, offering a slightly
  contrasting shade of grey, as well as the occasional glimpse of a more
  colorful world beyond it. Even the landscaping, such as it is, is grey,
  with stout short bushes at each of the courtyard's four corners. The focal
  point in all this greyness is a statue at the center of the courtyard,
  surrounded by a series of lightening circles of stones, the centermost being
  black, and those at the edge being a pale dun.
  To the west, a door leads into the manor house, inset with a panel of
  bright crimson silk in the shape of a rising sun. To the east, through a
  door painted with a mace, is a more humble building.
  A sizable stone building has been built against the southern wall.
  A muscular man, sculpted life-size from granite, stands here triumphantly.
  The burly, red-haired woman stands at attention.
  The weathered, burly-armed man stands watch at the gates.
  
  An Orderly Mess Hall [EW]
  Everything in this cooking and dining area has been arranged with
  military precision, tall baobab cabinets standing at attention on either
  side of the cooking ovens. Sturdy baobab benches are in precise formation
  with their matching tables, which are in turn squared off on the northern
  side of the room. But although there is not a single touch of disorder
  about the place, it is not precisely clean, either, being tinged with smoke
  from the cooking and curing of food.
  A couple of sturdy baobab tables are here.
  A sturdy baobab tun is full of clean drinking water.
  The athletic, olive-skinned man is standing here.
  The smoke-smudged, wide-eyed young woman stands before the stoves here.
  
  
  A Dimly Lit Barracks [NWD Quit Save]
  This windowless room is relatively cool and dim, although a bit
  stuffy. Earthy scents waft into it from the adjoining rooms: smoke and
  victuals from the mess hall to the west, and dust and sweaty bodies through
  the doorway to the north. Hammocks are strung from the rafters and support
  beams, each slightly personalized by an article of clothing or some personal
  effect. At the head of each hammock hangs a thick woven-grass net in which
  additional belongings are stowed. In the southeast corner, beside a table,
  a trapdoor leads down into the ground.
  A thick rug of quirri hide is here laid out near the hammocks.
  A plain chest of maroon baobab hardwood sits here.
  An elongated, heavy trunk made of agafari lies here.
  A simple wooden chest sits here on the floor.
  The stern, iron-braided woman watches over the trapdoor.
  The slim, porcelain-skinned maiden sits behind a needle-covered table.
  
  You pick up a thick rug of quirri hide.
  It is easily manageable.
  
  
  An Orderly Mess Hall [EW]
  Everything in this cooking and dining area has been arranged with
  military precision, tall baobab cabinets standing at attention on either
  side of the cooking ovens. Sturdy baobab benches are in precise formation
  with their matching tables, which are in turn squared off on the northern
  side of the room. But although there is not a single touch of disorder
  about the place, it is not precisely clean, either, being tinged with smoke
  from the cooking and curing of food.
  A couple of sturdy baobab tables are here.
  A sturdy baobab tun is full of clean drinking water.
  The athletic, olive-skinned man is standing here.
  The smoke-smudged, wide-eyed young woman stands before the stoves here.
  
  The Courtyard of House Lyksae [NEW]
  The overall impression of this courtyard is one of greyness, as that
  color has been used in the stones forming the walls to the east, west, and
  south. To the north is a gate of charred bone, offering a slightly
  contrasting shade of grey, as well as the occasional glimpse of a more
  colorful world beyond it. Even the landscaping, such as it is, is grey,
  with stout short bushes at each of the courtyard's four corners. The focal
  point in all this greyness is a statue at the center of the courtyard,
  surrounded by a series of lightening circles of stones, the centermost being
  black, and those at the edge being a pale dun.
  To the west, a door leads into the manor house, inset with a panel of
  bright crimson silk in the shape of a rising sun. To the east, through a
  door painted with a mace, is a more humble building.
  A sizable stone building has been built against the southern wall.
  A muscular man, sculpted life-size from granite, stands here triumphantly.
  The burly, red-haired woman stands at attention.
  The weathered, burly-armed man stands watch at the gates.
  
  You enter a sizable, gray stone building.
  A Spacious Stable [Leave Save]
  Rows of box stalls line the interior of this spacious, high-ceilinged
  building, each one suitable for even the largest inix to reside in
  comfortably. The creak of leather and the sounds of animals eating fills
  the area. The flagstone paved ground underfoot is strewn with straw.
  Slaves can be seen hurrying up and down the corridors of the stable, bearing
  food, cleaning implements, and various bits of harness and leather.
  A few large, wooden crates have been stacked in an empty stall.
  The broad, harsh-looking woman is standing here.
  A gargantuan lizard with glossy black scales stands here foraging for food.
  - he is carrying the body of the lithe, tanned man.
  A slender, striped cheotan lizard crouches here, nostrils flaring.
  A huge, four-legged, reddish-shelled lizard is here, nosing about for forage.
  A large yellow sunback lizard stands here.
  A gargantuan lizard with glossy black scales stands here foraging for food.
  
  
  Handing over the hastily rolled-up rug, you give your thick rug of quirri hide to the broad,
  
  harsh-looking woman.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman drapes her thick rug of quirri hide over the body on a glossy,
  
  black-scaled inix.
  
  
  You say to the broad, harsh-looking woman, in sirihish:
  "Drape that over the body, and lead the inix on out of the gates out of His City. Dump
  
  the body a few leagues away, and then return to the Sanctuary after you take the inix back
  
  here."
  
  You initiate the broad, harsh-looking woman into 'Servants of House Lyksae'.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman arranges her thick rug of quirri hide over the body, tucking a
  
  stray arm beneath.
  
  Simply, you say to the broad, harsh-looking woman, in sirihish:
  "Should be able to get in and out of the gates now with that inix."
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman nods to light.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman nods to you.
  
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman begins leading a glossy, black-scaled inix.
  
  
  Tugging on a glossy, black-scaled inix, the broad, harsh-looking woman says to you, in
  
  sirihish:
  "As you say, Chosen Lord. Thank you."
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman lowers her head to you, a happy grin on her face.
  
  With another assessive glance over the broad, harsh-looking woman, the corners of his
  
  features quirking upwards, you say to the broad, harsh-looking woman, in sirihish:
  "We'll discuss this later. See me after you've taken the inix back. You are not to go
  
  into the barracks."
  
  
  You step out to...
  
  The Courtyard of House Lyksae [NEW]
  The overall impression of this courtyard is one of greyness, as that
  color has been used in the stones forming the walls to the east, west, and
  south. To the north is a gate of charred bone, offering a slightly
  contrasting shade of grey, as well as the occasional glimpse of a more
  colorful world beyond it. Even the landscaping, such as it is, is grey,
  with stout short bushes at each of the courtyard's four corners. The focal
  point in all this greyness is a statue at the center of the courtyard,
  surrounded by a series of lightening circles of stones, the centermost being
  black, and those at the edge being a pale dun.
  To the west, a door leads into the manor house, inset with a panel of
  bright crimson silk in the shape of a rising sun. To the east, through a
  door painted with a mace, is a more humble building.
  A sizable stone building has been built against the southern wall.
  A muscular man, sculpted life-size from granite, stands here triumphantly.
  The burly, red-haired woman stands at attention.
  The weathered, burly-armed man stands watch at the gates.
  
  You think:
  "I think she'll work out."
  
  You don't see that person here.
  
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman emerges from a sizable, gray stone building.
  A glossy, black-scaled inix emerges from a sizable, gray stone building.
  
  The burly, red-haired woman falls in behind you.
  
  Thrend goes back to the Sanctuary.
  
  You send this message to the staff:
  "Rosie is taking the body outside of the city to dump a few leagues from the gates. She
  
  has it stowed on an inix, and has RPed covering the body with a quirri rug she has."
  
  You think:
  "Well. That went well."
  
  ------
  Thrend heads back to the Sanctuary.
  ------
  
  
  The Sun King's Sanctuary [NESWUD]
  A polished, white marble floor covers the ground of this expansive
  room, gleaming under the light of a large glass chandelier that hangs
  overhead. A semi-circular bar, made of hard-grained wood painted a deep
  black, extends from the eastern wall, several high-backed barstools sitting
  around it. The walls of this room are brightly decorated, with several
  elaborate paintings placed carefully for unobstructed view, and shelves
  holding many exotic potted plants, blooming with bright red and white
  flowers. Two large stained-glass windows, decorated with elaborate sun
  symbols, adorn the northwest and southeast corners of the room.
  Several decoratively carved tables fill this room, while a polished
  leather couch nearly ten cords in length sprawls along the northern wall. A
  stately spiral staircase sits in the center of the room, winding upwards
  toward the common rooms of the second floor. The sounds of laughter and
  music can be heard from a doorway along the western wall, while the scents
  of cooked meat waft in from the east. A small, straight stairway sits along
  the northern wall, ending at a slightly raised loft and a large carven
  baobab door sits in the southern wall, leading out onto the North Road
  outside.
  The Tuluk bulletin board is here propped up on a stand.
  The short haired, heavy-set man stands here mug in-hand.
  The tall, well-groomed man sits here on a plush couch.
  The gaunt, black-haired man is here, leaning on the bar.
  The plump, tawny-skinned woman sits on a stool, strumming on her mandolin.
  The long-haired, middle-aged man stands behind the counter.
  The burly, red-haired woman has arrived from the south.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You contact the broad, harsh-looking woman with the Way.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the broad, harsh-looking woman:
  "No trouble thus far?"
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  The broad, harsh-looking woman sends you a telepathic message:
  "I'm almost at the Sanctuary, Chosen Lord. I left the rug in the stables."
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  You dissolve the psychic link.
  
  The thin gangly woman has arrived from the south.
  
  The thin gangly woman walks up.
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You contact the svelte, bronzed man with the Way.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the svelte, bronzed man:
  "Have you seen that fellow I hired as a partisan?"
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  The svelte, bronzed man sends you a telepathic message:
  "No, Chosen Lord. Not since you left with him."
  
  You send a telepathic message to the svelte, bronzed man:
  "Or was going to hire. He ran off."
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the svelte, bronzed man:
  "Ah. Well, if you see him anywhere, do let me know. Odd how people up and disappear
  
  like that."
  
  You dissolve the psychic link.
  
  The svelte, bronzed man sends you a telepathic message:
  "He was an unusual sort."
  
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  The svelte, bronzed man sends you a telepathic message:
  "Will do, Chosen Lord."
  
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.

  -------
  Thrend arrives at the Sanctuary after being informed about some disturbance. (think this was in a previous log but I didn't dig it up)
  -------
  
  The Sun King's Sanctuary [NESWUD]
  A polished, white marble floor covers the ground of this expansive
  room, gleaming under the light of a large glass...
  Continue Reading...
• 

  Thrend Lyksae meets Sedaris Oash
  Added on Jul 1, 2009

  A northern noble meets a southern noble. They have such a tremendous time chatting about the things they have in common: disdain for each other.

  ---

  ************************************
  We join the story at Luirsfest. A northern noble encounters a southern noble for the first time.
  ************************************
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  
  Glancing up from a long, carved wooden bar, you look up at the effeminate, fair-skinned youth.
  This young human man stands taller than most at just over five cords
  in height. His slender frame possesses little in the way of muscle or body
  fat, though he doesn't appear sickly or malnourished. On the contrary, his
  feminine features are full and robust: his azure-grey eyes are alert and
  attentive from their perch atop his fleshy, round nose and a pair of full,
  generously-curved lips that seem naturally pouted. His hair, long and dark,
  hangs down to his shoulders, glossy and well-kept.
  The effeminate, fair-skinned youth is in excellent condition.
  
  The effeminate, fair-skinned youth is using:
  a tall, elegant azure and black trimmed hat
  an azure pendant
  an azure-sigiled black velvet choker
  a dark blue, white-trimmed shoulder bag
  a sapphire-studded, ivory cuff-link
  a sapphire-studded, ivory cuff-link
  a pair of long, azure silk gloves
  an azure-sigiled, black silk greatcloak
  a pair of azure-stitched, black-silk pants
  a pair of knee-high black boots with azure sigils
  
  He is carrying:
  nothing obvious
  
  
  The scrawny-looking unibrowed man has arrived from the south.
  
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man has arrived from the south.
  
  
  You think:
  "...you're shitting me."
  
  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
  "At least we're about to have something better to do than taunt a witless Scorpion. I have to say, Fak'ir, this is the most fun I've had in months."
  
  
  You think:
  "Seriously. Is that...."
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man walks north.
  
  
  Lifting his bushy brows, the ancient, wispy-bearded man says to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in southern-accented
  sirihish:
  "M'lord.. you need me for anything just now? I've got a date with a spice pipe."
  
  You contact the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man with the Way.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
  "...what House colors do you know, of the south?"
  
  
  Shaking his head, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth says to the ancient, wispy-bearded man, in southern-accented
  sirihish:
  "No."
  
  The effeminate, fair-skinned youth opens a dark blue, white-trimmed shoulder bag.
  
  
  The effeminate, fair-skinned youth gets his pile of allanaki coins from his dark blue, white-trimmed shoulder bag.
  
  
  Heading up to the bar, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man pushes one vacant stool in, and takes another for his own seat.
  
  
  Turning slightly on his stool, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man looks up at the ancient, wispy-bearded man.
  The scrawny-looking unibrowed man pulls a hardwood barstool around a long, carved wooden bar.
  
  Tossing a sack over, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth gives some coins to the ancient, wispy-bearded man.
  
  The scrawny-looking unibrowed man pulls a hardwood barstool around a long, carved wooden bar.
  
  The scrawny-looking unibrowed man sits at a long, carved wooden bar.
  
  l youth's cloak
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  Thick black silk has been used in the making of this fine
  greatcloak.
  Billowing and roomy, it is long enough to reach just below the knees of the
  wearer. Flaring out towards the bottom, this cloak is large enough to wrap
  around the shoulders to protect from the elements. Inside, it has been
  lined with a sheer azure silk, and set with a pair of small pockets. Along
  the bottom, and edges of the cloak is a thin golden stitching. On the back
  of the cloak, the sigil of House Oash has been done in fine azure
  embroidery. Just above the sigil on the back hangs a large, drooping hood
  of the same black silk as the rest of the cloak.
  
  
  The effeminate, fair-skinned youth puts his pile of allanaki coins into his dark blue, white-trimmed shoulder bag.
  
  The effeminate, fair-skinned youth closes a dark blue, white-trimmed shoulder bag.
  
  The ancient, wispy-bearded man fumbles, almost dropping the sack..
  
  Absently, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth says to the ancient, wispy-bearded man, in southern-accented sirihish:
  "A bonus, Magus."
  
  You look up at the ancient, wispy-bearded man.
  Almost every hair on this elderly man's mainly bald head and face are
  of a bleak, grayish white color, being a bright white at the tips and
  darkening as they get closer to his head. His chin is adorned with a thin,
  wispy beard that stretches down an arms length or so, and his eyes are
  nearly completely covered with a set of extremely bushy gray-white eyebrows.
  His face is worn and leathery, wrinkles adorning almost every inch of his
  flesh, and he is quite thin, almost emaciated. His weathered, lean
  appearance hints at hardships, though his eyes are nearly completely closed
  when he smiles under the tangle of hair over his mouth. When his reasonably
  straight, slightly stained teeth are covered by his lips in a more solemn
  expression, his eyes are exposed, the pupils a cloudy, beryl hue. His gaunt
  frame is almost always hunched over in a posture fitting of his age, causing
  his thin, wispy beard to hang a little lower than it would usually, making
  it seem longer than it is.
  The ancient, wispy-bearded man is in excellent condition.
  
  The ancient, wispy-bearded man is using:
  a wide-brimmed black hat
  a dull black gem
  a large azure leather backpack
  an old, gnarled wooden staff
  a hooded, black and azure aba
  a pair of studded, black leather pants
  a black onyx, skull-linked anklechain
  a pair of dragon-emblazoned, black knee-high boots
  
  He is carrying:
  nothing obvious
  
  
  The scrawny-looking unibrowed man looks up at the ancient, wispy-bearded man.
  
  
  Approaching a heavy, blockish table in the middle of the room, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth looks down at you.
  
  
  Bringing a thin, bony hand to his chest, the ancient, wispy-bearded man says to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in
  southern-accented sirihish:
  "Most gracious, my Lord."
  
  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
  "Borsail, Tor, Fale and a few others. He isn't any of the lower houses, Rennik or Sath, either. He's none of those."
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man stiffens momentarily, a hand sliding to your glossy, black leather swordbelt.
  
  
  You think:
  "Abomination."
  
  
  You think:
  "Fucking gemmer."
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
  "Gemmer."
  
  
  Hobbling through the crowded tavern, the ancient, wispy-bearded man walks north.
  
  At 1) a long, carved wooden bar are:
  the scrawny-looking unibrowed man, the cinnamon, lithe young woman,
  the freckled, light-skinned man, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man,
  and a few empty seats.
  At 2) a small table near the stairs are:
  a couple of empty seats.
  At 3) a heavy, blockish table in the middle of the room are:
  some empty seats.
  At 4) a rounded agafari table are:
  a few empty seats.
  At 5) a rounded agafari table are:
  a few empty seats.
  
  A brief tremble shakes the scrawny-looking unibrowed man's shoulders for a moment, and he scoots his stool a little closer
  to you.
  
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man glances off through the spicy haze to the north, relaxing only slightly as he returns his attention to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth.
  
  Assessively glancing him over, you look up at the effeminate, fair-skinned youth.
  This young human man stands taller than most at just over five cords
  in height. His slender frame possesses little in the way of muscle or body
  fat, though he doesn't appear sickly or malnourished. On the contrary, his
  feminine features are full and robust: his azure-grey eyes are alert and
  attentive from their perch atop his fleshy, round nose and a pair of full,
  generously-curved lips that seem naturally pouted. His hair, long and dark,
  hangs down to his shoulders, glossy and well-kept.
  The effeminate, fair-skinned youth is in excellent condition.
  
  The effeminate, fair-skinned youth is using:
  a tall, elegant azure and black trimmed hat
  an azure pendant
  an azure-sigiled black velvet choker
  a dark blue, white-trimmed shoulder bag
  a sapphire-studded, ivory cuff-link
  a sapphire-studded, ivory cuff-link
  a pair of long, azure silk gloves
  an azure-sigiled, black silk greatcloak
  a pair of azure-stitched, black-silk pants
  a pair of knee-high black boots with azure sigils
  
  He is carrying:
  nothing obvious
  
  
  Somebody jostles a large man, then apologizes before disappearing into the crowd.
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  
  The scrawny-looking unibrowed man sends you a telepathic message:
  "No offense by being too close to you..but that guy who just walked away is a gemmer."
  
  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
  "Fucking abominations think they can come into a bar and talk like people? What kind of place -is- the Black?"
  
  
  Disdainfully eyeing the bar, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth waits for the veteran mercenary to draw a chair out from a heavy, blockish table in the middle of the room.
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
  "Fucking insane."
  
  You dissolve the psychic link.
  
  Turning his gaze, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man looks up at the effeminate, fair-skinned youth.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You contact the scrawny-looking unibrowed man with the Way.
  
  
  A mul, clad in the garb of the desert traveller and bearing a huge hammer on his back, moves through the crowd.
  
  
  Slowly lowering himself into the chair, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth sits at a heavy, blockish table in the middle of the room.
  
  
  You send a telepathic message to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man:
  "So I saw. I'll keep an eye out for it."
  
  You dissolve the psychic link.
  
  
  The Storm's End Tavern [NESWU Quit]
  This building evidences the same architectural principles as the inner
  wall and gate towers, but to a much lesser degree. Its horns and spiked
  flanges have either been worn with time or were designed to a more subtle
  appearance. Inside, veins of obsidian run along the ceiling and walls,
  generating the impression of a cold, stony skin, black-blooded and evil.
  A massive wooden bar, stained to a deep grey and lacquered to a mirror
  shine, dominates the eastern half of the room. An image of an eclipsed sun,
  the paint vivid and fresh, blazes along the front of the bar, the rays
  reaching the full length of it. The walls appear to have been scrubbed till
  they shine with the deep malevolence only limitless black can hold.
  A stone stairway curls around itself, spiraling up through the veined
  ceiling. To the north, an impressive archway leads the way to a
  laughter-filled spice den.
  An empty finely crafted flagon with a eclipse burning in its side has been left here.
  The Luir's Outpost Bulletin Board is here, propped up on a stand.
  The scrawny-looking unibrowed man is sitting at a long, carved wooden bar.
  A veteran mercenary is standing here at attention.
  The effeminate, fair-skinned youth is sitting at a heavy, blockish table in the middle of the room.
  A veteran mercenary is standing here at attention.
  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man is sitting at a long, carved wooden bar.
  The burly, red-haired woman stands at attention.
  The cinnamon, lithe young woman is sitting at a long, carved wooden bar.
  The austere, cleft-jawed man stands next to a muscular woman at the bar.
  The darkly tanned innkeeper stands here, wiping his hands on his apron.
  The well-muscled, blue-eyed woman stands silently along a wall.
  The muscular, blue-eyed man stands quietly beside the bar here.
  A burly half-giant soldier with a flat nose stands hunched here.
  
  
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  
  The scrawny-looking unibrowed man sends you a telepathic message:
  "Me too, we won't let nothing happen to you!"
  
  
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  
  Chin lifting, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
  "Might I help you?"
  
  
  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man glances to you, turning back towards the bar with a shake of his head.
  
  Wrinkling his nose up briefly, you say to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
  "Fortunately, no."
  
  
  Brows perking, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
  "What was that?"
  
  
  The lithe, curly-haired man has arrived from the west.
  
  
  The lithe, curly-haired man has departed from the land of Zalanthas.
  
  
  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man gets his pile of allanaki coins from his hooded, mace-stitched grey linen cloak.
  
  
  At your table, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man says in sirihish, nodding to the darkly tanned innkeeper:
  "Tarkon. Firebreather."
  
  
  The darkly tanned innkeeper trades a shot glass to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man.
  
  
  The darkly tanned innkeeper trades a shot glass to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man.
  
  
  Emphasizing, a bit more loudly, you say to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
  "I said, fortunately...no. But thank you."
  
  
  You think:
  "Fucking Southron upstart noble child."
  
  
  At your table, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man says in sirihish, studying the effeminate, fair-skinned youth's attire for a moment:
  "He got nice gloves. Except they wouldn't be no good in a match...pretty looking though."
  
  You think:
  "Someone should've beat his head in when he was younger."
  
  
  Pressing his lips together into a thin line, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
  "Do you know who I am?"
  
  
  Tilting his head back and draining it, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man drinks firebreather from his shot glass.
  
  
  Setting the previous one on the bar before quickly taking up the second, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man drinks
  firebreather from his shot glass.
  
  
  Glancing him over again, head to toe, you look at the effeminate, fair-skinned youth.
  This young human man stands taller than most at just over five cords
  in height. His slender frame possesses little in the way of muscle or body
  fat, though he doesn't appear sickly or malnourished. On the contrary, his
  feminine features are full and robust: his azure-grey eyes are alert and
  attentive from their perch atop his fleshy, round nose and a pair of full,
  generously-curved lips that seem naturally pouted. His hair, long and dark,
  hangs down to his shoulders, glossy and well-kept.
  The effeminate, fair-skinned youth is in excellent condition.
  
  The effeminate, fair-skinned youth is using:
  a tall, elegant azure and black trimmed hat
  an azure pendant
  an azure-sigiled black velvet choker
  a dark blue, white-trimmed shoulder bag
  a sapphire-studded, ivory cuff-link
  a sapphire-studded, ivory cuff-link
  a pair of long, azure silk gloves
  an azure-sigiled, black silk greatcloak
  a pair of azure-stitched, black-silk pants
  a pair of knee-high black boots with azure sigils
  
  He is carrying:
  nothing obvious
  
  You think:
  "Damn it, what are the colors?"
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You contact the ancient, brutally-scarred man with the Way.
  
  Setting it on the bar with a nod to the darkly tanned innkeeper, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man discards his shot glass.
  
  
  You send a telepathic message to the ancient, brutally-scarred man:
  "Which Southern House has...azure, as their colors?"
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the ancient, brutally-scarred man:
  "Deep blue."
  
  The scrawny-looking unibrowed man watches your expression with a darted gaze back, and lets out a chuckle.
  
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  Placing it haphazardly beside the other, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man discards his shot glass.
  
  The ancient, brutally-scarred man sends you a telepathic message:
  "House Oash."
  
  The scrawny-looking unibrowed man sends you a telepathic message:
  "Does -he- know who -you- are? Sheesh..he autta remember his place..and that place is - not the city."
  
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  Speaking slowly as he looks him over, you say to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
  "Looks like a young--exceptionally young--Oash noble."
  
  
  At your table, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man says in sirihish, muttering darkly:
  "Knew I should've bought a keg."
  
  
  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man puts his pile of allanaki coins into his hooded, mace-stitched grey linen cloak.
  
  
  Curiously, as he lifts a shaped eyebrow, you ask the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
  "Should I be impressed, or does that come after you introduce yourself?"
  
  
  Four men and three women, all garbed in dun and possessing the weapons of war common to soldiers, enter the tavern and take a seat at a large table in the west corner.
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the ancient, brutally-scarred man:
  "I think I just very, ah, loudly...insulted the Oash Lord."
  
  The effeminate, fair-skinned youth grits his teeth together, his nostrils flaring.
  
  
  The ancient, brutally-scarred man sends you a telepathic message:
  "Well, apparently it's a rather common thing to do in the south, insulting one another and showing disrespect. I imagine it will be fine."
  
  
  The chubby, brown-haired man has arrived from the south.
  The tall, whiskey-eyed woman has arrived from the south.
  
  
  The tall, whiskey-eyed woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
  "Yeah. He gave me an odd look when I sat down at the bar with you."
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man simply stares at the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, your eclipse emblazoned flagon in hand.
  
  
  You are carrying:
  an empty eclipse emblazoned flagon
  a half eaten few thick slices of roasted squash
  
  After a long moment, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
  "And yourself?"
  
  The chubby, brown-haired man steps inside, looking about.
  
  
  You hold your eclipse emblazoned flagon.
  
  Hands in her pockets, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman moves in the door to stand beside the chubby, brown-haired man.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man turns a little on his stool, eyeing the effeminate, fair-skinned youth casually.
  
  
  The tall, whiskey-eyed woman flicks a faint smile at the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
  
  
  The tall, whiskey-eyed woman looks down at the effeminate, fair-skinned youth.
  
  Shrugging his shoulders, you say to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
  "I was watching you. You were the one taking offense to it. Nice cloak, by the way--very good quality."
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the ancient, brutally-scarred man:
  "Oh, good."
  
  The ancient, brutally-scarred man sends you a telepathic message:
  "Though try to keep it civil, no sense in bringing ourselves down to their level."
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  Gesturing to you, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
  "By your cloak, and uncivilized tongue, I suppose I am to assume you are what passes for a noble north of the
  Outpost."
  
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man has arrived from the north.
  
  
  Moving into the tavern, the chubby, brown-haired man asks the tall, whiskey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "So, seems everyone is quite clear on the laws here, hmm?"
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the ancient, brutally-scarred man:
  "Well, he acted as though I was supposed to be impressed he was a noble."
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the ancient, brutally-scarred man:
  "I made it clear that I wasn't."
  
  
  You dissolve the psychic link.
  
  
  The ancient, brutally-scarred man sends you a telepathic message:
  "*amusement*"
  
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man puts his dusty leather-strapped green glow-crystal into his supple grey leather swordbelt.
  
  Leaning over, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man whispers to you, in sirihish:
  "We're uncivilized, Dryk. I think we've been insulted."
  
  
  Nodding easily, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the chubby, brown-haired man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
  "I'm fairly sure everyone is, yes."
  
  
  You are carrying:
  a half eaten few thick slices of roasted squash
  
  
  Moving towards a long, carved wooden bar, the chubby, brown-haired man says to the tall, whiskey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Everyone treated equally, hmm? Good...going to be a good Festival."
  
  
  The chubby, brown-haired man sits at a long, carved wooden bar.
  
  
  With a wry smile, you say to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
  "Spot-on. Sometimes I pass for a Southern Noble. I certainly did at the Masquerade Ball."
  
  
  To the chubby, brown-haired man and the tall, whiskey-eyed woman, cheerfully, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man exclaims, in sirihish:
  "Agents! Good to see you both!"
  
  
  Gesturing grandly, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the chubby, brown-haired man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
  "That's the idea. Everyone on equal ground."
  
  
  As an aside, you whisper to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man in sirihish:
  "Oh, I would think nothing of it, they do this all the -time- in Allanak."
  
  
  
  Glancing aside, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth says to the veteran mercenary, in southern-accented sirihish:
  "You see? As I've said - many times before - an alliance -cannot-teach their kind civility. Their barbarism is too far ingrained, I suppose."
  
  The tall, whiskey-eyed woman pauses on her way to the bar.
  
  
  Thoughtfully, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man says to the tall, whiskey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Well, except us in the Fist. We still gotta salute the Sarge."
  
  The chubby, brown-haired man turns in his seat to look towards you and the effeminate, fair-skinned youth.
  
  
  The scrawny-looking unibrowed man glances up, noticing the sinewy, weather-worn man's presence suddenly, and thumps his fist to his gurth-shell round shield.
  
  
  Her eyes narrowing, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
  "Yeah. Remind me to tell you something funny the Lieutenant said earlier."
  
  
  At your table, the cinnamon, lithe young woman says in southern-accented sirihish, pouting:
  "I like funny things"
  
  
  Glancing aside to him, you say to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man, in sirihish:
  "We're allies now. Allanak says so."
  
  
  The dusky black dwarf has arrived from the south.
  
  
  The dusky black dwarf makes his way to a long, carved wooden bar.
  
  
  The dusky black dwarf sits at a long, carved wooden bar.
  
  
  At your table, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man says in sirihish, clearing his throat and fidgeting nervously:
  "Well, maybe it is, maybe it ain't. It don't rightly matter which...we're all here in Luir's Outpost, having a good time, at a big party. Right?"
  
  
  Glancing toward the scrawny-looking unibrowed man with a smirk, the sinewy, weather-worn man says, in sirihish:
  "Well, we're not all equal. Ya still get ta beat folks around if they fuck up. Space in the jail is at a premium."
  
  
  Grinning, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the sinewy, weather-worn man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
  "I can think of one or two I actually... dream about you beating around."
  
  
  Reaching reflexively up to his spiky stone morning-star and nodding, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man asks the sinewy,
  weather-worn man, in sirihish:
  "Premium..that means they need to pay extra if we take them there, right?"
  
  
  Nodding deeply, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man says to you, in sirihish:
  "It must be, if they say so, Dryk."
  
  Watching you and the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, the chubby, brown-haired man says to the tall, whiskey-eyed woman, in
  sirihish:
  "You know...we should set up a rule for disputes...like a drinking contest."
  
  The scrawny-looking unibrowed man looks at you.
  
  
  You are carrying:
  a half eaten few thick slices of roasted squash
  
  
  Turning to him with a bright smile, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the chubby, brown-haired man, in tribal-accented
  sirihish:
  "That is an -excellent idea, Agent."
  
  
  Snapping a quick wink, the sinewy, weather-worn man says to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man, in sirihish:
  "Exactly."
  
  
  Brusquely, you say to the chubby, brown-haired man, in sirihish:
  "Certainly."
  
  
  The cinnamon, lithe young woman says to the chubby, brown-haired man, in southern-accented sirihish:
  "Wouldn't be fair"
  
  
  The tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the chubby, brown-haired man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
  "Make them each down three shots of firebreather."
  
  
  Pushing up from a long, carved wooden bar, setting a plate of squash down, you stand up from a long, carved wooden bar.
  
  
  
  Gesturing expansively, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the chubby, brown-haired man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
  "Then put them in the ginka-sauce pit."
  
  You eat part of your half eaten few thick slices of roasted squash.
  
  You eat your small portion of a few thick slices of roasted squash.
  
  You stop using your eclipse emblazoned flagon.
  
  
  Offering eagerly, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man asks the tall, whiskey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Do I get to take a piece of armor from the first one who passes out?"
  
  
  After a laugh, the chubby, brown-haired man says, in sirihish:
  "That would be ideal."
  
  Setting it on a long, carved wooden bar, you discard your eclipse emblazoned flagon.
  
  
  Drawing in a deep breath through his nostrils, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth asks you, in southern-accented
  sirihish:
  "Tell me... what is your name?"
  
  
  The chubby, brown-haired man says, in sirihish:
  "And they have to wear the kank suits."
  Aside, toward a nearby patron, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man says, in sirihish:
  "For experimenting, of course."
  
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  
  The tall, whiskey-eyed woman laughs.
  
  
  The tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the chubby, brown-haired man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
  "We can take bets on the side."
  
  
  Blinking a few times, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man says to you, in sirihish:
  "Apologies. Should I have annouced you? I'm not used to not being a barbarian."
  
  
  Simply, you say to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
  "I'll tell you after you decide whether or not to take House Kurac up on their offer."
  
  
  The bald, prism-scarred elf has arrived from the north, his steps moving fluidly through the crowds, though he bares two kegs held in a rope meshwork over his back.
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man stands a few cords from a long, carved wooden bar, gaze resting firmly on the effeminate, fair-skinned youth.
  
  You begin watching the effeminate, fair-skinned youth.
  
  
  The dusky black dwarf looks up at the effeminate, fair-skinned youth.
  
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man glances toward the scrawny-looking unibrowed man with a shrug of his shoulders.
  
  
  At a long, carved wooden bar, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man speaks, his tone cheerful.
  
  
  The bald, prism-scarred elf hides a wide yawn with the back of one thin fingered hand.
  
  
  Quirking a smile at him, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man, in tribal-accented
  sirihish:
  "We'll let it slide, this time."
  
  
  Leaning sternly over his shoulder, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man, in
  tribal-accented sirihish:
  "You're a Kuraci."
  
  
  At a long, carved wooden bar, the cinnamon, lithe young woman speaks, sighing.
  
  
  Stopping for a moment as he nears a long, carved wooden bar, nostrils flaring, the bald, prism-scarred elf asks, in
  sirihish:
  "What in the name of holy Kurac is that horrible smell?"
  
  
  At a long, carved wooden bar, the chubby, brown-haired man speaks, to the cinnamon, lithe young woman with a wink.
  
  
  At a long, carved wooden bar, the cinnamon, lithe young woman speaks, frowning.
  
  
  Pouting, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man says to the tall, whiskey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "I was starting to really like the sound of barbarian."
  
  
  The cinnamon, lithe young woman looks up at the bald, prism-scarred elf.
  
  
  The tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
  "Barbarian Skarp. Has a sort of ring to it, sure."
  
  
  The chubby, brown-haired man sends you a telepathic message:
  "I'm appreciating the patience, Chosen Lord."
  
  
  With a grunt, the bald, prism-scarred elf eases the meshwork of rope from his back, setting the kegs down near a stool at
  a long, carved wooden bar.
  
  
  The bald, prism-scarred elf sits at a long, carved wooden bar.
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You contact the chubby, brown-haired man with the Way.
  
  Lips pursing, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
  "Your -name-?"
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the chubby, brown-haired man:
  "I'd never cause violence here, I know the laws. But provoking and instigating Southerners?"
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the chubby, brown-haired man:
  "...this is why I came here. And the spice and drinks. Hope you don't mind."
  
  
  You dissolve the psychic link.
  
  The dusky black dwarf leans back against a long, carved wooden bar with a slight smirk.
  
  Calling loudly over the crowd and thumping his gurth-shell round shield between each word, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man shouts, in sirihish:
  "I am Barbarian Skarp of Kurac! All hail...uh..all hail erm..all hale the spice ale!"
  
  The veteran mercenary shifts somewhat uncomfortably on his feet, looking between the effeminate, fair-skinned youth and
  you.
  
  The scrawny-looking unibrowed man opens a jozhal-hide backpack.
  
  
  The scrawny-looking unibrowed man gets his pile of allanaki coins from his jozhal-hide backpack.
  
  
  The darkly tanned innkeeper trades an eclipse emblazoned flagon to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
  
  
  Waving over at him, the cinnamon, lithe young woman asks the scrawny-looking unibrowed man, in southern-accented
  sirihish:
  "Hey Barbarian, can you buy me one of them spice ales?"
  
  
  The tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
  "Good, buy me a drink."
  
  
  The scrawny-looking unibrowed man puts his pile of allanaki coins into his jozhal-hide backpack.
  
  
  The chubby, brown-haired man sends you a telepathic message:
  "This one is easy to provoke too..."
  
  
  The cinnamon, lithe young woman says to the tall, whiskey-eyed woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
  "I said it first."
  
  
  At a long, carved wooden bar, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man speaks, to the cinnamon, lithe young woman, snorting.
  
  
  Sharply, the sinewy, weather-worn man says to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man, in sirihish:
  "Barbarian -Sparky-. Get it right."
  
  
  The tall, whiskey-eyed woman winks at the cinnamon, lithe young woman.
  Nodding over at the scrawny-looking unibrowed man, the bald, prism-scarred elf exclaims, in sirihish:
  "Another here, Valiant Barbarian Sparky!"
  
  
  The tall, whiskey-eyed woman laughs quietly at the cinnamon, lithe young woman and the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
  
  
  At a long, carved wooden bar, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man speaks, to the chubby, brown-haired man, grimacing.
  
  
  Eyeing him, you say to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
  "It was a conditional challenge, Lord Oash. You can choose to deny it, and then I'll tell you my name...or accept it, and I will tell you my name."
  
  
  The chubby, brown-haired man chuckles, reaching into his cloak.
  
  
  At a long, carved wooden bar, the cinnamon, lithe young woman speaks, to herself.
  
  
  The chubby, brown-haired man gives some coins to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
  
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man cracks a small grin toward the scrawny-looking unibrowed man as he moves up to a stool at a
  long, carved wooden bar.
  
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man sits at a long, carved wooden bar.
  
  
  At a long, carved wooden bar, the bald, prism-scarred elf speaks, with a snort.
  
  You are carrying:
  
  nothing.
  
  
  The scrawny-looking unibrowed man nods to the bald, prism-scarred elf.
  
  eq
  You are using:
  a black-scaled leather surmac
  a black-scaled leather gorget
  a sky-red leather and tortoiseshell shield
  a black-scaled leather longvest
  a pair of black-scaled leather sleeves
  a leather and chitin strap-sheath
  a black-scaled leather vambrace
  a pair of spiked duskhorn gauntlets
  a ruby and moonstone inlaid, silver signet ring
  a glossy, black leather swordbelt
  a narrow-hilted, jaded khopesh blade
  a silver-etched, stone-spiked mace
  a crimson-sigiled, grey silk greatcloak
  a grey, black, and crimson silk sash
  a pair of black-scaled leather leggings
  a pair of black-scaled leather boots
  
  
  You think:
  "This one...is fun."
  
  You aren't in contact with anyone.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You contact the chubby, brown-haired man with the Way.
  
  
  At a long, carved wooden bar, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man speaks, to the bald, prism-scarred elf.
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the chubby, brown-haired man:
  "Two small if you give me his name, Agent."
  
  
  At a long, carved wooden bar, the dusky black dwarf speaks, nodding once.
  
  
  The cinnamon, lithe young woman lifts a brow at the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
  
  
  At a long, carved wooden bar, the sinewy, weather-worn man speaks, glancing toward the bald, prism-scarred elf with a smirk.
  
  
  At a long, carved wooden bar, the bald, prism-scarred elf speaks, with a bright laugh, nodding at the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
  
  
  The darkly tanned innkeeper trades a glass flagon to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
  
  
  The chubby, brown-haired man sends you a telepathic message:
  "Ha...krath...Lord Sadaris...Sedaris..."
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the chubby, brown-haired man:
  "Plus what you know of Oash. I don't really claim to know much of them."
  
  The darkly tanned innkeeper trades a glass flagon to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
  
  The scrawny-looking unibrowed man gives his glass flagon to the tall, whiskey-eyed woman.
  
  
  The scrawny-looking unibrowed man gives his glass flagon to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
  
  The darkly tanned innkeeper trades a glass flagon to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
  
  The darkly tanned innkeeper trades a glass flagon to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
  
  
  The chubby, brown-haired man frowns towards the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
  
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the chubby, brown-haired man:
  "I saw they have a gemmer with them."
  
  
  The scrawny-looking unibrowed man gives his glass flagon to the cinnamon, lithe young woman.
  
  Flatly, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
  "I don't make a habit of drinking the alcohol of the commonfilth."
  The cinnamon, lithe young woman smiles ruefully.
  
  At a long, carved wooden bar, the sinewy, weather-worn man speaks, bowing his head to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  
  The chubby, brown-haired man sends you a telepathic message:
  "Sedaris, it is."
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  
  At a long, carved wooden bar, the cinnamon, lithe young woman speaks, lifting both brows.
  
  
  The coal-black haired half-giant has entered the world.
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the chubby, brown-haired man:
  "Ah. What does Oash do?"
  
  
  Tilting his head back, the sinewy, weather-worn man drinks ale from his glass flagon.
  
  
  With a bright laugh, the bald, prism-scarred elf exclaims, in sirihish:
  "S'alright, Oash! You jus keep drinkin your kank piss, leave the good stuff for us!"
  
  
  The cinnamon, lithe young woman sips from her glass flagon.
  
  
  The coal-black haired half-giant sits down to rest.
  
  
  The chubby, brown-haired man sends you a telepathic message:
  "Wines, I think."
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  
  Glancing over quickly, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth looks up at the bald, prism-scarred elf.
  
  
  The coal-black haired half-giant looks down at the bald, prism-scarred elf.
  
  
  Nodding casually, you say to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
  "I'll take that as a "no," then, unless you brought some wines."
  
  
  The ancient, wispy-bearded man has arrived from the north, hobbling along.
  
  Beckoning up and down the bar, the bald, prism-scarred elf asks, in sirihish:
  "Got a keg of firebreatha here for sale. Best price in the sands, best liquor under the sun. Beat's the piss outta Oash swill. Any takers?"
  
  
  Fists clenching, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth asks the bald, prism-scarred elf, in southern-accented sirihish:
  "-What- did you say to be, filth?"
  
  
  The chubby, brown-haired man stands up from a long, carved wooden bar.
  
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  
  
  The tall, whiskey-eyed woman moves from her stance by the door.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the chubby, brown-haired man:
  "Ah."
  
  The scrawny-looking unibrowed man gives some coins to the chubby, brown-haired man.
  
  
  The chubby, brown-haired man approaches the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, smiling.
  
  
  The bald, prism-scarred elf opens a burned darkly stained wooden tinderbox.
  
  
  Lifting an eyebrow curiously, you say to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
  "Well. Chosen Lord Thrend Lyksae. Pleasure to meet you, Lord Sedaris Oash."
  
  
  At a long, carved wooden bar, the bald, prism-scarred elf speaks, glancing over at the dusky black dwarf.
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  The bald, prism-scarred elf puts his skinny baobab twig into his burned darkly stained wooden tinderbox.
  
  
  Moving ridiculously slow, the ancient, wispy-bearded man shuffles through the crowd, easing onto a barstool.
  
  
  The bald, prism-scarred elf closes a burned darkly stained wooden tinderbox.
  The ancient, wispy-bearded man sits at a long, carved wooden bar.
  
  
  You send a telepathic message to the chubby, brown-haired man:
  "My thanks. I can give the sid to you in, well, sid form, or buy something. Whatever you prefer."
  
  
  At a long, carved wooden bar, the cinnamon, lithe young woman speaks, glancing at the bald, prism-scarred elf.
  
  
  The small, serpentine young woman has arrived from the north.
  
  The small, serpentine young woman walks south.
  
  You dissolve the psychic link.
  
  
  Gesturing to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, the chubby, brown-haired man asks the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
  "Lord Oash, did you need some more spice?"
  
  At a long, carved wooden bar, the dusky black dwarf speaks, to the bald, prism-scarred elf.
  
  Curtly, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth says to the chubby, brown-haired man, in southern-accented sirihish:
  "I have plenty."
  
  Four men and three women, all garbed in dun and possessing the weapons of war common to soldiers, enter the tavern and take a seat at a large table in the west corner.
  
  
  At a long, carved wooden bar, the bald, prism-scarred elf speaks, with a low grunt.
  The slender, raven-haired woman has arrived from the south.
  
  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
  "I'm ready, just in case, Fak'ir."
  
  
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You contact the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man with the Way.
  
  
  The tall, whiskey-eyed woman moves over towards the bar.
  
  
  A thin trail of rich, mossy smelling smoke trickles from the ancient, wispy-bearded man's mouth as he smokes a limp rolled tube of spice.
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
  "Ktakr, no. We have no reason to be worrying about things. Kurac has this place handled..."
  
  
  The cinnamon, lithe young woman sips from her glass flagon.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
  "...and Lord or not, Chosen or not..."
  
  The ancient, wispy-bearded man flicks the remnants of his spice aside.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
  "...they are indiscriminate against those that break laws."
  
  Four men and three women, all garbed in dun and possessing the weapons of war common to soldiers, enter the tavern and take a seat at a large table in the west corner.
  
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
  "...I'd like to think a bit less indiscriminate towards me."
  
  
  Stepping over and pulling out a vacant stool, the slender, raven-haired woman sits at a long, carved wooden bar.
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
  "But that's wishful thinking, and I haven't lived this long hoping for the best."
  
  
  Nodding, the chubby, brown-haired man asks the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
  "Good...good...you do understand the laws here, Lord Oash?"
  
  
  At a long, carved wooden bar, the sinewy, weather-worn man speaks, looking toward the cinnamon, lithe young woman with a smirk.
  
  
  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
  "So, ka. It will be as you will, Fak'ir."
  
  
  The chubby, brown-haired man nods to the tall, whiskey-eyed woman.
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  
  The bald, prism-scarred elf glances over at the cinnamon, lithe young woman, and thumps a foot against his tall, narrow wooden keg.
  
  
  At a long, carved wooden bar, the cinnamon, lithe young woman speaks, with a slow nod.
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man gets his pile of allanaki coins from his supple grey leather swordbelt.
  
  
  The scrawny-looking unibrowed man drinks ale from his glass flagon.
  
  
  Sliding onto a stool near the bald, prism-scarred elf, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman sits at a long, carved wooden bar.
  
  
  The effeminate, fair-skinned youth narrows his eyes towards the chubby, brown-haired man, reaching for his cloak.
  
  
  At a long, carved wooden bar, the sinewy, weather-worn man speaks, holding a hand up to the cinnamon, lithe young woman.
  
  
  The effeminate, fair-skinned youth gets his glass serpent spice pipe from his azure-sigiled, black silk greatcloak.
  
  The effeminate, fair-skinned youth holds his glass serpent spice pipe.
  
  
  The effeminate, fair-skinned youth leans over, lighting his glass serpent spice pipe on a candle.
  
  The bald, prism-scarred elf flashes a sidelong grin at the tall, whiskey-eyed woman.
  
  A thin trail of rich, heady smoke trickles from the effeminate, fair-skinned youth's mouth as he smokes a glass serpent
  spice pipe.
  The effeminate, fair-skinned youth's eyes become glassy-red and half-closed.
  
  After a brief pause, you say to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
  "Well. Good talking at you, Lord Oash. Hope to do this again sometime soon."
  
  At a long, carved wooden bar, the sinewy, weather-worn man speaks, waving a hand toward the darkly tanned innkeeper.
  
  The effeminate, fair-skinned youth puffs on his glass serpent spice pipe a few times, leaning back in his chair with a somewhat milder expression.
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man turns back to a long, carved wooden bar, plopping down on a stool.
  
  
  There is no space at a long, carved wooden bar.
  
  
  At a long, carved wooden bar, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman speaks, her features amiable and her tone mild, but her eyes
  sharp and cold.
  
  
  At 1) a long, carved wooden bar are:
  the scrawny-looking unibrowed man, the ancient, wispy-bearded man,
  the cinnamon, lithe young woman, the bald, prism-scarred elf,
  the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man, the dusky black dwarf,
  the sinewy, weather-worn man, the slender, raven-haired woman,
  and the tall, whiskey-eyed woman.
  At 2) a small table near the stairs are:
  a couple of empty seats.
  At 3) a heavy, blockish table in the middle of the room are:
  the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, and a few empty seats.
  At 4) a rounded agafari table are:
  a few empty seats.
  At 5) a rounded agafari table are:
  a few empty seats.
  
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man leans against a long, carved wooden bar at one side of the shaggy-haired, sun-branded
  man.
  
  The effeminate, fair-skinned youth stands up from a heavy, blockish table in the middle of the room.
  
  
  The darkly tanned innkeeper trades a grey wooden cup to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
  
  
  The darkly tanned innkeeper trades a grey wooden cup to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
  
  At a long, carved wooden bar, the bald, prism-scarred elf speaks, his tone matching, eyes dancing with delight.
  
  
  The darkly tanned innkeeper trades a shot glass to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
  
  
  Gesturing for him, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth says to the ancient, wispy-bearded man, in southern-accented
  sirihish:
  "Come, Magus."
  
  
  The chubby, brown-haired man smiles to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, bowing.
  
  
  His gaze coming across him as the effeminate, fair-skinned youth indicates him, you look down at the ancient,
  wispy-bearded man.
  Almost every hair on this elderly man's mainly bald head and face are
  of a bleak, grayish white color, being a bright white at the tips and
  darkening as they get closer to his head. His chin is adorned with a thin,
  wispy beard that stretches down an arms length or so, and his eyes are
  nearly completely covered with a set of extremely bushy gray-white eyebrows.
  His face is worn and leathery, wrinkles adorning almost every inch of his
  flesh, and he is quite thin, almost emaciated. His weathered, lean
  appearance hints at hardships, though his eyes are nearly completely closed
  when he smiles under the tangle of hair over his mouth. When his reasonably
  straight, slightly stained teeth are covered by his lips in a more solemn
  expression, his eyes are exposed, the pupils a cloudy, beryl hue. His gaunt
  frame is almost always hunched over in a posture fitting of his age, causing
  his thin, wispy beard to hang a little lower than it would usually, making
  it seem longer than it is.
  The ancient, wispy-bearded man is in excellent condition.
  
  The ancient, wispy-bearded man is using:
  a wide-brimmed black hat
  a dull black gem
  a large azure leather backpack
  an old, gnarled wooden staff
  a hooded, black and azure aba
  a pair of studded, black leather pants
  a black onyx, skull-linked anklechain
  a pair of dragon-emblazoned, black knee-high boots
  
  He is carrying:
  nothing obvious
  
  His chair creaking as he gets to his feet, the ancient, wispy-bearded man stands up from a long, carved wooden bar.
  
  
  The chubby, brown-haired man has departed from the land of Zalanthas.
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  Setting it on the bar, the cinnamon, lithe young woman discards her glass flagon.
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man stiffens again, a hand snaking to your glossy, black leather swordbelt quickly--but
  stopping there, clenched tightly into a fist.
  
  
  Sliding it down the bar, the sinewy, weather-worn man gives his grey wooden cup to the cinnamon, lithe young woman.
  
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man gives his shot glass to the cinnamon, lithe young woman.
  
  At a long, carved wooden bar, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman speaks, easily.
  
  The ancient, wispy-bearded man fires you a narrowed glance.
  
  The cinnamon, lithe young woman smiles brightly at the sinewy, weather-worn man.
  
  
  At a long, carved wooden bar, the sinewy, weather-worn man speaks, smiling amiably to the cinnamon, lithe young woman.
  
  At a long, carved wooden bar, the bald, prism-scarred elf speaks, his eyes dancing as he turns to regard the tall,
  whiskey-eyed woman with amusement.
  
  
  Glancing over, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
  "You're alright, Chosen Lord?"
  
  The coal-black haired half-giant rises from the ground, and clambers to his feet.
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  The cinnamon, lithe young woman drinks firebreather from her shot glass.
  
  
  At a long, carved wooden bar, the bald, prism-scarred elf speaks, holding up a hand briefly.
  
  At a long, carved wooden bar, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man speaks, to the bald, prism-scarred elf.
  
  
  The coal-black haired half-giant has departed from the land of Zalanthas.
  
  The cinnamon, lithe young woman's eyes budge out after she downs the shot and coughs a little.
  
  
  The ancient, wispy-bearded man shuffles through the crowded tavern, reaching the effeminate, fair-skinned youth's side.
  
  The tall, whiskey-eyed woman nods amiably to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
  
  At a long, carved wooden bar, the cinnamon, lithe young woman speaks, between coughs.
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  
  At a long, carved wooden bar, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man speaks, with a glance at the cinnamon, lithe young woman.
  
  Not taking his eyes off of the ancient, wispy-bearded man, you say to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
  "Oh, fine. I tend to think before acting or speaking out of turn, Lord Oash."
  
  
  The bald, prism-scarred elf looks up at the ancient, wispy-bearded man.
  
  
  The scrawny-looking unibrowed man drinks spice ale from his eclipse emblazoned flagon.
  
  
  At a long, carved wooden bar, the cinnamon, lithe young woman speaks, shaking her head at the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
  
  
  The bald, prism-scarred elf's expression quickly sours.
  You think:
  "Out of turn with these LAWS. Fucking abomination."
  
  
  At a long, carved wooden bar, the sinewy, weather-worn man speaks, pushing off his stool.
  
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man stands up from a long, carved wooden bar.
  
  The cinnamon, lithe young woman waves to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
  
  The ancient, wispy-bearded man glances over at the effeminate, fair-skinned youth momentarily, nodding.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  
  The effeminate, fair-skinned youth looks from the ancient, wispy-bearded man, to you, smiling.
  Waving his glass flagon up, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man exclaims to the sinewy, weather-worn man, in sirihish:
  "Yessir!"
  
  
  At a long, carved wooden bar, the bald, prism-scarred elf speaks, growling a bit, eyes on the ancient, wispy-bearded man.
  
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man pauses by the bald, prism-scarred elf as he moves away from the bar.
  
  
  The braid-tressed young woman has arrived from the north.
  The squat, full-figured woman has arrived from the north.
  
  
  The ancient, wispy-bearded man lifts his hand in farewell to you.
  
  
  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
  "Shadows on the sand leave tracks northwards, when they're vulnerable."
  
  
  The tall, whiskey-eyed woman looks up at the ancient, wispy-bearded man.
  
  
  At a long, carved wooden bar, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man speaks, nodding to the bald, prism-scarred elf.
  
  
  The squat, full-figured woman wanders out beside the braid-tressed young woman peering about through the large crowd.
  
  
  Placing one hand on his shoulder, the sinewy, weather-worn man whispers something to the bald, prism-scarred elf.
  
  
  The bald, prism-scarred elf continues to glower, his foot rubbing idly against a keg near his stool.
  
  At a long, carved wooden bar, the cinnamon, lithe young woman speaks, mournfully.
  
  The braid-tressed young woman hums to herself as she steps through the room, then pauses near the northern end of a long,
  carved wooden bar to look out over the crowd.
  
  
  The tall, whiskey-eyed woman flicks a grin at the cinnamon, lithe young woman.
  
  You are carrying:
  
  nothing.
  
  
  His voice a low growl, the bald, prism-scarred elf whispers something to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You are already in contact with someone else.
  
  The scrawny-looking unibrowed man puts his glass flagon onto a long, carved wooden bar.
  
  The scrawny-looking unibrowed man puts his eclipse emblazoned flagon onto a long, carved wooden bar.
  
  
  You dissolve the psychic link.
  
  With a satisfied nod, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth turns for the door.
  
  The effeminate, fair-skinned youth walks south.
  To the south: the effeminate, fair-skinned youth has arrived from the north.
  The ancient, wispy-bearded man walks south.
  The veteran mercenary walks south.
  The veteran mercenary walks south.
  

  ************************************
  We join the story at Luirsfest. A northern noble encounters a southern noble for the first time.
  ************************************
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  
  Glancing up from a long, carved wooden bar, you look up at the effeminate, fair-skinned...
  Continue Reading...