Original Submissions of type 'Logs'

• 

  Leave No Stone Unturned by pof Dorri
  Added on May 7, 2023

  Dorri, a Rukkian, stumbles over a young woman who doesn't seem to realize what she really is.

  ---

  
  Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
  You pass beneath the shadow of the red sandstone templar statue.
  The Gladiator and the Gaj Tavern -- Main Room [N, E, S, Quit]
  This common room composes the bulk of the Gladiator and the Gaj
  Tavern, a bustling establishment founded in the Year of Suk-Krath's
  Defiance of the 19th age. A cacophony of sounds fills the inn, from the
  busy murmur of the many merchants that frequent the location to the
  howling of the crowd, greeting the arriving news of the latest arena
  fight, to the drunken whine of the hundreds of commonfolk that have made
  the place famous. Stout wooden beams support the paneled roof of the
  room, each bearing many drawings carved by the patrons of the tavern.
  An agafari-wood bar dominates the western side of the room, the shelves
  behind it supporting the weight of many alcoholic beverages. Wood and
  stone tables with matching chairs are strewn all over the chamber in
  clusters as to allow waiters and waitresses to circulate with ease. A
  raised platform has been erected in the northeastern corner for the
  messengers and hawkers hired by the establishment that relay the latest
  news from the arena.
  To the north, a scarred tarp of carru hide leads out onto the busy
  Caravan Way. Flickering yellow and orange light spills out from the
  southern room of the tavern, where the meals are prepared and where
  travelers may roast their raw meat for free. Eastwards lies the public
  sleeping area, while a door lies behind the bar, most likely a back
  room.
  A wall here is designated as a message board.
  The ebon-skinned, matronly dwarf is sitting at a long, scarred bar of agafari wood.
  The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak is sitting at a long, scarred bar of agafari wood.
  The sandy-haired scruffy teen is sitting on a long, scarred bar of agafari wood.
  The smoky-gazed Allanaki soldier drinks some ale at the bar.
  The smoldering-eyed, hale man is sitting at a long, scarred bar of agafari wood.
  A human soldier of Tektolnes stands guard here.
  The angular, silver-eyed man is here, leaning casually against a wall.
  The brutally-scarred orange dwarf sits here at a table, drinking heavily.
  A dark-skinned human barkeep stands behind the bar.
  The lean, sun-reddened woman laughs as she talks at a large table here.
  The hairy, dark-skinned woman watches the room from beside the bar here.
  The towering, golden-haired half-giant is here, crouched beside a table.
  
  The hood of a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak is already lowered.
  
  To the south is the Gladiator and the Gaj Tavern -- Roasting Pits.
  [Near]
  The short, buff, thick-maned soldier is standing here.
  
  A tarp to the east leads to the Gladiator and the Gaj Tavern -- Public Dormitory.
  The tarp is open.
  [Near]
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak is here, slumped on the ground in a corner.
  The sable-haired, jade-eyed soldier relaxes on a bedroll, off-duty.
  The slim human with olive skin is standing here.
  
  You are using:
  a scrub-camouflaged, sandcloth-covered cap
  a dusty dusky-black feather
  a desert-camouflaged, sandcloth-covered collar
  a dull black gem
  a carru-horn, baobab spear
  a dusty bahamet-embroidered leather backpack
  a desert-camouflaged, sandcloth jacket
  a coil of numut-woven rope
  a pair of scrub-camouflaged, sandcloth sleeves
  a bright blue sandcloth bandana
  a durrit-claw bracer
  a pair of scrub-camouflaged, sandcloth gloves
  a bead-sewn pouched belt
  a blackened serrated bone halfsword
  a long redhide pouch
  a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak
  a tightly-woven sash of dark sandcloth
  a pair of desert-camouflaged, sandcloth leggings
  a dusty pair of scrub-camouflaged, sandcloth-covered boots
  
  
  While offering the sandy-haired scruffy teen a friendly wave, the ebon-skinned, matronly dwarf looks up at the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak.
  
  The mousy, young man lowers the hood of his black, hooded militia dustcloak.
  
  The thin young woman knocks the grit off the bottoms of your dusty pair of scrub-camouflaged, sandcloth-covered boots, one at a time, by knocking the side of her foot against the arch's frame.
  
  You dust yourself off.
  
  At a long, scarred bar of agafari wood, the ebon-skinned, matronly dwarf speaks, grinning broadly.
  
  The thin young woman pushes away from the northern arch, wandering through the morning crowd toward a long, scarred bar of agafari wood.
  
  The ebon-skinned, matronly dwarf opens her dusty large chalton-hide backpack.
  
  The ebon-skinned, matronly dwarf gets her plain bag of cloth from her dusty large chalton-hide backpack.
  
  The ebon-skinned, matronly dwarf gets her large bag from her dusty large chalton-hide backpack.
  
  Absently wadding it up, the ebon-skinned, matronly dwarf puts her plain bag of cloth into her dusty scrub-camouflaged sandcloth duster.
  
  The ebon-skinned, matronly dwarf gets her pale wooden longbow from her large bag.
  
  The mousy, young man holds a hand out to the ebon-skinned, matronly dwarf curiouslt.
  
  The ebon-skinned, matronly dwarf gives her pale wooden longbow to the mousy, young man.
  
  East, through a tarp, is the Gladiator and the Gaj Tavern -- Public Dormitory.
  The tarp is open.
  [Near]
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak is here, slumped on the ground in a corner.
  The sable-haired, jade-eyed soldier relaxes on a bedroll, off-duty.
  The slim human with olive skin is standing here.
  
  The thin young woman pauses before a long, scarred bar of agafari wood, then pushes past it.
  
  The Gladiator and the Gaj Tavern -- Public Dormitory [W, Quit]
  This spacious chamber provides a place for the public to sleep for
  free. The floor is covered with tens of soiled, greasy blankets and
  makeshift beds provided by their occupants. Crude insignia and drawings
  have been scrawled on the agafari walls, etched with knifepoint or drawn
  with charcoal. The stench of unwashed humanoid bodies mingles with the
  tantalizing scent of cooked meat wafting in from the bar and restaurant
  to the west. The carru-hide tarp hanging over the archway to the west
  hardly muffles the dull roar of the crowd. Though the conditions in the
  dormitory are quite dingy, it is certainly better than sleeping on the
  dangerous streets of Allanak.
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak is here, slumped on the ground in a corner.
  The sable-haired, jade-eyed soldier relaxes on a bedroll, off-duty.
  The slim human with olive skin is standing here.
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak weeps softly to hereself.
  
  Unabashedly curious, you look down at the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak.
  This young woman is scrawny and willowy in build. She is rather short
  and slender with a frame average for a woman of her height and width. Her
  arms and legs are especially thin, appearing almost like sticks. Her hair
  is a messy little nest of dark brown, cut very short. Her small eyes are a
  light grey. Her facial features are almost flat with a short little nose
  and a well rounded chin. Her complexion is lightly tanned and covered in
  some minor nicks and spots.
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak is in excellent condition.
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak is using:
  an angular, crescent shaped scar
  a dusty bone-studded backpack
  a simple sandcloth shirt
  a few pale, faint looking scars
  a dusty dark, hooded cloak
  a pair of light-brown pants
  a dusty pair of chalton leather boots
  
  She is carrying:
  nothing obvious
  
  The thin young woman turns, making her way toward a worn, woven mat lying against the wall.
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak tries to hide her tears, thought she seems unaware of any attention upon her.
  
  With her back to the wall, you sit down, on the woven mat.
  
  Your new ldesc is:
  The thin young woman sits on a worn, woven mat, her back to the wall.
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak shuffles and cries out in pain quietly as she attempts to sit upright in a corner.
  
  The thin young woman shoots another look toward the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak, then tips her head back, resting back against the wall in a limp, loose sprawl.
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak takes a few heavy breathes, becoming more quiet. She glances down at her ankle with wet eyes before huddling up by herself.
  
  Very briefly as she nervously looks around the dorm area, the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak looks at you.
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak looks away quickly from you and back to the ground, weeping anew and closing her eyes.
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak lies down and falls asleep.
  
  Shutting her eyes, you say, in sirihish:
  "Krath."
  
  The thin young woman glances toward the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak again, then leans over, palming up off the mat.
  
  You stand up.
  
  The thin young woman stretches, pushes off the wall, then steps over to where the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak lies.
  
  You think:
  "I'm too nice."
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak sniffles in her sleep, stirring only slightly before laying on the ground. She idly runs her hand about in some dirt.
  
  The thin young woman boots out at the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak's side ungently, standing over her.
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak awakens.
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak starts right away, yelping out in suprise.
  
  The thin young woman takes a step back, still looking down at the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak, caught between curiousity and resentment.
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak stares back at you, looking terrified. She seems caught between trying to run and being in pain.
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak says to you, in sirihish:
  "I...please...don't...don't steal me soul...."
  
  Flatly, you say to the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak, in sirihish:
  "Are you hungry."
  
  In case the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak had any illusions about the thin young woman: it wasn't a question.
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak whimpers, looking westwards.
  
  Very quietly, still starting at you's gem, the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak says to you, in sirihish:
  "No...fine. Please...won't bother ya."
  
  Inhaling slowly, taking another step away from her - holding her hands out, palm up, placatingly, you ask the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak, in sirihish:
  "Gem means I'm collared. And I can't steal your soul, anyway. Ashbringers do that. I make shitty bread, and that's about it. You hurt?"
  
  Still looking extremely fearful but also pained and immensely tired, the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak says to you, in sirihish:
  "I...what? You...but. No...fine. Fine."
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak tries to stand again but clearly can't, wincing and clutching her ankle.
  
  Dropping down across from the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak, on the floor, you sit down, before scooting back a little further, giving her space.
  
  Your new ldesc is:
  The thin young woman sits here, a ways from the cloaked figure.
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak quivers a little as she eyes you, but exhaustion seems to be keeping her in place. She is covered in a lot of dirt and fresh sand.
  
  The thin young woman hunches her shoulders up, chin tipped down, trying in vain to mask your dull black gem's presence.
  
  After some time, offering lamely, you say to the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak, in sirihish:
  "My name's Dorri. Was born in Luirs."
  
  In a defeated tone, clearly unhappy, the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak says to you, in sirihish:
  "Don't know where Luirs be. Please don't...don't make it hurt daemon. You win...can't be running."
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak lets a tear fall down her cheek.
  
  With a brief glance westward, toward the tarp, you say, in sirihish:
  "Luirs. It's the outpost north of here, on the road. Kuraci owned. It was nice, I guess."
  
  Opening an eye, clearly very confused but cornered, the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak asks, in sirihish:
  "Kuralki? What they? North...so...Tuluk?"
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak looks at you.
  
  Apparently content to talk to the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak, crossing her arms over your desert-camouflaged, sandcloth jacket, you say, in sirihish:
  "Boy, you don't know much, do you? Let's see. Tuluk's north in the scrub, but Luirs is south of there. It's in the middle of the road."
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak merely stares at you, chewing her lip and drying one of her eyes slightly.
  
  Not unkindly, continuing to ramble on, you say, in sirihish:
  "Basically... And there's Blackwing Outpost, too, but I can't go back there, I bet. Or past Luirs anymore... But yeah, uhm, Kuraci. It's a House, like Salarr and all. The dun cloaks, you must have seen..."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman lowers the hood of her dusty dark, hooded cloak.
  
  Trailing off, tipping her head to one side, you say, in sirihish:
  "Mmm, I mean. I swear they had... people here. An agent. Maybe not. In Storm, though."
  
  Meekly, looking down, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "Salarr? Uhm...merchant people like?"
  
  With a distracted nod, glancing back to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, you say, in sirihish:
  "Mhm. A Great House like Salarr or - well, Kadius."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman idly clutches at some dirt in the ground, watching you with a little less fear but immense confusion.
  
  Tonguing at the inside of her cheek, you say, in sirihish:
  "Merchant Houses. Kurac's big into spice trading. Zharal, Tho. That sort of thing. But not here, of course."
  
  A hint of curiousity, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks you, in sirihish:
  "Why...why do they let daemons walk...walk about? Why aren't ya...uh...you do take souls. Why daemons ain't right?"
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman tries to lean up a little, nursing her ankle and tearing up again. She is clearly annoyed by this.
  
  Not quite bristling, but coming close, you say, in sirihish:
  "I'm one of His Gemmed Citizens."
  
  Quietly but quite honestly, looking a little tense, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Yah I ain't...too...daemons and Gemmed daemons. I know..."
  
  Reaching up to touch around, but never at, your dull black gem, you say, in sirihish:
  "Under His protection. I serve the Highlord, and Lady Templar Oash. Anyway."
  
  Meekly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "Protection? Don't you get kept in cages till His Templar need...ya?"
  
  With a soft snort, dropping her arm back into her lap, you say, in sirihish:
  "Mostly in the quarter, I mean. I had an apartment out here for awhile but it's not the same. We're just... citizens."
  
  The thin young woman shrugs defensively and draws her legs up, bent at the knee, and wraps an arm about them.
  
  Mostly to herself, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "Don't make sense...nothing makes sense."
  
  Resting her chin against her knee, watching the scrawny, grey-eyed woman curiously, you ask, in sirihish:
  "Is it supposed to?"
  
  Very quietly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks you, in sirihish:
  "Why ya...talking ta me? I ain't got nothing. Plenty of normal folk...out thar don't talk ta me. You...aint going to hurt me?"
  
  Clearly not sure how to answer, furrowing her brow, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Well...yah. Things should make sense..."
  
  Shutting her eyes, eyebrows beetling together briefly as her forehead wrinkles, you say, in sirihish:
  "I'm not going to hurt you - and that, that's shit. If things were supposed to make sense, I'd be a Faithful Lord's aide, or an Outrider for Kurac, or so rich and..."
  
  Wetting at her lips, murmuring, you say, in sirihish:
  "So - rich and silky that it'd hurt to sit up straight."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman blinks slightly now, seeming to really not understand a word you is saying.
  
  Quietly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "Things made sense afore..."
  
  Opening her eyes, looking back to her, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Before... you hurt your leg."
  
  Her voice tried and a little wavery, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "Na...afore I...uhm well. Afore I had to leave me home. Home was safe. Thought leaving might be nice...ain't. Everything is awful. Just like..."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman rubs at her neck idly, shifting her ankle about a little and biting her lip.
  
  The thin young woman shrugs lamely in response to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, chin still propped on her knee.
  
  Looking worried, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Sorry...talking ta much. Stupid..."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman huddles up again, before looking back at you.
  
  Glancing down at the floor, you say, in sirihish:
  "I left home, ended up - a few weeks, bumming around Luirs, and then this breed shows up."
  
  Musingly, you say, in sirihish:
  "Want to go to Tuluk? And - I don't know why - I went. He gave me a sunback, a nice spear. Off I went to His Ivory, and then this necker there - I joke about it, but I really do think I must look like an easy mark, or an idiot, or..."
  
  Quietly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "What be a breed? I...sorry...Pa said that word lot. Tuluk? Why ya go thar? They all crazy savages who eat folk?"
  
  Stopping and glancing at her feet, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "Thought...can ya eat a daemon?"
  
  Ignoring the scrawny, grey-eyed woman for the time, you say, in sirihish:
  "But this sharp takes me in, and I hunt for her, and I make plenty of sid that way. My own apartment. There's this man, I run back off to Luirs with him for a few weeks - we were going to put one over on the sharp."
  
  You say, in sirihish:
  "'toks got him. So - but, by that time, I knew, I guess. I mean - I did, but I don't want to talk about it."
  
  Giving her head a sudden, hard shake, you say, in sirihish:
  "A breed. You know. Half and half. Or... well. Whatever."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "Half and half what?"
  
  Blankly, you look at the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  As if it's the most obvious thing, you say, in sirihish:
  "A sharp and a person."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman furrows her brow, clearly looking a little confused. However it seems something clicks and she looks horrifed.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "That be what...but....that is even more...that is terrible."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman chews her lip hard, shaking her head.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "Whira...things is all mixed up. "
  
  Exhaling slowly through her nose, watching the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, you ask, in sirihish:
  "Uhm. Yeah. You like gurth?"
  
  You hear a woman's voice shout from the west in sirihish:
  "If I ever catch who keeps stickin' their hand in my shit I'm goin' t' stick my mace up your ass!"
  
  Briefly, you look west.
  
  With a little start, looking fearfully towards the west, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "I...Gurth? Uhm...like? "
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You contact the puny, cherubic lass with the Way.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the puny, cherubic lass:
  "Hey, come here. Can you read this little rat's fortunes?"
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  Softly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks you, in sirihish:
  "Why do you want to know if...I like something?"
  
  With a shrug, you say, in sirihish:
  "For awhile, it's all I would do. Hunt gurth. I mean - I'm fighting them off in packs, and there's this sharp, a Sun Runner, and he's laughing at me... I don't know. I like gurth."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman seems quite interested as you speaks, though she still seems a little nervous.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "Ya hunt things...in the wastes?"
  
  Shaking her head, you say, in sirihish:
  "Nmhm. Not now. I used to hunt. I'd hunt in the scrub, mostly. Sometimes in the waste, though. I don't now."
  
  Chewing her lip and nodding once, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks you, in sirihish:
  "Kay...why you talking to me again? You really don't...don't want anything? Got nuthin...would have bolted if I could. Ya not even going ta hit me?"
  
  Shaking her head once, without lifting her chin off her knee, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Nope."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman seems a little confused at this, but seems a little less tense now. She only now seems to notice she is rather dirty. She wipes at her face and stares at the dirt for a moment.
  
  Quietly to herself, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "Pa would be mad..."
  
  You think:
  "Gul has a mascot. Why can't I?"
  
  Blinking and looking over, with a hint of shame, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Me ankle...is hurt. Don't know why. Fell on it."
  
  Without opening her eyes, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "I can't fix it. I'm not... that sort of person."
  
  With a curious blink at you, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "Why would ya be able to fix it? Stupid. Lucky sharps did na try to eat me in the street. Been trying to avoid em....they everywhere though."
  
  Talking to hereslf, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "Really stupid. Need to...Whira..."
  
  Lifting her head off her knee, glancing westward, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Gul could. That's what he does. But it's sort of - I don't know. He pisses a lot, and that's that."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman glances to the west, seeing the large gathered crowd. She tense a little and shakes her head.
  
  Abruptly, glancing back, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "What's your plan? I mean - you can't just sit here."
  
  Quietly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "It' fine. Feels na so bad now..."
  
  Looking down a little, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Plan? I...I don't know."
  
  Seeming to spark up in a guard fashion, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Ya know where rocks can be found on the street. Been trying to fine some so can sell em for coin or...or something."
  
  Clearing her throat awkwardly, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Ah... Don't take them off the street. You could greb for salt, though - but that's past the walls. Dangerous a little alone."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman clearly looks unhappy about this, slumping a little.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Ya...ya know anyone needs someone can clean? I can clean and...carry things and...and stuff."
  
  Uncertainly, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Er. The - I... stay at the temple. You could clean that but... it's, you know."
  
  Finishing, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "In the quarter."
  
  With a light blink, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "Where is that?"
  
  Face blanking, then regarding the scrawny, grey-eyed woman in open curiousity, you ask the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "...What?"
  
  Flushing red a little, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "I don't...know where it is. I...don't really know where most things be..."
  
  You ask the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "But you're... a southerner. From here?"
  
  The thin young woman closes her hand into a fist, sans her index finger, and prods her finger at the floor for emphasis.
  
  With a low nod, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "I...yah. But I don't...never..."
  
  Quietly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Never had to walk very far...before."
  
  Just that, you say, in sirihish:
  "Gee."
  
  Leaning over, you stand up, palming up off the floor.
  
  As she straightens, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Come on."
  
  Sniffing slightly, brushing some hair back, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "Found place where they sell lots of things and...only got a little lost in some place with...uhm?"
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman stands up.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman tries to stand and seems able, though she limps a little.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman falls in behind you.
  
  The thin young woman hesitates, then reaches out, extending her arm to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  You ask, in sirihish:
  "You good?"
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman hesitates herself, seeming unsure what to do. She takes the arm and raises her hood.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman raises the hood of her dusty dark, hooded cloak.
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak asks you, in sirihish:
  "Uhm...little. We going somewhere?"
  
  With a quick nod, you say to the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak, in sirihish:
  "Yup. Going to show you."
  
  The thin young woman turns, tugging the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak along with herself, and heads for the tarped archway.
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak nods a little, seeming to have little to say.
  
  (Moving west into: The Gladiator and the Gaj Tavern -- Main Room [N, E, S, Quit])
  
  The tall figure in a dusty deep-hooded, brown robe pauses upon entering and bows stiffly toward the sunbronzed, dark-bearded man.
  
  The sunbronzed, dark-bearded man looks at the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak.
  
  The slate-eyed, fat man looks down at the sunbronzed, dark-bearded man.
  
  Puffing her cheeks out, the ebon-skinned, matronly dwarf asks the slate-eyed, fat man, in sirihish:
  "Dregg's my mate, oy. You Meso's friend?"
  
  The tall figure in a dusty deep-hooded, brown robe looks down at the sunbronzed, dark-bearded man.
  
  The gigantic and obese figure in a dusty hooded, red sandcloth windcloak shuffles over to a more empty corner of the bar, and plops down ont his ass.
  
  Turning his head to glance behind him, the sunbronzed, dark-bearded man looks up at the tall figure in a dusty deep-hooded, brown robe.
  
  Easing his back against a wall, the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty hooded, red sandcloth windcloak sits down.
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak limps along slightly, spotting the sunbronzed, dark-bearded man however she blinks and then lowers herself into a clumsy bow.
  
  The thin young woman slows, looking from the tall figure in a dusty deep-hooded, brown robe to the sunbronzed, dark-bearded man, then skirts the crowded tavern, headed for the northern arch.
  
  Reaching up with a hand, the lanky, black-haired half-giant lowers the hood of his dusty hooded, red sandcloth windcloak.
  
  The grizzled, purple-maned half-elf looks up at the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak.
  
  Glancing aside, the tall figure in a dusty deep-hooded, brown robe looks down at the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak.
  
  The grizzled, purple-maned half-elf looks up at you.
  
  You think:
  "Don't know why that Tor lord keeps slumming it in here."
  
  Lifting his voice, the sunbronzed, dark-bearded man asks the night-tressed, murfa-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Darcy. All goes well?"
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak limps behind you.
  
  You can't see a thing; sand swirls about you!
  
  The thin young woman ducks out onto the street - and gets a mouthful of grit, coughs, and hikes up your hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak.
  
  You raise the hood of your hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak.
  
  A faint shape blinks, seeming to be caught off guard at the amount of sand in the air.
  
  You feel uncomfortably hot.
  The figure in a hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak breaks into a fit of coughing, tears pouring from your eyes.
  
  Spitting, you say, in sirihish:
  "Fuck - fuck."
  
  A faint shape suddenly clutches tight against you, yelping out. The clutch seems to relax suddenly after a moment. .
  
  The figure in a hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak doubles over in a coughing fit, jerking unintentionally on a faint shape's hand, then straightens, moving down the road.
  
  You can't see a thing; sand swirls about you!
  
  Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
  You pass beneath the shadow of the red sandstone templar statue.
  You can't see a thing; sand swirls about you!
  
  Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
  You can't see a thing; sand swirls about you!
  
  The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak wanders listlessly, her head beneath her cloak's hood swinging this way and that.
  
  A little hoarse, you say, in sirihish:
  "Uhm."
  
  A faint shape seems to clutch less against you, and her yelping stops as she takes in deep and easy breathes.
  
  You can't see a thing; sand swirls about you!
  
  As the figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak wanders along, she wrenches from time to time on a faint shape's hand, mostly unintentional.
  
  
  Uncertainly, you say, in sirihish:
  "It's..."
  
  Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
  You can't see a thing; sand swirls about you!
  
  A faint shape follows easily behind you, her speed seeming to actually match you's.
  
  Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
  You can't see a thing; sand swirls about you!
  
  Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
  You can't see a thing; sand swirls about you!
  
  The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak sniffs suddenly, then stops sharply, squinting through the sand at your tightly-woven sash of dark sandcloth.
  
  A weak, piteous moan sounds from somewhere atop the massive heap of bodies.
  
  The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak pats down at your tightly-woven sash of dark sandcloth, then glances down - and finds herself standing pretty close to several desiccated corpses.
  
  You say, in sirihish:
  "...Oh."
  
  Quite clearly, a faint shape says, in sirihish:
  "It's a little hard ta be...oh..."
  
  A faint shape winces and backs up into her pair of light-brown pants.
  
  The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak backs two steps up, then turns, doubling back down the street - more or less dragging a faint shape along with her.
  
  Raising her voice, you ask, in sirihish:
  "To be? What?"
  
  A faint shape lets herself be dragged quite easily, offering no resistance.
  
  A little dazed sounding, the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak says, in sirihish:
  "Hard ta see. So much sand...so much."
  
  As the sand gradually lets up, pacing along more confidently, you say, in sirihish:
  "Oh. Yeah."
  
  Hanging back from the horde of people, skirting the edges of that crowd, you say, in sirihish:
  "Here, uhm... There."
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak blinks a little as the dust starts to die down. She frowns a little, seeming to not really be paying attention to where she is going as you leads her.
  
  Gesturing vaguely northward, you say, in sirihish:
  "The quarter. For, uhm."
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak snaps to attention and shuffles over to the north.
  
  Lowering her voice, you say, in sirihish:
  "His Gemmed Citizens."
  
  The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak continues to skirt the edge of that restless crowd, tugging the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak along with her still.
  
  The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak relaxes almost immediately, shoulders slumping.
  
  With a light blush, the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak says, in sirihish:
  "Oh I...uhh...stupid. Yah went down that road while walking. Saw weird buildings. Ya I...I know I was not paying attention."
  
  Wincing at the memory, the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak says, in sirihish:
  "Then I saw the gems and ran...must look a fool."
  
  With an easy shrug, wandering along the street - and even smiling a little, you say, in sirihish:
  "Yeah, well. I'll show you my temple, or whatever."
  
  As she wanders, you say, in sirihish:
  "I have a bird. From an Arabeti, a hawk. But he's sort of stupid, now."
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak seems a little tense again, clearly on edge as she looks around. Yet she follows you in a manner which suggests she is keen to stay close to you.
  
  Slowing as the slim, compact youth rushes past, adding quietly, you say, in sirihish:
  "But it's a long story."
  
  With a worried expression, the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak says, in sirihish:
  "Did daemons draw all this stuff? It...this looks familar."
  
  Glancing toward one of the statues lining the street, slowing again, you ask the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak, in sirihish:
  "Uhm. Really?"
  
  A bit lamely, you say, in sirihish:
  "I still can't make... heads or ass out of most of it."
  
  With a low nod, the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak says, in sirihish:
  "Uhm yah. Guess I...this road I came down when got lost last week."
  
  Briefly, you look at the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak.
  
  Quietly, you say, in sirihish:
  "Oh. Yeah, well. Ah."
  
  The sun rises over the spires of Allanak's east wall.
  
  The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak just shrugs, wandering.
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak looks at the patterns on the road, leaning again heavily against the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak despite walking quite easily now.
  
  Abruptly, the figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak breaks into a run.
  
  You speed up to a fast run.
  
  The tall figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak stealthily moves south.
  
  The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak skids to a stop, wrenching a look southward.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You contact the severe, blue-eyed man with the Way.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the severe, blue-eyed man:
  "Someone's sneaking around in the quarter. Taller than I am."
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak frowns a little as she glances southwards.
  
  You slow down to a brisk walk.
  
  Hissing the words, you say, in sirihish:
  "Shit, almost got a good look..."
  
  The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak wets at her lips, glancing about uncertainly again, then lets her shoulders slump.
  
  With a light blink, the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak asks, in sirihish:
  "What be...who was that?"
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  The severe, blue-eyed man sends you a telepathic message:
  "Where in the Quarter? It ain't that small."
  
  Shaking her head once, resuming her much slower pace down the street, you say, in sirihish:
  "I don't know. There are these - uhm. 'rinth rats that sneak in. Through the wall."
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the severe, blue-eyed man:
  "Down Ruk's Way. Like he came out of the 'rinth through that crack in the wall."
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak looks concerned and chews her lip, seeming to at least understand this statement.
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak says, in sirihish:
  "But they would...daemons live here? I...whira..."
  
  Sighing and looking down, the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak says, in sirihish:
  "Should probably just accept everything is weird..."
  
  A bit tensely, you say, in sirihish:
  "Yeah. That bastard in the Suk-Krath temple, he lets them come in without a -gem-."
  
  You say, in sirihish:
  "There was a flying 'rinth sharp a few weeks ago, floating around. Just - you know. Floating around."
  
  Feeling wary, you think:
  "Bet he's the same sort."
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak looks at you, clearly a little taken aback and frowning.
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak says, in sirihish:
  "Ain't...right."
  
  With another quick, loose shrug, you say, in sirihish:
  "Lady Templar saw fit to end his life for his, uhm, audacity."
  
  Abruptly, you ask the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak, in sirihish:
  "You have people skills?"
  
  Nodding firmly, the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak asks, in sirihish:
  "That be good. I know bout His Templar. What does that mean exactly? People skills?"
  
  Wetting at her lips, twisting to look ahead at the temple entrance, you say to the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak, in sirihish:
  "You don't. Okay. Don't freak out."
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak looks a little confused at you.
  
  The Temple of Ruk [S, D, Quit]
  The walls of this small temple are made of smooth mud brick, the
  greyish red color of their composition left uncovered. The air is still and
  quiet, an atmosphere of peace and silence permeating the room. Statues,
  carved of dark stone, their forms amorphous and unguessable, are spaced
  evenly around the borders, what would seem to be their gaze directed towards
  the center of the temple, where a large clay dish has been placed on a
  pedestal, filled with murky water.
  A large open archway leads south out of the temple and onto the streets
  of Allanak, while a stone spiral staircase descends into the ground below,
  covered by a thin sheet of sand.
  A burly dwarf is here, watching the area.
  A pale, purple-haired woman stands here, beside a statue.
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak has arrived from the south.
  
  You dissolve the psychic link.
  
  The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak tugs the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak in and, with her free hand, reaches back, pushing down at her cloak's hood.
  
  You lower the hood of your dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman lowers the hood of her dusty dark, hooded cloak.
  
  Her eyes tracking toward that one bit of floor that isn't floor, but is definitely sand, and definitely moving, you say, in sirihish:
  "Anyway. It gets dusty in here."
  
  Quite idly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "Yes...came here. It's nice..."
  
  Uncertainly, you look at the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman seems to focus a little more suddenly, looking uncomfortable.
  
  Pausing, you ask, in sirihish:
  "Really?"
  
  Frowning and back a little away, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "Uhm...no. Feels weird. Can...can we go? I want to go."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman takes a few more steps back, clearly having no trouble with her ankle now. She looks confused and frightened however.
  
  The thin young woman watches the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, blatantly confused.
  
  A little awkwardly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks you, in sirihish:
  "Can we go now? It's...can we go?"
  
  Persisting, you ask the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Wait - it's, what?"
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman bumps into a statue, frowning heavily.
  
  Glancing about the temple - stone statues, spiraled staircase and sand shield, you ask, in sirihish:
  "It's... Well, okay. It's dusty. Is it really that bad?"
  
  Quietly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "It feels odd. Not good really! You sure you ain't going to hurt me. You don't feel like you would but I...I'm confused. Me leg hurt but it's all better now."
  
  Hesitant before nodding quickly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Awful...terrible. The worst thing..."
  
  Tipping her head back, staring up, you say, in sirihish:
  "Weird. It's better past the sand - I lose track of the time, sometimes. I get stuck down there for weeks, just... Not even doing anything."
  
  Glancing back, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "But! I was thinking you could help tidy up the temple. Since you don't have anything better to do."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman glances towards the sand and actually steps forwards a little. She seems annoyed by this and then raises an eyebrow at you.
  
  Also glancing toward that sifting, shifting sheet of sand, you look down.
  A sheet of constantly-rippling sand bars the way down the spiral
  staircase into the depths of the temple below.
  [Near]
  Nothing.
  
  Meekly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Clean...but don't? I'm...I"
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "I ain't allowed here? Am I?"
  
  With a loose shrug, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Gul brings Oz everywhere, and he's not - he's... you know. Normal. Nobody complains. And I'm not letting you -into- the temple, anyway, just the entry room. You can keep here clean."
  
  Idly pawing at the statue she has bumped into, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "But I am normal! Why would I..."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman blinks down at herself and starts to furiously dust herself, seeming only now to be bothered by her dirt. The dirt seems to cling a little however.
  
  Uncertainly, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Don't - don't do that."
  
  The thin young woman watches the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, looking more and more confused, then abruptly steps forward.
  
  Agitated and back away from the statue, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "What? No...it's bad here. I don't like it...please. Thank ya for not eating me but can I go? I wanna go..."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman seems to want to bolt although her movements seem clusmy.
  
  Holding out her hand, murmuring sort of placatingly to her, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Hold still, 'kay? I want to see something. And I'm going to get the dirt off."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman stares at you look terrified but for some reason seems to stand still. She does not seem to understand herself.
  
  Meekly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Ya is doing something ta me. You is...trapping me. Why do you feel nice. You ain't...please let me go."
  
  The thin young woman chews at her bottom lip, regards the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, then sets her hand down on her shoulder, squeezing reassuringly.
  
  You say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Just - I, uh, haven't tried this before."
  
  A little uncertainly, you say, in sirihish:
  "It's... probably fine."
  
  The thin young woman inhales slowly through her nose, then squares her shoulders.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman tenses and freezes a little, before looking hard at you.
  
  Her hand on the scrawny, grey-eyed woman's shoulder still, the thin young woman begins to murmur, mostly under her breath - awkwardly pronounced, thick, ugly words.
  
  The earth trembles in response to your call.
  
  You utter the incantation.
  You feel a heightened awareness with the elements.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman shivers slightly, starting to weep and looking immensely confused as her body goes stiff. .
  
  The thin young woman backs off, dropping her hand, then peers about.
  
  Pausing, you look at the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  The thin young woman squints a little, then reaches up, knuckling at her temple with a sudden, sharp flinch.
  
  Stepping back slightly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "What? What did ya do ta me?"
  
  Shaking her head, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Not you. Me. Ow. And - I'm not sure."
  
  The thin young woman blinks again, then glances back to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, uncertainly.
  
  She is slightly older than you.
  She appears young for her race.
  She is slightly shorter than you.
  She weighs about the same as you.
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman is in excellent condition.
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman does not look tired.
  You sense a familiar presence within her.
  
  Face blanking, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Oh, hey."
  
  Chewing at her bottom lip, suddenly anxious, you say, in sirihish:
  "Oh. Uh."
  
  Clearly concerned, stepping back more and more, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "What? Can I go now? "
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "I really wanna go."
  
  The thin young woman holds up her hand, hesitates, then clears her throat.
  
  Sinking back onto her ass, you sit down.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman waits, seeming to be extremely confused.
  
  The thin young woman opens her mouth, as if about to speak to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, then just snaps it shut again.
  
  The thin young woman crosses her arms over your desert-camouflaged, sandcloth jacket.
  
  You think:
  "She's... she doesn't know it, yet."
  
  Finally, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Shit."
  
  You think:
  "Do I report her... or let her go?"
  
  Clearly agitated now, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "What? What ya done? Why did ya do it..."
  
  Hooking her arm about her knees again, resting her chin there with a disquieted murmur, you ask the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "I - uhm. Your pa died?"
  
  Blankly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Yah..."
  
  As equally blank, you ask the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "I'm sorry. Uhm. You hungry?"
  
  Seeming to be in a slight daze again, looking confused, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "Yah...what are ya doing ta me. I feel odd. Please let me go..."
  
  The thin young woman reaches up again, knuckles at her temple, then glances up, peering back at the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman slumps to the ground a little now.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman sits down.
  
  The thin young woman exhales slowly.
  
  Glancing back down, chin still resting on her knee, you ask, in sirihish:
  "I'm not doing anything. How'd he die?"
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  The severe, blue-eyed man sends you a telepathic message:
  "Didn't see anyone out of the ordinary. Who's your friend?"
  
  Seeming to calm down the lower she gets to the floor, frowning, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "Don't know. He was Byn...just died. That what the rent man said."
  
  You think:
  "She's - like me. And she doesn't know it."
  
  Glancing up abruptly, back to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Want to see the sand fountain? It - it scares the piss out of me, but it's sort of... I don't know. It's not bad."
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You contact the severe, blue-eyed man with the Way.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Yah...yah. I mean..."
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the severe, blue-eyed man:
  "Just some street rat I took out of the Gaj. I was going to let her sweep the temple for 'sid."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman blinks and makes to stand again.
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman stands up.
  
  Quickly amending, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "You don't have to if you - don't want to."
  
  The severe, blue-eyed man sends you a telepathic message:
  "Lemme know if you see anyone else suspicious, yeah?"
  
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  You dissolve the psychic link.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "No! Why would I? I'm going now."
  
  Wetting at her lips again, watching her, you ask the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "How long ago did he, you know? Die?"
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman starts to scurry towards the south, stopping only for a moment.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "Few...weeks. How long I been...out the flat."
  
  Hesitating, flinching as if to move after her, you ask the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "You - hey. You want a drink?"
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman stops again, looking back annoyed and fearful at you.
  
  Adding, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Or - I don't know. I don't, look. I don't bite. Really. There's a cask of flame in the barracks, by my bed."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman exclaims, in sirihish:
  "No...your a daemon trying ta curse me! Don't know why ya felt nice. I'm better now!"
  
  The thin young woman pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, watching the scrawny, grey-eyed woman still.
  
  Stumbling for the exit, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "And ya is making this place feel safe. It ain't"
  
  Breaking that glance to look down at the floor, you say, in sirihish:
  "Look - I. I want to talk."
  
  Stressing that one word, you say, in sirihish:
  "Please."
  
  You think:
  "I can't just - throw her to the templar."
  
  Quietly, looking confused again, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "Why...why do ya want to talk? I don't..."
  
  Closing her eyes and repeating the words, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "I don't want...want to stay. Uhh..."
  
  Patting the ground beside herself, just once, without looking up, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Please."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman clutches her stomach suddenly, looking faint and exhausted. She slumps to her knees again.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman frowns and tries to reach for her pack, trying to get something from it.
  
  The thin young woman seems to notice the scrawny, grey-eyed woman slump, and glances up - but only a little, watching her from the corner of her eye.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman gets her strip of dried beetle meat from her dusty bone-studded backpack.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman eats her strip of dried beetle meat.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman chews down the meat quickly, sighing as she tries to stand again. She stares at you and nods.
  
  Agaitaed, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "I want...to say yah. Yah then...I...Whira..."
  
  After a lengthy pause, you ask the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Come here. You sure your leg's better?"
  
  You think:
  "How do you break it to someone that - that they're, you know. This."
  
  Seeming quite easily obedient suddenly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks you, in sirihish:
  "My leg?"
  
  The thin young woman reaches up, fingers batting at the air by your dull black gem, but again only skirting the outline of that dull stone.
  
  Quite easily, nodding, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "It's fine. Never felt better..."
  
  With a single nod, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Mhm. You said you don't know how you hurt it, but - ? Oh."
  
  After a time, you ask, in sirihish:
  "You sure?"
  
  Quietly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Well I did fall on it. Ran into a dwarf. Lots of em everywhere. Yes...very."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman moves her foot forwards and wiggles it about a little.
  
  The thin young woman nods a few more times, watching the scrawny, grey-eyed woman wriggle her foot.
  
  Quite placid now, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "All better...just needed walk guess."
  
  Wetting at her lips, you ask the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Hey. The Lord Templar gave me something. A - statue. A little one. I can't make head or ass out of it, either, though... But - you want to see it?"
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman raises an eyebrow at you, seeming very content as she now lays on the ground near you She still looks confused but merely nods.
  
  Reaching carefully toward your long redhide pouch, the motion slow, carefully slow, you say, in sirihish:
  "Just be careful."
  
  You get your small, hard-packed sand figurine from your long redhide pouch.
  It is very light.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "Yah...why na? I...why are ya doing this. I don't want to sit but it...let me see."
  
  The thin young woman glance down over your small, hard-packed sand figurine, then holds it out aside to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  Firmly, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Careful."
  
  You give your small, hard-packed sand figurine to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman takes the item carefully, her fingers running along it's texture. She actually smiles briefly.
  
  Quite dully, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "It's nice. Smooth...."
  
  Alternating looks from the scrawny, grey-eyed woman to that figurine, nodding encouragingly, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Yeah, it's - well. I don't know. Yeah."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman furrows her brow slightly, clearly interested in looking deeper at her small, hard-packed sand figurine.
  
  Curiously, you ask the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Make anything of it?"
  
  Looking back at you, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "Yah...what ya mean? The large man? Bald...big neck? Little picture on the figure..."
  
  You think:
  "If she runs... I should tell the Lady Templar... but - that'd... Terrify her. She doesn't know it yet. She's harming nobody."
  
  Frowning and looking concerned again, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "Why...why it glow?"
  
  Holding her hand out toward her, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "It just does. I don't know. I think if I can find the man who made it - well, he'd tell me. But me? I don't know."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman gives you her small, hard-packed sand figurine.
  
  Turning it in her hand, you look at your small, hard-packed sand figurine.
  This small, three-inch tall figurine is made entirely of sand that is
  hard-packed and dense. The features are vaguely humanoid, but no sex or
  race can be determined.
  A small image glows softly upon its surface.
  
  You put your small, hard-packed sand figurine into your long redhide pouch, carefully.
  
  With a frown, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman exclaims, in sirihish:
  "I don't understand...and I...is that magick? Why would ya let me touch it!"
  
  Glancing back to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, you say, in sirihish:
  "...It - it's harmless. You want to sweep the temple? I mean, for 'sid."
  
  Turning her attention back up to the ceiling, before her eyes lid, you say, in sirihish:
  "Until you figure out what you're going to do."
  
  Feeling guilt and resignation, you think:
  "I can't. I can't do it. Not if she doesn't know."
  
  You think:
  "And I can't tell her - who'd believe that? I mean, if they were told."
  
  The thin young woman reaches up, grinding the heel of her palm at her eyes, which remain shut.
  
  With a little frown as she makes to stand, shaking her head, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "Why would I wanna do that? It...this aint a place for me. What...what did ya do to me before? Ya did something. Tell me..."
  
  The thin young woman clenches her jaw, looking briefly, abjectly, miserable.
  
  Dropping her arm, still just sitting on the floor, a distance from the nearest statue, you say, in sirihish:
  "I - I didn't know, you know. At first, for awhile."
  
  With a light blink, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "But then? What? "
  
  Uncertainly, mincing her words as she continues, you say, in sirihish:
  "It - it's better here than there. Up there. These 'toks came at this man, and I - saved him. I did it without thinking. But then I knew. And, and Tuluk, you know."
  
  Echoing, you say, in sirihish:
  "Tuluk. But - so I tried to hide it. Pretend if it wasn't there, it'd go away. But - I was in this cave, and - well. I didn't have this, then."
  
  The thin young woman reaches up, flicking her fingernail once against your dull black gem, and tenses, shoulders drawn up.
  
  Looking confused again, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "What bout Tuluk? I...they all crazy and they wear silly inks. They want to murder all normal folk. Don't know nothing more."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman steps up to you, clearly actually looking annoyed.
  
  Trailing off, you look up at the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, turning her head.
  
  Quietly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Ya making me feel safe and not so afraid. Is this how daemons eat souls? I don't like it I don't feel...like...."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman seems to lose track of what she is saying, chewing her lip.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "I dunno..."
  
  Drawing in a deep breath, the words rushing out, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "What-I'm-saying-is-if-you-like-it-here-you-should-stay."
  
  You are a little hungry.
  
  Closing her eyes a little, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "I...don't know if I like it. I don't want to like it. This is a bad place. Ya ain't right...world is dying cause of daemons. Why folk die. Once when I was young sky rained fired cause of daemons pa said..."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman takes in a heavy and tense breathe, a lot of the dirt on her form suddenly falling off quite easily.
  
  The figure in a dusty tattered, brown hooded cloak has arrived from below.
  
  Resting her cheek against her knee, now, and watching the scrawny, grey-eyed woman like that, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "I heard about that. Didn't see it."
  
  The figure in a dusty tattered, brown hooded cloak looks at the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman starts slightly, glancing at the figure in a dusty tattered, brown hooded cloak.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman looks at the figure in a dusty tattered, brown hooded cloak.
  
  Attention wandering, you look up at the figure in a dusty tattered, brown hooded cloak.
  This man has thick, messy hair that hangs roughly to his shoulders. Both
  the hair sprouting from his head like wilting plains grass and the gruff
  bear growing out of his face like lichen are a dark, muddy brown,
  interspersed with the odd, ashen gray hair. His deep-set, brown eyes are
  crowned by thick, bushy eyebrows and lined with faded kohl. A crooked,
  misshapen nose sits above a pair of thin, cracked lips, and his tanned skin
  is similarly weathered. Rounded shoulders protrude from a somewhat stocky
  torso, complimented by a paunchy gut. Stubby arms hang to just above his
  relatively wide hips, from which his legs, one slightly longer than the
  other, protrude.
  The figure in a dusty tattered, brown hooded cloak is in excellent condition.
  
  The figure in a dusty tattered, brown hooded cloak is using:
  a black, sigil-decorated sandcloth bandana
  a dull black gem
  an obsidian-tipped spear
  a pitted, deep-looking scar
  a scrap of cloth
  a jagged, ebon-black symbol
  a pair of chitin-plated leather gloves
  a dusty tattered, brown hooded cloak
  a pair of drab hempcloth trousers
  a pair of chalton leather boots
  
  He is carrying:
  nothing obvious
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You contact the stocky, gruff-bearded man with the Way.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the stocky, gruff-bearded man:
  "Leave. She's flighty. I'll explain later."
  
  The figure in a dusty tattered, brown hooded cloak glances briefly about before strolling towards the street.
  
  The figure in a dusty tattered, brown hooded cloak walks south.
  
  The thin young woman relaxes minutely.
  
  The thin young woman shifts her attention back to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  Helpfully, you say, in sirihish:
  "That was Zahiid. He's nice, but he's new."
  
  The stocky, gruff-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
  "Who is she?"
  
  Quite honestly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Don't even know why been talking to ya so long. Never talked this long with...anyone. "
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the stocky, gruff-bearded man:
  "Just a street rat, I found her in the Gaj. I was going to let her sweep the temple for some 'sid."
  
  Quirking a faint smile, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Yeah. Want that drink? It's good flame. Kadius."
  
  Looking confused again, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "Flame? What is that?"
  
  Pausing, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "It's - what it's... called. Your da kept you in there for awhile, didn't he? I mean. You didn't get out much."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman chews her lip for a moment, before nodding just once.
  
  Your awareness with the elements returns to normal.
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  Palming up, you stand up.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman falls in behind you.
  
  The thin young woman stumbles a half-step after rising, reaching up to paw once around her eyes, then shakes her head.
  
  The stocky, gruff-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
  "There is an elf in the Quarter, from the Labyrinth by the looks of it. Perhaps the same one sneaking around last week and the one before. Watch out."
  
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  The thin young woman shakes her head again, then turns, making her way toward the sheet of sifting sand and spiraled staircase beneath it.
  
  Holding her hand back out, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Here. Hold on - and shut your eyes."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman blinks and takes you's hand, merely nodding.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "Kay..."
  
  The sand over the stairs ripples and parts, rolling away from you and allowing you entrance.
  You step down the stairs.
  The curtain of sand ripples and parts before you as you descend the stairs.
  Within a Statue Ringed Chamber [S, U, Save]
  A simple, spiraling stone staircase descends from the ceiling of this
  large chamber. Carved in a single, seamless block from the living stones
  surrounding, the staircase makes a slow, curving arc around the edge of the
  circular chamber. Symbols of Ruk and Krok etch each step of the staircase,
  before disappearing into the barren, stone floor.
  Nine huge figures seem to emerge from the walls themselves, ringing the
  chamber and carved from highly polished black marble. Seemingly supporting
  the weight of the Temple above on their backs, their stylized features twist
  in concentration and strain, while corded muscles seem to move under the
  burden that they carry. Though nearly free-standing and in the round at
  times, they are half trapped within the living stone along the walls; their
  smooth, polished surfaces nearly clashing with the rough-hewn walls. Each
  statue has its own, singular rune chiseled into its forehead.
  A tunnel opens up to the south, leading between the legs of one of the
  giant figures.
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman has arrived from above.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  The thin young woman navigates the staircase blindly, but curiously adept - each step at a time, until she reaches the bottom stair.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman shivers a little, although suddenly seems extremely relaxed.
  
  The thin young woman opens her eyes, shakes herself a little, then hops that last step.
  
  A Dark Stone Passage [N, E, S, W, Save]
  This passageway seems to have been carved from the living earth
  itself, the walls bare of any decoration or adornments at all. The ground
  has been left completely bare, and only a few stones peer out of the packed
  earth, slowly worn down and polished with wear. Along the dark walls,
  stones are half-buried, nestled cozily in the secure, reddish earth. The
  occasional candle has been placed on a few conveniently outcropping stones,
  lighting the pathway, and serving as a guide in the dark passage.
  Simple archways lead to the east and west into separate chambers, while
  the passage continues on to the south.
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman has arrived from the north.
  
  The thin young woman turns, slipping toward the eastern doorway.
  
  A Simple Stone Barracks [W, Quit, Save]
  Unmarked, light-grey stone makes up the walls of this chamber, largely
  unadorned. Seeming to grow from the hard packed red earth itself are two
  rows of grey stone slabs, reaching out from the earth as if they were
  fingertips of some buried giant. Shelves have been carved directly into the
  walls themselves, and oil-burning lanterns rest in sconces shaped out of
  stones on the walls. A few chests and footlockers have been placed at the
  foot of a few of the slabs, and a large stone table cantilevers out from the
  wall.
  A simple archway leads west, into a darkened passageway.
  A large, etched wooden cask sits by one of the stone beds, near the foot of it.
  A bone sided chest sits at the foot of one of the stone beds.
  A kenku-carved wooden chest has been pushed up against the stone table.
  A golden-eyed, crimson-winged hawk sits perched on the back of a chair by the stone table, dry bird shit painting the floor around it.
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman has arrived from the west.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman opens her eyes, seeming to almost become excited as she looks around. This look is followed by a lot of agitation though.
  
  As she wanders further into the stone barracks, toward a large, etched wooden cask, you say, in sirihish:
  "I'm not sure... There's - mugs somewhere. Zhig, he fills most of them with sand, though, I don't know why, ah..."
  
  The thin young woman shoots a look at stone shelves.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman gets her strip of dried beetle meat from her dusty bone-studded backpack.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman eats her strip of dried beetle meat.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "Are we...under the earth?"
  
  You get your clay jug from stone shelves.
  It is no problem, and more than half full.
  
  Peering into your clay jug, you say, in sirihish:
  "Mhm."
  
  It's more than half full of an oily liquid.
  
  The thin young woman squints, then carries your clay jug to a cantilevered stone table, frowning uncertainly.
  
  You say, in sirihish:
  "Krath... Nobody uses - anything - for what it's supposed to be..."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman looks at you.
  
  You put your clay jug onto a cantilevered stone table.
  
  Snatching at it, you get your etched obsidian goblet from a cantilevered stone table.
  It is very light, and empty.
  
  The thin young woman upends your etched obsidian goblet, shakes it, then holds it out in the scrawny, grey-eyed woman's general direction.
  
  You give your etched obsidian goblet to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman blinks a little, looking at the goblet before lightly reaching out a thin arm and taking it. She looks at it a little oddly for a moment.
  
  You say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Don't tell me - it's for, you know."
  
  The thin young woman tips a nod at a large, etched wooden cask.
  
  With a blink and a light pout, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "Well of course I do drink...just...this is a nice looking cup. Ya really drink from it?"
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  Looking a little taken aback, you ask the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "I do. I mean - why not?"
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman moves over to a large, etched wooden cask, chewing her lip as she fills it.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  You are a little hungry.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman fills up an etched obsidian goblet from a large, etched wooden cask.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman sniffs her etched obsidian goblet and then takes a hesitant sip.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman sips from her etched obsidian goblet.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  The thin young woman leans back into a cantilevered stone table - and ignores a golden-eyed, crimson-winged hawk's reproachful squawk - and gropes back for your dusty bahamet-embroidered leather backpack.
  
  Awkwardly, you open your dusty bahamet-embroidered leather backpack.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman blinks and actually smiles for a fleeting moment.
  
  Plucking it free, you get your ripe jallal fruit from your dusty bahamet-embroidered leather backpack.
  It is very light.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "It's...nice. Never had uhm...hmm."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman quickly swings back the goblet, clearly thirsty.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman sips from her etched obsidian goblet.
  
  The thin young woman glances down at your ripe jallal fruit, then brushes it against your desert-camouflaged, sandcloth jacket a few times, her attention slipping back to settle on the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman sips from her etched obsidian goblet.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman sips from her etched obsidian goblet.
  
  You think:
  "How do I break the news? You're a - me. You're me. You're one of us."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman knocks back the goblet quite quickly, letting out a light hiccup.
  
  With a tick of her head to a large, etched wooden cask, biting into your ripe jallal fruit, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Take - much as you want."
  
  You eat part of your ripe jallal fruit, swallowing.
  You are no longer hungry.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman looks heistant.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "You...is sure?"
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  With a quick nod, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Mhm."
  
  The thin young woman brings your partially eaten ripe jallal fruit up again, taking another bite out of it.
  
  You eat part of your partially eaten ripe jallal fruit, chewing slowly.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman looks still a little unsure, before quickly going back and having another glass.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman fills up an etched obsidian goblet from a large, etched wooden cask.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman sips from her etched obsidian goblet.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman sips from her etched obsidian goblet.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman sips from her etched obsidian goblet.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman sips from her etched obsidian goblet.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman swings back another goblet, taking it quite greedily. She blinks however, a different vacant look now on her face.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  The thin young woman pushes away from a cantilevered stone table, padding past a large, etched wooden cask and straight toward a low stone bed.
  
  Perching on the edge, you sit at a low stone bed.
  
  You eat part of your half eaten ripe jallal fruit, thoughtfully.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  With an odd sort of smile, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "It's...nice. Makes ya sleep though. Why does it be doing that?"
  
  You think:
  "Maybe - she'll realize on her own. Krath."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "Sleepy even...heh...canna talk straight."
  
  With a helpless shrug, still chewing - speaking around a mouthful, you ask the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "I don't know. It just does. You tired?"
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman lightly stumbles over to a low stone bed, nodding once.
  
  Sounding a little confused again, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Little...."
  
  Quite idly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Felt like dying today...but then we went for a walk and well...felt better. Never been in a sand storm afore. Always...close shutters tight."
  
  Pushing back and sprawling out across a low stone bed, her boots planted firmly on the floor, still, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Oh. It's - ...Well."
  
  You rest on a low stone bed.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman rests at a low stone bed.
  
  The thin young woman trails off, brings up your small portion of a ripe jallal fruit again, and takes another bite of it.
  
  You eat part of your small portion of a ripe jallal fruit.
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman slumps back herself, her tension gone although she looks a little bit absent in thought.
  
  You ask the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Going to tell you something I can't tell many people. You'll keep quiet about it?"
  
  The severe, blue-eyed man sends you a telepathic message:
  "How's it goin', Dorri?"
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You are already in contact with someone else.
  
  At your seat, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says in sirihish:
  "Hmm?"
  
  You dissolve the psychic link.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman lazily looks over at you, nodding quite easily.
  
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, tipping her head back, staring up:
  "When I knew, but didn't have the gem. I was in that cave with Tho, my inix. And - then I heard this voice. And I thought it was the rocks, so I threw down my bag and said I was sorry, I wouldn't kidnap them..."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman listens idly towards you, furrowing her brow slightly.
  
  Hesitating, shrugging awkwardly against a low stone bed, you say, in sirihish:
  "Yeah, that was stupid. But it - wasn't rocks. It was an ashbringer. He let me go, sort of. I ran through a hallway and came out in the blue caverns. He said he'd come back and check on me, later...."
  
  At your seat, you say in sirihish:
  "...if - and I had to bring him gurth fat. Or he'd eat me. So I bought myself a beetle from Bam, she's Kuraci, and I rode south, here. And I found Lady Templar Oash and got my gem."
  
  At your seat, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says in sirihish, seeming to look a little concerned again:
  "Ya...ya said you don't eat people...."
  
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, shutting her eyes:
  "And it was the best thing I ever did. Food, water. A place to sleep. Tav. And - not -me-."
  
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a quiet snort:
  "Him, the - ...That one. The abomination."
  
  You aren't in contact with anyone.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You contact the severe, blue-eyed man with the Way.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the severe, blue-eyed man:
  "It's - complicated. Explain later. *harried, agitated*"
  
  The thin young woman grimaces, shakes her head, then props up on her forearms, glancing aside at the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  At your seat, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says in sirihish, clearly looking confused:
  "I dun understand. All...magick is...abomination. Like pa said."
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  The severe, blue-eyed man sends you a telepathic message:
  "Need me over there?"
  
  At your seat, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says in sirihish, rolling over slightly:
  "But you don't feel bad but...why...that's because you done something."
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the severe, blue-eyed man:
  "No."
  
  The thin young woman remains propped up, watching the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  The severe, blue-eyed man sends you a telepathic message:
  "Take care."
  
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, quietly:
  "Bet I can do something you can't."
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the severe, blue-eyed man:
  "Is the Lady Templar around? Don't tell her anything, but I may need her later."
  
  At your seat, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says in sirihish, meekly:
  "You making this place feel...not bad. But I know it is bad....what. What can ya do?"
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman turns back again, clearly a little drunk.
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, pushing up in a sudden shove, straightening by a low stone bed:
  "Shitty, shitty bread."
  
  You stand up from a low stone bed.
  
  The severe, blue-eyed man sends you a telepathic message:
  "I'll find her, but I'm gonna need to tell her more than that."
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the severe, blue-eyed man:
  "Forget it. I'll find her mind later."
  
  You dissolve the psychic link.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman leans up a little, glancing oddly at you.
  
  The thin young woman clears her throat, paces a step from a low stone bed, then holds out her arms.
  
  With another odd smile, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Can't cook well. But okay I watch...figured it out. This a dream...I sick from me leg and this be a dream."
  
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  With - of all things - a laughably dramatic flair, you exclaim, in sirihish:
  "Right! Waaaaatch that patch of floor - there!"
  
  The thin young woman points at the floor nearby, braces herself, then clears her throat.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman nods, rubbing her nose and watching you carefully.
  
  The earth trembles in response to your call.
  
  You utter the incantation.
  You lost your concentration!
  
  The thin young woman squints, blanching as nothing happens, then appears to even wilt a little.
  
  Clearing her throat, you look down at the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman blinks herself, chewing her lip.
  
  Less dramatically, and a little ashamed, you say, in sirihish:
  "That... uh. Er."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "What ruk?"
  
  Lamely, you say, in sirihish:
  "It... never fails."
  
  The thin young woman scuffs her boot at the floor, then scoots back a step.
  
  Sidelong, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Shh."
  
  The earth trembles in response to your call.
  
  You utter the incantation.
  You lost your concentration!
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman closes her mouth tight, before nodding slowly.
  
  The thin young woman hesitates, peers back at the scrawny, grey-eyed woman with a startled, guilty look, then clears her throat.
  
  The thin young woman twists, putting her back to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, and crouches down a little this time, almost nose to nose with the ground.
  
  Irritably, the thin young woman murmurs down at the floor.
  
  The earth trembles in response to your call.
  
  You utter the incantation.
  Ok.
  A kalan fruit suddenly appears.
  A charred mass of gelatinous meat suddenly appears.
  A slice of gritty brown bread suddenly appears.
  A kalan fruit suddenly appears.
  A charred mass of gelatinous meat suddenly appears.
  A charred mass of gelatinous meat suddenly appears.
  A slice of gritty brown bread suddenly appears.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman blinks and her eyes widen slightly at the amount of food that appears.
  
  Caught somewhere between relief and smug satisfaction, the thin young woman straightens up, stepping away from the pile of food.
  
  Leaning down again to snag at a kalan fruit, then straighten, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Beat that and I'll pay you two small."
  
  You pick up a kalan fruit, actually.
  It is very light.
  
  You are carrying:
  a kalan fruit
  a small portion of a ripe jallal fruit
  
  Popping it in her mouth, you eat your small portion of a ripe jallal fruit.
  
  You are carrying:
  a kalan fruit
  
  With a light blink, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks you, in sirihish:
  "I...well. Well course silly I canna do that. But that...is it safe to eat?"
  
  As she carries your kalan fruit back to a low stone bed, you say, in sirihish:
  "Mhm."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman stumbles up from where she is sitting and leans down on the ground, reaching for a peace of food.
  
  Tossing it over, you give your kalan fruit to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman eats a portion of her kalan fruit.
  
  After a slight hesitation, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Try doing what I did. For - shits and giggles. Those words. But - wek, wek, wek."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman bites into the fruit and clearly enjoys it, smiling a very small and almost guilty smile.
  
  You sit at a low stone bed, on the edge again.
  
  Quite idly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "Hmm? Wek?"
  
  With a firm nod, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Yup. Wek, not mon. Mon's a bitch."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman frowns a little, before shrugging and seeming to go along.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "Just...a dream. Silly sounding words anyway..."
  
  The thin young woman watches the scrawny, grey-eyed woman quietly, hands folded in her lap.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman stands up from a low stone bed.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman stands a little oddly and then seems to quite blatantly say the words.
  
  You think:
  "Progress. She'll acknowledge it, take the gem."
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You contact the serpentine braided woman with the Way.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman begins a spell, and the earth trembles in response.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman utters the incantation.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the serpentine braided woman:
  "Could we speak when you have a moment, Lady Templar?"
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman suddenly looks really ill, and stumbles back slightly.
  
  The serpentine braided woman sends you a telepathic message:
  "Morning Dorri, what is the problem?"
  
  Shifting forward, almost pushing off a low stone bed, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Easy - easy, sit down. You did okay - but - sit down."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman slumps back, before looking agitated. Some dirt in the air shifts as she suddenly quite simply falls unconscious on a low stone bed.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman sleeps at a low stone bed.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the serpentine braided woman:
  "There's - no problem. I'm trying to handle this... I'm trying to be gentle, but she needs a gem. When she realizes, anyway. Can you do that? Oh. Oh, she passed out. Krath."
  
  The serpentine braided woman sends you a telepathic message:
  "Who? Where are you?"
  
  The thin young woman hesitates, opens her mouth, then snaps it shut again, watching the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  The serpentine braided woman sends you a telepathic message:
  "This is nothing for you to handle, you tell me immediately if you detect a rogue."
  
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the serpentine braided woman:
  "I'm in the temple, Lady Templar. I - of... of course, Lady Templar. I'm in the temple."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman groans a little, some sand lightly laying down upon her form. She tenses visibly but after a moment seems to be sleeping almost normally.
  
  The thin young woman watches the scrawny, grey-eyed woman awhile, then pushes back on a low stone bed until she rests, back to the wall, atop it.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman breathes in and out idly for a while, sniffing just once.
  
  The thin young woman stares down at her lap then, hands folded there, looking - again - just briefly, utterly, miserable.
  
  To the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, or nobody, you say, in sirihish:
  "I'm sorry about this."
  
  You think:
  "But it's dangerous out there, and you need guidance."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman awakens.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman wakes with a start. She sits upright quickly.
  
  Still staring down at her lap, at her folded hands, you say, in sirihish:
  "Someone important's coming. If you got to puke, do it now, not then."
  
  Suddenly seeming much clearer and focused, looking extremely unhappy, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman exclaims to you, in sirihish:
  "What! What is...no...why am I here? This is a dream!"
  
  
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman stands up from a low stone bed.
  
  Gently, still without looking up, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Sit down."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman quickly tries to stand up, immensely tense.
  
  The serpentine braided templar has arrived from the west.
  The half-giant soldier has arrived from the west.
  
  Quite childishly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "No! Let me go! Don't hurt me! Wha ya done to me! I..."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman blinks and looks upon the serpentine braided templar She quite quickly falls to the ground, head held low.
  
  The thin young woman glances toward the serpentine braided templar, then pushes up from a low stone bed.
  
  You stand up from a low stone bed.
  
  Pacing into the barracks and stopping before the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, the serpentine braided templar asks, in sirihish:
  "Morning, Dorri... and who is this?"
  
  The serpentine braided templar looks down at the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  The thin young woman immediately doubles in a bow, though her attention slips toward the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  Straightening uncertainly, you say, in sirihish:
  "She's - like me. She doesn't know it yet."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman is quite clearly terrified in the prescene of the serpentine braided templar.
  
  Mumbling, clearly agitated and tearful, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman exclaims to the serpentine braided templar, in sirihish:
  "Mercy Lady Templar! The daemon did something ta me! I is stupid! Help me...mercy please I ain't done nothing wrong please mercy!"
  
  Staring down at her coldly, the serpentine braided templar asks the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Get up. What is your name?"
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman shuts her mouth and stumbles up to stand.
  
  Very meekly, weeping openly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to the serpentine braided templar, in sirihish:
  "Brel...."
  
  Glancing aside to you, the serpentine braided templar asks the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "What did Dorri do to you then?"
  
  Feeling conflicted, you think:
  "I can't let her go, I couldn't have. It... had to be like this."
  
  Clearly panicked, her words jumbled, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman exclaims to the serpentine braided templar, in sirihish:
  "Made me come to this demon place! And...made it feel not bad! But I know magick be bad! I didn't do anything Lady Templar. Please dun kill me I do anything ya say!"
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  Without a trace of emotion, the woman's posture strictly rigid, the serpentine braided templar asks you, in sirihish:
  "You are sure?"
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman continues to weep, though her terror in front of the serpentine braided templar seems to be keeping her quite rigid.
  
  The thin young woman glances from the scrawny, grey-eyed woman to the serpentine braided templar.
  
  After a noticeable hesitation, you say to the serpentine braided templar, in sirihish:
  "I'm - yes."
  
  Amending, you say, in sirihish:
  "Yes, Lady Templar."
  
  Squinting at her, the serpentine braided templar asks the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "So are you, Brel? Are you touched by Ruk?"
  
  Clearly looking uncertain in her weeping, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks the serpentine braided templar, in sirihish:
  "No I...I ain't a daemon Lady Templar. What...what is Ruk?"
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  Snapping her fingers at you, the serpentine braided templar says, in sirihish:
  "Explain it to her."
  
  With a flick of her wrist, looking irritated, the serpentine braided templar says, in sirihish:
  "I am not in the mood for this either."
  
  Dropping back onto a low stone bed, murmuring wearily, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Ruk and Krok. The stone. What you did earlier, with the words. Why you like it here. Why dirt sticks."
  
  You sit at a low stone bed.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman looks upset and darts a glance at you, before frowning and shaking her head.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman exclaims, in sirihish:
  "Ya making me feel sick. Ya making me feel like that! Why? What did ya do ta me!"
  
  You think:
  "That's it, I'm never going to the Gaj again."
  
  With that same, patient weariness, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "I can't do that. I can do - crazy, crazy shit. But I can't make you do it. That's - you."
  
  Looking between you and the scrawny, grey-eyed woman with a bored expression, the serpentine braided templar asks, in sirihish:
  "What did you do Brel?"
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman whimpers in response, glancing at the serpentine braided templar and then looking down at her feet. She clearly has no response.
  
  Quietly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to the serpentine braided templar, in sirihish:
  "Don't...know Lady Templar. Nothing makes sense I...she touched me earlier and started saying all these things. I dun understand my Lady Templar. Please don't...be angry."
  
  Quietly, you say to the serpentine braided templar, in sirihish:
  "She spoke words and Ruk responded. The ground, anyway, Lady Templar. The way it does when I do things."
  
  Crossing her arms, finally annoyed, the serpentine braided templar says to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Show me what Dorri means or I will slay you."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman looks utterly helpless, glancing at you.
  
  Softly, even encouragingly, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "It's okay. Go on."
  
  Meekly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks you, in sirihish:
  "What...words?"
  
  With a sharp inhale, you say, in sirihish:
  "The words you said before - just like that. Each word, like that."
  
  Adding quickly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "I'll say em Lady Templar! But what...I dun remember."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman clearly makes to repeat the words, showing no inkling of their meaning.
  
  The serpentine braided templar remains patiently annoyed, the half-giant soldier trying to be tough at her side but clearly confused.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman begins a spell, and the earth trembles in response.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman utters the incantation, 'wek un ruk wilith wril'.
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman gestures, summoning food from the air itself.
  A charred mass of gelatinous meat suddenly appears.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman blinks and shudders violently for a moment, staring at what appears before her.
  
  The thin young woman wets at her lips, glances down at a charred mass of gelatinous meat, then clears her throat.
  
  The thin young woman opens her mouth, then shuts it again, staring at the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  You think:
  "What do I say? Congratulations? This - this was like rape."
  
  Feeling disgusted, you think:
  "This is rape. She didn't know, and I forced her into it. And the gem."
  
  Tilting her head at her, unfazed by the magick, the serpentine braided templar asks the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Not a very appetising meal is it? You need practice. You do know what this means now, don't you?"
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman shakes her head, her expression once of honest unknowing.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks the serpentine braided templar, in sirihish:
  "I dun...ya...slay me?"
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  Slipping a hand into her blue, hooded templar's robe, the serpentine braided templar says to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "That you must be marked as an elementalist of Ruk, Brel."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman weeps a little quiter now, clearly very tired. She blinks as the serpentine braided templar speaks and simply nods obediently.
  
  The serpentine braided templar pulls a dull black gem out of a blue, hooded templar's robe.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman tenses as she looks at the black gem.
  
  Extending her dull black gem to her by the cord, careful not to touch the dark material, the serpentine braided templar says to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "It is a mark of His Blessing, a sign you follow His Will. It binds you to His Service and in it you will find purpose."
  
  Quietly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "His...his Blessing? His Service? It...it is Lady Templar?"
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman steps forwards, clearly upset and afraid.
  
  Still holding her dull black gem out to her, the serpentine braided templar says to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Yes, Brel. Dorri will explain it in further detail. The rules, your new life... ... or you may flee Allanak, never to return."
  
  Clearly looking agitated, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to the serpentine braided templar, in sirihish:
  "Na! Na Lady Templar I want ta serve! I don't want to leave. I...do anything ya say."
  
  Nodding softly, the serpentine braided templar says to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Then accept His Gem, Brel."
  
  Passing it across, the serpentine braided templar gives her dull black gem to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  The thin young woman reaches up, pinching at the bridge of her nose, and watches the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman blinks and nods quickly, before lightly putting on the gem.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman tilts her head forward and fastens her dull black gem about her throat.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman does it in a clumsy fashion, looking a little confused.
  
  The thin young woman exhales shortly, clearly relieved.
  
  Aside to her, the serpentine braided templar says to you, in sirihish:
  "I am busy Dorri, but do not 'handle' them yourself. Tell her what she needs to know."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman merely slumps now, bowing low before the serpentine braided templar and looking extremely lost.
  
  Her attention still on the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, you say to the serpentine braided templar, in sirihish:
  "If I'd known in the Gaj what she was, Lady Templar, I wouldn't have."
  
  You think:
  "I would have turned the other cheek and left."
  
  Before turning on her heel and marching away, the serpentine braided templar says to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "His Shadow shelter you Brel."
  
  The serpentine braided templar walks west.
  The half-giant soldier walks west.
  
  The thin young woman bows her head, slumping on a low stone bed, and crosses her arms over your desert-camouflaged, sandcloth jacket again.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman is quite silent, her expression vacant.
  
  Flatly, finishing, you say, in sirihish:
  "I'd have... turned, left. This was rape."
  
  Without looking up, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "I'm sorry. You should probably sit down."
  
  
  Starting to cry again, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks you, in sirihish:
  "Why didn't ya let me go? I...why has this happened? How can I be a daemon?"
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman slumps onto a low stone bed and starts to weep quietly.
  
  The thin young woman looks more and more miserable, eyes trained on her lap.
  
  Lamely, you say, in sirihish:
  "I didn't know - and then, when I did, I - had to cover my own ass. It's... better this way. Trust me, it's better."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman clutches her arms and lets out a pitiful sigh.
  
  The thin young woman clenches her jaw, flexing it from side to side, back teeth grinding lightly.
  
  Quietly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks you, in sirihish:
  "Is it? I...don't. Would...what if we had na spoken? What if ya had left me hurt and alone like everyone else?"
  
  Flopping back with a ragged exhale, you rest on a low stone bed.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman sits at a low stone bed.
  
  Shutting her eyes, draping an arm across her face, you say, in sirihish:
  "I don't know. It comes out eventually."
  
  At your seat, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says in sirihish, with a light blink:
  "It...does?"
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman sniffles a little, rubbing her brow slightly.
  
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, just lying there:
  "Yeah."
  
  The figure in a dusty tattered, brown hooded cloak has arrived from the west.
  
  At your seat, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says in sirihish, chewing her lip slightly:
  "Why did ya bring me here...did ya know from the start?"
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman sits up quickly, gaze upon the figure in a dusty tattered, brown hooded cloak.
  
  As he enters, the figure in a dusty tattered, brown hooded cloak says to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:
  "Dorri, I am going hunting before sundown."
  
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, shaking her head, arm still draped over her face:
  "No. I didn't know."
  
  The thin young woman lifts her arm and props up, glancing toward the figure in a dusty tattered, brown hooded cloak.
  
  You say to the figure in a dusty tattered, brown hooded cloak, in sirihish:
  "Hood down, Zahiid, and say hello. This is - uhm."
  
  Uncertainly, you look at the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  Glancing at the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, the figure in a dusty tattered, brown hooded cloak says to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:
  "Any chance you could do that thing that made me stronger? I would like to maximize my chances of not being scrab food."
  
  The stocky, gruff-bearded man lowers the hood of his dusty tattered, brown hooded cloak.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman stares blankly at the stocky, gruff-bearded man.
  
  After a pause, you say to the stocky, gruff-bearded man, in sirihish:
  "Brel? Brel - and, I can't. Not if you're running around the city with it on, it's not subtle enough."
  
  The stocky, gruff-bearded man says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
  "Walking from here to the gates, but..."
  
  The stocky, gruff-bearded man shrugs his shoulders.
  
  Pushing up with a soft huff, you stand up from a low stone bed.
  
  Pacing away from a low stone bed, you say to the stocky, gruff-bearded man, in sirihish:
  "If you get caught, I'm not covering for you."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman clutches herself tight, clearing her face up a little.
  
  The stocky, gruff-bearded man says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
  "I will blame gypsies."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman looks up at the stocky, gruff-bearded man.
  
  With a tip of her head, gesturing back at the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, you say to the stocky, gruff-bearded man, in sirihish:
  "Gypsies are good. Say hello. She's - ... really new."
  
  Offering a lazy wave, the stocky, gruff-bearded man says to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in tribal-accented sirihish:
  "Hello. I am Zahiid."
  
  Wincing a little before offering a weak nod, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to the stocky, gruff-bearded man, in sirihish:
  "Brel...ello."
  
  The thin young woman stops well short of the stocky, gruff-bearded man and shuts her eyes, shoulders back.
  
  A charred mass of gelatinous meat fades from existence.
  
  The earth trembles in response to your call.
  
  You utter the incantation.
  You lost your concentration!
  
  The thin young woman flinches, takes a step to the side, then glances about, blinking rapidly.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman shivers just a little at the shuddering earth, biting her lip.
  
  Glancing back to the stocky, gruff-bearded man, shaking her head again, you say, in sirihish:
  "Yes - No. No, krath. What's - wrong with me..."
  
  Raising an eyebrow, the stocky, gruff-bearded man asks you, in tribal-accented sirihish:
  "Hm?"
  
  The thin young woman rolls her shoulders, shakes her head yet again, then inhales slowly, beginning that low, slow murmur.
  
  The earth trembles in response to your call.
  
  You utter the incantation.
  Ok.
  You exhale a sandy cloud towards the stocky, gruff-bearded man, and his muscles bulge with newfound strength.
  
  Flinging her hand the stocky, gruff-bearded man's way, all the dust and grit in the room shifting toward him, you say to the stocky, gruff-bearded man, in sirihish:
  "I - no, I'm fine."
  
  Wiggling his fingers, the stocky, gruff-bearded man says to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:
  "My thanks."
  
  The thin young woman drops her arm and the dust and grit drops, too, and she turns.
  
  The thin young woman nods wearily, moving stiffly back to a low stone bed.
  
  To nobody in particular, the stocky, gruff-bearded man says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
  "His Shadow."
  
  The stocky, gruff-bearded man walks west.
  
  Briefly, you look west.
  West, through a door, is a Dark Stone Passage.
  The door is open.
  [Far]
  Nothing.
  [Near]
  Nothing.
  
  You sit at a low stone bed, on the edge.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman stares a little the leaving man, before glancing back to you.
  
  Reaching up to pinch at the bridge of her nose, kneading at the skin there, you say, in sirihish:
  "You can catch up with him, if you'd like. But he's reckless. He's likely to die out hunting scrab like that."
  
  At your seat, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says in sirihish, quiet idly, her weeping seeming to have calmed:
  "No...he is weird. I...if you didn't want to kill me or eat me. And ya didn't know...why did ya want me to come with you?"
  
  Taking an idle bite, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman eats a portion of her partially eaten kalan fruit.
  
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, lamely:
  "I - don't know. You looked like you needed help, and I thought I'd let you sweep the temple, then toss you a small or two."
  
  Quietly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks you, in sirihish:
  "You wanted to help me?"
  
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a sudden, flinching laugh:
  "Yes - yes! Krath, I'm sorry."
  
  Idly looking at her feet, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Other girl did not want to. Ya see her. Saying things on somethings called kruth cards. Making things up but folk payed her and stuff. Said she was getting a job."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "Thought cards telling things sounded unnatural. daemon talk....I...so...I am a daemon?"
  
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, musingly, staring down at her hands:
  "Some help I am. You're a - a Rukkian."
  
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, firmly:
  "Like me."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman slumps forwards slightly.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "Like...you?"
  
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, scooting back along a low stone bed again, pressing into the wall:
  "Mhm."
  
  At your seat, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says in sirihish, with a deep and weary breathe:
  "Uhm...kay. I...so what happens now?"
  
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, shutting her eyes:
  "I don't know. Same as before, but... well, with - this, now."
  
  The thin young woman reaches up, about to touch your dull black gem, but draws her hand back short of it.
  
  You think:
  "Good question. What now. Krath - I don't know."
  
  Quietly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Before I was trying to find some work ta be doing so I did na starve. I can't do much but sweep and clean..."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman touches her dull black gem herself, wincing a little.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "It...come off now?"
  
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, her hand dropping, shaking her head:
  "Never. Not when you sleep, when you eat, when you fuck, or even die. It's - you get used to it."
  
  At your seat, you say in sirihish:
  "After awhile."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman tugs on her dull black gem, before nodding slightly.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman collapses to the ground in agony.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman winces and quickly withdraws her hand.
  
  The thin young woman's face blanks and she shoots a startled look at the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "Uh...uh sorry. I...see. Uhhhh...."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman takes in a deep breathe, clearly pained.
  
  Leaning over, holding her hand out to her, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Here. Don't do that."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman seems hesitant to take you's hand, but she takes it and then grips it hard.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Dorri. I dun know what ta do...."
  
  The thin young woman squeezes back, some half-hearted attempt at comfort, and tips her head back again, looking up.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman sniffles a little, leaning over closer to you.
  
  A little wryly, you ask the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Did you before?"
  
  Quietly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Things made sense before...now they make even less sense. Although..."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman rests at a low stone bed.
  
  At your seat, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says in sirihish:
  "Least me leg feels better...."
  
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, resting her head back against the wall, shutting her eyes:
  "You won't starve. There's water in the cistern in the hall, and - if you need food... You can - well, you can ask. Or - make it, but - there's... no pressure to do that. Unless you want..."
  
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, clearing her throat:
  "Unless you want to."
  
  At your seat, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says in sirihish, with a light sniff:
  "I'm...tired. Dorri is there anything real important I should know now? I...I'm really tired."
  
  The thin young woman turns her head, opens an eye, and glances toward the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman looks quite intently at you now.
  
  At your seat, you say in sirihish:
  "No magick outside of the quarter. Don't break the laws. Don't practice but in the temple. Do not shit on the floor, this isn't the fucking T'zai Byn."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman blinks slightly at the last part.
  
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, tone gentling:
  "And this is -my- bed."
  
  At your seat, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says in sirihish:
  "I...they do that?"
  
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, glancing briefly westward:
  "Zhig - you'll meet him. He's a dwarf."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman slowly makes to stand, idly placing her etched obsidian goblet down as well.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman puts her etched obsidian goblet into stone shelves.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman stands up from a low stone bed.
  
  Glancing around and rubbing her neck, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "You live here?"
  
  Shutting her eye again, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "You can sleep here if you'd like, if it makes you feel better. And - I do, yeah. It's... I can't sleep in an apartment. It's - look, forget it."
  
  After a pause, you say, in sirihish:
  "And - don't go into the 'rinth. Never."
  
  Your mood is now tired.
  
  Nodding quietly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "I...can I sleep her now? I'll sleep on tha floor and then I'll...go somewhere else later. Why would I go ta tha rinth? Everyone there is a murdered and a necker and a fiend and..."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman blinks slightly, looking troubled about something.
  
  Pushing up, you stand up from a low stone bed.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "One last thing...before that word...Ashbiter. Ya...so...we ain't that?"
  
  Padding away from a low stone bed, you say, in sirihish:
  "Sleep there. We ain' - we aren't."
  
  The thin young woman nods back toward a low stone bed.
  
  Stepping over to a low stone bed, meekly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks you, in sirihish:
  "I don't have to...eat souls and hurt folk?"
  
  Shaking her head, standing there awkwardly apart from a low stone bed, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "No."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman chews her lip, nodding in a dumb fashion. She moves over to a low stone bed and slumps into it.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "I'm sorry for....saying mean things afore..."
  
  Just standing there, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "It's okay."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman quite quickly slumps into a slumber. It is clearly a very deep one.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman has departed from the land of Zalanthas.
  
  You think:
  "What is this, atonement?"
  
  The thin young woman watches a low stone bed awhile, then paces to a cantilevered stone table.
  
  The thin young woman pulls a chair out from a cantilevered stone table and straddles it, leaning forward against the wicker wood backing, and props her chin against it.
  
  Feeling unsettled, you think:
  "My way of apologizing, I guess. Krath, I'm tired."
  
  The thin young woman shuts her eyes, slumped in that chair, and gradually dozes like that - arms crossed, head tipped forward.
  
  Come back soon!

  
  Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
  You pass beneath the shadow of the red sandstone templar statue.
  The Gladiator and the Gaj Tavern -- Main Room [N, E, S, Quit]
  This common room composes the bulk of the Gladiator and the Gaj
  Tavern, a bustling establishment founded in the Year of...
  Continue Reading...
• 

  The Grey Hunt - Part 3 by Adhira
  Added on Mar 4, 2016

  The winner is finally announced.

  ---

  Scene: The Silverwood Estate

  Event: The Grey Hunt Announcement

  Note: Staff view of thinks and feels has been left in to enhance the scene.

   

  <! As seen by Amos/Malik and his alter ego-->

  
  Someone thinks:
       "Hmm."
  
   << The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar feels curious. >>
  
  
  The spangled-blond, muscular woman snakes her way through the crowd.
  
  
  The short, dusky woman thinks:
       "What the fuck?"
  
  
  With a swift glane, the scruffy, brown-haired youth looks at the spangled-blond, muscular woman .
  
  
  The pearl-haired Lirathan templar begins guarding the tall, muscular man.
  
  
  The svelte, top-knotted woman glances to the freckled, light-skinned man then back up to the stage in confusion and alarm.
  
  
  The short-haired, jade-eyed Lirathan templar begins guarding the tall, muscular man.
  
  One eye narrowed, the sinewy, weather-worn man looks down at the spangled-blond, muscular woman.
  
  The tiny, reed-like Jihaen templar begins guarding the tall, muscular man.
  
  The very short and thick male wearing a bloodied runic, fire-scorched mask looks up at the tall, muscular man.
  
  [[You get the strangest impression that the tall, muscular man is actually growing taller.]]
  
  << The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette feels absolutely confused. >>
  
  
  The willowy, grey-streaked man thinks:
       "What the fuck?"
  
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man thinks:
       "What the fuck?"
  
  The willowy, grey-streaked man looks at the tall, muscular man.
  
  
  The stocky, clean-shaven man thinks:
       "This is..."
  
  
  Tilting her head, the dusky, sorrel-curled woman looks up at the tall, muscular man.
  
  
  Slowly, the short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales tilts her head to the side.
  
  
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "What the... fuck is happening."
  
  The stout, heavily-scarred dwarf looks up at the tall, muscular man.
  
  
  The short, dusky woman thinks:
       "What.. what.. what.. what?"
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man 's eyes widen as he watches.

  
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar swallows hard, her eyes growing wide.
  
  
  Squinting quizzically, the lofty, cunyati-tanned man looks down at the spangled-blond, muscular woman.
  
  
  The stocky, clean-shaven man's jaw drops open, slowly.
  
  
  The skeletal, dark-skinned Jihaen templar begins guarding the tall, muscular man.
  
  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar's gaze drifts to the spangled-blond, muscular woman a look of realization coming over him.
  
  The sinewy, bald-headed man reaches over, grabbing the scruffy, brown-haired youth's elbow, with a firm hand.
  
  
  The spangled-blond, muscular woman takes a step back.
  
  
  The grey-haired, fiery-eyed woman tilts her head as she watches.
  
  
  Squinting quizzically, the lofty, cunyati-tanned man looks at the tall, muscular man.
  
  
  With a furrowing of his brow, the trim, ashen-skinned man looks up at the tall, muscular man.
  
  
  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar thinks:
       "That is His Radiance?"
  
  
  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette stares wide-eyed at the tall, muscular man.
  
  
  The willowy, grey-streaked man thinks:
       "No."
  
  
  Without even seeming to realize it, the short, dusky woman clutches the stocky, clean-shaven man's arm, staring at the tall, muscular man.
  
  
  Eyes narrowing, the swarthy, aging man looks up at the tall, muscular man.
  
  
  The pockmarked, well-toned man swallows, watching the tall, muscular man.
  
  
  The dusky, sorrel-curled woman's breath catches.
  
  
  The scruffy, brown-haired youth's eyes widen noticeably and without a thought he seeks to spring forward but is held in check by the sinewy, bald-headed man.
  
  
  << The short, fire-blackened woman feels utterly fucking gobsmacked. >>
  
  
  Adjusting her wig, the robust, coppery-curled teen looks up at the spangled-blond, muscular woman.
  
  
  Under his breath, the willowy, grey-streaked man says, in southern-accented sirihish:
       "No."
  
  
  The chubby, brown-haired man's eyes widen, watching.
  
  
  Curiously as he glances between him and the skeletal, dark-skinned Jihaen templar, the sinewy, obsidian-haired man looks up at the tall, muscular man.
  
  
  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man reaches up to touch his forehead, mouth agape as he looks at the tall, muscular man.
  
  
  [[The unremarkable features of the tall, muscular man become more defined, and his complexion takes on a remarkably healthy luster.]]
  
  
  The willowy, brown-haired young man frowns broadly, pushing himself to his feet very quickly.
  
  
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar goes to one knee before the tall, muscular man, her head bowed to the ground.
  
  
  The willowy, brown-haired young man stands up from a long wooden bench.
  
  
  The pockmarked, well-toned man thinks:
       "What's going on?"
  
  
  The spangled-blond, muscular woman's expression shifts from concern to puzzlement.
  
  
  Mouth falling open and food falling out, the freckled, light-skinned man eats his small portion of a baguette of brown bread.
  
  
  The trim, ashen-skinned man thinks:
       "What the fuck..."
  
  
  The stocky, clean-shaven man quickly removes his hand from beneath his cloak, empty, his eyes wide.
  
  
  The short, dusky woman thinks:

       "What.. what.. wh.."
  
  
  The very short and thick male wearing a bloodied runic, fire-scorched mask thinks:
       "Muk...no way."
  
  
  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man stands up from a long wooden bench.
  
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man stands up from a long, white painted table.
  
  

  
  [[Beneath his brows, the tall, muscular man's eyes seem to grow darker, yet strangely clearer and more compelling.]]
  
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man thinks:
       "He's growin' huge!"
  
  You notice the robust, coppery-curled teen glancing at the robust, coppery-curled teen .
  
  
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "Dang, who is this guy, and... well, if the Faithful are bowin' to him, guess I sure will."
  
  
  On her knee in the grass, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar watches the tall, muscular man in wonder.
  
  
  The ethereal, fair-haired woman watches the tall, muscular man, enraptured, frozen in place.
  
  
  [[The tall, muscular man's hair twines itself into numerous braids, no longer mousy in appearance but taking on a lustrous red hue.]]
  
  
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar thinks:
       "Is it... could it be...?"
  
  
  The trim, ashen-skinned man thinks:
       "Who..the Krath.."
  
  
  Chewing at her thumbnail, the robust, coppery-curled teen looks up at the tall, muscular man.
  
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man glances towards the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar, then back to the tall, muscular man.
  
  
  Blinking rapidly, the curvy, jallal-tressed maiden looks up at the tall, muscular man.
  
  
  The stocky, clean-shaven man drops down to both knees before the tall, muscular man.
  
  
  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man kneels, falling forward onto his chest, arms outstretched above him as he presses his face into the grass.
  
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man thinks:
       "Oh, fuck."
  
  
  << The earthy, sienna-maned woman feels a bolt of high reverence. >>
  
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man thinks:
       "Utep??"
  
  
  His mouth agape the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar watches the tall, muscular man in astonishment.
  
  
  The trim, ashen-skinned man looks at the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar then widens his eyes back at the tall, muscular man.
  
  
  Feeling abject shock, the swarthy, aging man thinks:
       "No way... No way under Krath..."
  
  
  << The spangled-blond, muscular woman feels your heart beat faster, pounding between her ribs. >>
  
  
  His eyes narrowing, as he watches him, the sinewy, bald-headed man looks up at the tall, muscular man.
  
  
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden thinks:
       "What the...?"
  
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man's jaw drops as he watches the tall, muscular man, his attention fixed.
  
  
  The willowy, brown-haired young man shoves his way through the crowd until he reaches the lanky, indigo-tressed woman, arm reaching slowly over his right shoulder.
  
  
  << The short, fire-blackened woman feels utterly astounded, every muscle frozen and tensed. >>
  
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man falls to both knees, lowering his head quickly.

  
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man glances from side to side, a bit confused, and follows suit with the templars, falling to his knees in deference to the tall, muscular man... though still completely mystified, by all appearances.
  
  
  The very short and thick male wearing a bloodied runic, fire-scorched mask thinks:
       "Well fucken shit...guess he ain't some old wrinkled fart in a pyramid after all."
  
  
  
  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man thinks:
       "My King... I bask in Your Gloriousness."
  
  The chubby, brown-haired man moves to his feet, watching.
  
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden fiddles around in disbelief, her body teeming with energy but her mind obviously confused.
  
   
  Having sunk to her knees in shock and wonder, the short, dusky woman stares, mouth open, then lowers her eyes.
  
   
   This large man towers at least eight feet above the ground, much larger
  and taller than most other men.  From his head, crimson braids, the color of
  wet blood upon a battlefield, cascade down his massive, muscular back.  His
  features appear to be the work of some master sculptor, where every nuance
  must be pleasing and familiar to the eye, the flat planes of his face
  chiseled and stern, yet personable and illuminated with perfect health.  His
  tan skin almost seems to glow with a brilliant light, and his dark eyes seem
  to be filled with endless depths of wisdom, knowledge, and humor regarding
  all they survey.  
  The immense, crimson-braided man is in excellent condition.
  
  <worn around neck>       a sunburst decorated silk shoulder-cape
  <slung across back>      an old runed, ivory-hilted steel greatsword
  <worn on torso>          a loose tunic of white silk
  <worn around wrist>      a ruby-set silver bracelet
  <worn on right finger>   a bejewelled golden ring
  <worn on left finger>    a ruby-jeweled golden ring
  <worn as belt>           a white and flame-red silk scarf
  <worn on legs>           a pair of white silk pantaloons
  <worn on feet>           a pair of silver-toed leather boots
  
  
  The trim, ashen-skinned man thinks:
       "SHIT!  IS HE GOING TO ATTACK?!"
  
  Blinking rapidly, the stout, heavily-scarred dwarf stands up from a long wooden bench.
  
  Peering over the crowd as some drop to their knees, the extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales stands up from a long wooden bench.
  
  Following suit with the crowd to kneel, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette sits down.
  
  [[Now towering above the tallest human, the immense, crimson-braided man's physique is imposing despite his relaxed posture.]]
  
  The scruffy, brown-haired youth looks up at you.
  
  << The lofty, cunyati-tanned man feels amazement. >>
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "Krath, could it actually be Him?"
  
  << The trim, ashen-skinned man feels worried about Paryl attacking the man...what might be Muk. >>
  
  The willowy, grey-streaked man looks up at you.
  
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden thinks:
       "Is it...?  I mean, could it be...?"
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man sits down.
  
  Tugging at his arm, the sinewy, bald-headed man whispers something to the scruffy, brown-haired outh .
  
  For just a moment, then quickly tearing her gaze away, the extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales looks up at you.
  
   The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar drops to a knee immediatly.
  
   Sucking in air, the trim, ashen-skinned man looks up at you.
  
  The spangled-blond, muscular woman thinks:
       "I don't understand"
  
  The pockmarked, well-toned man shakes his head slowly, quickly sliding from a long wooden bench to fall to his knees.
  
  As he slowly takes a knee, the sinewy, bald-headed man looks up at you.
  
  The scruffy, brown-haired youth kneels suddenly.
  
  Mouth hanging open, the swarthy, aging man looks up at you.
  
  
  With a just a brief raise of her eyes, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette looks up at you.
  
  Silently, her hands trembling, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar watches you silently.
   
  Falling to a respectful kneel as though forcefully tugged to the ground, the extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales sits down to rest.
  
  Falling to a knee beside her chair, the svelte, top-knotted woman sits down.
  
  The extremely short male wearing a bloodied runic, fire-scorched mask looks up at you.

  
  Jaw falling slack, the dusky, sorrel-curled woman looks up at you.
  
  Forgoing staying on his knees, the freckled, light-skinned man just completely prostrates himself.
  
  Glancing up carefully, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man looks up at you.
  
  The willowy, grey-streaked man's jaw drops and he just stares at you, standing among the kneeling crowd.
  
  The short, lithe young man stands up from a long wooden bench.
  
  The ethereal, fair-haired woman drops to both knees, posture rigid as she... stares up at you.
  
  After a moment of looking around, the curvy, jallal-tressed maiden drops herself to the floor and places her head to the ground, mumbling incoherently.

  
  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar thinks:
       "He has graced us with His Presence."
  
  Just..... staring, the short, dusky woman looks up at you.
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden sits down.
   
  The sinewy, weather-worn man's attention snaps to the side in surprise and then quickly falls to one knee.
  
  The trim, ashen-skinned man thinks:
       "Fuck no."
  
  
  The immense, crimson-braided man stands on the stage, folding his arms over his massive chest as he looks out at the crowd.
  
  The sinewy, obsidian-haired man gasps for a moment, his thick carru and cheese sandwich falling from his mouth to land on his lap, before falling forward on his knee afterward.
  
  The willowy, brown-haired young man blinks quickly and hesitantly drops to one knee.
  
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden looks up at you.
  
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "What is going on?!"
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man sits down.
   
  The freckled, light-skinned man thinks:
       "Sun King!  I had no idea!"
  
  The scruffy, brown-haired youth hangs his head low, knelt beside the sinewy, bald-headed man, silent and unmoving, his eyes widened in disbelief.
  
  The extremely short male wearing a bloodied runic, fire-scorched mask  chuckles quietly and slaps a long wooden bench.
  
  The spangled-blond, muscular woman sinks to her knees slowly.
  
  The stout, heavily-scarred dwarf drops slowly to a knee, gazing about in surprise.
  
  His attention completely set upon you, the lofty, cunyati-tanned man looks up at you.

  
  Jaw dropping, the robust, coppery-curled teen looks up at you.
  
  Only briefly daring to look up, the svelte, top-knotted woman looks up at you.
  
  The trim, ashen-skinned man gives another awe filled look at you then slowly lowers to one knee.
  
  The short, lithe young man hurries to kneel.
  
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden thinks:
       "Look at-- is it-- no, I don't-- He would-- no no-- what?"
  
  A tear touching the corner of her eyes, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar averts her gaze from you.
  
  << The swarthy, aging man feels fear. >>
  The swarthy, aging man thinks:
       "Krath shade us, and may we shelter in the lee of Whira's fury!"
  
  The grey-haired, fiery-eyed woman rises to her feet and bows respectfully to you, her eyes wide.
  The sinewy, obsidian-haired man looks up at you.
  
  << The ethereal, fair-haired woman feels ... utterly... at... a... loss... >>
  Turning his eyes up briefly, the sinewy, weather-worn man looks up at you.
  
  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man thinks:
       "And here... here is the source of the Light. This is what I have fought my entire life for. My life is yours, Your Gloriousness, should you require it."
  
   
  The short, lithe young man looks up at you.
  
   
  << The trim, ashen-skinned man feels impressed, so damn impressed. >>
  << The ethereal, fair-haired woman feels stunned >>
  
   
  [[You feel an upwelling of joy and happiness in the immense man's presence.]]
  
   
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden stares at you for a moment and then quickly lowers her eyes, mumbling soft prayers.
  
   
  The spangled-blond, muscular woman looks up at you.
  
   
  << The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar feels your heart expand to bursting. >>
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar  thinks:
       "It is Him~  He is here... what an incredible honor."
  
   
  Eyes darting upwards briefly, then quickly returning to the ground, the stout, heavily-scarred dwarf looks up at you.
  
   
  << The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette feels utterly astonished and quite frightened. >>
  
   
  << The stocky, clean-shaven man feels completely voiceless. >>
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man sucks in air as he shudders.
  
   
  Takinig a deep breath, the chubby, brown-haired man looks up at you.
  
   
  The freckled, light-skinned man thinks:
       "Sun King!  I..."
  
   
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "Dang, dang, dang, fuckin' shit. This is intense."
  
   
  The willowy, brown-haired young man scans the crowd, brow knitted in confusion, and allows himself a brief glance at you with squinted eyes.
  
   
  His eyes misting the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar raises his gaze looking serenly at you.
  
   
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "Who is he?"
  
   
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "I feel so..."
  
   
  Sliding limply off a long wooden bench to his knees, the swarthy, aging man stands up from a long wooden bench.
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man thinks:
       "He's fuckin' real!"
  
   
  The pockmarked, well-toned man smiles, closing his eyes as his face points down to the ground.
  
   
   
  The willowy, grey-streaked man stares at you, wide-eyed, his entire body trembling.
  
   
  The ethereal, fair-haired woman thinks:
       "... Thank you..."
  
   
  Her eyes touched by joyful tears, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar  looks up at you.

  
  Her breathing steadying, the curvy, jallal-tressed maiden looks up at you and then away, and then back, and then away, a tear dripping over her tattooed one.
   
   
  The ethereal, fair-haired woman thinks:
       "... Thank... you."
  
   
  An odd, strangled little laugh croaks from the extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales 's throat.
  
   
  << The freckled, light-skinned man feels exceptionally awed in the presence of his Sun King. >>
  
   
  [[A sense of well-being settles over you at the perfection of the crimson-braided man's appearance.]]
  
   
  << The extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales feels happy, suddenly, HAPPY, for no reason at all. >>
  
   
  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette reaches up to pull at the willowy, grey-streaked man 's arm.
  
   
  << The lofty, cunyati-tanned man feels an unusual swelling of hope. >>
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "Hope he doesn't notice you? No - hope he -does-."
  
   
  The scruffy, brown-haired youth's breathing quickens, a broad smile, though hesitant, crashing onto his youthful features. He can do nothing but kneel silently, wide eyed gaze staring into the ground before him.
  
   
  The pockmarked, well-toned man thinks:
       "I can't believe it..."
  
   
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar thinks:
       "He is so handsome!"
  
   
  Muttering it out quickly, the dusky, sorrel-curled woman exclaims, in tribal-accented bendune:
       "Blessed Utep!"
   
   
  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar thinks:
       "I am honored to be here, he has graced us.  This feeling is greater than I have ever imagined."
   
   
  The freckled, light-skinned man thinks:
       "No shit."

  
  The willowy, grey-streaked man bats the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette 's hand away, staring at you.
  
   
  << The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden feels utmost joy. >>
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden  thinks:
       "This is-- it's-- He's-- it really must-- He is--"
  
   
  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man takes a deep breath as tears begin to roll down his cheeks, his breath ragged for a moment.
  
   
  The willowy, brown-haired young man inhales slowly and deeply, a smile gradually broadening over his face.
  
   
  The pockmarked, well-toned man thinks:
       "I've been in HIS presence..."
  
   
  << The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar feels your senses reeling with joy and disbelief. >>
  
   
  The short, lithe young man shivers visibly, his gaze locked on the floor.
  
   
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "I have no idea why I feel this way, who is this man?"
  
   
  The robust, coppery-curled teen wipes at her eyes as she glances at you in apparent awe.
  
   
  The extremely short male wearing a bloodied runic, fire-scorched mask nods as if to himself.
  
   
  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette tugs on the willowy, grey-streaked man 's arm again in an attempt to pull him down next to her.
  
   
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden's body shivers as tears stream down her face, making a noise torn between a sob and a laugh.
  
   
  With a trembling hand the svelte, top-knotted woman smears away a moist sheen from her face.
   
  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar thinks:
       "His Radiance cannot be denied, all will know, all must know.  His wisdom, his guidance is always with us."
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man lifts his gaze to you, mouth slowly opening without a sound.
   
   
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar thinks:
       "He is.. perfection... He is everything... He is older than -time-."
  
   
  The dusky, sorrel-curled woman thinks:
       "Die today, in perfection."
  
   
  The ethereal, fair-haired woman thinks:
       "Please..."
  
   
  Unfolding his arms, you say, in sirihish:
       "My people! I have come before you as I once walked amongst you."
  
   
  << The lofty, cunyati-tanned man feels a sudden twist of black humour. >>

  
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "And I suppose these southerners now know we were right the whole fuckin' time."
  
   
  The stocky, clean-shaven man thinks:
       ".... and I'm kneeling right before him."
  
   
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden thinks:
       "I just-- is it-- can I-- oh my!"
  
   
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "I wonder what they're going to report when they get home?"
  
   
  Tears begin streaming down the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar's face as he remains transfixed on you, remaining prostrate.
  
   
  The chubby, brown-haired man moves to kneel at your words.
  
   
  The chubby, brown-haired man sits down.
   
   
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "...hey, I even think my hangover's gone."
  
   
  The spangled-blond, muscular woman blink slowly one hand rising to press against her chest over her heart, mouth still hanging open.
  
   
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "I am, I am!"
  
   
  The willowy, grey-streaked man screams, a strangled, joyous, betrayed sound, as he falls to his knees next to the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette .
  
   
  On her knees, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar watches you in rapt silence, her expression glowing.
  
   
  The scruffy, brown-haired youth 's jaw drops slightly at you's speech, not daring to lift his gentle browns to the man's perfect form.
  
   
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden lifts her eyes slightly to you, and then turns them.  They become a center of activity, shifting from looking at to looking away from you.
   
  Trembling, but seemingly not in fear, the svelte, top-knotted woman looks up at you.
  
  [[The presence and magnetism of the crimson-braided man is so intense you feel that you would follow him anywhere.]]
  
     
  Looking down at those gathered with a benevolent smile, you say, in sirihish:
       "Over these past hours I have drunk wine with you, I have eaten with you, and now, together we shall rejoice."
  
   
  The willowy, brown-haired young man forces himself down lower on his knee, face tucked into his chest.
  
   
  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette pulls the willowy, grey-streaked man against her as she visibly trembles.
  
     
  << The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette feels adoration and wonder. >>
  
   
  The spindly, grey-haired man bends over, knees to the ground and face held down in reverence.
  
   
  << The trim, ashen-skinned man feels an elaborate elation flowing through you. >>
  
   
  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar thinks:
       "Paryl cannot deny it, no one can deny it.  His Radiance is so beautiful, it blinds."
  
   
  << The extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales  feels a strange wash of odd, affectionate adoration from seemingly nowhere, causing her throat to tighten. >>
  
   
  The willowy, grey-streaked man's hand moves to the jade cross hanging from his neck and he begins tugging compulsively at it, eyes transfixed on you.
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man stares at you with a slightly quivering lower lip.
  
   
  [[Your growing adoration for the immense man begins to outstrip your love for any other living being.]]

  
  Deadly silent, but trembling with energy, the curvy, jallal-tressed maiden lowers her head as the tears stream hotly, but with joy.
  
   
  The robust, coppery-curled teen trembles as tears glisten on her round face.
  
   
  << The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar feels like reeling and reeling. >>
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar  thinks:
       "What a gift he has given us with His presence!"
  
   
  His breathing quick and shallow, as one on the verge of tears, the scruffy, brown-haired youth makes a concerted attempt to steel himself, his youthful features quivering with untold happiness, though there this is the faintest tick of
  confusion to his brows.
  
   
  The dusky, sorrel-curled woman reaches out exposed fingertips toward you.
  
   
  The chubby, brown-haired man thinks:
       "Krath...krath...krath...krath..."
  
   
  The short, lithe young man inhales shakily, seeming to struggle internally with himself.
  
   
  The sinewy, weather-worn man squeezes his eyes shut and holds his head low.
  
   
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "This is... this is such a weird... keep your wits about you, Bryn. That southerner looks like he's going to lose his shit."
  
     
  The chubby, brown-haired man blinks rappidly, watching you with adoration.
  The ethereal, fair-haired woman thinks:
       "... Please... stay with us..."
  
   
  His hand motioning towards the short, dusky woman and the stocky, clean-shaven man , you say, in sirihish:
       "These two stand here as the last to compete for the right to join my Chosen."
  
     
  The spangled-blond, muscular woman's trembling hand rises slowly from her heart to her lips.
  
   
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar squeezes her eyes closed, wiping a tear from her cheek before swallowing hard, once again, lifting a brilliant smile to the pearl-haired Lirathan templar.
  
   
  As it slides from his limp fingers, the swarthy, aging man stops using his smoothly carved black pipe.
  
   
  The stocky, clean-shaven man picks his head up in wonderment, still kneeling before you.
  
   
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "Oh, for the chance to be one of those two!"

  
  The swarthy, aging man drops a smoothly carved black pipe.
   
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden  thinks:
       "Am I... dreaming?  Is this...?"
  
   
  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man reaches to unbuckle the straps of his breastplate, the many brands of rising suns covering his skin displayed.
  
   
  The extremely short male wearing a bloodied runic, fire-scorched mask  taps his chin.
  
  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette lifts her head to gaze openly, wide-eyed, apparently completely entranced with you.
  
   
  The sinewy, obsidian-haired man takes in a deep breath as he focuses on you, staring directly towards him, his chest straightened proudly.
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man thinks:
       "Krath, I just can't believe it."
  
     
  The short, lithe young man trembles heavily as he lifts his hands to his head. He digs his fingers into his hair, yanking roughly.
   
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "Why was I born so... my thoughts aren't even worthy in this man's presence."
  
   
  Hastily pulling them off to kiss the back of her hands, the curvy, jallal-tressed maiden stops using her pair of white silk gloves, revealing a tattoo of a six-pronged star.
  
   
  << The extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales  feels on the verge of tears. >>
  
   
  Face damp with tears, the short, dusky woman gazes wordlessly at you, lips parted in amazement.
   
  
    Turning slightly on his heel to face the pair, you say, in sirihish:
       "Worthy contestants both, but only one shall be joining the ranks of those most favored. Only one shall I choose."

  
  << The lofty, cunyati-tanned man feels forced and difficult determination. >>
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "Not... lettin'... anything ruin this. Eyes on the southerners. Make sure they don't go nutso. Gotta... gotta keep useful."
   
  You unsling an old runed, ivory-hilted steel greatsword from your back.
   
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "This is the zenith of my life, I shall remember this day forever."
  
   
  The scruffy, brown-haired youth steals the briefest glance up towards you before quickly averting his eyes, his head shaking in disbelief, feathers and beads flying in unison. His broad and childish smile is uncontrollable.
  
  
  << The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar feels like you cannot bring your attention away to answer her. >>
  
   
  << The stocky, clean-shaven man feels like even if the Sun King cut him in two with that sword, it'd be the happiest moment of his life. >>
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man thinks:
       "Krath, he's fuckin' beautiful."
  
   
  The pockmarked, well-toned man opens his eyes, staring down at the ground as he smiles brightly.
  
   
  The immense, crimson-braided man holds your old runed, ivory-hilted steel greatsword up high above one shoulder, twisting his body slightly as he makes a move to bring it slashing down towards the stocky, clean-shaven man's neck.
  
   
  Trembling, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar silently watches, her eyes widening.
  
     
  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette gasps as she watches the sword swing.
  
   
  [[The steel of the immense, crimson-braided man's sword gleams brightly despite its apparent age.]]

  
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden  holds a hand over her mouth as she watches your sword.
  
   
  The short, lithe young man thinks:
       "No! Mother! Zak! Valin!!!"
  
   
  The stocky, clean-shaven man goes stiff, eyes squeezing shut.
  
     
  The short, dusky woman jolts, as if to throw herself toward the stocky, clean-shaven man in protection, a reflexive movement.
  
   
  The dusky, sorrel-curled woman clutches her ruby crystal pyramid tightly in her hand.
  
   
  The freckled, light-skinned man lifts his gaze slightly from his position on the ground, coming to a kneeling position finally.
  
   
  The scruffy, brown-haired youth's gaze lifts once more at the sound of swinging steel.
  
   
  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar's mouth drops agape as he watches you, frozen still.
  
   
  [[ As he grips the sword, the crystal imbedded in the pommel begins to glow deep red, like the bloody horizon at sunrise.]]
  
     
  Eyes wide the svelte, top-knotted woman's trembling hands cup her agape mouth.
   
  The sinewy, weather-worn man's breath quickens as he opens his eyes, locking his gaze on the stocky, clean-shaven man.
   
  As the sword comes to an abrupt halt inches from the stocky, clean-shaven man's neck, you ask, in sirihish:
       "Rokov Kurac, do you renounce all that you have been. Do you commit yourself to my service, to walk the streets of the Ivory as my Chosen?"
  
   
  [[The pommel's crystal appears to throb with light, as if in time with a heartbeat.]]
  
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden thinks:
       "ROKOV!"
  
   
  << The swarthy, aging man feels your pulse quickening. >>
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man stares at the crystal in the sword, eyes transfixed, gaze trailing from it to the stocky, clean-shaven man.
  
   
  << The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar feels your heart grow calm and still. >>
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar thinks:
       "The Sun King speaks."
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man thinks:
       "You...Sun King, you heard my plea!"
  
   
  The dusky, sorrel-curled woman thinks:
       "I DO!"
  
   
  The chubby, brown-haired man's holds his breath, watching.
  
   
  The stocky, clean-shaven man opens his eyes, and then lifts his head, his mouth opening next, though no words escape.
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man thinks:
       "Sweet merciful... It's all real."
  
   
  << The stocky, clean-shaven man feels completely, utterly, shocked. >>
  
   
  << The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar feels your heart go out to Thiza. >>
  
   
  << The extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales  feels like one or two drops of pee might have come out. >>
  
   
  The stocky, clean-shaven man thinks:
       "... gotta.. gotta say something. Just say yes."
  
   
  The scruffy, brown-haired youth blinks rapidly, a quick glance drifting aside towards the short, dusky woman. His brows knit heavily for the quickest of moments.
  
   
  The ethereal, fair-haired woman thinks:
       "... It was Him..."
  
   
  [[The glowing crystal shifts to a warmer, brighter red, like the glare of Suk-Krath at midday.]]
  
   
  His voice awed, breathless, the stocky, clean-shaven man says to you, in sirihish:
       "I.. I do."
  
   
  << The stocky, clean-shaven man feels completely certain. >>
  
   
  The spangled-blond, muscular woman's hand travels from her mouth to reach out tentatively toward you, as if to touch you across the span of feet between her and the stage. Her outstretched and quivers like a bow-string.
  
   
  The extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales shifts slightly where she kneels.
  
   
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "Not... going to just... cry my eyes out feelin' happy... gotta... gotta stay useful."
  
   
  Touching the heavy metal sword down on the stocky, clean-shaven man 's shoulder, you say to the stocky, clean-shaven man , in sirihish:
       "From this day till your end you are Chosen Lord Rokov, winner of my great hunt. "
  
   
  [[ The faces of those nearby are bathed in the warm glow of light from the crimson-braided man's sword.]]
  
     
  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette gazes transfixed, reverently, at you.
   
   
  The stocky, clean-shaven man bows his head again, letting out a weak gasp.
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man exhales softly, serenely, the glow of the crystal casting over his face as he watches.
  
     
  The trim, ashen-skinned man thinks:
       "Amazin'...  Just... fuckin' amazin'."
  
   
  The dusky, sorrel-curled woman's hands tremble.
  
     
  With a benign smile, her eyes shining proudly, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar looks at the stocky, clean-shaven man.
  
   
  << The extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales feels a warmth rush over her face, beneath her mask. >>
  
   
  The svelte, top-knotted woman eyes squint in the glow of the radiating light.
  
     
  Lifting the sword up from the stocky, clean-shaven man's shoulder, you say to the stocky, clean-shaven man, in sirihish:
       "Do you choose to elevate a consort Chosen Lord Rokov."
  
   
  His face alight with a gentle glow, the scruffy, brown-haired youth's brows quiver with the intensity of the moment.
  
   
  The chubby, brown-haired man thinks:
       "Krath..."
  
   
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden lets out a little sound, the light shining over her tear-moistened face.
   
  The freckled, light-skinned man thinks:
       "...ah..."
  
   
  << The swarthy, aging man feels numb. >>
  The swarthy, aging man thinks:
       "SweetKrathSweetKrathSweetKrathSweetKrath..."
  
     
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden thinks:
       "There's no way he'd pick me.. he doesn't even know me..."
   
   
  You notice: One of the short, dusky woman 's hands curls tightly into a fist, eyes shutting.
   
  
  Simply, the extremely short male wearing a bloodied runic, fire-scorched mask  whispers something to the extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales.
   
  << The spangled-blond, muscular woman feels your mind a total blank, thought chased by the power of the emotional pull toward him. >>
   
   
  The chubby, brown-haired man's eyes flick briefly towards the short, dusky woman before returning to you.
   
   
  Looking up, once again, his face tear-streaked, the stocky, clean-shaven man says to you, in sirihish:
       "I... if it pleases you... I would take..."
  
   
  Watching the proceedings silently, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar  bows her head with a deep smile.
   
   
  The extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales  offers a shallow nod to the extremely short male wearing a bloodied runic, fire-scorched mask .
  
   
  The extremely short male wearing a bloodied runic, fire-scorched mask's blue gaze returns to the stage.
   
  Seeming to find a bit of his voice, finally, as he finishes, the stocky, clean-shaven man says to you, in sirihish:
       "... I would take Jisiu al Azia, of the Muark, as my consort."
  
   
  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette gasps and puts a hand to her jade and ebony cross.
   
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar thinks:
       "Who?"
  
   
  Breathing heavily, the curvy, jallal-tressed maiden watches the stocky, clean-shaven man and then the short, dusky woman.
  
   
  Tearing it off, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette stops using her jade and ebony cross.
  
   
  The short, dusky woman puts a hand to her mouth, tears escaping her eyes, though she blinks swiftly against them.
  
  The extremely short male wearing a bloodied runic, fire-scorched mask stifles a cough.
  
   
  The scruffy, brown-haired youth's gaze locks upon the short, dusky woman , brows drooping in a pleading expression, deep concern evident for the faintest of moments before the aura of you consumes him once more, eyes falling to the ground before him.
  
   
  << The ethereal, fair-haired woman feels haltingly, dizzingly. >>
  The ethereal, fair-haired woman thinks:
       "... Kurac... and a Muark..."
  
   
  The willowy, grey-streaked man cries out, tearing his jade and ebony cross from his throat by way of snapping the leather cord around his neck.
  
   
  Voice rumbling in his chest, you say to the short, dusky woman, in sirihish:
       "Chosen Consort Jisiu, find your place by your Chosen Lord's side."
  
   
  The willowy, grey-streaked man stops using his jade and ebony cross.
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man smiles silently as he watches you then shifts his gaze to the ethereal, fair-haired woman and the short, dusky woman.
  
   
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "Oh, shit... tossin' her Tek mark? I mean, obviously anyone would... s'the right decision... but it's gonna set that other one off. I know it. He's gonna lose his..."
  
   
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "Well, fancy that. He did it too..."
  
   
  The svelte, top-knotted woman looks up at the short, dusky woman.
  
   
  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar thinks:
       "He has done what is best for the Ivory."
   
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar  thinks:
       "The southron cannot bear his presence."
  
     
  Slowly rising, his head still held low in reverance to you, the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar stands up.
  
   
  Adoring eyes still fixed on you, the willowy, grey-streaked man clutches his jade and ebony cross in a closed fist before dropping it to the ground.
  
   
  << The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette feels a terrible mixture of love for Muk and a sickening sense of betrayal of Allanak. >>
  
   
   
  [[The faces of the stocky, clean-shaven man and the short, dusky woman flicker in the light cast from your sword.]]
  
   
  The willowy, grey-streaked man drops a jade and ebony cross.
  
   
  The short, dusky woman swallows, lifting her eyes to you for the briefest of moments, then bows her head humbly, reverently.
  
   
  << The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar feels astonished. >>

  
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar thinks:
       "The southron... oh, Muk Utep!"
  
   
   
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar thinks:
       "Muk Utep, thank you."

  
  Breathlessly, the short, dusky woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
       "Gladly. I will."

  
  Shaking terribly, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette stares at you.
  
   
  The chubby, brown-haired man's features relax, a proud smile upon his face.
  
   
  The sinewy, obsidian-haired man gasps with his mouth wide open, staring towards you, briefly stealing a quick glance towards the stocky, clean-shaven man before turning back to you.
  
   
   
  << The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden feels somehow whole. >>
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden  thinks:
       "All those selfish thoughts..." 
  
   
  << The extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales  feels utterly uninterested in answering the bronzed, angular humanoid. >>
  
  
   
  The scruffy, brown-haired youth turns his gaze aside to the knelt form of the sinewy, bald-headed man, a questioning and pleading look dancing upon his brows and in his eyes.
   
  Pumping his arm in the air, his sword lofted high above, you exclaim, in sirihish:
       "Citizens! Join me as we welcome my newest Chosen!"
   
   
  << The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar  feels your heart growing strong, the sense of love the reverence for the immense, crimson-braided man. >>
  
   
  The freckled, light-skinned man thinks:     "I...I..."
  
   
  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar unslings a double-tassled steel-bladed staff from his back.
   
  The short, dusky woman looks both horrified and reverent at once, eyes wide.
  
   
  The freckled, light-skinned man thinks:
       "I made the right choice!"
   
   
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar stands, calling out a hearty cheer, a fist in the air.
   
  
  The willowy, brown-haired young man forces his knee into the ground further, wiping sweat off his brow as he holds his gaze downward.
  
   
  The ethereal, fair-haired woman's eyes close.  When she opens them, it is with a smile as she slips two fingers into her mouth and whistles shrilly for the short, dusky woman and the stocky, clean-shaven man .
  
   
  The freckled, light-skinned man claps his hands solidly, lifting his gaze as tears stream down his face.
  
   
  The chubby, brown-haired man moves to his feet, calling out loudly.
   
  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar raises his double-tassled steel-bladed staff in triumph as he looks to the stocky, clean-shaven man his eyes reddened.
   
  The hulking, gurth-bellied half-giant soldier grins at the short, dusky woman and the stocky, clean-shaven man, hooting loudly.
   
  Swiftly, the sinewy, weather-worn man stands up.
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man looks between the stocky, clean-shaven man and the short, dusky woman with a broad grin.
  
   
  The svelte, top-knotted woman lets out a joyful cheer, applauding with trembling hands.
  
   
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden's eyes steal glances at you as she pushes to a stand, shouting incomprehensibly and pumping her fist into the air.
  
   
  The dusky, sorrel-curled woman whistles loudly, her ruby crystal pyramid in her fingers.
  
   
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden stands up.
  
   
  The swarthy, aging man's hands come together in a stuttered fashion, clapping hesitantly, then faster, faster.
  
   
  The willowy, grey-streaked man clutches at the ground with his fingers, his shoulders shaking and body trembling.
  
   
  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar raises his double-tassled steel-bladed staff in triumph as he looks to the stocky, clean-shaven man and the short, dusky woman his eyes reddened.
  
   
  Head tilting back, his braids swinging from his shoulders, you shout in sirihish:
       "Tuluk!"
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man slowly pushes off the ground and raises his hands in applause as he straightens up.
  
   
  The short, lithe young man rises shakily to his feet, gently applauding.
  
   
  The stocky, clean-shaven man rises up to his feet, slowly, his tear-streaked face a mix of wonderment and pride as he reaches for the short, dusky woman's hand.
  
   
  Raising a fist above his head, pumping it wildly, the stout, heavily-scarred dwarf exclaims, in sirihish:
       "Chosen Lord Rokov!"
  
   
  The sinewy, weather-worn man pumps his fist into the air, bellowing loudly.
  
   
  Her voice trembling and joyous, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar exclaims, in sirihish:
       "To the Sun King Muk Utep, and Chosen Lord Rokov!"
  
   
  [[The crowd goes wild with adoration, faces everywhere upturned to you as thunderous applause breaks over the amphitheater.]]

  
  << The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette  feels torn and wretched inside, as if her deepest loyalties are beseiged. >>
  
   
  Shakily, as if not quite sure of her feet, the short, dusky woman rises, her breath rapid as she stares at the stocky, clean-shaven man.

  
  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man stands, spreading his arms wide as he leans back, emitting a long howl, a note of victory evident in his tone.
  
   
  Cheering loudly as he gazes up back, the sinewy, obsidian-haired man exclaims, in sirihish:
       "Hail the Sun King! Hail the new Chosen!"

   

  Shill voice cracking with emotion, the spangled-blond, muscular woman shouts, in sirihish:
       "Tuluk!"
  
     
  The chubby, brown-haired man continues yelling with the crowd, fist pumping.
  
   
  The willowy, brown-haired young man trembles on his knee as he grins fiercely and applauds vigorously.
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man continues pumping his fist into the air as he yells out over and over again.
  
   
  Softly, as he speaks to the floor, the lofty, cunyati-tanned man says, in sirihish:
       "Hail to His glory, and His power."
  
   
  The immense, crimson-braided man lowers his sword, beaming at the crowd before dipping his head to the stocky, clean-shaven man.
  
   
  Rough voice lifted ecstatically, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man shouts, in sirihish:
       "Tuluk! Glory to the Sun King! Glory to Chosen Lord Rokov!"
  
   
  [[The warm red aura surrounding the crimson-braided man seems to pulse and scintillate.]]
  
   
  Along with the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar, the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templarexclaims, in sirihish:
       "Eternal is the Sun King, endless is His Wisdom!"
  
   
  Lifting his voice amid all the cheers, the stocky, clean-shaven man exclaims, in sirihish:
       "The Sun King Eternal!"
  
   
  << The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar feels as if the headiness is about to make you faint. >>
  
   
  The grey-haired, fiery-eyed woman exclaims, in sirihish:
       "Utep! Utep! SUN KING!"
  
   
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "I don't even know why I feel all of this excitement, but it is simply sweeping!"
  
   
  
  Her voice barely above a whisper as she wipes her face, the curvy, jallal-tressed maiden exclaims, in sirihish:
       "Eternal is the Sun King!"
  
    Gently, you say to the stocky, clean-shaven man, in sirihish:
       "You may join those friends in the crowd, Chosen Lord."
   
  The willowy, grey-streaked man clutches at his jade and ebony cross like a lifeline, choking back joyous, reverent sobs.
  
   
  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette breaks into a sobbing cry and tears spill onto her cheeks as she watches you.
  
   
  Fiercely, the swarthy, aging man shouts, in an unfamiliar tongue:
       "opbn ez ppj cco fiod!  rpqqa ih pdhrfv ridb cnuir!"
  
   
  His voice lost in the shouts, the pockmarked, well-toned man says, in sirihish:
       "Hail t-t-t-... t-to the Sun K-...  K-K-King."
  
   
  Enthusiastically, the robust, coppery-curled teen shouts, in sirihish:
       "Tuluk!"
  
   
  The sinewy, weather-worn man hollers until his voice croaks and then quickly resumes, lifting both fists into the air. 
   
  << The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette feels totally confused and torn. >>
  
   
  The chubby, brown-haired man wipes at his eyes, continuing to cheer.
  
   
  You sling an old runed, ivory-hilted steel greatsword across your back.
  
   
  Pushing through the crowd to extend a hand, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar exclaims to the stocky, clean-shaven man , in sirihish:
       "Chosen Lord Rokov, congratulations!"
  
   
  [[You are caught up in a fervor of excitement and fascination with the immense man.]]
  
   
  The pockmarked, well-toned man thinks:
       "This is all...  so much..."
   
   
  Softly, arms dropping to her sides, the extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
       "... Chosen Lord Rokov."

  
  The stocky, clean-shaven man bows his head down low to you, then the rest of the Faithful nearby.
   
  The ethereal, fair-haired woman clasps her hands together, holding them in front of her face as she watches the stocky, clean-shaven man and the short, dusky woman with incredulous devotion.
  
   
  The svelte, top-knotted woman sobs joyously continuing to cheer.
  
   
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden somehow finds the ethereal, fair-haired woman in the crowd and leans against her back, sobbing with glee.

  
  Voice breaking though the word is spoken softly, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says, in sirihish:
       "Radiance! The Sun King."
  
   
  Standing proudly back to his feet, shouting loudly, the sinewy, obsidian-haired man exclaims, in sirihish:
       "The Sun King lives, glory to His City and His Chosen!"
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man continues yelling joyous praises to you and the stocky, clean-shaven man as he pumps his arm into the air. 
   
  The willowy, grey-streaked man sways to his feet, sobbing and shouting joyfull and wordlessly at the stocky, clean-shaven man.
  
  
   
  Seeming to clasp it for dear life, the swarthy, aging man holds his black serpentine cane.
   
  Seeming surprised for a moment before taking her hand and shaking it back, the stocky, clean-shaven man says to the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar , in sirihish:
       "Thank... thank you, Faithful Lady."
  
   
  The scruffy, brown-haired youth hesitantly puts his gloved hands together, his youthful face a mixture of many emotions.
   
  << The lofty, cunyati-tanned man feels hints of an awful, unbearable sadness. >>
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "What's... what is going on, I..."
  
   
  Grabbing at the willowy, grey-streaked man's arm, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette stands up.
   
  The chubby, brown-haired man laughs, clapping an arm upon the back of the swarthy, aging man. 
  
  << The extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales  feels overwhelmed from all angles, senses reeling. >>
  
  The immense, crimson-braided man takes up position in the middle of the narrow stage, his arms folded across his chest.

  
  The ethereal, fair-haired woman lifts a hand, wrapping it around the curvy, jallal-tressed maiden's head, hand soothing as much as elated.
   
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar eases away back toward the stage, her eyes straying shyly back to you.
   
  The pockmarked, well-toned man thinks:
       "I'm...  in...  the Sun King's presence..."
   
  With a dazed smile, laughing almost as if in spite of herself, the short, dusky woman hugs the stocky, clean-shaven man's waist with one arm.
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man walks over to the stocky, clean-shaven man, slapping a hand on his shoulder with a broad grin.

  
  The spangled-blond, muscular woman thinks:
       "That I was here today. It's a reason to have young, to be able to say I was here today. That I gazed upon him."
   
  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette lets out a shout for the stocky, clean-shaven man and thrusts a fist in the air.
   
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar thinks:
       "Should I... can I... -talk- to Him?"
  
     
  The robust, coppery-curled teen shrieks in excitement as she wipes away a tear.
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man continues laughing for a bit longer before stepping away.
  
   
  Placing a gloved hand on his shoulder, the scruffy, brown-haired youth whispers something to the sinewy, bald-headed man .
  
   
  <Eukelade>: A hush ripples slowly over the crowd as you folds your arms over his chest, starting from the stage and moving backwards.
  
   
  << The lofty, cunyati-tanned man feels a struggle between overwhelming euphoria and a deep, abiding grief. >>
  
   
  Easing himself up as he wipes stray tears from his cheeks, the spindly, grey-haired man says, in sirihish:
       "His Radiance... Oh, to be honored by His Radiance's presence."
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man thinks:
       "He's real."
   
  The swarthy, aging man grips the chubby, brown-haired man 's cloak as if for fear of falling, but jabs his black serpentine cane into the air with his other hand, cheering.
   
  The ethereal, fair-haired woman looks up at you, a smile lingering.
   
  << The spangled-blond, muscular woman feels overwhelmed with awe. >>
  
   
  Sobbing into the ethereal, fair-haired woman shoulder, the curvy, jallal-tressed maiden whispers something to the ethereal, fair-haired woman.
   
  Still clutching at his jade and ebony cross, the willowy, grey-streaked man begins pushing his way through the crowd towards you, his gaze loving and reverant.
  
   
  The scruffy, brown-haired youth looks up at you.
  
   
  [[You feel an intense STILLNESS ome over you as your attention is drawn to you.]]
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man turns and looks back to you in reverential silence.
  
   
  Pulling back to shout out loud, the curvy, jallal-tressed maiden  exclaims, in sirihish:
       "He is my Sun King!"
  
   
  << The spangled-blond, muscular woman feels wetness on your cheek. >>
   
  The stocky, clean-shaven man wraps an arm around the short, dusky woman, starting to retreat back into the crowd towards the chubby, brown-haired man, then pauses.
  
   
  The extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales silences and stills, motionless.
  
   
  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar turns suddenly to you hushing immediately.
  
     
  The chubby, brown-haired man falls into silence, an arm still upon the swarthy, aging man's shoulder. 
   
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden suddenly falls still, her eyes drawn to you.
   
  With awe, the pockmarked, well-toned man looks up at you.
   
  Sucking in a hushed breath the svelte, top-knotted woman 's sobs grow silent, her body still trembling.
  
   
   
  Lifting her head, the extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales looks up at you.
  
   
  << The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar feels your attention riveted on Muk Utep. >>
  
   
  The willowy, grey-streaked man stops in his tracks near the front of the crowd, his jade and ebony cross dangling in his hand from a broken leather cord.
  
   
  The sinewy, weather-worn man lowers his hands to his sides, eyes fixed intensely on you.
   
  The scruffy, brown-haired youth 's arms fall to his sides, his gaze inevitably drawn to you, wide eyed.
   
  The freckled, light-skinned man stares upwards at you.
   
  
  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette begins to take a step to follow the willowy, grey-streaked man, and then stops as if slapped.
  
  Spreading his arms wide, palms upturned, you say, in sirihish:
       "Hear me, citizens of the Known World."
  
   
  With utter calm and quiet, the robust, coppery-curled teen regards you.
  
     
  Staring fixated, the svelte, top-knotted woman looks up at you.
  
   
  The chubby, brown-haired man thinks:
       "Krath...Rokov...you bastard...ha!"
  
   
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden reaches out for the nearest hand and grasps it tightly, her eyes focused on you.
  
   
  The chubby, brown-haired man thinks:
       "Utep...speaks..."

  
  Held by the stocky, clean-shaven man, the short, dusky woman stares, motionlessly, toward you, eyes still wide, the kohl streaked where tears left their tracks.
  
   
  The extremely short male wearing a bloodied runic, fire-scorched mask peers over at you.
  
   
  The dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man has arrived from the east, stepping quietly.
  The dreadlocked female has arrived from the east.
  The neat bearded, cyprini-hued male has arrived from the east.
  
   
  << The lofty, cunyati-tanned man feels awful clarity. >>
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "I don't... don't understand... whose feelings are these? Mine, or theirs?"
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man watches you with serene smile on his lips.
  
   
  The spangled-blond, muscular woman 's hand moves to her face and slowly wipes the moisture there smearing the tears into streaks and then she looks down at her wet fingers, then quickly up at you.
   
  << The extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales feels compelled to listen. >>
   
  << The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette feels full of rage at Samos. >>
   
  The chubby, brown-haired man wipes at his eyes, blinking back tears.
  
   
  Crimson locks glinting in refracted light, you say, in sirihish:
       "Long did I slumber, but never did I rest. My dreams spoke to me of this day, of this event, and of what will come to be."
  
   
  Glancing from the dreadlocked female to the neat bearded, cyprini-hued male , the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man says, in southern-accented sirihish:
       "Not a word."
  
   
  [[Everything else seems to fade away as all your attention is focused on the immense, crimson-braided man.]]
  
   
  The freckled, light-skinned man glances briefly to the side to the dreadlocked female .
  
   
  [[You feel compelled to hush. To listen. To listen to your words, which seem to you to be beautiful, and right.]]
  
   
  The dreadlocked female looks around with an anxious expression then bows deeply.
  
   
  << The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden feels an somehow solid emptiness. >>
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden  thinks:
       "Sun King, Sun King, sun king..."
  
   
  The freckled, light-skinned man thinks:
       "Ah...I..."
  
   
  The willowy, brown-haired young man reaches up a slender finger to wipe away a stream of tears slowly working their way down his cheek.
  
   
  << The lofty, cunyati-tanned man feels a twinge of of sympathy for the southern emissaries. >>
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "This must be tearing them apart."
  
  
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar falls into simple, rapt stillness.
  
   
  The neat bearded, cyprini-hued male thinks:
       "What is happening"
  
   
  His gaze stern as he looks through the crowd, you say, in sirihish:
       "To you I gift the knowledge of what must come to be. "
  
   
  Kneeling beside the freckled, light-skinned man, unable to help herself the svelte, top-knotted woman grips the top of the freckled, light-skinned man 's hand tightly, seemingly unware of herself doing so as she stares at you. 
   
  << The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette feels reverent. >>
  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette thinks:
       "The knowledge of what must come to be."
  
   
  << The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden feels her heart skip a bit, but almost unknowingly. >>
  
   
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "Ah... look at this..."

  
  The dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man's brows furrow, eyes on you.
  
     
  The scruffy, brown-haired youth stares wide-eyed towards you, scrawny form still and motionless, hands hanging low at his sides.
  
   
  The neat bearded, cyprini-hued male halts suddenly, eyes searching through the crowd and stopping as they rest on you.
  
   
  << The extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales feels like everything she's ever known was wrong. >>
  
   
  Lowering his hands to his side, you say, in sirihish:
       "Heed my words, for they are the prophecies of the Sun-King, Muk-Utep."
   
  Hanging on every word, the stocky, clean-shaven man looks up at you.
  
   
  The ethereal, fair-haired woman thinks:
       "... Stay..."
  
   
  << The trim, ashen-skinned man feels elation pouring through your body. >>
  
   
  << The lofty, cunyati-tanned man feels emotions racing between peace, rapture, grief and confusion. >>
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "I've... I can't think straight. Why can't I think straight? I've got to get out of here..."
  
   
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "No, I've got to stay?"
  
   
   
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "This must be destiny... that I have crossed the sands and shot into slavery to hear His words!"
   
  Expressionless, the robust, coppery-curled teen remains transfixed on you.
  
  
  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man watches you intently, face rapt.
  
  The chubby, brown-haired man holds his breath, eyes firmly once more upon you.
  
   
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "This is what you want, Bryn! Important things! There's nothing more important than this!"
  
  << The spangled-blond, muscular woman feels suffused with rapture. >>
  The spangled-blond, muscular woman thinks:
       "Am I worthy? I want to be worthy."
  
  << The short, dusky woman feels the entirety of her being drawn reverently toward the immense, crimson-braided man, her lifelong loyalties and loves suddenly thrown into turmoil. >>
  
   
  His head tilting back, eyes unfocused as he speaks with a booming voice, you say, in sirihish:
       "Darkness gathers overhead, falling with soft intention to those below. A victory… turned to defeat. A deed done in ignorance will set the world awash with anger."
   
  Staring, slack-jawed, the extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales looks up at you.
   
  Kneeling down, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man sits down.
   
  The short, lithe young man gazes silently at you, deep green eyes held wide.
  
  
  << The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar feels all the noise and chaos disappear at the sound of His voice. >>
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man thinks:
       "I should think more before I try to help..."
  
  The dreadlocked female stares at you in rapt attention.
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man thinks:
       "Darkness?"
  
  Massive chest lifting as he takes a deep breath, you say, in sirihish:
       "Wasted lands will fall victim, as swooping shadows solidfy a stone saber will shatter the earth."
  
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar thinks:
       "A deed done in ignorance."
  
  << The short, dusky woman feels as if she and the immense, crimson-braided man are all that exists. He and His words. >>

  
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden sucks in a deep breath, her blinks almost non existant as she watches your every
  
  move.
  
  << The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette feels utterly concentrated on Muk's words. >>
  
  << The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar  feels your being quail at the words. >>
  
  The ethereal, fair-haired woman thinks:
       "... No... what are... you... saying..."
  
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar thinks:
       "His prophecy... He makes it known to His common caste now."
  
  << The trim, ashen-skinned man feels that stillness holding through your entire body. >>
  
  Words carrying clearly across the garden, you say, in sirihish:
       "A time of ash shall mark the rise of the cities. Days of old shall be new once more. "
  
  [[A muffling, encompassing void of silence shrouds the area, broken only by your powerful, penetrating words.]]
  
  
  << The ethereal, fair-haired woman feels like it's impossible to think, to reason, to... understand... >>
  
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "I can't believe what I'm hearing..."
  
  Head tipping down, his gaze clouded, you say, in sirihish:
       "The paths diversify, bright strands bring victory, the wrong steps defeat."
  
  The spindly, grey-haired man stays silent, focusing on you's every word.
  
  << The short, dusky woman feels the tiny surfacing thought. >>
  The short, dusky woman thinks:
       ".. more riddles... even the Sun King Himself speaks riddles."
  
  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar  thinks:
       "His Radiance speaks of the return of Echri.  Command us, what do you wish of us, your loyal and faithful servants."
  
  << The short, dusky woman feels prompted to mad laughter, just as much as she is to cry, all overwhelmed with awe and reverence. >>
  
  << The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar feels the shroud of silence press close, the only thing visible in His Light. >>
  
  The stocky, clean-shaven man thinks:
       "... deeds done in ignorance... that sounds like what Samos went and did.."
  
  His voice dropping lower, you say, in sirihish:
       "What was once opposite shall join as one - fire and water will mingle, the union will tremble the earth."
  
  
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "This... really doesn't mean much to me. At all. I can't piece this together at all."
  
  << The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar feels terrified. >>
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar thinks:
       "Magick and void and-- ooooh."
  
  << The spangled-blond, muscular woman feels confusion. >>
  The spangled-blond, muscular woman thinks:
       "I don't understand it all."
  
  << The extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales feels her face flush with warm heat at the word 'fire.'. >>
  
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "This sounds... cataclysmic..."
  
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "Will any survive this?"
  
  The chubby, brown-haired man blinks his eyes but otherwise watches you.
  
  The words a mere whisper yet clearly heard, you say, in sirihish:
       "When eyeless beasts comb the land, then shall be the time for all tribes to gather. The march must be made, or the path will be lost."
  
  The short-haired, jade-eyed Lirathan templar falls in behind you.
  
  The skeletal, dark-skinned Jihaen templar falls in behind you.
  
  << The short, dusky woman feels a tight inward shudder. >>
   
  The short-haired, jade-eyed Lirathan templar falls in behind you.
  
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "If the Sun Kings words are true... then slavery or not, I'll be ash by the time this prophecy rings true."
  
  
  Her eyes fastened at your feet, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar shivers deeply.
   
  The freckled, light-skinned man thinks:
       "Tribes!  We have...we've done it right so far!"
  
  The tiny, reed-like Jihaen templar falls in behind you.
  
  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man thinks:
       "We are tribe, my King. We are strong in the Light."
  
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden watches you with fascination.
  
  << The extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales  feels revulsion churn through her gut--old memories, old words, the ramblings of a madman recalled. >>
  
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar thinks:
       "Eyeless beings... He will protect us.  We must do as He orders."
  
  The immense, crimson-braided man exhales, nostrils flaring as he looks over those gathered, his lips pressing together to form a stern countenance.
  
  The chubby, brown-haired man thinks:
       "Rache...Utep...Utep...listen...Utep..."
  
  Fixed where she stands, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette  gazes adoringly at you.
  
  
  The willowy, grey-streaked man reaches out a trembling, empty hand towards you.
  
  << The sinewy, weather-worn man feels nothing, everything in him fixed on the words of the immense, crimson-braided man. >>
  
  
  << The lofty, cunyati-tanned man feels a grim determination as he forces his feelings to quiet. >>

  
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "Fine. Fine. Leave the big stuff to people who understand it. Eyes on your own prize. Thrend will lead you."
  
  
  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar's gaze remains utterly transfixed on you, his expression caught between rapt attention and stern determination.
  
  The trim, ashen-skinned man thinks:
       "and now....this should be my home..."
  
  Motionless, the dreadlocked female looks up at you.
  
  << The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar feels your mind racing. >>
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar thinks:
       "We can do it, we -will- do it.  Oh, if only he will look at me...  war..."
  
  << The trim, ashen-skinned man feels that overwhelming love for Tuluk flowing through you. >>
  
  The spangled-blond, muscular woman's body sways on her bended knees, both her hands pressed over her heart.
  
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "How can the Dragon even wish to ever vanquish such a massive and all-powerful king as this?"
  
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "You're going to be best, aren't you? That's how you'll serve him. That's..."
  
  Stepping towards the edge of the stage, you say, in sirihish:
       "Look for my warnings. Only if we march as one will we there be victory."
  
  The short, lithe young man breathes shakily, his deep green eyes unflinchingly locked on you.
  
  << The extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales  feels subdued and reverent. >>
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man thinks:
       "As...one...?"
  
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "The South is but a grain of this man's being!"
  
  
  << The short, dusky woman feels memories flashing, stirring, mad ramblings, visions of fire and death, of floods and cold void winds, of a pure white bird larger than life, awe and desperate sorrow overwhelmed with devotion and love. >>
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man thinks:
       "...with the other tribes, or..."
  
  
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden whispers but a single word-- 'victory'.
  
  << The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar feels a burst of hot tears behind your eyes. >>
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar thinks:
       "Work as one!  Yes!"
  
  
  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette murmurs something that sounds like an agreement as she watches you.
  
  The svelte, top-knotted woman clutches the freckled, light-skinned man 's hand, gaze transfixed on you, tears welled in her eyes.
  
  
  << The swarthy, aging man feels nothing, weightless - mind, body, and soul caught in the immense, crimson-braided man's grasp. >>
  
  << The lofty, cunyati-tanned man feels a moment's doubt. >>
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "Serving Him... seems like such a different idea now that... now that you've seen Him... like this..."
  
  Dipping his head, braids swinging about his face, you say, in sirihish:
       "Walk in My light, my people."
  
  The ethereal, fair-haired woman thinks:
       "... Stay..."
   
  The ethereal, fair-haired woman thinks:
       "... please."
  
  The immense, crimson-braided man steps from the stage, motioning to the group of silent Templars behind him.
  
  A silent sob wracking her shoulder, her face joyous as she whispers, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar 
  
  says, in an unfamiliar tongue:
       "rizr en aio."
  
  [[As the immense, crimson-braided man shifts to leave the stage, he turns his head, looking directly at you, a luminous smile on his handsome face.]]
  
  The short, dusky woman thinks:
       "My people.. my people."
  
  
  The dusky, sorrel-curled woman's eyebrows rise.
  
  
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "He looked at me..."
  
  The dreadlocked female's eyes widen in shock.
  
  
  The spangled-blond, muscular woman's breath catches in her throat, the sound a gasp, a sob, and raptured moan.
  
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden emits a soft gasp as she looks at you, her body swaying on weak knees.

   

  Someone thinks: I have to serve him...
  
  

  Someone thinks: He loves me..  He loves me..
  
  

  [[A ripple of energy courses through you, and people all about the area begin to turn and glance in the direction of the Grand Ivory Pyramid.]]

  
  
  

  Scene: The Silverwood Estate

  Event: The Grey Hunt Announcement

  Note: Staff view of thinks and feels has been left in to enhance the scene.

   

  
  Someone thinks:
       "Hmm."
  
   << The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar feels curious. >>
  
  
  The...

  
  Continue Reading...
• 

  Discord Amongst Akei'ta's Own by Kankfly
  Added on Nov 30, 2012

  Black Thorns of the Akei'ta Var, hoping to score a drink from a fellow kin, sparks an argument with another instead. This log proves that even tree-hugging hippies get into arguments.

  ---

  [The following log contains my favorite Imm animation. Kudos to everyone involved! It was awesome.]
  
  Center of a Thornbush-Walled Camp [NESW Quit]
     Rising taller than a bahamet, and just as wide, an extremely dense circular
  wall of thornbushes surrounds this small area.  The land outside this natural
  barrier is barely visible through small breaks in the thorny mass.
     Lush in comparison to the barren surrounds, a patch of green flora covers
  the central part of this hill.  In the center of this patch of living ground
  sits a large campfire.  A well-worn path circles this campfire and branches
  off east and west.  Denizens of the camp pack this area most densely, some
  working hides, others in deep meditation or conversation, and here or there
  a few are immersed in one ritual or another.
     A half of a bahamet shell sits just off the well-worn path, due north of
  the fire, laying dome-up on the ground, serving as a natural podium of sorts.
     To the west the camp is densely packed with tents, the number of elves
  visible in that direction testament to the well-settled nature of that side,
  while to the east lies fewer tents and fewer still inhabitants.
  A majestic falcon, with keen yellow eyes, casts a predatory glance about the area.
  A carved granite box rests on the ground here.
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf is standing here, looking tired.
  The crook-nosed, muscular elf stares into the fire.
  The wild-haired, elderly elf sits near an aging elf by the fire.
  The pale, bald, elderly elf supervises the pounding, waving a tuber.
  The gangly, agitated elf works hides here.
  A serpent-tattooed youth kneels here, nibbling meat off of his spear.
  The lithe, dark-skinned elf sits on a bahamet shell here.
  
  
  
  It is dusk on Barani, the 32nd day of the Descending Sun,
  In the Year of Silt's Slumber, year 53 of the 21st Age.
  
  
  
  With a broad yawn, the male wearing a thin, white-sandcloth facewrap makes his way over to the fire, his gaze flickering to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf.
  
  
  You stop using your thin, white-sandcloth facewrap.
  
  
  You put your thin, white-sandcloth facewrap into your stained harness made of black leather.
  
  
  
  You look up at the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf.
     Ebon skin sheathes this sinewy elf, his weather-worn flesh having been
  burnt to a mahogany shade and smoothed by wind and glossy scar tissue.  The
  etched webbing of bleached, pale scarring lays in a labyrinth over every
  inch of skin left visible.  The raised flesh is intermingled with ink to
  create coils of sinister thorny vines of pallid greens and grays.
  Grotesquely long limbs stretch his rope-muscled frame into a graceful,
  serpentine shape, made sinewy and catlike by his spare, ropey musculature.
  Angular features mark his gaunt face, his visage thinned to a harsh mask
  reminiscent of an agafari's grain.  Thin lips mark his mouth, and his hollow
  cheeks lie stretched over a sharp jaw.  The ashen scarring continues across
  his bald crown, left hairless save for a coarse braid of charcoal-colored
  hair that hangs limply between his shoulders.  Almond-slanted eyes the pale
  hue of vibrant turquoise perch atop his sharp cheeks, their edges torn by
  twin scars that rake away across his temples. 
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf is in excellent condition.
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf is using:
  <head>                   a pair of long, jagged-looking scars
  <face>                   a detailed inking of a spiny thornbush
  <worn in left ear>       a small, carved hardwood loop
  <worn in right ear>      a small, carved hardwood loop
  <worn around neck>       a stained studded tembo-hide collar
  <worn about throat>      a rough hide waterskin
  <slung across back>      a bloodied long, twin-bladed baobab axe
  <worn on torso>          a dujat-banded leather jacket
  <worn on arms>           dark blue and green swirled warpaint
  <worn around wrist>      a long, leather-strapped bone buckler
  <worn around wrist>      a long, leather-strapped bone buckler
  <worn on hands>          a bloodied set of anakore-clawed climbing gloves
  <worn on forearms>       a set of feather-tipped leather cords
  <worn as belt>           a fine pouched belt
  <hung from belt>         a bloodied baobab bastard sword
  <hung from belt>         a bloodied sharp carru antler halfspear
  <worn around body>       a dusty drab, weathered stormcloak
  <worn on legs>           a stained pair of desert-camouflaged, sandcloth leggings
  <worn on feet>           a pair of knee-high jet black military boots
  
  He is carrying:
  nothing obvious
  
  
  Folding his legs, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf sits down to rest.
  
  
  
  Calling over as he moves to join him, you say to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, in allundean:
       "Hey, brother."
  
  
  You sit down.
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf  eases onto a flat stone beside the fire, his rough hide waterskin held carefully in one gloved hand.
  
  
  Tipping it to his thorn-impaled lips, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf drinks firestorm's flame from his rough hide waterskin.
  
  
  Distractedly, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf stares into the fire, his turquoise eyes narrowed slightly.
  
  
  
  Pale eyes flickering aside, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf looks at you.
  
  
  
  The dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf tucks a leg underneath him, shifting to a side to allow another elf to squeeze in.
  
  
  As if awakening from a brief reverie, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf's chapped lips press into a thin smile.
  
  
  Lifting it for another heavy swig, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf drinks firestorm's flame from his rough hide waterskin.
  
  
  Shifting his attention to him, you ask the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, in allundean:
       "So anyway, smooth sands?"
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf coughs hoarsely, one fist pounding against the chest of his dujat-banded leather jacket.
  
  
  In a slightly unsteady, slurring rasp, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "Some.  Had a sstrange vizhion."
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the ebon-hued, fire-scarred elf intently scans the area.
  
  
  
  Regarding him curiously a moment, you ask the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, in allundean:
       "Aye? What about?"
  
  
  Sharply, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "Nothin'."
  
  
  Scowling even as he slurps at its wooden neck, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf sips from his rough hide waterskin.
  
  
  
  As though unfazed by his sharp tone, you say to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, in allundean:
       "You know you can tell me anythin', promise I won't laugh. Or cry. Or both."
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the bald, weather-battered elf intently scans the area.
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You are unable to reach their mind.
  
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the ebon-hued, fire-scarred elf intently scans the area.
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf flicks a glance at you, his weathered features twisting further into his dour scowl.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the umbral, dark-tressed female elf has arrived from the east, sauntering along with a swaggered gait.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  sauntering along with a swaggered gait, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf walks west.
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf has arrived from the east, sauntering along with a swaggered gait.
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf tilts up the hand from the gentle swell of her midriff to give a light rub against her forehead.
  
  
  Flicking an idle glance over one shoulder, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf looks up at the umbral, dark-tressed female elf.
  
  
  Following the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf's gaze, you look up at the umbral, dark-tressed female elf.
  Obsidian-hued hair tumbles in straight locks to mid-back, the dusty
  flecked mane covering half over sharply pointed and pierced eartips lending
  no doubt to her elven heritage.  Two chin length shorn and dreaded tendrils
  frame either side of her angular features, the darkened hue bringing out the
  steely silver of her large almond shaped, pearl flecked gaze.  Between the
  lay of her tilted, kohl-rimmed eyes rests a narrow nose, it's end
  unobtrusive with a small upturned slope.  A slanted and bony jawline leads
  down to a defined and slightly pointed chin, a pair of thin grey tinted lips
  curving in bow shape above.  Various scars mar her dusky skin, smatterings
  of old and new littering over her long and willowy form.  Though she bears
  slight curves to give hint at her femininity, little else but the rounds of
  her hips and chest shows any trace of the cushion of fat. 
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf is in excellent condition.
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf is using:
  <worn in hair>           a dusty saw-toothed, silvery green leaf
  <worn in left ear>       a dusty blackened ear cuff of polished bone
  <worn in right ear>      a dusty green and blue feather earring
  <worn around neck>       a dusty string of sharp teeth
  <worn about throat>      a dusty hooded, amber-fringed leather shoulder cape
  <slung across back>      a dusty thornwood and tortoiseshell longbow
  <worn across back>       a stained green and brown dyed canvas pack
  <body>                   a swirl of deep blue and green inks
  <right shoulder>         a rantarri paw inked in white
  <left shoulder>          a tattoo of a yawning tembo
  <worn on arms>           a dusty dark blue and green swirled warpaint
  <worn around wrist>      a dusty green chitin archery brace
  <worn around wrist>      a dusty supple, earthy archery brace
  <worn on hands>          a dusty pair of anakore-claw gloves
  <primary hand>           a dusty knife-bladed bone pick
  <secondary hand>         a dusty sandstone straightening wrench
  <worn on forearms>       a dusty set of etched wooden bangles
  <worn as belt>           a dusty black-trimmed, pouched dark green belt
  <hung from belt>         a dusty long bone-headed spear
  <hung from belt>         a dusty hooked mekillot-bone spear
  <worn about waist>       a dusty soft, amber-tasseled suede quiver
  <worn on legs>           a dusty vividly-slashed, dark blue skirt
  <right ankle>            a wreath of flowers tattoo
  <left ankle>             a twining tattoo of a ginka vine
  <worn on feet>           a dusty pair of sparkling, amber-adorned moccasins
  
  She is carrying:
  nothing obvious
  
  
  Flicking an absent glance about the area, her tone thoughtful, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says, in allundean:
       "You know.. I just had the strangest thoughts."
  
  
  Dryly, his voice a hoarse rasp, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "Not zhe only one."
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf's hand lowers back to settle almost protectively against the gentle swell of her bare midriff, silver-gaze narrowing into a faint squint back eastwards.
  
  
  His lips tugging into a lazy smile as he leans back, voice raising to call the umbral, dark-tressed female elf over, you ask, in allundean:
       "Well, if it isn't the mother to be. How's the baby?"
  
  
  Sauntering a step over more closely over towards the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf and the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says, in allundean:
       "I had the strangest urge that I didn't like the organization of the tents and that I should rearrange everything from the size of shadows."
  
  
  The corners of her lips tugging upwards in a welcoming smile, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to you, in allundean:
       "Which is just.. strange.. because I was the one who organized that tent and the crafting tent months ago."
  
  
  A coarse chuckle resonates in the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf's throat, soon broadening into a harsh, barking laugh.  His breath reeks of alcohol, intermingled with the heady, floral scent of spice.
  
  
  Giving a light pat against the swell of her stomach, a faint sigh accompanying her words, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to you, in allundean:
       "The baby is fine.. the babies father however won't be the next I see him."
  
  
  Lifting one hooked claw, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf asks, in allundean:
       "Ai?  Who's zhat?"
  
  
  
  With a snicker as he looks to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, you ask, in allundean:
       "Why's that?"
  
  
  Perking up a single brow, a faint hint of amusement lacing her tone as she drums her fingers lightly against her bare stomach, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, in allundean:
       "Kija.. of the Akeita ni Var Soh."
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf snickers sharply, and eases back, leaning unsteadily onto one sharp elbow.
  
  
  
  Lazily, you say to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "Kija, hm? I met him once, with Tripped. Killed a braxat and flaunted it in front of a Sun Runner. Strange people those Sohs."
  
  
  
  A note of sincerity heard within her tone as she flicks a glance for the southern stretch through the cluster of tents, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says, in allundean:
       "He will hear a piece of my mind.. to be sure."
  
  
  His bright eyes returning to the roaring fire before him, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "Don' let it claw out, sistah."
  
  
  
  
  Her nose wrinkling upwards as she sweeps up a hand to push the lay of her hair back up out of her face, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says
    to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, in allundean:
       "It's been trying to for weeks.. Akeita's pits it's kept me womb-bound for longer than I've cared."
  
  
  
  
  One pale eye squinting into a narrow slit, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf asks, in allundean:
       "Been sick?"
  
  Sliding it off, you stop using your dusty broad-brimmed suede bush hat.
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf dips her head gently aside for the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, pacing a couple of steps around various lingering elves on a path towards the southern stretch of the tents.
  
  
  
  The dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf knocks your dusty broad-brimmed suede bush hat on the ground, sending sand flying everywhere, causing a few nearby elves to cast him annoyed glances.
  
  
  Scooping it out in hand, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf gets her green-fletched thorn-tipped arrow from her dusty soft, amber-tasseled suede quiver.
  
  
  
  You brush the dust off of a stained broad-brimmed suede bush hat.
  
  
  
  You place your stained broad-brimmed suede bush hat on your head.
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf gives her green-fletched thorn-tipped arrow a twirl in hand, her lips pursing aside thoughtfully.
  
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf gently knocks the thorn-locked tip of her green-fletched thorn-tipped arrow against her opposite hands palm.
  
  
  After hitching in a brief, coarse breath, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf puffs out his chest and looses a heavy belch.
  
  
  Appearing satisfied, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf leans forward, bracing both sinewy forearms across his knees.
  
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the hunched, beak-nosed elf has arrived from the east.
  
  
  
  Speaking up randomly as he gazes into the flames, you ask, in allundean:
       "You know what they say about silences like this?"
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  Swirls of energy dance around the hunched, beak-nosed elf as he starts an incantation.
  
  
  In a quiet rasp, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf asks, in allundean:
       "T'shuddup an' let 'em be?"
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the hunched, beak-nosed elf walks west.
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf has arrived from the east.
  
  
  Over the curve of a cape-clad shoulder, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf looks at the hunched, beak-nosed elf.
  
  
  Shifting his gaze to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf and giving him an easy grin, you say, in allundean:
       "No idea, but you're probably right."
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf's thin lips peel back, baring his yellowed teeth in a narrow grin.
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf opens her stained green and brown dyed canvas pack.
  
  
  As he approaches the fire, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "Good to see you, Sister."
  
  
  Giving a tug against the strings, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf closes her stained green and brown dyed canvas pack.
  
  
  Near you, the hunched, beak-nosed elf sits down.
  
  
  Offering a warm smile across for him, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to the hunched, beak-nosed elf, in allundean:
       "It is good to see you as well, brother."
  
  
  Glancing over to him and dropping him an easy nod, you ask the hunched, beak-nosed elf, in allundean:
       "Hey, Kickin', how's it goin'?"
  
  
  Swaying unsteadily on his perch, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf lifts his rough hide waterskin from its cord at his throat.
  
  
  
  His breath reeking of alcohol, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "Ai, Kickin'."
  
  
  Leaning back and scratching his cheek, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says, in allundean:
       "Pretty good. Akeita still hides from me in the slate, though. Gonna need more."
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf's gaze flickers over towards the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf's waterskin, her brow lowering thoughtfully.
  
  
  
  Pulling the flaps of your dusty layered black cloak with an agate clasp close to his nose, the dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf gives a quick sniff, a puzzled frown appearing on his features before glancing to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf.
  
  
  
  A sweet, floral tinge clings faintly to his skin.
  
  
  Suddenly kicking into step, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf walks east.
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the umbral, dark-tressed female elf has arrived from the west, suddenly kicking into step.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the umbral, dark-tressed female elf walks east.
  
  
  
  His gaze dropping to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf's waterskin, you ask, in allundean:
       "Ah, damn, thought it was me. Here, give a brother a swig, eh?"
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf's pierced nostrils flare in a sharp sniff, and he leans back forward, bracing both sinewy forearms across his knees.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the umbral, dark-tressed female elf has arrived from the east, stalking along.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  stepping along, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf walks west.
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf has arrived from the east, stepping along.
  
  
  With a level glance at you, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf tips his rough hide waterskin over, allowing a single, precious drop of reddish liquid to fall to the dry ground.
  
  
  Pausing near the eastern break in the tents, her tone questioning, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says, in allundean:
       "Any of you seen a bag?  I put it on the sleeping mats, and it had a lot of my stuff in it.."
  
  
  
  Holding out a hand to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, you ask the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "What's in your bag?"
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf asks the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "What'd it look like? And what was in it?"
  
  
  Pattering her fingers lightly against the swell of her bare midriff, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says, in allundean:
       "A number of waterskins with alcohol in it.. - as well as other random things."
  
  
  With a stiff shrug, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says to you, in allundean:
       "Nothin' left."
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf gets her leather waterskin from her dusty hooded, amber-fringed leather shoulder cape.
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf's gaze immediately shifts to you.
  
  
  Looking disappointed as his hand drops back onto his lap, his gaze shifting to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, you ask, in allundean:
       "Eh, what?"
  
  
  After squinting a single eye to peer down into her leather waterskin before flicking a glance up for the hunched, beak-nosed elf, you and the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says, in allundean:
       "Amber liquid of a .. sort."
  
  
  With a shrug, you say to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "No idea. Sorry, sis. Only drank those bottles of firebreather."
  
  
  
  After a pause, you ask the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "Were they yours too?"
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf's lips quirk down into a faintly irritated frown as she reaches to tuck her leather waterskin back for her dusty hooded, amber-fringed leather shoulder cape.
  
  
  Tucking it away, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf puts her leather waterskin into her dusty hooded, amber-fringed leather shoulder cape.
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf opens her dusty green and brown dyed canvas pack.
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf closes her dusty green and brown dyed canvas pack.
  
  
  Huffing out a breath on a turned step to take a stalking path back through the tents, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says, in allundean:
       "Akeita's pits... those were -gifts- from that biter."
  
  
  Stalking along a step, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf walks east.
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the umbral, dark-tressed female elf has arrived from the west, stalking along a step.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  stalking along a step, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf walks east.
  
  
  Flicking a glance over one shoulder, his hoarse voice slurred slightly, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "Well, if y'miss 't zhere's spice in th'-"
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf cuts off abruptly, his ink-whorled brow creasing, before returning his pale gaze to the roaring fire.
  
  
  
  After a moment as he watches the departing figure, you say to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, in allundean:
       "You're in trouble, brother."
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the bald, weather-battered elf intently scans the area.
  
  
  With a shrug, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says, in allundean:
       "I don't see what the big deal is. If she wanted the booze for herself, she shouldn't have left it in one of the communal tents."
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the umbral, dark-tressed female elf has arrived from the east, trudging along a step.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  trudging along a step, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf walks west.
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf has arrived from the east, trudging along a step.
  
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  
  With her arms folded over the swell of her bare midsection, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf trudges back through the tents towards the fire.
  
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf sends you a telepathic message:
       "Surprised isn't wasn't you, though, Brother. I don't know whether to be proud or disappointed."
  
  With an absent nod, you say, in allundean:
       "Aye, there's to that."
  
  
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  
  Easing awkwardly down onto her rear, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf sits down to rest.
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf opens his mouth as if to speak, but only manages a sharp hiccup.
  
  
  More to herself than to anyone else, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says, in allundean:
       "I would appreciate it.. if none of you touched that strange lizard.  I need to return it."
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf asks, in allundean:
       "To who?"
  
  
  
  With a blink, you say to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "What/"
  
  
  Slanting silvery-hued gaze aside as she stretches her legs out before herself, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to the hunched, beak-nosed elf, in allundean:
       "To a friend of mine.. a biter."
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf turns in his seat, easing a glance at the umbral, dark-tressed female elf.
  
  
  In a quiet rasp, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf asks, in allundean:
       "Yah make -friends- wit' bitahs?"
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf lifts a brow toward the umbral, dark-tressed female elf.
  
  
  
  The dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf blinks, staring at the umbral, dark-tressed female elf for a moment.
  
  
  You are a little hungry.
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the ebon-hued, fire-scarred elf intently scans the area.
  
  
  The corners of her lips tugging upwards in a faint show of amusement, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says, in allundean:
       "Well.. yeah.  But only after he's saved my life countless times in the past."
  
  
  With a blink, sounding more than lost, you ask the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "Uh, why'd it give you a present.. and then you have to return it?"
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf shakes his head slowly and lifts one clawed hand to scratch at his ink-whorled brow.
  
  
  A single dark brow creeping up a touch as she shifts her attention for you, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to you, in allundean:
       "He .. didn't.  I didn't have to return anything.  This particular lizard we have here was uh... rescued."
  
  
  Staring at her, the hunched, beak-nosed elf asks the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "Does it talk?"
  
  
  Explantorily, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "The biter, not the lizard."
  
  
  With a thoughtful expression, before hefting up a shoulder loosely, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to the hunched, beak-nosed elf, in allundean:
       "Somewhat.. the biter can speak a bit of our tongue, but isn't very good.  It's not how we communicate."
  
  
  
  Now sounding completely lost, you ask the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "You said the bag was from the biter as a present, then you have to return it to it? Then you- Wait, when did a lizard get involved?"
  
  
  With a lift of one thin finger, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf asks, in allundean:
       "Y'think one'a zhose could understand talking?"
  
  
  Offering a shake of her head aside for you, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to you, in allundean:
       "No.. the bag was mine, but inside were gifts that the biter gave to me for me helping him.  The lizard was rescued from roundears that had stolen it from him."
  
  
  Rubbing his chin, the hunched, beak-nosed elf asks the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "Do the elders know about this?"
  
  
  Flatly, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "So let't go, an' if zhe child wants to return to zhe bitah, 't will."
  
  
  Offering a gentle roll of a shoulder in a shrug, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to you, in allundean:
       "It is a long story how I came to know the bit-"
  
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf's silvery-gaze flickers aside in a slight narrow for the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf.
  
  Looking thoughtful a moment before apparently giving up the idea of the lizard on whole, you ask the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "So... why do you have to return the gifts to the biter?"
  
  
  You are a little hungry.
  
  
  Simply, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to you, in allundean:
       "I don't."
  
  
  Flicking a glance aside, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says to you, in allundean:
       "Jus' th'scaled child, apparently, brother."
  
  
  The dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf opens his mouth as though to say something and then shuts it, his gaze shifting to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf.
  
  
  Canting her head aside a touch to draw her attention over for him, her tone neutral, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to the hunched, beak-nosed elf, in allundean:
       "The elders knew all along about the plots of two of our -own- against my life and did nothing, so why would I speak with them on something like thi"
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf asks, in allundean:
       "... this?"
  
  
  Finally comprehending as he gives a nod, you say, in allundean:
       "Oh! Well, sorry sister, didn't see any lizards around."
  
  
  
  His attention flickering, once again, to her, sounding startled, you ask the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "What?"
  
  
  Frowning at her, the hunched, beak-nosed elf asks the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "What in the name of Akeita are you talking about, Sister?"
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf's ink-whorled brows lift, and his head slips aside into a lazy tilt.
  
  
  Reaching aside to give a somewhat labored push up to her feet, the languid movement hindered with the swell of her midsection, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says, in allundean:
       "I'm talking about the plot of death against me by one of our sisters and one of our brothers."
  
  
  Gaining to her feet, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf rises and stands.
  
  
  Bursting into an amused laugh, you say to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "Sister, that's the funniest shit I've ever heard."
  
  
  Adjusting her dusty hooded, amber-fringed leather shoulder cape about herself, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf just stares at you.
  
  
  
  Nudging him with an elbow, you ask the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, in allundean:
       "Kinda beats my joke about the uh... what was it again?"
  
  
  Giving an angry pluck against the edge of her dusty hooded, amber-fringed leather shoulder cape, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to you, in allundean:
       "And this is exactly why I stayed away from the Lap and the womb - and why I shall do so once again."
  
  
  
  
  Staring at her, bewildered, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "Sister, we sincerely have no idea what the fuck you're talking about."
  
  
  You are a little hungry.
  
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  
  Sweeping up a hand to give a point of an index finger towards you, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to you, in allundean:
       "Another of our brothers -heard- them plotting.. it's no laughing matter, but apparently you think it is."
  
  
  With a tip of his chin towards the hunched, beak-nosed elf, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "Seconded."
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf sends you a telepathic message:
       "I think it was about a snake? I don't know, we were drunk."
  
  
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  
  Still smiling as though it's the funniest joke ever, you say to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "Right, and I was nearly killed by a ritikki. Which is true. Now -that- is no joke."
  
  
  Huffing out a breath, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf turns in step towards the eastern stretch through the tents.
  
  
  Trudging along, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf walks east.
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the umbral, dark-tressed female elf has arrived from the west, trudging along.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  trudging along, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf walks east.
  
  
  With a demonstrative gesture of two hooked claws, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "Soh's seed has turned her mind."
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the umbral, dark-tressed female elf has arrived from the east, backstepping.
  
  
  Still talking and completely unaware of the departing figure as he glances to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf and the hunched, beak-nosed elf, you ask, in allundean:
       "That child hit -hard-, you know?"
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  stepping along, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf walks south.
  
  
  Lifting a brow, the hunched, beak-nosed elf asks, in allundean:
       "So... since when is our Sister insane?"
  
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the umbral, dark-tressed female elf has arrived from the south, stepping along.
  
  
  Still snickering as he passes a hand across his brows, you say, in allundean:
       "Dear mother, a brother and sister wantin' her life."
  
  
  With a slow shake of his head, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf asks the hunched, beak-nosed elf, in allundean:
       "Bitahs... Soh... leavin' zhe Lap?"
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the umbral, dark-tressed female elf intently scans the area.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  Flicking a glance about the clearing, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf adjusts the straps of her dusty green and brown dyed canvas pack along her shoulders.
  
  
  
  Holding up three fingers, one at a time, the hunched, beak-nosed elf asks, in allundean:
       "Getting worked up over booze, talking to biters... now nonsense about a plot against her?"
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  her pack craddled against her back, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf walks west.
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf has arrived from the east, her pack craddled against her back.
  
  
  His bright eyes narrowing to slits, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says to you, in allundean:
       "She did not zhink she was jokin'."
  
  
  Solemnly, you say to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, in allundean:
       "You know what they say about mothers to be. They have strange moods."
  
  
  As she makes a wide berth around the firepit, silvery-gaze slitting aside for the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf and you, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says, in allundean:
       "I didn't think it.. because I wasn't."
  
  
  The cream-colored shell around your body collapses to the ground.
  
  
  
  Turning his attention to her and giving her a lazy smile, still tinged with amusement, you ask the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "Aye, aye, no doubt about that. Perhaps it's just a dream, hm?"
  
  
  Narrowing silvery-gaze upon you, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to you, in allundean:
       "Do not blame it on my strange moods.  It happened -before- I got with child, you dolt."
  
  
  Openning and closing her mouth a couple times, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf suddenly reaches a hand around for her dusty green and brown dyed canvas pack.
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf opens her dusty green and brown dyed canvas pack.
  
  
  Yanking it free, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf gets her tiny musk gland from her dusty green and brown dyed canvas pack.
  
  
  Leaning close and speaking in a hoarse rasp, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf whispers something to the hunched, beak-nosed elf.
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf takes only a moment of aim before suddenly hurling her tiny musk gland straight for you.
  
  
  In an unsteady rush, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf rises and stands.
  
  
  The dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf jerks aside, dodging it a tad too late as the gland lands right on the middle of his chest.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the feral obsidian-mohawked elf has arrived from the east.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the feral obsidian-mohawked elf walks west.
  The feral obsidian-mohawked elf has arrived from the east.
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf stares incredulously at the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, his pale eyes widening briefly before narrowing  into lopsided slits.
  
  
  As she watches the gland smash against your chest, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf shouts, in allundean:
       "IT WASN'T A DREAM!"
  
  
  With a startled cry as he flicks the gland off him, his lips twisting in disgust, you ask, in allundean:
       "The fuck, sister?"
  
  
  You stand up.
  
  
  Her gaze narrowing angrily aside, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf looks at the feral obsidian-mohawked elf.
  
  
  The feral obsidian-mohawked elf cocks his brow as he strolls along the camp, turning his gaze over the others.
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf blinks several times, utterly bewildered.
  
  
  Sweeping a hand over to indicate the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf and you, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf exclaims to the feral obsidian-mohawked elf, in allundean:
       "Tell them it wasn't a dream!  That you heard them!"
  
  
  
  Blearily, slitted eyes blinking, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf looks at the feral obsidian-mohawked elf.
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf looks up at the feral obsidian-mohawked elf.
  
  
  Still disgusted, the dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf apparently does not notice the feral obsidian-mohawked elf's arrival as he tries to brush at his chest.
  
  
  The feral obsidian-mohawked elf asks, in allundean:
       "Heard what sister?"
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the bald, weather-battered elf intently scans the area.
  
  
  Shifting her hand to pat protectively against her midsection, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to the feral obsidian-mohawked elf, in allundean:
       "That they plotted.. to kill me."
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the tall figure in a dusty hooded, sandy-brown reinforced sandcloth duster has arrived from the east.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the tall figure in a dusty hooded, sandy-brown reinforced sandcloth duster walks north.
  
  
  His head canting aside in a lazy tilt, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf exclaims to the feral obsidian-mohawked elf, in allundean:
       "Zhis is insane, brother.  Calm her down!"
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the tall figure in a dusty hooded, sandy-brown reinforced sandcloth duster has arrived from the north.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the tall figure in a dusty hooded, sandy-brown reinforced sandcloth duster walks west.
  The tall figure in a dusty hooded, sandy-brown reinforced sandcloth duster has arrived from the east.
  
  
  The tall figure in a dusty hooded, sandy-brown reinforced sandcloth duster walks west.
  On the West Side of the Camp you see:  the tall figure in a dusty hooded, sandy-brown reinforced sandcloth duster has arrived from the east.
  
  
  On the West Side of the Camp you see:  the tall figure in a dusty hooded, sandy-brown reinforced sandcloth duster walks east.
  The tall figure in a dusty hooded, sandy-brown reinforced sandcloth duster has arrived from the west.
  
  
  Dipping his head in a nod, the feral obsidian-mohawked elf says, in allundean:
       "Flower and Tripped? Yeah, I overhead them when I came upon them on a hunt, they didn't see me approach so I sat to listen."
  
  
  The feral obsidian-mohawked elf says, in allundean:
       "I went to the Elders with it as well."
  
  
  Fairly barking out, her eyes narrowing angrily, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf exclaims to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, in allundean:
       "I wouldn't be upset if you'd taken me seriously!"
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the ebon-hued, fire-scarred elf intently scans the area.
  
  
  You are a little hungry.
  
  
  A thin smile appearing on his lips as he focuses his gaze on the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, you say to the hunched, beak-nosed elf, in
    allundean:
       "This one is insane. Must be the Soh in her belly."
  
  
  With a swift sweep of one clawed hand, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "But Tripped still runs.  Zhis is impossible."
  
  
  Huffing out a breath of irritation, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, in allundean:
       "Because the Elders did nothing... I said as much."
  
  
  Laughing roughly, the feral obsidian-mohawked elf says, in allundean:
       "How is it impossible? The Elders said they were content to let us deal with our own problems."
  
  
  
  His gaze slanting to him, you say to the feral obsidian-mohawked elf, in allundean:
       "You are talking about your -own- brother and sister. Have a care what you say."
  
  
  Casting his grey hued gaze aside, the feral obsidian-mohawked elf looks down at you.
  
  
  The feral obsidian-mohawked elf asks, in allundean:
       "Have a care for what I saw and what I was told?"
  
  
  Planting her hands down once again at her hips, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf narrows her eyes once more at the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf.
  
  
  The rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf lowers the hood of a dusty hooded, sandy-brown reinforced sandcloth duster.
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf shakes his head sharply before loosing a hoarse, alcohol-scented breath.
  
  
  Flatly, his turquoise eyes sliding shut, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "Fine.  Ah don' believe 't, but I won' fight yah."
  
  
  His smile widening as he gives the feral obsidian-mohawked elf a look-over, you ask, in allundean:
       "Well I'm not about to argue with my own blood, hm? But to have me believe that there are two of our own plotting against our own?"
  
  
  Giving her hands a toss up from her hips, before whirling on a foot to trek southwards, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says, in allundean:
       "Akeita's Pits.. dense.. I'm gone."
  
  
  Picking her way around the crowd, the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf ducks beneath the feral obsidian-mohawked elf's arm, tucking herself against him with a wide, mismatched blink about.
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf stands up.
  
  
  His pale eyes flicking open once more, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf looks at the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf.
  
  
  The dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf gives a shrug, dismissing the group as he moves to sit down by the now silent camp.
  
  
  Dipping her head aside to flick her gaze over towards her, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf, in allundean:
       "And I will -not- be back this time, Smoke."
  
  
  
  You sit down.
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf asks, in allundean:
       "One now. You know Blue Flower has gone on her Last Walk, yes?"
  
  
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf asks the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "Do you know what she told me before she died?"
  
  Ok, you are gone afk a bit.
  
  
  Lifting an eyebrow slightly, the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf asks the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "Is it time then, sister?"
  
  
  Coiling his arm about the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf, the feral obsidian-mohawked elf says, in allundean:
       "Believe what you want or not, but -I- was the one that was there and heard them."
  
  
  Waving her hand dismissively over her shoulder, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to the hunched, beak-nosed elf, in allundean:
       "I could care less.  She was full of lies."
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf glares soberly at the umbral, dark-tressed female elf.
  
  
  
  Ok, you are no longer gone.
  
  
  Quietly, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "That she was sorry. And that she wished to make amends with you."
  
  
  
  Scoffing loudly, you say, in allundean:
       "She is calling a biter a friend and a sister a liar."
  
  
  In a sharp rasp, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf whispers to you, in allundean:
       "Hush."
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf turns to the hunched, beak-nosed elf, ink-whorled brows lifting slightly.
  
  
  Huffing a breath as she narrows her eyes faintly over at him, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to the hunched, beak-nosed elf, in allundean:
       "-After- she had already planned out to kill me, and gave false information to the White Pit when she -knew- they wanted me dead."
  
  
  Puffing out a soft breath, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to the hunched, beak-nosed elf, in allundean:
       "And -after- she started the spread of lies through the womb about me."
  
  
  Casting his gaze toward the ground, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "I didn't know what she was talking about. Still don't. I don't pretend to know what happened between you all."
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf shakes his head slowly and lifts his gloved hand to rub a knuckle across his ashen-rimmed eye.
  
  
  
  Unable to contain himself any longer, you ask the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "And you know all this because they decided to plot against you in the open where all can hear?"
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the bald, weather-battered elf intently scans the area.
  
  
  Turning a hand over to touch a thumb against her chest, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to the hunched, beak-nosed elf, in allundean:
       "She hated me because I -dared- to voice my opinions against her illogical reasoning.  I did nothing to her, yet she wanted me dead."
  
  
  In a swift snap, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf clasps one clawed hand over your shoulder, stepping aside to place himself between you and the umbral, dark-tressed female elf.
  
  
  The feral obsidian-mohawked elf looks down at you.
  
  
  
  The dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf opens his mouth as though to say something and then shuts it, his gaze shifting over to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, eyes narrowing slightly.
  
  
  Staring directly at you, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf whispers to you, in allundean:
       "Enough.  Let zhem speak."
  
  
  Slanting her gaze aside, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to you, in allundean:
       "I've always been one to think she was not entirely all there in the head."
  
  
  The feral obsidian-mohawked elf says to you, in allundean:
       "She knows all this because they never spotted me following them out into the lap to have their talks."
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf's turquoise eyes remain affixed on you, his chapped, thorn-impaled lips twisting into a harsh scowl.
  
  
  
  The dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf regards the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf silently a moment, and then shifts his gaze back to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf and the feral obsidian-mohawked elf.
  
  
  Staring at her, slack-jawed in surprise, the hunched, beak-nosed elf asks the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "I don't understand. What does it matter? How can you still carry hate for a dead Sister?"
  
  
  Calling over one shoulder in a quiet rasp, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "I know 'zactly how yah feel, sister."
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the ebon-hued, fire-scarred elf intently scans the area.
  
  
  
  Stance suddenly relaxing, his lazy smile appearing on his lips though it doesn't touch his eyes, you say, in allundean:
       "Aye, we're the Akei'ta Var, we do not bicker with our own. Let the insane rant on if she wants."
  
  
  Her attention drifting aside, her lips pursed tightly, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to the hunched, beak-nosed elf, in allundean:
       "I never -hated- her.  Not even when I found out she wished my death.  She was my sister.  But to have my brothers..."
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf's attention snaps back aside towards you.
  
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf turns slowly on his heel, his stance slightly unsteady as he folds both arms over the chest of his dujat-banded leather jacket.
  
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  
  In a quiet tone, her expression belying her tone of calmness, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf asks you, in allundean:
       "I am insane, because you don't wish to face the reality of what -really- happened?"
  
  
  The leathery, braxat-inked dwarf sends you a telepathic message:
       "*a touch of uncertainty creeping across the surface of the connection* Hello, would you be Black Thorns, of the Akei'ta Var?"
  
  
  Levelling an even look at her, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "An' zhe elders spoke.  Yah shoul' deal wit' your own problems, nah drag th'rest of th'womb to blades at each other's throats."
  
  
  A frown touching the corners of her mouth, the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf whispers something to the feral obsidian-mohawked elf.
  
  
  
  
  Raising his hoarse voice in a sudden, violent yell, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf shouts, in allundean:
       "Enough!"
  
  
  
  Dismissing the group entirely, the dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf's gaze turns toward the ashy remains of the campfire, a distracted frown appearing on his face.
  
  
  The feral obsidian-mohawked elf whispers something to the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf.
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You contact the leathery, braxat-inked dwarf with the Way.
  
  
  Lifting a single hooked finger, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says to you, in allundean:
       "Do.  Nah.  Start again."
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the leathery, braxat-inked dwarf:
       "Aye, and who is this?"
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  
  His turquoise eyes narrowing to bare slits, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf exclaims to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "Do nah drag brothers an' sisters into zhis.  You have done what is needed!  Go to zhe elders, if you feel zhat is unfair!"
  
  
  The leathery, braxat-inked dwarf sends you a telepathic message:
       "I am Stump, of the Ishtorn blood. I sit within the Rose and word touched my ears that you are looking for trade, yes?"
  
  
  In a harsh, barely-audible rasp, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "Akei'ta has already taken one.  He works in His own ways.  Let't be, sister."
  
  
  You send a telepathic message to the leathery, braxat-inked dwarf:
       "*with a touch of faint amusement* Indeed, though I am lookin' more for the Sun Runners. Still, trade is trade, hm? What is it that you're lookin' for?"
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf jerks her chin up faintly, falling silent as she regards the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf.
  
  
  The leathery, braxat-inked dwarf sends you a telepathic message:
       "Well, I am certainly not a Fire Runner though, my blood can offer much. What is it you seek or have a need for, Black Thorns?"
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the leathery, braxat-inked dwarf:
       "What are you offerin'?"
  
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf looses a sharp hiss, his thorn-impaled lips pressing into a thin line as his similarly pierced nostrils flare.
  
  
  Very quietly, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, in allundean:
       "Well said, Brother."
  
  
  Snorting faintly, the feral obsidian-mohawked elf says, in allundean:
       "Slow in the fucking head to not believe when ya have more then just one side, but if you choose fine, live in the dark."
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  
  
  The leathery, braxat-inked dwarf sends you a telepathic message:
       "Well, I can offer much. Weapons? Services? I am able to tread in many places others are not, or at least without a danger, yes. "
  
  
  Without further word, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf turns on heel, stepping southwards through the cluster of tents towards the break in the thorn-wall.
  
  
  Stepping along, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf walks south.
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the umbral, dark-tressed female elf has arrived from the north, stepping along.
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf levels an even look at the feral obsidian-mohawked elf, straightening smoothly.
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the leathery, braxat-inked dwarf:
       "Hmm... that so? Well there is always need for legwork and swords, eh? What are you lookin' for in return?"
  
  
  The leathery, braxat-inked dwarf sends you a telepathic message:
       "Rare gems? Rocks? Materials for arrows? "
  
  
  You think:
       "Legwork and sword, hm? Could be useful."
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the leathery, braxat-inked dwarf:
       "Aye, we have plenty of those. But of your service... I doubt we need it at this moment."
  
  
  You are a little hungry.
  
  
  The leathery, braxat-inked dwarf sends you a telepathic message:
       "I wish you to allow me to move through your territory and help me and my people understand your way better."
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the leathery, braxat-inked dwarf:
       "This, I'll have to speak with my brothers. Perhaps I'll find your mind later, hm?"
  
  
  The leathery, braxat-inked dwarf sends you a telepathic message:
       "Yes, until then shall I be welcomed if I observe and respect your way?"
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the leathery, braxat-inked dwarf:
       "Aye, I'll let my blood know as well."
  
  
  The leathery, braxat-inked dwarf sends you a telepathic message:
       "Good. I will show your lands no disrespect."
  
  
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  You dissolve the psychic link.
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf deflates abruptly, his posture collapsing, and turns on his heel, regarding the hunched, beak-nosed elf and you with weary, ashen-rimmed eyes.
  
  
  A frown curling the corners of her mouth, the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf whispers something to the feral obsidian-mohawked elf.
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the bald, weather-battered elf intently scans the area.
  
  
  Turning on his heels, the feral obsidian-mohawked elf says to the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf, in allundean:
       "Lets go then."
  
  
  Scratching idly at his middle, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf asks you, in allundean:
       "Ah'm goin' t'get a smoke.  Eithah 'f you want't?"
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf asks, in allundean:
       "Where are you going?"
  
  The dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf brushes a hand across his temple, his gaze shifting to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf and giving him a nod.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the vibrant, bestial creature has arrived from the south.
  
  
  The feral obsidian-mohawked elf says, in allundean:
       "To get my sister back"
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the vibrant, bestial creature flies west.
  The vibrant, bestial creature has arrived from the east.
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf looks up at the vibrant, bestial creature.
  
  Attention shifting over, you look up at the vibrant, bestial creature.
  Something akin to a tembo, a man, and a kenku stoops here.  Filled
  with energetic musculature, covered in a striped layer of scar-free
  flesh, this thing exudes power.  A wide mouth filled with tembo teeth,
  the eyes as well similar to that creature, break open a face that looks
  only vaguely humanoid.  Curving talons tip each finger, and hardy,
  silver-feathered wings sprout from the back.  A vibrant set of bright
  hued feathers sprout from the wrists and race back along the arms,
  moving from silver to red to brilliant blue as they coat the body
  of this odd looking being.
  The vibrant, bestial creature is in excellent condition.
  
  He is carrying:
  nothing obvious
  
  
  The rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf nods, stepping from underneath the feral obsidian-mohawked elf's arm to straighten herself a moment.
  
  
  Loping along on all fours, the vibrant, bestial creature moves through the camp as elves part before him.
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf straightens slightly, and eases a glance over one shoulder.
  
  
  His turquoise eyes widening, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf looks up at the vibrant, bestial creature.
  
  You stand up.
  
  
  The rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf walks east.
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf has arrived from the west.
  
  
  Sitting back on his haunches, the vibrant, bestial creature flares his too-wide nostrils.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf walks north.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf has arrived from the north.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf walks east.
  
  
  Growling low in his throat, words slurred by the shape of his mouth, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "Air... thick.  Stiff.  Like back of roundear who wears robes."
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the bald, weather-battered elf intently scans the area.
  
  
  Turning his shining, golden eyes towards the hunched, beak-nosed elf, the vibrant, bestial creature asks, in allundean:
       "Why is this?"
  
  The dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf blinks, his gaze flickering quickly to the hunched, beak-nosed elf.
  
  
  Sniffing the air, the feral obsidian-mohawked elf says, in allundean:
       "Anger. You can smell it."
  
  
  A little stunned, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says to the vibrant, bestial creature, in allundean:
       "Well, uh, not sure. Seems we stirred up some old ghosts between sisters Black Wind and Blue Flower."
  
  
  In spite of his attempt to stifle it, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf looses a quiet belch into one gloved fist.
  
  
  The words growling low from his predatory throat, the vibrant, bestial creature asks, in allundean:
       "Old ghosts.  Ghosts are unhappy.  Old things rot.  Who shows teeth?"
  
  
  His muzzle lifting a bit, the vibrant, bestial creature looks down at the feral obsidian-mohawked elf.
  
  Feeling a sense of relief, you think:
       "Well, now the elder is here. He will speak for us. And what he decides will be it."
  
  
  With a vague gesture south, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says to the vibrant, bestial creature, in allundean:
       "Sister Black Wind claims that, some time ago, she heard of Brother Tripped and Sister Blue Flower plotting to kill her."
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf says to the vibrant, bestial creature, in allundean:
       "Some support her story. Apparently, this was brought before the elders, but it was new to me."
  
  
  Gesturing to himeslf, you and the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says to the vibrant, bestial creature, in allundean:
       "We questioned her on it. Black Wind ran off, angry. Very angry."
  
  
  Slowing his speech, seeming hopelessly confused, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says, in allundean:
       "Also talked about... uh, something about being friends with a halfling."
  
  
  Crossing his arms over his chest, the feral obsidian-mohawked elf says, in allundean:
       "She ran off angry because you fools called her a liar and insane."
  
  
  His tembo-teeth showing as he speaks briefly, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "I remember this.  The wound was healed, yet it becomes open again, and festers."
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf opens his mouth to continue, but shuts it, apparently thinking better of it.
  
  
  The vibrant, bestial creature's eyes narrow and sharpen as he looks to the feral obsidian-mohawked elf.
  
  
  His words impeded slightly by the thorned piercings through his tongue and lips, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "Partly my doin', at zhat."
  
  
  The vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "You speak to your brothers and sisters so?  Call them fools?  You are farthest from the wisest upon the grass now.  A bold statement you make, and unkind."
  
  Unable to help himself, you say, in allundean:
       "She is sayin' that two of our blood is plottin' against her, and then she's sayin' she's friends with a biter."
  
  
  The feral obsidian-mohawked elf says, in allundean:
       "I don't rightly give a fuck about what was said or done, but I was the one to hear their plotting, and she wasn't lying."
  
  
  His gaze narrowing, the feral obsidian-mohawked elf says to the vibrant, bestial creature, in allundean:
       "I stand by my brothers and sisters in all things, but they are wrong now, Sister Atemys had the right of it."
  
  
  Very quiet, barely audible, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says, in allundean:
       "Be respectful in front of the Shaman. All of you. All of us."
  
  Feeling a surge of anger, you think:
       "Disrespectin' the shaman, callin' his blood fools, what next?"
  
  
  Shaking his head slowly, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf lifts a gloved hand towards the hunched, beak-nosed elf.
  
  The dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf purses his lips, sliding his gaze respectfully down.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf has arrived from the east.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf walks north.
  
  
  Shifting one back paw for a moment, then resting fully back, stubby tail supporting his body, watching the feral obsidian-mohawked elf, the vibrant, bestial creature asks, in allundean:
       "And it is the way of us to throw barbed words to solve problems?"
  
  You think:
       "Dire news indeed. Perhaps -this- is the things Kickin' read from the entrails of the diseased child."
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf watches the vibrant, bestial creature and the feral obsidian-mohawked elf intensely, hardly blinking as his eyes flick between the pair.
  
  You think:
       "The disagreement within family."
  
  
  Waving his hand, the feral obsidian-mohawked elf says, in allundean:
       "As far as I'm concerned the problem was solved with Akeita's will, I speak my mind plainly, and I will stand by my tribe."
  
  
  Lowering one paw, the vibrant, bestial creature speaks no words as a small vine begins to thrust valiantly up from the soil below.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf has arrived from the north.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf walks east.
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the bald, weather-battered elf intently scans the area.
  
  His attention caught, the dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf stares at the flourishing vine by the vibrant, bestial creature's feet before shifting his gaze back to him.
  
  
  As the vine begins to grow, a single flower blooming upon the end, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "What occurred in the past, is past.  This does not mean we should forget it.  But to bring anger, harsh words, and wound your brothers is not our way."
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf has arrived from the east.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf walks north.
  
  
  The vibrant, bestial creature's left ear rotates towards the eastern side of camp for a few moments.
  
  
  You are a little hungry.
  
  
  Cocking his brow faintly, the feral obsidian-mohawked elf says, in allundean:
       "Yet I was not the one to call Sister Atemys a liar and insane, I was angered yes, but I was the one who was there and heard the truth."
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf has arrived from the north.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf walks west.
  The rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf has arrived from the east.
  
  
  The youthful, copper-skinned elf has entered the world.
  
  
  With a low rumbling growl, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "Bandages heal flesh.  Words heal hearts and minds."
  
  
  As he turns his color-shifting, shining eyes over the assembled elves, the vibrant, bestial creature asks, in allundean:
       "Who uttered the words of insanity, and of lies?"
  
  
  The youthful, copper-skinned elf meanders closer from the eastern tents. As he notes the vibrant, bestial creature addressing the other elves, he pauses, glancing about.
  
  
  With a final crackle of full growth, the bloom on the vine becomes a flower, then a full ginka fruit below the vibrant, bestial creature paw.
  
  
  Skidding to a stop beside the feral obsidian-mohawked elf, the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf coughs slightly as she lopes in from the east.
  
  
  Without a word, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf raises one clawed hand, though his visage retains its stoic mask.
  
  
  Gesturing toward himself, you and the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says to the vibrant, bestial creature, in allundean:
       "We did. The three of us. We were confused, and were seeking to understand Sister Black Wind's anger."
  
  After a moment, speaking up from the crowd, you say, in allundean:
       "I called Sister Black Wind insane, yes. I thought she was jokin' at first."
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf's tongue flickers across his chapped lips, briefly revealing a pair of long thorns impaled through it.
  
  
  As he grips his juicy ginka fruit and lifts it slowly, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "An apology.  Many words.  Sincere.  Speak not only your grief, but speak of why you said those words."
  
  
  The youthful, copper-skinned elf furrows his brow, clearly a touch puzzled by what he overhears. Rather than interjecting, he skirts the gathering, seating himself upon the grasses near the campfire.
  
  
  The youthful, copper-skinned elf sits down.
  
  
  The vibrant, bestial creature's massive, predatory teeth scythe right through the armored, spiked fruit.
  
  
  The vibrant, bestial creature takes a bite of his juicy ginka fruit.
  
  
  With a faint lift of his chin, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "It was all strange.  Friendin' a bitah, bearin' a Soh's seed in her belly, an' speakin'a brothers an' sisters killin' her."
  
  
  His head shaking slowly, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says to the vibrant, bestial creature, in allundean:
       "She sounded as if she was jokin', or t'Akei'ta insane.  Ah was drunk, an'..."
  
  
  After a brief pause, his scar-whorled brow creasing, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "... Worried."
  
  
  Grunting after swallowing, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "A strange life does not mean a lie.  It means a strange life."
  
  
  With a pair of swift nods, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "Ah saw th'life.  Doesn' mean I zhink it's th'righ' thing for a sistah."
  
  
  Squinting over at the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, the vibrant, bestial creature asks, in allundean:
       "You are Akeita's Eye?"
  
  
  Rolling his shoulders in a shrug, the feral obsidian-mohawked elf says, in allundean:
       "She never felt safe in the womb so she found others, but I'm not going to let my sister with child wander aimlessly through the lap in anger."
  
  
  The youthful, copper-skinned elf listens attentively to the discourse, his attention jumping from one speaker to the next. However, all the while, his gaze tends to favor the vibrant, bestial creature.
  
  
  
  Stammering hoarsely, with a lazy tilt of his head, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "W- well... nah.  I mean, her belly grows.  Zhat was th'least of 't."
  
  His gaze flickering over to the feral obsidian-mohawked elf and speaking out of context, again, you say, in allundean:
       "Nothin's safer than the Womb. That is why it's called the Womb, brother."
  
  
  Grunting, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "Only Akeita may judge so."
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the ebon-hued, fire-scarred elf intently scans the area.
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf says, in allundean:
       "I have a question, Shaman, that perhaps you could answer. I think it may help some of us still confused."
  
  
  Pointing one five inch claw at the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "You will welcome her back to the Womb.  You will ensure she knows her brothers and sisters love her.  This is her tribe, her home, her safety."
  
  
  Gaze averted, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says to the vibrant, bestial creature, in allundean:
       "The reason I was... hesitant to believe my sister was because I didn't believe Brother Tripped capable of such a thing. I've ran with him many times."
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf ceases his stammering, and straightens, his battered visage smoothing into a stoic mask.
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf asks the vibrant, bestial creature, in allundean:
       "If he really did this thing... and apparently he did... then why was he not punished? Why was this not even spoken of until now?"
  
  
  Shaking his head lightly, the feral obsidian-mohawked elf says, in allundean:
       "She won't listen, her trust is already broken and scattered."
  
  
  The scales of his neck bunching as he turns to look over at the hunched, beak-nosed elf, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "Tripped is so capable.  We believe his heart to have been clouded by spice and the spirits of War."
  
  
  With a tight frown, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "He was punished.  His punishment is not physical.  It is not noticed.  It is with the lack of knowledge that will be granted to him.  He was being considered as my apprentice."
  
  
  The youthful, copper-skinned elf bows his head for a moment, the fingers of his right hand spreading to rub deeply at his eyes.
  
  
  Simply, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "This is no more."
  
  
  Nodding, but suddenly looking very weary, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says, in allundean:
       "I understand."
  
  
  Blinking back and forth from the vibrant, bestial creature to the hunched, beak-nosed elf, the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf shifts on her feet a moment.
  
  
  His chest carrying a deep rumble, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "Our sister is scared.  She is frightened, and does not understand why the ground collapses below her."
  
  
  Gaze averted, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says, in allundean:
       "I understand now, Shaman. We were wrong. And I will apologize to Sister Black Wind, before we lose her to the Soh for good."
  
  
  With a slow shake of his head, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "Nah.  Ah will."
  
  
  Looking to you, sadly, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says to you, in allundean:
       "We all will."
  
  
  Raising one claw, tapping the scales of his chest, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "You, brothers, sisters, I... all of us.  The Womb.  We are her ground.  Trust must be re-established.  She must trust that we are firm.  That we will always be."
  
  Feeling grudgingly, you think:
       "I suppose I will too."
  
  
  Finally piping up as he lifts his head, lowering his fingers from his eyes, the youthful, copper-skinned elf says, in allundean:
       "I was to go and open trade with the Soh. I'll help"
  
  
  Shaking his head, braids swaying alongside his face, the youthful, copper-skinned elf says to the vibrant, bestial creature, in allundean:
       "Before I do that, though ... Shaman, I think my eyes have taken ill."
  
  
  Chomping down loudly, ripping a massive hunk from the ginka, the vibrant, bestial creature eats a portion of his partially eaten juicy ginka fruit.
  
  The dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf drops a silent nod, his gaze slanting to the youthful, copper-skinned elf.
  
  
  The vibrant, bestial creature's eyes shift over towards the youthful, copper-skinned elf.
  
  
  The rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf has lost link.
  The rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf has reconnected.
  
  
  Lifting his chin as he takes a sharp breath of air, the youthful, copper-skinned elf says to the vibrant, bestial creature, in allundean:
       "I was working hides earlier in the week, as the hunters need space. Nothing was wrong, and then it felt as though daggers were thrust through my eyes. They still hurt."
  
  
  A sudden chuckle resonates in the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf's throat.
  
  The dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf clears his throat as he attempts to cover up an amused smile, gaze shifting sideways a moment.
  
  
  Grunting gruffly, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "The dwellers of the Dun Pit have a saying..."
  
  
  Sounding slightly amused, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "Every Spice has its Price."
  
  
  Sidestepping toward the feral obsidian-mohawked elf, the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf tucks herself back underneath his arm in a slight lean, chewing her bottom lip over in thought.
  
  
  Blinking before he turns his gaze aside, grimly favoring the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, the youthful, copper-skinned elf says to the vibrant, bestial creature, in allundean:
       "Oh."
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf's chuckle briefly becomes a hoarse, barking laugh, but he manages to stifle it, and it soon fades.
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf lifts a clenched fist to his mouth, unsuccessfully attempting to stifle a snicker.
  
  
  Nodding once towards the youthful, copper-skinned elf, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "Much water, only fresh fruit, two weeks.  No meat.  Then remember in future."
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the bald, weather-battered elf intently scans the area.
  
  
  Drawing a defiant breath as he rises, the youthful, copper-skinned elf says to the vibrant, bestial creature, in allundean:
       "They laugh, but we must all learn. I only worried because I've made many promises. I will open trade with the Soh, and I want to deal with some of the Pit dwellers. Trade makes trust, makes peace."
  
  
  The youthful, copper-skinned elf stands up.
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf shakes his head, looking momentarily distracted.
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf says to the vibrant, bestial creature, in allundean:
       "She has sealed her mind off to me, Shaman. But I will speak to her as soon as she's ready to let me."
  
  
  Smiling over at the youthful, copper-skinned elf, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "In time, you will learn the beauty of laughter as another learns."
  
  
  Sincerely, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says to the vibrant, bestial creature, in allundean:
       "Thank you for... setting me right."
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf stalks over the low knoll, easing to a halt at the youthful, copper-skinned elf's side.
  
  
  Glancing once again toward the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, just before he adopts aslight smile, the youthful, copper-skinned elf says to the vibrant, bestial creature, in allundean:
       "Yes, Shaman. Do you think it is wrong of me to deal with the Pit walkers? Some say I should never near them, but I want peace for the Womb."
  
  
  A set of nictating membranes slide down over the vibrant, bestial creature's eyes.
  
  
  Taking a seat near the fire and massaging his temple, the hunched, beak-nosed elf sits down to rest.
  
  
  Voice the rumble of earth shifting far below, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "I've her mind."
  
  The dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf regards the youthful, copper-skinned elf curiously a moment and then glances back over to the vibrant, bestial creature.
  
  
  The rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf Mismatched eyes flicker from one elf to another before finally settling decidedly on the vibrant, bestial creature.
  
  
  the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf's mismatched eyes flicker from one elf to another before finally settling decidedly on the vibrant, bestial creature.
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the ebon-hued, fire-scarred elf intently scans the area.
  
  
  You are a little hungry.
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf shifts from one boot to the other, briefly lifting two gloved knuckles to rub at his scar-etched brow.
  
  
  Flicking his grey-hued gaze aside, the feral obsidian-mohawked elf looks at the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf.
  
  
  Canting his head mildly, the youthful, copper-skinned elf says to the vibrant, bestial creature, in allundean:
       "I know the trade tongue, and where there is mutual need, there is usually peace. If we offer a blind eye to our neighbors, and a silent tongue, we'd might as well turn our backs to their spears."
  
  
  Placing a clawed hand on his shoulder, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf whispers something to the youthful, copper-skinned elf.
  
  
  Clearing his throat lightly, the youthful, copper-skinned elf says to the vibrant, bestial creature, in allundean:
       "... So I think, anyhow. I'm not eager to enter that place, either."
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the bald, weather-battered elf intently scans the area.
  
  
  Glancing up at him, his brow furrowed, the youthful, copper-skinned elf says to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, in allundean:
       "I stalk the sort of prey Akeita made me to hunt. That's all. When this is over, perhaps the Shaman will have time to mull over my question."
  
  
  Returning to the fireside grasses, where he drops into a crouch, the youthful, copper-skinned elf sits down.
  
  
  Fingers coming up to tug and fidget at the hem of her sweat-stained sleek black quirri-hide halter top, the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf chews her bottom lip in thought, mismatched eyes clouding over a moment.
  
  
  You are a little hungry.
  
  
  
  With a gutteral rumble, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "She will return.  Your words will be ready.  The trust will be healed in time."
  
  
  The rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf lets out an audible breath, stature relaxing.
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf's expression turns dour, for a moment, before smoothing back out into his usual, weather-beaten mask.
  
  You think:
       "Then she will have to... Oh, but if the shaman said it, then I must try. Even if she -is-... strange."
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf nods simply toward the vibrant, bestial creature.
  
  After a moment, the dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf also drops a nod, his expression giving away nothing.
  
  Feeling sardonic humor, you think:
       "And if it is Akei's will, then let it be."
  
  
  Looking to the hunched, beak-nosed elf, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "Use your wisdom to guide them."
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf blinks in surprise at the vibrant, bestial creature, then nods solemnly.
  
  
  Touching a twelve inch thrashing ginka vine below his paw, whispering the word, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "Thank you."
  
  
  The vibrant, bestial creature watches the vine retreat underground.
  
  
  You are a little hungry.
  
  
  Turning, the vibrant, bestial creature takes one step, vanishes, reappears instantly ten cords later on his path, then takes another ten cord step, and turns south into the tent.
  
  
  The vibrant, bestial creature flies east.
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the vibrant, bestial creature has arrived from the west.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the vibrant, bestial creature flies south.
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  working her way around a hide-covered tent, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf runs north.
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf has arrived from the south, working her way around a hide-covered tent.
  
  At her arrival, you look at the umbral, dark-tressed female elf.
  Obsidian-hued hair tumbles in straight locks to mid-back, the dusty
  flecked mane covering half over sharply pointed and pierced eartips lending
  no doubt to her elven heritage.  Two chin length shorn and dreaded tendrils
  frame either side of her angular features, the darkened hue bringing out the
  steely silver of her large almond shaped, pearl flecked gaze.  Between the
  lay of her tilted, kohl-rimmed eyes rests a narrow nose, it's end
  unobtrusive with a small upturned slope.  A slanted and bony jawline leads
  down to a defined and slightly pointed chin, a pair of thin grey tinted lips
  curving in bow shape above.  Various scars mar her dusky skin, smatterings
  of old and new littering over her long and willowy form.  Though she bears
  slight curves to give hint at her femininity, little else but the rounds of
  her hips and chest shows any trace of the cushion of fat. 
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf is in excellent condition.
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf is using:
  <worn in hair>           a dusty saw-toothed, silvery green leaf
  <worn in left ear>       a dusty blackened ear cuff of polished bone
  <worn in right ear>      a dusty green and blue feather earring
  <worn around neck>       a dusty string of sharp teeth
  <worn about throat>      a dusty hooded, amber-fringed leather shoulder cape
  <slung across back>      a dusty thornwood and tortoiseshell longbow
  <worn across back>       a dusty green and brown dyed canvas pack
  <body>                   a swirl of deep blue and green inks
  <right shoulder>         a rantarri paw inked in white
  <left shoulder>          a tattoo of a yawning tembo
  <worn on arms>           a dusty dark blue and green swirled warpaint
  <worn around wrist>      a dusty green chitin archery brace
  <worn around wrist>      a dusty supple, earthy archery brace
  <worn on hands>          a dusty pair of anakore-claw gloves
  <worn on forearms>       a dusty set of etched wooden bangles
  <worn as belt>           a dusty black-trimmed, pouched dark green belt
  <hung from belt>         a dusty long bone-headed spear
  <hung from belt>         a dusty hooked mekillot-bone spear
  <worn about waist>       a dusty soft, amber-tasseled suede quiver
  <worn on legs>           a dusty vividly-slashed, dark blue skirt
  <right ankle>            a wreath of flowers tattoo
  <left ankle>             a twining tattoo of a ginka vine
  <worn on feet>           a dusty pair of sparkling, amber-adorned moccasins
  
  She is carrying:
  nothing obvious
  
  
  Lowering his brow towards the ground, rubbing at his neck beneath his thick mane, the youthful, copper-skinned elf says, in allundean:
       "I'm an idiot."
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf flicks a glance over his shoulder at the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, his thorn-impaled lips pressed into a line.
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf looks up at the umbral, dark-tressed female elf.
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf straightens and turns on his heel, picking his way through the milling elven crowd towards the umbral, dark-tressed female elf.
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf comes to a halt along the southern expanse of the clustered tents, keeping well clear of those gathered.
  
  
  Shaking a little as he rises, watching the umbral, dark-tressed female elf approach, the hunched, beak-nosed elf rises and stands.
  
  
  Lifting his chin a bit, his gaze following the flow of others nearby, the youthful, copper-skinned elf looks up at the umbral, dark-tressed female elf.
  
  
  For a long moment, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf simply looks at the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, his ink-whorled brow creased slightly.
  
  
  
  Turning his gaze to offer a smile, the feral obsidian-mohawked elf looks at the umbral, dark-tressed female elf.
  
  
  Gaze lowered to the ground, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "Sister... we're sorry."
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the ebon-hued, fire-scarred elf intently scans the area.
  
  
  
  Eyes narrowing evenly on the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf nods solidly once and cracks a smile, leaning easily against the feral obsidian-mohawked elf.
  
  
  With a tilt of his head, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "Has th'right of 't.  Y'should know zhat y'have a root heah, in th'Womb.  Silly t'think yah can't be safe heah."
  
  The faintest hint of a smile appearing on his lips as he looks at the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, you ask, in allundean:
       "Aye, we're of your blood, no?"
  
  
  Employing a sudden bout of cheer, his lips hauled by their peaks into a broad smile, the youthful, copper-skinned elf says to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "WElcome home."
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf folds her arms down in a loosely protective clasp over the top swell of her midsection, remaining otherwise silent.
  
  
  One turquoise eye squinting faintly, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "Zhe... Shaman came t'speak wit' us, an' told us what happened.  Th'elders did nah do nothin' - punishment was levelled, an' you can be safe here."
  
  
  Ignoring the others, and seeking her gaze, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "We were confused. And maybe a little ashamed for our Brother. It was never our intent to make you feel unwelcome."
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the bald, weather-battered elf intently scans the area.
  
  
  You are a little hungry.
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf says to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "You're safe here. We have nothing but love for you. For you and your child."
  
  
  After a beat, the hunched, beak-nosed elf nudges you gently in the side with his elbow.
  
  
  
  Clearing his throat as he drops a nod, you say to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "Aye. Right. Love."
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf's silvery-gaze flickers doubtfully aside towards you.
  
  
  With a sharp lift of his chin, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf asks the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "Ai?  So how d'yah feel?"
  
  After a moment, licking his lips and then lowering his head abit, you say to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "I am sincerely sorry for what I said, sister."
  
  You think:
       "There. I apologized. Sincerely."
  
  
  Edging a step backwards, doubtfilled gaze shifting over for him, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, in allundean:
       "Like I am an outsider.. again."
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf's ink-whorled gaze creases slightly, and his pierced lips press into a thin line.
  
  You think:
       "Right. Outsider. Here at the Womb. She -is- a strange one."
  
  Speaking out suddenly, a lazy smile flickering back on his lips as he glances to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, you say, in allundean:
       "Well, now that we have made our peace, I thought I hear you said somethin' about smokin' earlier, brother."
  
  
  Stepping aside from the feral obsidian-mohawked elf, the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf edges up close to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, standing shoulder to shoulder.
  
  
  Leveling a finger at her, the hunched, beak-nosed elf asks the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "You are no outsider. You will never be an outsider. You are of the Akei Ta Var, I am your brother, and this is your home. Yes?"
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf watches the umbral, dark-tressed female elf earnestly.
  
  
  After a long moment, his voice a quiet rasp, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "You shouldn'.  You're welcome, an' yah loved, sister, for all'a your choices."
  
  
  Slipping a hand down to press against the swell of her stomach, her words clipped, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to the hunched, beak-nosed elf, in allundean:
       "Yes."
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf has arrived from the north.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf walks south.
  
  
  The rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf shifts slightly on her feet, giving a quick glance Eastward.
  
  
  Smiling suddenly, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "Good."
  
  
  Leaning close, his turquoise eyes still locked on the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf whispers to you, in allundean:
       "Remember when I said t'shuddup an' let silence be?  Ah was wrong.  Go get zhe spice."
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf asks the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "Then you accept our apology?"
  
  A grin appearing on his lips as he gives him a nod, you whisper to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf in allundean:
       "Aye, let's go."
  
  You now follow the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf.
  
  
  With a long moment of pause, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf hefts up a small shrug of a shoulder for the hunched, beak-nosed elf.
  
  
  After a long moment spent in silent observation, the youthful, copper-skinned elf says to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "Part of being family's knowing when to apologize, and when to forgive. They spoke truth t'you."
  
  
  The feral obsidian-mohawked elf shifts his weight before making his way over towards the umbral, dark-tressed female elf's side.
  
  You think:
       "Like I said, she's ins- Er, a strange one."
  
  
  Cocking a hip and crossing her arms over her chest, the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf stands close to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, gaze shifting to the youthful, copper-skinned elf a moment.
  
  
  A booming roar sounds from the Shaman's tent.
  
  
  With a slow nod, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "Ai, go-"
  
  
  
  Silvery-gaze flicking aside towards him, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf asks the youthful, copper-skinned elf, in allundean:
       "They also spoke before of insanity.. because they spoke it should I believe that as truth as well?"
  
  
  With a relieved sigh, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says, in allundean:
       "Good. Good. Then we should all get drunk and eat and tell stories, like brothers and sisters-"
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf abruptly turns on his heel, swiftly cutting into a dead sprint.
  
  
  At a swift sprint, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf runs east.
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf has arrived from the west, at a swift sprint.
  You follow the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, and run east.
  
  East Side of a Thornbush-Walled Camp [NESW]
     Rising taller than a bahamet, and just as wide, an extremely dense circular
  wall of thornbushes surrounds this small area.  The land outside this natural
  barrier is barely visible through small breaks in the thorny mass.
     Some tents dot this side of the camp, spread unevenly over the hill.  Fewer
  elves, relative to the hill's western expanse, mill about here, most either
  moving to a tent or from it towards the tribe's denser population lying to the
  west.
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf is standing here.
  A granite-haired, beak-nosed elf sits on a mat, inking needles.
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf has arrived from the west.
  
  
  
  Crashing through the heavy flaps, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf runs south.
  You follow the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, and run south.
  
  Stinging sand swirls around you.
  Inside a Canvas-Walled Tent [N Quit Save]
     Only a few sleeping mats, made of hides, canvas and other materials,
  line the floor of this yet to be fully occupied tent.  A framework of small
  pymlithe branches supports the reinforced canvas that forms this
  dwelling's walls.  Upturned gurth shells and simple wooden chests hold a
  variety of personal belongings, ranging from bone, wood and stone tools to
  other objects of a vaguely arcane quality.
  Hanging from a peg of one of the tents poles, staring with it cold hollow gaze is an anakore skull.
  A large bag is lying here.
  A well-fashioned grass basket rests here, filled with roots and fruits.
  A sturdy grass basket rests near the grill, filled with seasonings.
  A six-sided purplish basket rests near the grill, filled with fats.
  A bone and tile grill sits in the middle of the tent.
  A simple wooden chest rests here, filled with meat.
  A simple wooden chest sits here on the floor.
  A square, snake-embroidered linen mat lies here, providing seating.
  The broken remains of a humanoid skeleton lie here.
  A hefty wooden barrel sits here.
  A hefty wooden barrel sit to the side, filled with water.
  A bone and shell frying pan is here is here hanging from the grill.
  A bone and shell frying pan is here hanging from the side of the grill.
  A duskhorn skull is here propped next to a chest.
  A large domed shell lies here.
  A sleeping mat, blue in hue and comfortable looking, sits here.
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf is standing here.
  The vibrant, bestial creature is flying here.
  The shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf is standing here.
  The slight, withered elf girl squats here, preparing bundles of herbs.
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf has arrived from the north.
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf has arrived from the north, sprinting along.
  
  You look down at the vibrant, bestial creature.
  Something akin to a tembo, a man, and a kenku stoops here.  Filled
  with energetic musculature, covered in a striped layer of scar-free
  flesh, this thing exudes power.  A wide mouth filled with tembo teeth,
  the eyes as well similar to that creature, break open a face that looks
  only vaguely humanoid.  Curving talons tip each finger, and hardy,
  silver-feathered wings sprout from the back.  A vibrant set of bright
  hued feathers sprout from the wrists and race back along the arms,
  moving from silver to red to brilliant blue as they coat the body
  of this odd looking being.
  The vibrant, bestial creature is in excellent condition.
  
  He is carrying:
  nothing obvious
  
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf looks ragged as he swifts through the flaps, his turquoise eyes widened.
  
  
  Teeth bared, eyes obviously angered, energy crackling around him, the vibrant, bestial creature exclaims, in allundean:
       "If you wish to speak to me of how wise you are, I encourage you to think CAREFULLY before you chose your next sentence!"
  
  
  The youthful, copper-skinned elf has arrived from the north, brushing the tent flaps aside as he dashes in.
  
  
  The rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf has arrived from the north, loping swiftly along.
  
  The dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf blinks, appearing lost as he glances about.
  
  
  Stabbing a claw into the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf's chest, the vibrant, bestial creature exclaims, in allundean:
       "YOUR words caused this wound!  They were action enough!"
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf stops dead in his tracks at the entrance to the tent, watching the vibrant, bestial creature and the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf.
  
  His gaze finally landing on him, you look at the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf.
  Lean, with a wiry cording of musculature beneath his golden-flecked skin,
  this elf has the deeply define characterization of his elven ancestry
  with a touch of the bulk that is associated with one very active. His eyes are
  almond shaped and are toned a cool blue in hue, with swirls of umber and
  jade twisting around the irises.  Shaggy locks of crimson-stained hair have
  been twisted into braids and flop down across his shoulders.
  The shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf is in excellent condition.
  
  The shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf is using:
  <worn on head>           a dusty mesh-covered, tembo-hide cap
  <worn in hair>           a dusty baobab leaf
  <worn around neck>       a dusty studded tembo-hide collar
  <worn about throat>      a dusty crystal teardrop pendant
  <slung across back>      a dusty slender duskhorn recurve bow
  <worn across back>       a dusty large chalton-hide backpack
  <worn on torso>          a bloodied studded, scorpion-emblazoned vest
  <right shoulder>         an angry, armored bahamet tattoo
  <left shoulder>          a tattoo of a duskhorn bull's head
  <worn on arms>           a pair of carru leather sleeves
  <worn around wrist>      a leaf-patterned, tembo-hide wrist-wrap
  <worn around wrist>      a leaf-patterned, tembo-hide wrist-wrap
  <worn on hands>          a dusty pair of anakore-claw gloves
  <worn as belt>           a tooth-studded, tembo hide belt
  <hung from belt>         a dusty fanged baobab spear
  <worn around body>       a dusty hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak
  <worn about waist>       a bloodied jozhal hide quiver
  <worn on legs>           a set of leaf-patterned, tembo-hide leggings
  <worn on right ankle>    a dusty small leather pouch
  <worn on feet>           a dusty pair of tembo mesh boots
  
  He is carrying:
  nothing obvious
  
  You think:
       "Ah, brother..."
  
  
  The shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf winces as the claw stabs into the flesh.
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf's silvery-gaze flickers aside towards the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf, as she skids to a halt just inside the tent.
  
  
  Levering forward, his toothed maw inches from the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf's face, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "You will heal this wound."
  
  
  The youthful, copper-skinned elf makes his pause behind some of the older men, his heels skidding to an abrupt halt as he overhears the enraged words.
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf lopes over an overturned basket, placing himself between the vibrant, bestial creature and the rest behind.
  
  
  The rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf skids to a halt just inside the tent flaps and edges aside to allow others through, mismatched gaze settling on the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf.
  
  
  The feral obsidian-mohawked elf has arrived from the north.
  
  The dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf sucks in a breath, watching the exchange with wide eyes.
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf hunches up her shoulders suddenly as she watches the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf, backing up slowly towards the tents flaps.
  
  
  Voice a low hiss, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says, in allundean:
       "No one speak. No one intervene."
  
  His lips barely moving, his attention caught, you whisper to the hunched, beak-nosed elf in allundean:
       "I'm not plannin' to."
  
  
  Thin, crimson fluid continues to drip from the vibrant, bestial creature maw as he stares into the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf eyes.
  
  
  As blood trickles down his chest, the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf says, in allundean:
       "I have always put the good foot forward.  But believe me if there is a wound then I can heal it."
  
  
  Hissing in a dry rasp over his shoulder, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf exclaims, in allundean:
       "Quiet!"
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf holds back his arms, holding back a gathering crowd of curious elves. None attempt to move deeper into the tent.
  
  
  Retracting his claw, passing his palm over the wound and bringing it closed, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "Then do so."
  
  
  The shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf pulls his gaze from the vibrant, bestial creature to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf.
  
  
  His torso remaining steady in the air, the vibrant, bestial creature pulls up his left leg, then his right, crossing them as he hovers silently.
  
  You think:
       "Mother, I can cut tension with a knife."
  
  
  The vibrant, bestial creature's eyes steadily closed, the deep hum of a meditative focus coming from within his chest.
  
  You think:
       "And probably break the knife in the process."
  
  
  The youthful, copper-skinned elf maintains his silence, observing the discourse through the gap between two of the taller men. He breathes a sigh of relief, however, as he sees the claw retract from the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf's chest.
  
  
  Speaking with some pain, the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf asks the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "Sister, my words and our time of unfriendly days when my Jaan was with us still coming to you?"
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf remains still as stone, save for a slight tremble in the corded sinews of his over-tensed arms.
  
  
  As her gaze had never left the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf backs once more in a pace for the tents flap.
  
  
  Ducking beneath the tents flaps, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf walks north.
  
  
  The shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf takes a deep breath.
  
  The dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf shifts his attention away, as though studying a sturdy grass basket with deep interest.
  
  
  Before stalking off to the north, the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf asks the vibrant, bestial creature, in allundean:
       "You sure you didn't just have me open a wound?"
  
  
  The shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf walks north.
  
  
  The vibrant, bestial creature crackles.
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf sighs wearily, finally lowering his arms.
  
  
  Lightning beginning to play across his skin, the vibrant, bestial creature keeps his eyes shut.
  
  
  You are hungry.
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf backs slowly away from the vibrant, bestial creature, each boot scraping slowly across the tent floor.
  
  
  The rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf frowns deeply, arms re-crossing over her chest.
  
  The dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf takes a step toward the flap of the tent, and then another, before ducking out completely.
  
  Inside a Canvas-Walled Tent [N Quit Save]
     Only a few sleeping mats, made of hides, canvas and other materials,
  line the floor of this yet to be fully occupied tent.  A framework of small
  pymlithe branches supports the reinforced canvas that forms this
  dwelling's walls.  Upturned gurth shells and simple wooden chests hold a
  variety of personal belongings, ranging from bone, wood and stone tools to
  other objects of a vaguely arcane quality.
  Hanging from a peg of one of the tents poles, staring with it cold hollow gaze is an anakore skull.
  A large bag is lying here.
  A well-fashioned grass basket rests here, filled with roots and fruits.
  A sturdy grass basket rests near the grill, filled with seasonings.
  A six-sided purplish basket rests near the grill, filled with fats.
  A bone and tile grill sits in the middle of the tent.
  A simple wooden chest rests here, filled with meat.
  A simple wooden chest sits here on the floor.
  A square, snake-embroidered linen mat lies here, providing seating.
  The broken remains of a humanoid skeleton lie here.
  A hefty wooden barrel sits here.
  A hefty wooden barrel sit to the side, filled with water.
  A bone and shell frying pan is here is here hanging from the grill.
  A bone and shell frying pan is here hanging from the side of the grill.
  A duskhorn skull is here propped next to a chest.
  A large domed shell lies here.
  A sleeping mat, blue in hue and comfortable looking, sits here.
  The feral obsidian-mohawked elf is standing here.
  The rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf is standing here, looking tired.
  - she is carrying a rough canvas backpack.
  The youthful, copper-skinned elf is standing here.
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf is standing here.
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf is standing here.
  The vibrant, bestial creature is flying here.
  The slight, withered elf girl squats here, preparing bundles of herbs.
  
  East Side of a Thornbush-Walled Camp [NESW]
     Rising taller than a bahamet, and just as wide, an extremely dense circular
  wall of thornbushes surrounds this small area.  The land outside this natural
  barrier is barely visible through small breaks in the thorny mass.
     Some tents dot this side of the camp, spread unevenly over the hill.  Fewer
  elves, relative to the hill's western expanse, mill about here, most either
  moving to a tent or from it towards the tribe's denser population lying to the
  west.
  A granite-haired, beak-nosed elf sits on a mat, inking needles.
  
  You think:
       "Stomach will have to wait."
  
  
  You think:
       "Or I'll just.. take a nibble..."
  
  Stinging sand swirls around you.
  Inside a Gizhat-Hide Tent [W Quit Save]
     Only a few sleeping mats, made of hides, canvas and other materials,
  line the floor of this yet to be fully occupied tent.  A framework of small
  pymlithe branches supports the crimson hide that forms this dwelling's
  walls.  Upturned gurth shells and simple wooden chests hold a variety of
  personal belongings, ranging from bone, wood and stone tools to other objects
  of a vaguely arcane quality.
  A heavy agafari trunk lies here off to the side, filled with assorted gear.
  A heavy agafari trunk lies here off to the side, filled with shields, clubs and spears.
  A heavy agafari trunk lies here off to the side, filled with belts and quivers.
  A heavy agafari trunk lies here off to the side, filled with boots and leggings.
  A heavy agafari trunk lies here off to the side, filled with caps, bracers and collars.
  A heavy agafari trunk lies here off to the side, filled with sleeves and vests.
  A heavy agafari trunk lies here off to the side, filled with cloaks.
  A simple wooden chest lies here off to the side, filled with waterskins and torches.
  A simple wooden chest lies here off to the side, filled with bows and throwing weapons.
  A simple wooden chest lies here off to the side, filled with axes and swords.
  A pile of softly-tanned sleeping furs lies along the back of the tent.
  A large bag lies here near some chests, filled with bags.
  
  You open your dusty bahamet-embroidered leather backpack.
  
  Muted brown carru hide has been sewn to form this sturdy backpack.  The
  dull color of the leather is offset by the elaborate embroidery that
  envelopes the entire piece.  Lines of a soft purple-brown hue are stitched
  into the backpack's flap to depict the enormous shell of a bahamet.  A tiny,
  stitched head pokes out above the clasp of the bag.  Four stubby limbs
  sprout off the sides of the shell, pointing off towards the edges of the
  pack. 
  It is covered with dust and sand.
  In a dusty bahamet-embroidered leather backpack (used) :
  a few slabs of red meat
  a couple of waterskins
  an irrig lamp-topped staff
  
  You get your slab of red meat from your dusty bahamet-embroidered leather backpack.
  It is very light.
  
  You close your dusty bahamet-embroidered leather backpack.
  
  You eat part of your slab of red meat.
  You are a little hungry.
  
  You eat your half eaten slab of red meat.
  You are no longer hungry.
  
  You are carrying:
  
  nothing.
  
  East Side of a Thornbush-Walled Camp [NESW]
     Rising taller than a bahamet, and just as wide, an extremely dense circular
  wall of thornbushes surrounds this small area.  The land outside this natural
  barrier is barely visible through small breaks in the thorny mass.
     Some tents dot this side of the camp, spread unevenly over the hill.  Fewer
  elves, relative to the hill's western expanse, mill about here, most either
  moving to a tent or from it towards the tribe's denser population lying to the
  west.
  A granite-haired, beak-nosed elf sits on a mat, inking needles.
  
  Stinging sand swirls around you.
  Inside a Canvas-Walled Tent [N Quit Save]
     Only a few sleeping mats, made of hides, canvas and other materials,
  line the floor of this yet to be fully occupied tent.  A framework of small
  pymlithe branches supports the reinforced canvas that forms this
  dwelling's walls.  Upturned gurth shells and simple wooden chests hold a
  variety of personal belongings, ranging from bone, wood and stone tools to
  other objects of a vaguely arcane quality.
  Hanging from a peg of one of the tents poles, staring with it cold hollow gaze is an anakore skull.
  A large bag is lying here.
  A well-fashioned grass basket rests here, filled with roots and fruits.
  A sturdy grass basket rests near the grill, filled with seasonings.
  A six-sided purplish basket rests near the grill, filled with fats.
  A bone and tile grill sits in the middle of the tent.
  A simple wooden chest rests here, filled with meat.
  A simple wooden chest sits here on the floor.
  A square, snake-embroidered linen mat lies here, providing seating.
  The broken remains of a humanoid skeleton lie here.
  A hefty wooden barrel sits here.
  A hefty wooden barrel sit to the side, filled with water.
  A bone and shell frying pan is here is here hanging from the grill.
  A bone and shell frying pan is here hanging from the side of the grill.
  A duskhorn skull is here propped next to a chest.
  A large domed shell lies here.
  A sleeping mat, blue in hue and comfortable looking, sits here.
  The feral obsidian-mohawked elf is standing here.
  The rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf is standing here, looking tired.
  - she is carrying a rough canvas backpack.
  The youthful, copper-skinned elf is standing here.
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf is standing here.
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf is standing here.
  The vibrant, bestial creature is flying here.
  The slight, withered elf girl squats here, preparing bundles of herbs.
  
  
  With a sharp lift of his chin, his voice a quiet whisper, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf exclaims, in allundean:
       "You heard me.  Go!"
  
  You think:
       "Eh?"
  
  
  The feral obsidian-mohawked elf walks north.
  
  East Side of a Thornbush-Walled Camp [NESW]
     Rising taller than a bahamet, and just as wide, an extremely dense circular
  wall of thornbushes surrounds this small area.  The land outside this natural
  barrier is barely visible through small breaks in the thorny mass.
     Some tents dot this side of the camp, spread unevenly over the hill.  Fewer
  elves, relative to the hill's western expanse, mill about here, most either
  moving to a tent or from it towards the tribe's denser population lying to the
  west.
  A granite-haired, beak-nosed elf sits on a mat, inking needles.
  
  Northwards lies a tent of goudra hide.
  The flaps are open.
  [Near]
  Nothing.
  
  <101/101|124/124|189/206|103/103|running|standing>Directly to the east lies a tent of gizhat hide.
  The flaps are open.
  [Near]
  The organic, umber-pearled youth is standing here.
  
  Stinging sand swirls around you.
  Inside a Gizhat-Hide Tent [W Quit Save]
     Only a few sleeping mats, made of hides, canvas and other materials,
  line the floor of this yet to be fully occupied tent.  A framework of small
  pymlithe branches supports the crimson hide that forms this dwelling's
  walls.  Upturned gurth shells and simple wooden chests hold a variety of
  personal belongings, ranging from bone, wood and stone tools to other objects
  of a vaguely arcane quality.
  A heavy agafari trunk lies here off to the side, filled with assorted gear.
  A heavy agafari trunk lies here off to the side, filled with shields, clubs and spears.
  A heavy agafari trunk lies here off to the side, filled with belts and quivers.
  A heavy agafari trunk lies here off to the side, filled with boots and leggings.
  A heavy agafari trunk lies here off to the side, filled with caps, bracers and collars.
  A heavy agafari trunk lies here off to the side, filled with sleeves and vests.
  A heavy agafari trunk lies here off to the side, filled with cloaks.
  A simple wooden chest lies here off to the side, filled with waterskins and torches.
  A simple wooden chest lies here off to the side, filled with bows and throwing weapons.
  A simple wooden chest lies here off to the side, filled with axes and swords.
  A pile of softly-tanned sleeping furs lies along the back of the tent.
  A large bag lies here near some chests, filled with bags.
  The organic, umber-pearled youth is standing here.
  
  Stalking in, the dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf jerks to an abrupt halt, appearing deep in thought a moment before casting a glance out the flap of the tent.
  
  To the west, gizhat-hide flaps open up to the camp's east side.
  The flaps are open.
  [Very far]
  The green-runed elven girl kneels here, swirling designs in the sand.
  [Far]
  The rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf is standing here.
  The feral obsidian-mohawked elf is standing here.
  The crook-nosed, muscular elf stares into the fire.
  The wild-haired, elderly elf sits near an aging elf by the fire.
  The pale, bald, elderly elf supervises the pounding, waving a tuber.
  The gangly, agitated elf works hides here.
  A serpent-tattooed youth kneels here, nibbling meat off of his spear.
  The lithe, dark-skinned elf sits on a bahamet shell here.
  [Near]
  A granite-haired, beak-nosed elf sits on a mat, inking needles.
  
  
  The organic, umber-pearled youth has departed from the land of Zalanthas.
  
  
  East Side of a Thornbush-Walled Camp [NESW]
     Rising taller than a bahamet, and just as wide, an extremely dense circular
  wall of thornbushes surrounds this small area.  The land outside this natural
  barrier is barely visible through small breaks in the thorny mass.
     Some tents dot this side of the camp, spread unevenly over the hill.  Fewer
  elves, relative to the hill's western expanse, mill about here, most either
  moving to a tent or from it towards the tribe's denser population lying to the
  west.
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf is standing here.
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf is standing here.
  The youthful, copper-skinned elf is standing here.
  A granite-haired, beak-nosed elf sits on a mat, inking needles.
  
  
  Stalking up the low knoll, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf walks west.
  The youthful, copper-skinned elf walks west.
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf walks west.
  You follow the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, and walk west.
  
  Stinging sand swirls around you.
  Center of a Thornbush-Walled Camp [NESW Quit]
     Rising taller than a bahamet, and just as wide, an extremely dense circular
  wall of thornbushes surrounds this small area.  The land outside this natural
  barrier is barely visible through small breaks in the thorny mass.
     Lush in comparison to the barren surrounds, a patch of green flora covers
  the central part of this hill.  In the center of this patch of living ground
  sits a large campfire.  A well-worn path circles this campfire and branches
  off east and west.  Denizens of the camp pack this area most densely, some
  working hides, others in deep meditation or conversation, and here or there
  a few are immersed in one ritual or another.
     A half of a bahamet shell sits just off the well-worn path, due north of
  the fire, laying dome-up on the ground, serving as a natural podium of sorts.
     To the west the camp is densely packed with tents, the number of elves
  visible in that direction testament to the well-settled nature of that side,
  while to the east lies fewer tents and fewer still inhabitants.
  A majestic falcon, with keen yellow eyes, casts a predatory glance about the area.
  A carved granite box rests on the ground here.
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf is standing here.
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf is standing here.
  The youthful, copper-skinned elf is standing here.
  The rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf is standing here, looking tired.
  - she is carrying a rough canvas backpack.
  The feral obsidian-mohawked elf is standing here.
  The crook-nosed, muscular elf stares into the fire.
  The wild-haired, elderly elf sits near an aging elf by the fire.
  The pale, bald, elderly elf supervises the pounding, waving a tuber.
  The gangly, agitated elf works hides here.
  A serpent-tattooed youth kneels here, nibbling meat off of his spear.
  The lithe, dark-skinned elf sits on a bahamet shell here.
  
  To the south the ground gradually slopes downwards, levelling off.
  [Near]
  The ebon-hued, fire-scarred elf stands here, eyes gleaming.
  The bald, weather-battered elf stands here, scanning the horizon watchfully.
  The gaunt, windblown elf stands here watching the sky.
  The green tattooed elf stands here vigilantly.
  Coming to a skidding halt beside the feral obsidian-mohawked elf, the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf sighs softly and shakes her head.
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf's slitted eyes flick across the western clearing, and he tips his chin in a faint nod.
  
  It is high sun on Ocandra, the 34th day of the Descending Sun,
  In the Year of Silt's Slumber, year 53 of the 21st Age.
  
  
  The youthful, copper-skinned elf follows along just a bit behind the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, his gaze sweeping over the heart of the camp.
  
  
  As he eases down, bending into a crouch, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "Let 'em speak."
  
  
  Dropping onto a flat stone beside the fire's grave, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf sits down.
  
  To the south the ground gradually slopes downwards, levelling off.
  [Near]
  The ebon-hued, fire-scarred elf stands here, eyes gleaming.
  The bald, weather-battered elf stands here, scanning the horizon watchfully.
  The gaunt, windblown elf stands here watching the sky.
  The green tattooed elf stands here vigilantly.
  
  To the north the hill meets a cliff wall, an overhanging shelf offering some shade.
  [Near]
  A black warbeetle is reclining here.
  A large yellow sunback lizard stands here.
  A large yellow sunback lizard stands here.
  A huge, four legged, shell-backed lizard is here, nosing about for forage.
  A large and grey-scaled flightless bird stands here.
  A large yellow sunback lizard stands here.
  A large war beetle crawls about, struggling against its chitin harness.
  A large yellow sunback lizard stands here.
  A large and grey-scaled flightless bird stands here.
  A large yellow sunback lizard stands here.
  A desert-scaled sunlon stands here on two legs.
  A large war beetle crawls about, struggling against its chitin harness.
  A gargantuan lizard with glossy black scales stands here foraging for food.
  A huge, four legged, shell-backed lizard is here, nosing about for forage.
  A slender, striped cheotan lizard crouches here, nostrils flaring.
  A huge, four legged, shell-backed lizard is here, nosing about for forage.
  
  To the west lies the bulk of the camp's tents, elves bustling around.
  [Far]
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf is standing here.
  The shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf is standing here.
  [Near]
  The green-runed elven girl kneels here, swirling designs in the sand.
  
  After a moment of deliberation, the dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf moves over to an empty spot and lowers himself to the ground.
  
  
  Nodding and taking a seat near the fire, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says, in allundean:
       "Yes. No need to complicate things further. They need to speak."
  
  You sit down.
  
  
  Near the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, the hunched, beak-nosed elf sits down to rest.
  
  
  Lifting a finger to jab him between the shoulderblades, chin rising as he crouches, the youthful, copper-skinned elf says to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, in allundean:
       "Made a fool of me t' the Shaman, with your damn spice. Now you're gonna run the Pit with me, that's for certain."
  
  Glancing over and giving him a grin, you ask the youthful, copper-skinned elf, in allundean:
       "Well now, if you'd asked either of us, we would've told you, eh?"
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf straightens stiffly beneath the jab, a sharp hiss escaping his lips.
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf turns a dour glance over one shoulder at the youthful, copper-skinned elf, but his visage soon softens into a narrow, yellowed grin.
  
  You feel like there is too much things going on right now and it's best to just see how it goes.
  
  
  On the West Side of the Camp you see:  the umbral, dark-tressed female elf has arrived from the west, turning on heel.
  
  
  On the West Side of the Camp you see:  stalking along, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf walks east.
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf has arrived from the west, stalking along.
  
  
  On the West Side of the Camp you see:  the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf has arrived from the west.
  
  
  On the West Side of the Camp you see:  the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf walks east.
  The shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf has arrived from the west.
  
  
  Expectantly, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf looks up at the umbral, dark-tressed female elf.
  
  
  Stlking south to the tent, the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf shouts, in allundean:
       "Delur!"
  
  
  The shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf walks south.
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf has arrived from the north.
  
  The dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf glances up as the two arrives, his gaze looking over them quickly, almost searchingly.
  
  
  The youthful, copper-skinned elf offers a smile to the men closest to him. It fades, however, as he turns his attention towards the western tents.
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf walks north.
  The shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf has arrived from the south.
  
  
  The shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf walks east.
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf has arrived from the west.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf walks south.
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf says, in allundean:
       "Leave them."
  
  You think:
       "Will she not make -peace-?"
  
  
  With a slow nod, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "Ai, zhat is best."
  
  
  Lifting spindly fingers up to twist and pull back the knots of one wood-beaded dreadlock, the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf plops down onto the ground at the feral obsidian-mohawked elf's feet.
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf folds her arms tightly over her chest, making a wide berth around those gathered towards the south stretch through the tents.
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf looses a long, hoarse and weary sigh, his chest visibly deflating.
  
  
  Wincing slightly as he watches after the shaggy-haired elf's sprint, the youthful, copper-skinned elf says, in allundean:
       "I wouldn't go back in there now, that's for sure."
  
  
  Stalking along, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf walks south.
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the umbral, dark-tressed female elf has arrived from the north, stalking along.
  
  With a sigh, the dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf rubs his hand on his brows.
  
  
  Putting his head in his hands wearily, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says, in allundean:
       "If Aduj wants to get his head ripped off by the Shaman, that is his prerogative."
  
  It is early afternoon on Ocandra, the 34th day of the Descending Sun,
  In the Year of Silt's Slumber, year 53 of the 21st Age.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf has arrived from the south.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf walks west.
  The shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf has arrived from the east.
  
  Tilting his head back to look at the sky a moment, you say, in allundean:
       "I'm feelin' like I wanna run to the post and get myself a long nice smoke."
  
  
  Shaking his head slowly, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "No forgiveness."
  
  
  Shaking her head as she speaks, more to herself than anyone else, the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf says, in allundean:
       "All of this coming to blows is upsetting her and tha' young in her belly."
  
  
  Stalking in , the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf exclaims, in allundean:
       "Which brother says I spoke of harming my sister?!"
  
  
  Straightening stiffly, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf stands up.
  
  
  The youthful, copper-skinned elf blinks as he looks towards the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf, furrowing his brow.
  
  
  Not looking at him, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says to the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf, in allundean:
       "It matters not, Tripped. Shaman Delur himself speaks it."
  
  
  The shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf looks over the gathered elves.
  
  
  Wearily, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf turns on his heel, squaring himself with the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf with slitted eyes.
  
  
  The shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf says to the hunched, beak-nosed elf, in allundean:
       "Well he is wrong."
  
  
  With a lift of one clawed hand, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says to the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf, in allundean:
       "First, brother, you must be calm."
  
  
  Gaze narrowing into thin slits as mismatched eyes rest on the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf, the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf pulls herself slowly to her feet.
  
  
  The youthful, copper-skinned elf widens his eyes as he listens to the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf, his attention straying quite deliberately towards the eastern tents beyond.
  
  With a sudden burst of dry humor as he glances to the hunched, beak-nosed elf, you say, in allundean:
       "Perhaps -this- is what you speak of, brother. Not the witch mark or anythin', but the dividin' within our tribe."
  
  
  With a sweep of one clawed finger through the air, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says to the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf, in allundean:
       "Zhis will nah get anythin' done."
  
  
  The shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf turns his south.
  
  With a sardonic twist of a smile, you ask the hunched, beak-nosed elf, in allundean:
       "The innards of the diseased child you've read. Perhaps it all turns to this, eh?"
  
  
  The shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf says to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, in allundean:
       "BUt there was never no plans of harming my own."
  
  
  Looking to you, taking the joke quite seriously, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says to you, in allundean:
       "Perhaps you're right, Brother. Perhaps you're right."
  
  
  With a sharp angle of his chin, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says to the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf, in allundean:
       "Zhen let't be.  Only more useless -shit- will come'a zhis.  Akei'ta will decide zhe details."
  
  Muttering to himself though loud enough to be overheard by some, you say, in allundean:
       "Dear mother, I need a drink."
  
  
  Jutting a single, clawed finger to the southeast, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says to the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf, in allundean:
       "Listen to zhe Shaman!  It is nah important what words are lies, only zhat th'wound is shut.  Zhis will bleed th'Akei'ta Var 'a strength."
  
  
  The shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf nods a few times.
  
  Calling out to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf unhelpfully, you say, in allundean:
       "She is already bleedin'."
  
  
  Folding both sinewy arms over his dujat-banded leather jacket's chest, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf asks the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf, in allundean:
       "What was said t'her?"
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf seems oblivious to you, his weathered visage set into a hard, stoic mask.
  
  
  Looking south, the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf says to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, in allundean:
       "Some brother says he heard me and my Jaan plotting to harm her."
  
  Tugging your dusty bahamet-embroidered leather backpack onto his lap as he mutters under his breath, you say, in allundean:
       "If I had a drink..."
  
  You open your dusty bahamet-embroidered leather backpack.
  
  Muted brown carru hide has been sewn to form this sturdy backpack.  The
  dull color of the leather is offset by the elaborate embroidery that
  envelopes the entire piece.  Lines of a soft purple-brown hue are stitched
  into the backpack's flap to depict the enormous shell of a bahamet.  A tiny,
  stitched head pokes out above the clasp of the bag.  Four stubby limbs
  sprout off the sides of the shell, pointing off towards the edges of the
  pack. 
  It is covered with dust and sand.
  In a dusty bahamet-embroidered leather backpack (used) :
  a few slabs of red meat
  a couple of waterskins
  an irrig lamp-topped staff
  
  
  The shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf lopes off to the south.
  
  
  The shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf walks south.
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf has arrived from the north.
  
  The dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf rummages within your dusty bahamet-embroidered leather backpack a moment, his brows creasing into a frown as he comes back empty handed.
  
  You think:
       "Ah fuck."
  
  
  With a pair of sharp nods, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "Ai, ah get zha-"
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  The shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf lopes over near the umbral, dark-tressed female elf.
  
  With a sigh, you close your dusty bahamet-embroidered leather backpack.
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf cuts off abruptly and looses a hoarse, weary sigh, one hand rising to his scar-whorled brow.
  
  
  Flatly, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "No one follow."
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf stops leading you.
  
  
  The rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf coughs, mismatched gaze turning southward to watch from afar.
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf asks the umbral, dark-tressed female elf something.
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf stops leading the youthful, copper-skinned elf.
  
  Glancing to him, you ask the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, in allundean:
       "Hey, brother, you don't happen to have a drink, eh? Or did you finish it all?"
  
  
  Stalking down the low, grassy slope, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf walks south.
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf has arrived from the north, stalking down the low, grassy slope.
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf ignores the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf plainly, her gaze set out away from the cluster of tents.
  
  
  Lifting his shoulders, the youthful, copper-skinned elf says, in allundean:
       "Didn't plan to follow. Nothin' will change until they open their ears t'each other."
  
  Ignored, turning to him instead, you ask the youthful, copper-skinned elf, in allundean:
       "-You- don't happen to have any... do you?"
  
  
  The feral obsidian-mohawked elf walks east.
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the feral obsidian-mohawked elf has arrived from the west.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the feral obsidian-mohawked elf walks south.
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf paces towards the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf and the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, his weathered visage set in a stoic mask.
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf says something to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf.
  
  
  Snorting in light amusement, the youthful, copper-skinned elf asks you, in allundean:
       "No. Am I the only Brother who doesn't drink and spice all day?"
  
  
  The rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf walks east.
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf has arrived from the west.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf walks south.
  
  Eyeing him a moment before cracking a grin, you say to the youthful, copper-skinned elf, in allundean:
       "Nah, Kickin' doesn't either."
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  with a gesture, the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf says something to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf.
  
  
  Rubbing the butt of his palm wearily into his face, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says, in allundean:
       "I'm fucking tired."
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  As he nears, his hoarse voice thinning out wearily, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says something.
  
  Glancing southward a moment and watching the two speak before shifting his attention to him, you ask the hunched, beak-nosed elf, in allundean:
       "So am I. Our sister's not so forgivin' eh?"
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the ebon-hued, fire-scarred elf intently scans the area.
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  bracing her elbows up against her bent knees, her gaze never lifting for him, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says something to the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf.
  
  
  Contemplatively, as he looks off to the eastern tents, the youthful, copper-skinned elf says to you, in allundean:
       "If you're runnin' to the Blackwing for drink, well, I need to get some of the things I've made sized. Nahual about keels over when I talk about goin' to the Pit for it."
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  pacing back and forth, the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf says something to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf.
  
  Giving him a nod, you ask the youthful, copper-skinned elf, in allundean:
       "Aye, I'm goin'. But later. Think I'm goin' to pass out for a few days. I'll find your mind later, eh?"
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf rises from the ground, and clambers to his feet.
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf says something.
  
  
  Rubbing at the small of his back, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says, in allundean:
       "I'm going to take my rest."
  
  Pushing himself off the ground, you stand up.
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf says, in allundean:
       "Hopefully time will shut this wound."
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  In a sharp hiss, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf exclaims something.
  
  With another glance southward, you say, in allundean:
       "Unlikely."
  
  
  Scratching his chin, the youthful, copper-skinned elf says to you, in allundean:
       "I'll just go to the Pit. I can do that trade, while I'm at it."
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf trots off to a nearby tent.
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf has departed from the land of Zalanthas.
  
  Shifting his gaze to him and giving him a grimace, you say to the youthful, copper-skinned elf, in allundean:
       "Don't go alone. Take Whisper with you at least."
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  With a sharp jab of two hooked claws at the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says something to the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf.
  
  Giving him a wave as he starts off towards the tents, you say to the youthful, copper-skinned elf, in allundean:
       "Anyway, I'll find your mind later, eh? Get you properly drunk and spiced up."
  

  [The following log contains my favorite Imm animation. Kudos to everyone involved! It was awesome.]
  
  Center of a Thornbush-Walled Camp [NESW Quit]
     Rising taller than a bahamet, and just as wide, an extremely dense circular
  wall of thornbushes surrounds this small area.  The land outside this...
  Continue Reading...
• 

  A Dwarven "Romance" by Youngervaleria
  Added on Aug 12, 2012

  This is a tale about Onyxi, a young dwarf who joined the Byn in order to scope it out for male dwarves with the intent of using them to help her with her focus, and to learn ‘protection skills’ also of value to her focus.

  ---

  This story has been edited to remove a lot of the superfluous spammy material, typographical errors, and things not directly related to the story.  Onyxi in brief:

   

  You are Onyxi, a Runner of the T'zai Byn.

  Keywords: ebon-skinned matronly dwarf

  Sdesc: the ebon-skinned, matronly dwarf

  Objective: To create an excellent family (step one, find the ideal male.)

   

  You are 31 years, 1 months, and 47 days old, which by your race and appearance is young.

  You are 51 inches tall, and weigh 9 ten-stone.

  Your strength is very good, your agility is good, your wisdom is poor, and your endurance is good.

  You are neither hungry nor thirsty.

  Your health is 129(129), you have 115(126) stamina, and 121(121) stun.

  You have been playing for 1 days and 18 hours.

   

  The dwarf before you is short for her race and is nearly as wide as she is tall.  Her shoulders are slightly more narrow than her flaring hips, which support an expansive bottom.  Though she is obviously very muscular, her physique is padded with a comfortable layer of fat that makes her muscles lack definition.  If the wide hips were not enough of an indication that this dwarf is female, her very large and pendulous bosom would be a dead giveaway to even the most dense of half-giants.  The dwarf's skin is a nearly uniform ebon color, broken by the lighter lines of scars which mostly appear on the backs of her arms.  Almost circularly round, her face sports chubby cheeks and a defined double-chin, as well as a bulbous nose and expressively ginka-colored lips.  Her almond-shaped eyes are a lighter shade of brown, set far forward and seeming to be lacking any kind of eyebrow crease.  The age lines in the corners make them seem perpetually squinted.

   

  ***

   

  (Onyxi is hanging around the Byn kitchen, eating stew, when her Sergeant walks in.  As she plows through several bowls of stew, he sits down to chat.)

   

  Scooping it into her mouth with her fingers, you eat part of your bowl of stew.

   

  At your table, the mesh-scarred dwarf says in sirihish:

       "Stumps seem to all have healthy appetites. Probably why we are not as hideously thin as humans."

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, around a mouthful of stew:

       "Oy Sarge.  Glad I'm not loosin' too much fat.  Doin' all this work.  Spent a long time puttin' it on."

   

  At your table, the mesh-scarred dwarf says in sirihish, to you:

       "Yes shows you can care for yourself. And probably a couple little stumps."

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, squinting speculatively at the mesh-scarred dwarf:

       "Oy, you think so?  Got a bit of work t' do before getting there I think.  No place t' raise them yet."

   

  You feel pleased.

   

  You think:

       "Well.  At least I look like I could have a good family."

   

  At your table, the mesh-scarred dwarf says in sirihish, to you:

       "What sort of place are you going to get?"

   

  At your table, the mesh-scarred dwarf says in sirihish:

       "Or planning to get?"

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, speculatively, making a boxy gesture in the air:

       "Just somethin' with four walls and a door.  Don't need a lot of space.  But need something you're not sharin' with a bunch of people."

   

  A loud horn blast sounds from the southwest.

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, counting on her fingers:

       "Need t' make enough t' get it, and stock it with food and water.  I'm working on protection, here.  And healin'--"

   

  At your table, the mesh-scarred dwarf says in sirihish:

       "Like your own house or do you mean an apartment?"

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, turning back to the mesh-scarred dwarf with enthusiasm, after giving a distracted glance toward the yard:

       "An apartment would do I think, Sarge.  As long as it wasn't fallin' apart.  Don't want little ones fallin' through holes in the floor."

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, head bobbing consideringly:

       "And our little ones can be so little."

   

  You feel herself getting drawn into her plans.

   

  You think:

       "And some good decoration."

   

  The mesh-scarred dwarf nods at you.

   

  At your table, the mesh-scarred dwarf says in sirihish:

       "They are small but wide."

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, musingly sketching a circle in the air:

       "A pile of nice soft shit.  Rugs and pillows.  That ought t' do to bed a couple.  Oy Sarge, but small legs.  I'm thinkin', a little one gets a foot caught in the floor, that's trouble."

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, solemnly:

       "Broke some of my toes like that, once, place I had with my da.  A lot of weight t' fuck around with."

   

  You feel a picture unfolding in her mind of a small, well-repaired, cozy place to house a little family.

   

  At your table, the mesh-scarred dwarf says in sirihish, to you:

       "As interested as I am about getting a place and making babies with you, you better get to training."

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, giving her head a little shake, blankly:

       "Trainin'?"

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, craning her neck and peering out into the yard:

       "Oy, training.  Lost track of time.  Sorry Sarge.  And I think you'd likely make fine babies.  Been watchin'.  Strong and smart.  No skin problems.  Good head."

   

  Hopping up, you stand up from a long, chipped stone table, hustling for the yard.

   

  (Onyxi wanders out to training.  Between bouts, she Ways Dregg.)

   

  You think:

       "Let's see.  Pillows and rugs.  That's a really good idea.  Can't forget that one."

   

  The mesh-scarred dwarf sends you a telepathic message:

       "So I'd assume you know the best of the apartments in town?"

   

  You send a telepathic message to the mesh-scarred dwarf:

       "Probably not the best, Sarge.  The best are likely too expensive, even after I make Trooper and hopefully start having some income.  I know a few that are tolerable, though, and likely good enough."

   

  You send a telepathic message to the mesh-scarred dwarf:

       "Definitely not where I grew up, or the tenements I stayed in after my da ran off.  Those are definitely too run down for little ones.  I'd have to investigate.  It's part of the plan."

   

  The mesh-scarred dwarf sends you a telepathic message:

       "I can't find an empty apartment in a respectable building. Oh well."

   

  You send a telepathic message to the mesh-scarred dwarf:

       "Oy Sarge.  Sorry for not getting back to you, yet.  Rotating merchant, Byn, gith, takes some concentration.  I figure it'll take patience.  Good rooms aren't always easy to come by."

   

  You send a telepathic message to the mesh-scarred dwarf:

       "Other people got families... some of them even care about them enough to give them a good place.  But I'm gith, a minute."

   

  (Training eventually ends, and Onyxi wanders back to the mess hall.

   

  The ebon-skinned, matronly dwarf straightens long enough to salute the mesh-scarred dwarf, before settling her elbows back down onto a long, chipped stone table and leaning on them.

   

  At your table, the mesh-scarred dwarf says in mirukkim, to you, cheeks puffing out:

       "Don't let me ..pressure you about anything."

   

  At your table, the mesh-scarred dwarf says in mirukkim, to you:

       "I..am fairly wealthy for a grebber and I prefer having a female partner for everything basically. And I've had apartments before."

   

  At your table, the mesh-scarred dwarf says in mirukkim, to you, shaking his head:

       "I...bah."

   

  At your table, you say in mirukkim, squinting speculatively at the mesh-scarred dwarf:

       "I'm not of a mind to, it's too important.  Even though you're my Sarge.  You're family oriented?"

   

  You think:

       "If he's wealthy, things could move on a bit more quickly.  If he's family oriented... I'd not /depend/ on him for the protection, but two might be better than one.  If not, it'll probably bear more thinking on."

   

  You feel patient.

   

  At your table, the mesh-scarred dwarf says in mirukkim, to you:

       "I am. If they'd go with me when the time comes."

   

  At your table, the mesh-scarred dwarf says in mirukkim, to you:

       "My sergeant had her way with me when I first joined. But she never let me have special treatment."

   

  At your table, you say in mirukkim, lifting her brows at the mesh-scarred dwarf, cautiously:

       "Just the kids, or the female as well?  And I have no mind for special treatments.  That's unimportant in comparison."

   

  Your mood is now intent.

   

  At your table, the mesh-scarred dwarf says in mirukkim, to you:

       "Everyone I'd hope. But you know how hard it is for us to agree on things."

   

  At your table, you say in mirukkim, nodding solemnly to the mesh-scarred dwarf:

       "Aye.  That's why all of my plans have been for me and the kids.  That's what's important.  If the man wanted to be part of my family... I might have to revise some plans."

   

  At your table, you say in mirukkim, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully as she starts drumming her fingertips on a long, chipped stone table:

       "It'd definitely warrant a revision of timetables.  I'd planned on needing to make Trooper for the financial support, and suspected it'd take longer to find..."

   

  At your table, you say in mirukkim, at length:

       "... someone suitable."

   

  At your table, the mesh-scarred dwarf says in mirukkim:

       "No rush."

   

  At your table, the mesh-scarred dwarf says in mirukkim, with a wink at you:

       "I'm sure you'll find someone better and richer in no time anyway."

   

  At your table, you say in mirukkim, flashing a brief, crook-toothed grin:

       "Patience is good.  I'm plenty young enough to have time to get things right.  I'm just talking."

   

  At your table, you say in mirukkim, rolling her eyes at the mesh-scarred dwarf:

       "Richer is unimportant when considered against skin quality and survivability.  If the man ends up walking off, and I've always suspected it'd happen when interests diverged, quality children are more important."

   

  At your table, the mesh-scarred dwarf says in mirukkim, to you:

       "Aye. It is a wonder there are any of us around."

   

  A loud horn blast sounds from the southwest.

   

  At your table, you say in mirukkim, nodding solemnly to the mesh-scarred dwarf:

       "Aye, it is sometimes to me as well.  I guess I was lucky, in that my da at least managed to keep me until I was old enough to keep myself before he disappeared.  Not everyone is."

   

  At your table, the mesh-scarred dwarf says in mirukkim:

       "I sort of ran off when the kanks died."

   

  At your table, the mesh-scarred dwarf says in mirukkim:

       "I guess my parents were busy."

   

  At your table, the mesh-scarred dwarf says in mirukkim:

       "In the end maybe they were right. All these years later and I am doing well."

   

  At your table, the mesh-scarred dwarf says in mirukkim:

       "It was so long ago and my memories fuzzy. I really can't be angry for some reason."

   

  At your table, you say in mirukkim, puffing up her shoulders:

       "Aye sir, you turned out.  But that's left to chance too often.  I've seen plenty of less happier endings.  I just won't have it for my kids.  I'm going to do better than that.  They'll at least have me."

   

  At your table, you say in mirukkim, gesturing in a broad circle:

       "And I'll be able to protect them, and support them, and do basic healing when it's needed, that's the intent at least."

   

  The mesh-scarred dwarf says to you, in mirukkim:

       "Then you better get your fine ass to training runner."

   

  Squinting toward the yard, you say, in mirukkim:

       "Aye.  Sorry Sarge.  The topic gets me going."

   

  Quickly, you stand up from a long, chipped stone table.

   

  (Onyxi goes back to training.  A couple of weeks later, Dregg and Onyxi are leaving the Byn training hall, where Dregg was sparring with Meso and Lew.  Dregg lost the final match to Meso.)

   

  The mesh-scarred dwarf waves his overlong arm in a wave.

   

  With a nod to the mesh-scarred dwarf and nod to the others, the wide-faced dwarf says, in mirukkim:

       "Shade and water."

   

  The jade-eyed, black skinned dwarf says to you, in sirihish:

       "It was nice to see you."

   

  The mesh-scarred dwarf says to you, in mirukkim:

       "You can watch me dress if you like."

   

  With a gravelly chuckle, you say to the mesh-scarred dwarf, in mirukkim:

       "But can't watch Red Meso.  I see how this works."

   

  The mesh-scarred dwarf says to you, in mirukkim:

       "You get to have his babies now anyway hah."

   

  (They begin walk to the storage room, for Dregg to change.)

   

  The mesh-scarred dwarf asks you, in mirukkim:

       "You looking for the best specimen right?"

   

  With a brief squint, you say to the mesh-scarred dwarf, in mirukkim:

       "Never meaning any disrespect to the Red, but have you seen his skin?  It's very... worrisome.  Though I like him personally."

   

  The mesh-scarred dwarf looks over his own skin and squints.

   

  The mesh-scarred dwarf asks, in mirukkim:

       "What is wrong with his skin?"

   

  Making as if to brush at her arm, you say to the mesh-scarred dwarf, in mirukkim:

       "It's flaky.  Pieces peeling off all over.  Skin like that worries me."

   

  (Background information: Onyxi is obsessed with skin quality because her first child was born a scaly-skinned mutant after her first mate abandoned her to pursue his focus.  The situation was extremely shameful to Onyxi because she reasoned that a mutant could never belong to an ‘excellent’ family.  After several unsuccessful attempts to cure its skin condition, Onyxi killed it because a mutant would make her family less than excellent.)

   

  The mesh-scarred dwarf says, in mirukkim:

       "I didn't notice."

   

  The mesh-scarred dwarf rubs at his bulbous nose for a few moments then shakes his head again.

   

  With a brief, crook-toothed grin, you say to the mesh-scarred dwarf, in mirukkim:

       "I tend to notice.  I wonder how much blood him and his brother share, it seems to have skipped him."

   

  The mesh-scarred dwarf says, in mirukkim:

       "If they say they are brothers I would not question it."

   

  Dropping her chin back down, you say to the mesh-scarred dwarf, in mirukkim:

       "Oy Sarge, to most people I wouldn't speak on it.  But same mother and father, or just shared one, or... they said their father used to pick up strays.  They could be brother by raising."

   

  After a moment, musingly, you say, in mirukkim:

       "He's probably too risky.  I'm not going to ask.  That'd be an offensive question."

   

  The mesh-scarred dwarf says to you, in mirukkim:

       "I can't remember my parents well."

   

  Nodding soberly, you say to the mesh-scarred dwarf, in mirukkim:

       "Most of our kind can't that I've found, Sarge.  Don't know one or both.  My ma, I have no idea.  She did something with silt skimmers.  Could never get anything about her out of my da."

   

  The mesh-scarred dwarf says to you, in mirukkim:

       "I found my purpose too early and was on my way I think."

   

  You think:

       "It's really a shame about the parentless nature of dwarves.  But my kids will have better done by them, that's for sure."

   

  Squinting at him for a moment, you say to the mesh-scarred dwarf, in mirukkim:

       "Oy Sarge.  If the kid's ready, the kid's ready.  Chances are no one's going to hold them back.  I'd have appreciated a little more parenting, myself."

   

  The mesh-scarred dwarf checks over his gear.

   

  The mesh-scarred dwarf asks you, in mirukkim:

       "How do I look?"

   

  Grumbling, you say, in mirukkim:

       "Didn't even leave enough advance rent on the apartment.  Ended up losing all of the fixing up I'd done.  Thanks da for n--"

   

  Cutting off, you look at the mesh-scarred dwarf.

  Scars apparently cover this squat humanoid from head to toe.  There is such a multitude that they cross each other in a crude and random mesh pattern.  His leathery skin is a dull reddish color with the slightly raised scar tissue having a pinkish hue.  He stands bowlegged, with his legs appearing short and thick for even one of his kind.  Extending from his sides are arms appearing too long for him.  Appearing wide and and slender, his hands are almost as out of place as his arms.  His red eyes are sunken deep under his brow on either side of a bulbous nose.  His lips are thick and perpetually cracked and dry, exposing a few cracked and missing teeth when he speaks.  Small scarcely pointed ears frame his wide lopsided face.  A cumbersome, heavily muscled torso dominates his form.   Gently slumping shoulders lead down to a protruding belly that appears to be pure muscle.  His wide chest expands generously with each inhalation of breath, expansive nostrils seeming to flare regularly. 

  (He's also wearing a bunch of armor.)

   

  After a minute of squinting the mesh-scarred dwarf up and down, you say, in mirukkim:

       "Just like usual Sarge."

   

  Snorting softly, the mesh-scarred dwarf asks you, in mirukkim:

       "Aye. What happn to your Da?"

   

  Briskly, you say to the mesh-scarred dwarf, in mirukkim:

       "The rinth."

   

  You feel simmering resentment still.

   

  The mesh-scarred dwarf asks you, in mirukkim:

       "Do you want to go inspect that building?"

   

  Grinning briefly, you say to the mesh-scarred dwarf, in mirukkim:

       "Oy.  I was all curious about that, before all the excitement happened."

   

  The mesh-scarred dwarf exclaims to you, in mirukkim:

       "Let's go before the week starts then!"

   

  (Walking ensues, an apartment building is reached.)

   

  A Small Entry Room [N, S]

     This small room serves as a sort of barrier between the tenament within, and the harsh sandstorms that often plague the city streets just outside its southern door.  Sparsely decorated, it is lit by pungent-smelling, flickering sconces which dole out weak but adequate light. To the north, a sand-encrusted rug, reddish and worn, leads down a wide hallway, while a doorway leads south to the Commoner's Quarter. 

  The mesh-scarred dwarf is standing here, looking a bit winded.

  The stern, massive man leans against the doorway lazily.

   

  Craning her neck as she peers around, you say, in mirukkim:

       "Less run down than where I grew up, certainly.  The building anyway."

   

  You begin talking about topics.

  The stern, massive man says, in sirihish:

       "Dunno much, I jes' watch over these apartments."

   

  The mesh-scarred dwarf asks you, in mirukkim:

       "Want to look over the room he has?"

   

  The mesh-scarred dwarf says to you, in mirukkim:

       "I used to have an apartment here long ago. Not too bad but you probably would have to eyeball it for yourself."

   

  After turning away from squinting at the stern, massive man, you say to the mesh-scarred dwarf, in mirukkim:

       "Aye Sarge, it's probably the only way we'll learn anything about it.  This hairy doesn't know anything, he says.  Though it may be a waste of coin.  I guess that's up to you."

   

  You think:

       "I'd really like to see it."

   

  The mesh-scarred dwarf says to you, in mirukkim:

       "Coins are worth less than information."

   

  The ebon-skinned, matronly dwarf nods firmly.

   

  Taking the coins, the stern, massive man says to the mesh-scarred dwarf, in sirihish:

       "Thank you.  Your room is the one with hide on it."

   

  (They walk to the room.)

   

  A Small Bedroom [E, Quit, Save]

     Small and efficient, this room is dominated by a comfortable bed with a small table resting beside it.  Set into one wall are a series of shelves, upon which small trinkets and figurines can be placed.  A large maroon hide rug stretches across the hard-packed dirt floor, covering it nearly to the walls.  A small closet door rests in one wall. 

  The mesh-scarred dwarf is standing here, looking a bit winded.

   

  The mesh-scarred dwarf gets his blue-striped keg from a small bone closet.

   

  The mesh-scarred dwarf says, in mirukkim:

       "Cleaning fluid."

   

  You feel absorbed in analyzing the room.

   

  The ebon-skinned, matronly dwarf gives the mesh-scarred dwarf a distracted nod as she raps a fist firmly against the door, then begins wandering the walls, occasionally bending to peer or poke at a spot.

   

  Squinting, the mesh-scarred dwarf says, in mirukkim:

       "Hmm."

   

  Mumbling to herself, you say, in mirukkim:

       "Solid walls.  Door's a bit iffy, but not likely to be trouble for little ones.  Floor.  Dirt!  No slats to get feet caught in.  Has a rug.  It'll need a few more.  Little ones tend to fall..."

   

  Sticking her whole head into it, you look in a small bone closet.

   

  The mesh-scarred dwarf sits on an etched-bone framed bed.

   

  Rapping the closet door idly as she makes her circuit, you say, in mirukkim:

       "Needs some sanding.  This is splintering some, don't want bone caught in fingers.  Could lead to infection.  Windows?  None.  Good.  Nothing to fall out of."

   

  Your new ldesc is:

  The ebon-skinned, matronly dwarf prowls the room.

   

  The ebon-skinned, matronly dwarf peers at the shelves, puffing out her cheeks.

   

  Cheeks puffing out, the mesh-scarred dwarf says to you, in mirukkim:

       "Now we know what this building is like."

   

  The mesh-scarred dwarf says to you, in mirukkim:

       "Even though it could be fun, you might hold off on making babies until you get better at protecting."

   

  Holding up his hands, the mesh-scarred dwarf says to you, in mirukkim:

       "It’s not for me to tell you how to do your life's work tho. Just something that came to my mind."

   

  You think:

       "Shelves.  Attached to the wall.  That's good.  Still nothing heavy or sharp."

   

  After giving a set of grey stone shelves a firm yank, you say to the mesh-scarred dwarf, in mirukkim:

       "Aye.  Fun and work.  Hmm."

   

  With a chuckle, the mesh-scarred dwarf asks you, in mirukkim:

       "Which is the fun part?"

   

  The mesh-scarred dwarf touches his temples, nostrils flaring briefly.

   

  Squinting thoughtfully, you say to the mesh-scarred dwarf, in mirukkim:

       "Never was the intent to have the kids as a runner.  Just don't think that'd work out well.  The plan was always at least Trooper.  Then, you know you're trained in protection, with an income..."

   

  The mesh-scarred dwarf says to you, in mirukkim:

       "I think we boot you out while you got your babies inside you."

   

  The mesh-scarred dwarf says to you, in mirukkim:

       "Can't spar closer to birth anyway."

   

  Crossing her arms with a nod and drumming her fingers against them, you say to the mesh-scarred dwarf, in mirukkim:

       "Aye.  Savings.  Savings would be important.  It's going to take some further planning, certainly."

   

  The mesh-scarred dwarf says to you, in mirukkim:

       "I have a lot saved. Enough for years on end. But I don't want to pressure you. Pick who you want."

   

  The mesh-scarred dwarf says to you, in mirukkim:

       "And I feel like its dawn already. You'll have plenty of time to inspect the place. Maybe we'll find a better one."

   

  The mesh-scarred dwarf drops many coins.

   

  The mesh-scarred dwarf says, in mirukkim:

       "Leave the coins. If they are gone soon we know this place is robbed too often."

   

  Squinting briefly, you look at a pile of allanaki coins, then nods.

   

  The mesh-scarred dwarf says to you, in mirukkim:

       "Hardly anyone can resist picking up coins. I know I probably couldn't."

   

  Nodding briskly, you say to the mesh-scarred dwarf, in mirukkim:

       "Aye Sarge.  I'll try not to be distracted at training, thinking about it.  Fact is, I find you pretty likely, in comparison to most of the men I've seen around lately."

   

  Rambling as she shuffles toward the door, you say to the mesh-scarred dwarf, in mirukkim:

       "Aye, coins.  But you've got high survivability.  And good skin.  I'll admit Sarge that your limbs are a bit oddly shaped, but I've never seen that slow you down, sands or sparring."

   

  The mesh-scarred dwarf says to you, in mirukkim:

       "I'll take that as a compliment. I got some reports to do. Make sure you lock the door so it’s a true test. Its had benefits and drawbacks."

   

  The mesh-scarred dwarf says to you, in mirukkim:

       "Helps for boxing and climbing."

   

  Musing distractedly, you say, in mirukkim:

       "Skin, though.  That turns into other problems... aye Sarge, I should get running."

   

  The mesh-scarred dwarf says to you, in mirukkim:

       "Aye."

   

  With a gravelly chuckle, you say to the mesh-scarred dwarf, in mirukkim:

       "No doubt see you around.  Shade."

   

  (Onyxi heads out, for training, thinking while she walks.)

   

  You think:

       "Well.  Well.  It's not like you can't decide differently later."

   

  You think:

       "There would certainly be benefits in the arrangement."

   

  You think:

       "You'd need coins."

   

  You think:

       "If he's got the funding... well, I wouldn't rely on that.  The plan was never to rely on the man."

   

  (Onyxi wanders into training.)

   

  Your mood is now distracted.

   

  Moving out of the ring, the broad-shouldered, beryl-eyed man says, in sirihish:

       "s'a'righ'.  You three 'ave a go a' one another."

   

  As she shuffles across the hall with a distracted expression, you say, in sirihish:

       "Eh?  Oh.  Oy."

   

  (Onyxi pulls her training things out of her backpack, then just stands there holding them.)

   

  You think:

       "Training.  But just thinking about... you could work on turning that place into a proper home.  If it doesn't get stolen from all that often."

   

  You think:

       "It's a good thing those shelves are attached to the walls.  Still, nothing heavy or sharp on them.  Little ones like to climb and pull things down onto themselves."

   

  Squinting briefly, you say, in sirihish:

       "Someone said somethin' about a round?  Sorry.  My thoughts aren't turnin'

  off so easy today."

   

  The petite, green-lipped female says to you, in northern-accented sirihish:

       "Guess it's with me."

   

  Flashing a brief grin, you say to the petite, green-lipped female, in sirihish:

       "Oy Elly.  I'll, ah... ring."

   

  The ebon-skinned, matronly dwarf shuffles over to an empty ring, only pausing a moment to squint off into space.

   

  You think:

       "It'll need a couple of rugs, though.  Good rugs."

   

  The petite, green-lipped female says to you, in northern-accented sirihish:

       "Ready when you are."

   

  With a brisk shake of her head, then a nod, you say to the petite, green-lipped female, in sirihish:

       "Oy.  Ready as I'm likely t' be.  You come on at me."

   

  (Training commences, Onyxi barely notices, then the round ends.)

   

  The broad-shouldered, beryl-eyed man says, in sirihish:

       "Good match...."

   

  Mumbling as she shuffles out of the circle, you say, in sirihish:

       "Couple different color rugs, maybe.  Somethin' festive."

   

  A bit raggedly, the petite, green-lipped female says to you, in northern-accented sirihish:

       "Good round."

   

  Dropping down by her bag, the petite, green-lipped female sits down to rest.

   

  Jerking around, with a grin, you say to the petite, green-lipped female, in sirihish:

       "Oy.  Good round."

   

  Your new ldesc is:

  The ebon-skinned, matronly dwarf stands around with a blank expression.

   

  The ebon-skinned, matronly dwarf shuffles half way over to the padded wall, then stops, squinting at the ground.

   

  (Onyxi stands around for a while longer, then wanders distractedly off to chores.  Eventually she has a baby with Dregg, keeps it in the apartment, cannot bear to have another people around it because they might screw it up, becomes unplayable, and is returned to the virtual world.  I frequently picture her out there somewhere, in an apartment, raising babies.)

  This

  story has been edited to remove a lot of the superfluous spammy material,

  typographical errors, and things not directly related to the story.  Onyxi

  in brief:

   

  You are Onyxi, a

  Runner of the T'zai Byn.

  Keywords: ebon-skinned

  matronly dwarf

  Sdesc: the

  ebon-skinned,...

  
  Continue Reading...
• 

  A Mess of Muarki by Path
  Added on Mar 27, 2012

  Trouble arises over a missing loved one.

  ---

  A Curtained Den [E]
  The dry aroma of fresh-cut wood still lingers in the air here, intertwining
  with wafts of light incense and musky perfume. The entire room is draped with
  heavy, colorful curtains and tapestries, each one overlying another in
  haphazard fashion. Plush woolen rugs lie cozily underfoot, while supple
  skins snuggle lazily around the loose cushions scattered about. The room
  is given to a sense of simple, casual comfort.
  A rounded, black cask sits here.
  An embossed plain clay cask sits here.
  A simple grill, made of tile and blackened bone, sits here.
  A padded, rectangular piece of cloth hangs here.
  A red and black izdari table sits here.
  A spindly legged table, made of bone and antlers, teeters here.
  A trunk sits here, made of bone and woven grass.
  A round, Lirathu-grey snakeskin cushion has been placed here.
  A plump leather cushion lies here.
  A panelled folding screen divides the room into two.
  The lanky, agafari-curled man is sitting on a well-padded, pillow covered couch.
  
  The angular, teal-eyed woman crouches down near a large wicker crate, tucking a braid behind her ear as she peers in.
  
  You get a slim-necked bottle from a large wicker crate.
  It is very light, and empty.
  
  The angular, teal-eyed woman rises up and reaches over toward a rounded, black cask.
  
  The lanky, agafari-curled man asks you, in bendune:
  "Thirsty?"
  
  The angular, teal-eyed woman takes a sip from her bottle as she plops down on the couch next to the lanky, agafari-curled man.
  
  You sit on a well-padded, pillow covered couch.
  
  This tastes like strongly spiced brandy.
  You do not feel thirsty.
  
  At your seat, you say in bendune, with a nod:
  "Yes."
  
  You drink the spice brandy.
  You do not feel thirsty.
  
  The lanky, agafari-curled man asks you, in bendune:
  "Stop that. What if your sister needs to mindspeak you?"
  
  You are carrying:
  a slim-necked bottle
  
  The lanky, agafari-curled man exclaims to you, in bendune:
  "Damnit, Zira, now isn't the time to sink into a bottle!"
  
  The angular, teal-eyed woman glances down at your slim-necked bottle, and slowly back up to the lanky, agafari-curled man incredulously.
  
  The lanky, agafari-curled man watches you with an expression of blatant frustration.
  
  At your seat, you say in bendune, narrowing her eyes at the lanky, agafari-curled man as she slowly, calmly sets the bottle on a nearby table:
  "Fine. But tell me - do I fucking -look- drunk? Am I slurring? I mean -fuck-, Petsha."
  
  At your seat, the lanky, agafari-curled man says in bendune:
  "You -looked- well on the way to it."
  
  The angular, teal-eyed woman rises deliberately to her feet, staring at the lanky, agafari-curled man as she stalks back out into the hallway.
  
  You stand up from a well-padded, pillow covered couch.
  
  You put a slim-necked bottle on a red and black izdari table.
  
  Long, Narrow Hallway [NEWD]
  While the faint aroma of incense drifts up from below, along with
  the dulled sounds of gambling and carousing, the dim simplicity of this
  part of the wagon remains stale and practical at best. The hallway is
  long and narrow, penetrated but by a large doorway on its west, and a
  large opening in its southeastern wall. The hall appears to parallel
  a large open cargo area on its east, whilst northward the hallway
  continues.
  The lithe, sable-haired man is here, looking about silently.
  
  The lithe, sable-haired man stops using a hooked bone key.
  The lithe, sable-haired man unlocks the oval with a hooked bone key.
  The lithe, sable-haired man opens the oval.
  Flicking over a grin as he moves aside, the lithe, sable-haired man says, in bendune:
  "Go on through, phral."
  Boarding Area [EU]
  At the top of the heavy, dark wood boarding plank this area begins to
  open up to the rest of the lower portion of the wagon. Along the western
  wall, a long, thick-planked bone and wood stairway ascends to the upper
  level, guarded by a heavy tortoiseshell doorway. Immediately beyond the
  unobtrusive stairs, the interior is swathed with swirling multi-colored
  drapings, various designs woven gaily upon them, some abstract and others of
  various caricatures of forest and desert scenes. Sounds of activity mixed
  with the faint scent of incense wafts in a just perceptible stream from the
  east. A single large column of some massive creature's legbone stands
  centrally to the northeast, supporting the upper level.
  An empty dark glass jug is here on the bottom stair.
  The tousled, vibrant-eyed woman is standing here.
  The taut, serpentine-braided man is standing here.
  The green-eyed, ponytailed woman stands here, guarding the entrance.
  The stout, sharp-featured man stands here, watching the boarding area.
  The husky, black-braided man crouches here, silent as he watches.
  The lithe, sun-bronzed man is here, watching the area.
  The lithe, sable-haired man closes the oval from the other side.
  
  The taut, serpentine-braided man walks directly to the stairs, an angry stare fixed straight ahead.
  
  The angular, teal-eyed woman clomps down the stairs with a scowl, stopping dead in her tracks as she spots the tousled, vibrant-eyed woman.
  
  The tousled, vibrant-eyed woman stands sullenly at the bottom of the stairs, her face flushed with rage.
  
  The angular, teal-eyed woman bounds down the rest of the stairs, tears filling her eyes as she throws her arms around the tousled, vibrant-eyed woman.
  
  You exclaim to the tousled, vibrant-eyed woman, in bendune:
  "Jia, you're safe!"
  
  Ascending the stairs, the taut, serpentine-braided man says to you, in bendune:
  "Up."
  
  The taut, serpentine-braided man says, in bendune:
  "Up."
  
  The green-eyed, ponytailed woman stops using a hooked bone key.
  The green-eyed, ponytailed woman unlocks the oval with a hooked bone key.
  The green-eyed, ponytailed woman nods at the stout, sharp-featured man.
  The green-eyed, ponytailed woman opens the oval.
  Flicking over a grin as she moves aside, the green-eyed, ponytailed woman says, in bendune:
  "Go on through, phral."
  The taut, serpentine-braided man nods at the stout, sharp-featured man.
  The taut, serpentine-braided man walks up.
  The tousled, vibrant-eyed woman nods at the stout, sharp-featured man.
  The tousled, vibrant-eyed woman walks up.
  The green-eyed, ponytailed woman closes the oval.
  The green-eyed, ponytailed woman locks the oval with a hooked bone key.
  The green-eyed, ponytailed woman tilts her head forward and fastens a hooked bone key about her throat.
  
  The green-eyed, ponytailed woman stops using a hooked bone key.
  The green-eyed, ponytailed woman unlocks the oval with a hooked bone key.
  The green-eyed, ponytailed woman nods at the stout, sharp-featured man.
  The green-eyed, ponytailed woman opens the oval.
  Flicking over a grin as she moves aside, the green-eyed, ponytailed woman says, in bendune:
  "Go on through, phral."
  The stout, sharp-featured man nods at you.
  
  Long, Narrow Hallway [NEWD]
  While the faint aroma of incense drifts up from below, along with
  the dulled sounds of gambling and carousing, the dim simplicity of this
  part of the wagon remains stale and practical at best. The hallway is
  long and narrow, penetrated but by a large doorway on its west, and a
  large opening in its southeastern wall. The hall appears to parallel
  a large open cargo area on its east, whilst northward the hallway
  continues.
  The tousled, vibrant-eyed woman is standing here.
  The taut, serpentine-braided man is standing here.
  The lithe, sable-haired man is here, looking about silently.
  The green-eyed, ponytailed woman closes the oval from the other side.
  
  The taut, serpentine-braided man stops leading the tousled, vibrant-eyed woman.
  
  The taut, serpentine-braided man walks west.
  
  A freshly stained thuja-wood door stands with plain, idle demeanor,
  guarding passage to a curtained den beyond.
  The door is open.
  [Near]
  The taut, serpentine-braided man is standing here.
  The lanky, agafari-curled man is sitting on a well-padded, pillow covered couch.
  
  Leaning in to you, the tousled, vibrant-eyed woman whispers to you in bendune:
  "Of course I'm safe, love."
  
  With a pained half-smile, the tousled, vibrant-eyed woman asks you, in bendune:
  "What did you think, they would eat me up?"
  
  Tucking her braids away before wiping her eyes, you say to the tousled, vibrant-eyed woman, in bendune:
  "I was so worried about you, Jia. "
  
  The tousled, vibrant-eyed woman shakes a fall of dusty, matted curls back from her face, glancing past the curtain into the den distractedly.
  
  The tousled, vibrant-eyed woman says to you, in bendune:
  "Well, you shouldn't have been. You chattered at me nearly the entire time, surely you know I was in fine health."
  
  Glancing into the den, you ask the tousled, vibrant-eyed woman, in bendune:
  "I guess.. Let's go sit down, yeah?"
  
  The tousled, vibrant-eyed woman says to you, in bendune:
  "I'd rather not share a room with that monster."
  
  A freshly stained thuja-wood door stands with plain, idle demeanor,
  guarding passage to a curtained den beyond.
  The door is open.
  [Near]
  The taut, serpentine-braided man stands waiting in the middle of the room.
  The lanky, agafari-curled man is sitting on a well-padded, pillow covered couch.
  
  Her face flushing again with anger, the tousled, vibrant-eyed woman exclaims to you, in bendune:
  "I cannot -believe- the disregard he can show!"
  
  You ask the tousled, vibrant-eyed woman, in bendune:
  "He's waiting for us. And I'd rather not keep him waiting. I'll be with you, yeah?"
  
  A freshly stained thuja-wood door stands with plain, idle demeanor,
  guarding passage to a curtained den beyond.
  The door is open.
  [Near]
  The taut, serpentine-braided man stands waiting in the middle of the room.
  The lanky, agafari-curled man is sitting on a well-padded, pillow covered couch.
  
  The tousled, vibrant-eyed woman says to you, in bendune:
  "All that time in the desert must have withered his heart as well, if he can feel so little concern for those he professes to care about. It's infuriating! Why doesn't anyone care to help Diji? Why will we let him.."
  
  Long, Narrow Hallway [NEWD]
  While the faint aroma of incense drifts up from below, along with
  the dulled sounds of gambling and carousing, the dim simplicity of this
  part of the wagon remains stale and practical at best. The hallway is
  long and narrow, penetrated but by a large doorway on its west, and a
  large opening in its southeastern wall. The hall appears to parallel
  a large open cargo area on its east, whilst northward the hallway
  continues.
  The tousled, vibrant-eyed woman is standing here.
  The lithe, sable-haired man is here, looking about silently.
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the west in bendune:
  "Come in here."
  
  The tousled, vibrant-eyed woman says to you, in bendune:
  "Meet what fate he finds? He would have told us, certainly, if he had planned to be away long."
  
  Stomping her foot, the tousled, vibrant-eyed woman exclaims to you, in bendune:
  "You see?!"
  
  You say to the tousled, vibrant-eyed woman, in bendune:
  "We're not going to let him anything. We'll find him, Jia. We all care about him. Come."
  
  The tousled, vibrant-eyed woman falls in behind you.
  
  A Curtained Den [E]
  The dry aroma of fresh-cut wood still lingers in the air here, intertwining with wafts of light incense and musky perfume. The entire room is draped with heavy, colorful curtains and tapestries, each one overlying another in haphazard fashion. Plush woolen rugs lie cozily underfoot, while supple skins snuggle lazily around the loose cushions scattered about. The room is given to a sense of simple, casual comfort.
  A rounded, black cask sits here.
  An embossed plain clay cask sits here.
  A simple grill, made of tile and blackened bone, sits here.
  A padded, rectangular piece of cloth hangs here.
  A red and black izdari table sits here.
  A large couch, covered with pillows, is shoved against one wall.
  A spindly legged table, made of bone and antlers, teeters here.
  A trunk sits here, made of bone and woven grass.
  A round, Lirathu-grey snakeskin cushion has been placed here.
  A plump leather cushion lies here.
  A panelled folding screen divides the room into two.
  The taut, serpentine-braided man stands waiting in the middle of the room.
  The lanky, agafari-curled man is standing here.
  The tousled, vibrant-eyed woman has arrived from the east.
  
  The lanky, agafari-curled man ducks out after you and the tousled, vibrant-eyed woman enter.
  
  The lanky, agafari-curled man walks east.
  
  The taut, serpentine-braided man looks at the tousled, vibrant-eyed woman.
  
  The angular, teal-eyed woman leads the tousled, vibrant-eyed woman over to the couch, settling down as she glances over at the taut, serpentine-braided man.
  
  You sit on a well-padded, pillow covered couch.
  
  The tousled, vibrant-eyed woman turns to watch as the lanky, agafari-curled man slips from the room, frowning angrily.
  
  Standing in place with his arms crossed, the taut, serpentine-braided man asks the tousled, vibrant-eyed woman, in bendune:
  "Now, you have something to say about Cizdiji?"
  
  Turning back the tousled, vibrant-eyed woman crosses the room, curling into a padded cloth hammock and pulling her knees up against her chest.
  
  The tousled, vibrant-eyed woman sits on a padded cloth hammock.
  
  Coldly, the tousled, vibrant-eyed woman says to the taut, serpentine-braided man, in bendune:
  "I believe I've said most of it. It's you who refuse to speak on the matter."
  
  After a short pause, the taut, serpentine-braided man asks the tousled, vibrant-eyed woman, in bendune:
  "How many times have you been to Allanak, little pena?"
  
  Flushing bright red, her voice dropping, the tousled, vibrant-eyed woman says to the taut, serpentine-braided man, in bendune:
  "Once."
  
  The taut, serpentine-braided man asks the tousled, vibrant-eyed woman, in bendune:
  "Do I really need to say any more?"
  
  The angular, teal-eyed woman shrinks back into the couch, looking awkwardly, silently between the taut, serpentine-braided man and the tousled, vibrant-eyed woman.
  
  A freshly stained thuja-wood door stands with plain, idle character,
  guarding passage to a narrow hallway beyond.
  The door is open.
  [Far]
  Nothing.
  [Near]
  The lanky, agafari-curled man stands here, leaning against the wall.
  The lithe, sable-haired man is here, looking about silently.
  
  The angular, teal-eyed woman's eyes flit out into the hallway briefly.
  
  The tousled, vibrant-eyed woman purses her lips, raising her chin slightly as she regards the taut, serpentine-braided man coldly from her protected perch in the hammock.
  
  His voice raised a little, the taut, serpentine-braided man asks the tousled, vibrant-eyed woman, in bendune:
  "Do I?"
  
  A little louder, the taut, serpentine-braided man says to the tousled, vibrant-eyed woman, in bendune:
  "I can give you a handful of reasons why we shouldn't be doing just what you did, but I'd like to think you can figure them out for yourself."
  
  The tousled, vibrant-eyed woman says to the taut, serpentine-braided man, in bendune:
  "Well, clearly you have nothing more -to- say, so I guess I'll have to let your withered heart off the hook. Truly, what can you confess, that you have no concern at all for your loved ones? It is already blatantly clear."
  
  The tousled, vibrant-eyed woman says to the taut, serpentine-braided man, in bendune:
  "Obviously the labyrinth is no place for me, but at least I went. What is one gypsy alone? We cannot let Diji be that one. It is together that we have strength."
  
  The taut, serpentine-braided man's face twists and turns away, the lines across his face deepening painfully. He spits out a quick breath with his fists clenched.
  
  Her words travelling across the room to her in a hiss of a whisper, you say to the tousled, vibrant-eyed woman, in bendune:
  "Jia, I wouldn't.."
  
  Raising her voice with anger, the tousled, vibrant-eyed woman exclaims to the taut, serpentine-braided man, in bendune:
  "You let him stand alone!"
  
  The taut, serpentine-braided man steps the short distance between himself and the tousled, vibrant-eyed woman's hammock and grabs her hair to yank her to the ground, his face twisted in anger.
  
  The tousled, vibrant-eyed woman stands up from a padded cloth hammock.
  
  The angular, teal-eyed woman shrieks as her eyes flare toward the taut, serpentine-braided man, rising briskly from the couch.
  
  You stand up from a well-padded, pillow covered couch.
  
  The tousled, vibrant-eyed woman yelps as she falls, twisting from the hammock, her nails biting deeply into the taut, serpentine-braided man's face and neck as she desperately tries to catch herself.
  
  The tousled, vibrant-eyed woman sits down to rest.
  
  Into the tousled, vibrant-eyed woman's face, kneeling to hold her head to the floor, the taut, serpentine-braided man shouts, in bendune:
  "Who are you to question what I do in Allanak?!"
  
  The taut, serpentine-braided man shouts, in bendune:
  "I'm responsible for everyone here, you ignorant little shit- you, Diji, even the fucking caveman!"
  
  The tousled, vibrant-eyed woman lies back upon the floor, her eyes wide with fear and her breath coming in quick, short gasps.
  
  Putting his other hand to her throat but not pressing, the taut, serpentine-braided man says to the tousled, vibrant-eyed woman, in bendune:
  "I should break you into pieces for saying that, Jidana. I love that prala more than anyone alive, and I would level that slum if anything happened to him."
  
  The angular, teal-eyed woman stands motionless, watching on wild-eyes, her features taking on an expression of sheer horror.
  
  The tousled, vibrant-eyed woman closes her eyes, trying to turn her face away from the taut, serpentine-braided man, soft sobs beginning to wrack her slight form.
  
  The tousled, vibrant-eyed woman whispers something to the taut, serpentine-braided man.
  
  At the tousled, vibrant-eyed woman, giving her head a slight jerk so it hits the floor once, the taut, serpentine-braided man shouts, in bendune:
  "No. NO! Do you understand me now, girl? We're not risking anyone less capable than Cizdiji to bring him back. Especially you. Do you -understand-?"
  
  A soft whimper of pain escaping her as her head hits the floor a second time the tousled, vibrant-eyed woman attempts to nod weakly.
  
  The taut, serpentine-braided man suddenly releases the tousled, vibrant-eyed woman and moves away with a bark, punching once at the air.
  
  The tousled, vibrant-eyed woman pushes herself up weakly, laying her palms flat on the floor behind her and propping herself up, her gaze downcast and her body still trembling.
  
  The taut, serpentine-braided man moves over to a spindly legged bone and antler table and puts his palms on it to lean over, his head hanging.
  
  The angular, teal-eyed woman slowly moves to the tousled, vibrant-eyed woman's side, weaving a path around the taut, serpentine-braided man, and crouches down near her to reach out to her with a trembling hand.
  
  The tousled, vibrant-eyed woman pushes herself unsteadily to her feet, brushing you away gently.
  
  At length, the taut, serpentine-braided man says, in bendune:
  "All we can do is try to find out what happened through the locals. If anyone actually goes in, it's going to be me. I can't let one of you get hurt."
  
  Looking up at the tousled, vibrant-eyed woman, you whisper to the tousled, vibrant-eyed woman in bendune:
  "Please.. Come, Jia. Let's get you to the bunkroom, okay?"
  
  The tousled, vibrant-eyed woman falls in behind you.
  
  The tousled, vibrant-eyed woman presses her cheek into the crook of your shoulder with a long sigh.
  
  The angular, teal-eyed woman gently takes the tousled, vibrant-eyed woman's hand and escorts her through the doorway, glancing back briefly over her shoulder at the taut, serpentine-braided man.
  

  A Curtained Den [E]
  The dry aroma of fresh-cut wood still lingers in the air here, intertwining
  with wafts of light incense and musky perfume. The entire room is draped with
  heavy, colorful curtains and tapestries, each one overlying another in
  haphazard fashion. Plush woolen rugs lie cozily...
  Continue Reading...
• 

  The Protective Elder Brother by Is Friday
  Added on Nov 16, 2011

  Bukalasoo al'Seik has always gone well out of his way in order to protect his younger sister, Nettle. He tries on a daily basis to bring her up right--an ever important task with the diminishing population of their people and the influences the Arabeti have over the young Seik's development.

  ---

  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass idles a moment beside the drab, ochre-skinned woman's jewelry.
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man steps up beside the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass silently.
  
  You begin guarding the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass.
  
  Reaching down, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass absently fingers the carving upon a narrow bone bracelet.
  
  Lifting her gaze, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass casts the drab, ochre-skinned woman a fleeting smile.
  
  In her soft, lilting voice, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass asks the drab, ochre-skinned woman, in bendune:
       "Do you make them yourself?"
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man's pale eyes drift from the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass to the drab, ochre-skinned woman.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass flashes a brighter smile in response, straightening and turning toward the tavern entrance.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass enters a squat tavern.
  
  You enter a squat tavern.
  "The Anakore's Burrow" [E, D, Leave]
     The focal point of this low-ceilinged chamber is the small staircase
  that leads through a hole in the floor to a warm room below.  Dim torches
  are perched on the wall, composed of oddly-shaped chunks of slate and filled
  with burning plant matter.  A constant stream of smoke puffs up from the
  hole in the middle of the room, twisting its way out of the broad hole in
  the ceiling.  Concentric circles of primal artwork draw away from the
  blackened edges of the smokehole, covering much of the ceiling.  Crude
  outlines of Tablelands creatures, some barely distinguishable, are slathered
  about the ceiling in rough mineral sketches.  Vivid reds and blues mark the
  sketches on the ceiling, the various creatures seeming to dance around the
  smokehole.  
     The tavern's atmosphere is relaxed, with low tables haphazardly around
  the descending staircase.  Pillows are heaped in the eastern edge of the
  room, extending into a small sleeping area.  
  A multi-ringed dartboard hangs on the wall.
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass is standing here.
  - she is carrying a large bag.
  The wiry, soot-haired female soldier is standing here.
  The sinewy, black-haired soldier plays dice with some tribals here.
  The plump, jovial innkeeper is standing here.
  A svelte, yellow-eyed elven woman sits at a table, eyeing the room.
  A towering, leathery-skinned elf squats beside a table, chatting with a patron.
  An elderly, agafari-hued elf lounges at a table, spinning tales.
  A guard with broad shoulders stands sentry here.
  Eyes alight, a tawny, ash-braided woman hunches down at her table.
  The waspish, gnarled woman sits brooding at a corner table.
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man trails behind the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, glancing around her.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass sits at a circular table.
  
  Leaning over her, you whisper to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass in bendune:
       "Done?"
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass folds her feet at the ankles, tucking them beneath her chair as she settles her armful of cages across the tabletop.
  
  Starting, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass' thin body tenses.
  
  Casting a frightened glance up over her shoulder, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass looks up at you.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass exclaims to you, in bendune:
       "Buka! You didn't need to frighten me!"
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man cants your head down at the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass with a knit in your brow.
  
  Settling smugly back in her seat as the tension eases from her, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says to you, in bendune:
       "I'll get you for that."
  
  Averting your eyes, you say to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "Yes."
  
  Casting her dark-eyed gaze over the tavern, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says to you, in bendune:
       "I thought you'd be here already."
  
  Quietly, you say to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "No."
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man sniffs sharply, looking at the dusty patrons of a nearby table thoughtfully.
  
  At a circular table, you overhear the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass say in bendune:
       "People are idiots about these little animals our cousins sell."
  
  At a circular table, you overhear the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass say in bendune, pushing out the chair opposite her with the tip of one booted foot:
       "Sit?"
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass gets her pile of allanaki coins from her tightly-woven sash of dark sandcloth.
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man watches the chair move speculatively before casting your attention in every possible location by the space opposite of the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass at a circular table.
  
  Casting them across the top of the table, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass gives you 50 coins.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass asks you, in bendune:
       "Spiced mead?"
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man draws the coins into a pile with one hand.
  
  assess -v lass
  She is slightly younger than you.
  She appears young for her race.
  She is shorter than you.
  You are slightly heavier than her.
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass is in excellent condition.
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass does not look tired.
  
  Head dipping, you say, in bendune:
       "Spiced mead."
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man moves over to the plump, jovial innkeeper with a fistful of sid.
  
  You give the plump, jovial innkeeper 23 obsidian coins for an anakore-etched wooden shotglass.
  
  You give the plump, jovial innkeeper 23 obsidian coins for an anakore-etched wooden shotglass.
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man traverses back through the afternoon crowd toward the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass with a hand cupping a glass each.
  
  Placing it in front of the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, you put your anakore-etched wooden shotglass onto a circular table.
  
  With the other, you put your anakore-etched wooden shotglass onto a circular table.
  
  Spreading the small obsidian discs beside the shotglasses, you put your pile of coins onto a circular table.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass asks you, in bendune:
       "Won't you sit?"
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass lifts her dark gaze to your face.
  
  From tip to toe, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass looks at you.
  
  Settling down, you sit at a circular table.
  
  At your table, you say in bendune, folding your hands over a circular table:
       "Many sids made?"
  
  At your table, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says in bendune:
       "About half a large."
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man's milked eyes travel downward as you nods, lips pursing.
  
  At your table, you say in bendune:
       "Good."
  
  l nettle's cloak
  This billowing, ankle-length cloak has been skillfully tailored from a
  heavily-dyed section of the coarse cloth.  The cloak is formed of layers,
  the first cut to hang just below the waistline, the next to the top quarter
  of the thigh, and the last to the back of the ankles.  A heavy hood has been
  affixed to the cloak, allowing it to be drawn up over the head and secured
  to provide some protection from the elements.  An carved agate clasp, carved
  into the shape of a running raptor has been attached just below the neckline
  to assist in keeping the cloak closed from harsh wind, while providing a
  distinctive adornment.  The fabric is a dusty, sandy color, a mixture of
  browns and greys that would provide some natural camouflage in the sands,
  and has a chaotic pattern of dark-colored staining moving out across the
  back, over the shoulders and hood, and down the arms, to provide a
  distinctive flair.  
  
  At your table, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says in bendune:
       "How long have you been here?"
  
  At your table, you say in bendune:
       "Today."
  
  At your table, you say in bendune, lifting a finger to point at the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass:
       "To protect."
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass sighs, settling back in her seat.
  
  At your table, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says in bendune:
       "Good. I want to go home."
  
  At your table, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says in bendune:
       "I'm supposed to find some wooden things to take south though, before we go."
  
  At your table, you say in bendune:
       "What sort?"
  
  At your table, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says in bendune:
       "Maybe some islit? I don't know exactly...I found one shop with a cradle for sale..I thought someone might want that, in the south, a fancy wooden cradle for their babe."
  
  At your table, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says in bendune:
       "Maybe some isilt jewelry..."
  
  Speculatively, you look at the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass.
  This nut-brown youth stands no taller than many adolescents, although the
  maturity of her curves indicate she's well done growing.  The rich darkness
  of her arching brows casts a fierce femininity across her features, lending
  her the animalistic quality of a small, wild creature and emphasizing the
  dark clarity of her limpid gaze.  The quirk of her dusky lips and her fine
  chin and jawline lead the eye to where her ears have been pierced and
  stretched for the insertion of two coin-sized bone disks.  Her hair, dark as
  polished thornwood, is all kinky coils and wind-tossed knots, tumbling the
  hourglass slope of her back to taper along the curve of her bottom.  
       Caught in a turbulent wealth of coiling braids, her riotous mane has
  been bound up and secured by a strand of beaded silk, laying free the naked
  slope of her neck.
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass is in excellent condition.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass is using:
  <worn on head>           a thin, beaded silk headband
  <slung across back>      a darkly-stained styrax spear
  <worn across back>       a raptor-leather, darkly-stained satchel
  <worn on torso>          a darkly-stained, reinforced raptor hide jacket
  <worn on left shoulder>  a small, desert-camouflaged lizard
  <worn around wrist>      a bone and leather braided license
  <worn as belt>           a tightly-woven sash of dark sandcloth
  <hung from belt>         a darkly stained bone scimitar with a carved hilt
  <hung from belt>         a darkly-stained raptor bone knife
  <worn around body>       a layered black cloak with an agate clasp
  <worn on legs>           a pair of darkly-stained raptor hide leggings
  <worn on feet>           a pair of darkly-stained, knee-high raptor-hide boots
  
  She is carrying:
  nothing obvious
  
  At your table, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says in bendune:
       "Cutlery is the same in wood or clay or stone, I think..if the material is special, it should be a special object."
  
  At your table, you say in bendune, shrugging your shoulders:
       "Don't know those things."
  
  At your table, you say in bendune, pensively:
       "Speak with 'beti, after arrive. Odd times."
  
  At your table, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says in bendune:
       "Well, I can purchase them in the morning and we can leave..maybe..before noon."
  
  At your table, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says in bendune:
       "You mean sharing tents with our cousins?"
  
  At your table, you say in bendune, milked eyes drifting up thoughtfully:
       "Very happy people. Not like Seik now."
  
  At your table, you say in bendune, nodding decisively:
       "Yes. Sharing tents."
  
  At your table, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says in bendune:
       "No, but we'll rebuild. You were lost too long after the darkness. Things are more settled now."
  
  At your table, you say in bendune, wincing:
       "Hard to adjust."
  
  At your table, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says in bendune:
       "Our folk won't be with theirs forever. Their ways are too different."
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man rests a hand against the side of your head as you stares at a circular table.
  
  At your table, you say in bendune:
       "Tch."
  
  At your table, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says in bendune, cocking a coy smile:
       "I find I like the dancing at night..by firelight."
  
  At your table, you say in bendune:
       "Do not be fooled to take 'beti, sepa. Blood not strong."
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man's expression shifts dramatically to become resolute and expecting of the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass.
  
  At your table, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says in bendune, with a snort:
       "That's not always so. They have good hunters..."
  
  At your table, you say in bendune, firmly:
       "Blood is weak."
  
  At your table, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says in bendune, with a toss of her braid-heavy head:
       "Not always."
  
  Coolly, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass looks at you.
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man's gaze shifts away from the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass after a moment.
  
  At your table, you say in bendune, plainly:
       "'beti child would not survive."
  
  At your table, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says in bendune:
       "Their little ones do."
  
  At your table, you say in bendune:
       "Not in Seik tents, 'beti would not."
  
  At your table, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says in bendune, slapping the table dismissively:
       "This is stupid. I don't want anyone in my furs."
  
  At your table, you say in bendune, nodding gently:
       "Blood is too weak. Good."
  
  Smiling warmly, you look at the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass.
  
  At your table, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says in bendune:
       "Now, give me my drink."
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man points to where it rests in front of the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass.
  
  At your table, you say in bendune:
       "Drink."
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass gets her anakore-etched wooden shotglass from a circular table.
  
  Watching you over the rim as she downs it, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass drinks spiced-mead from her anakore-etched wooden shotglass.
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man crosses your arms, leaning back and observing a passing group of nomads.
  
  At your table, you say in bendune:
       "Meet Runners in Kurac Post."
  
  At your table, you say in bendune:
       "Drunk and spiced. Very loud necks."
  
  The empty vessle sounding softly as it meets the table, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass puts her anakore-etched wooden shotglass onto a circular table.
  
  At your table, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says in bendune, her dusky lips quirking with a smile:
       "Tell me the whole tale, not just one part."
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man clears your throat behind a fist as you casually lifts a leg to rest that ankle on the opposite knee.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass settles back more comfortably in her own chair, her gaze dark as she watches what expression there is pass across your face.
  
  At your table, you say in bendune, upturning a palm toward the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass:
       "First call 'Sexy Seik'. Not name I know. But hoot more, call over... so then ask more."
  
  At your table, you say in bendune:
       "Too drunk and spiced to do much. Tried asking trade--got no place."
  
  At your table, you say in bendune, appearing annoyed as your features clinch up:
       "One, with warclubs and many scars--begins fight. Mishear what was said. Other Runner think it funny to make warclub Runner think things that did not happen."
  
  At your table, you say in bendune, shaking your head in disapproval:
       "Got away before fight. Not smart. Save Runner life."
  
  At your table, you say in bendune, milked gaze rolling back to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass:
       "Kurac not take well to see Runner threaten Seik, think."
  
  At your table, you say in bendune, patting your darkly-stained, reinforced raptor hide jacket with a fist lightly to indicate himself:
       "Safe."
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass nods.
  
  At your table, you say in bendune, pinching your index and thumb together as though holding a pipe or tube of spice:
       "Offer Thodeliv. Give thodeliv later. Make amends for Runner mistake. Runner Bright Eyes like Shriek al'Seik."
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man's lips part in a pleased smile.
  
  At your table, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says in bendune:
       "Shriek? Really?"
  
  At your table, you say in bendune, after a pregnant pause:
       "Yes. Problem?"
  
  At your table, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says in bendune, snorting softly, her little nostrils flaring:
       "Well, it does sound a bit silly."
  
  Eyes dancing with mischief, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass looks at you.
  
  At your table, you say in bendune:
       "Maybe someday find out why."
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man scratches at the underside of your jaw with a fingernail.
  
  l nettle's headband
  A simple string of thin silk has been threaded with wooden and glass
  beads of maroon, deep blue, brown, and dark orange.  Made to be worn around
  the wearer's head, it provides a simple, but elegant enough, accent to the
  forehead and face.  
  
  Plucking a few crumbs off the table before her, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass feeds them idly to the smooth-bodied reptile sprawled across her shoulder.
  
  At your table, you say in bendune, resting a hand onto a circular table:
       "Begin early?"
  
  At your table, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says in bendune:
       "You didn't even try your drink...don't you like their mead?"
  
  At your table, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says in bendune:
       "The shops won't be open before dawn."
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man's milked eyes fall onto the shotglass remaining in front of you.
  
  Shrugging, you get your anakore-etched wooden shotglass from a circular table.
  It is very light, and full.
  
  With reckless abandon, you drink the spiced-mead.
  You feel a slight buzz from the alcohol.
  You are a little hungry.
  You are a little thirsty.
  
  Placing it back onto a circular table, you discard your anakore-etched wooden shotglass.
  
  At your table, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says in bendune:
       "You seem especially reserved, Buka."
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man folds both hands over a circular table, regarding the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass placidly in response.
  
  At your table, you say in bendune:
       "Yes."
  
  At your table, you say in bendune, distantly:
       "The new way found."
  
  At your table, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says in bendune, her tone rife with mischief:
       "You know, there is this one Arabeti boy, the one with the black braid and vestric feathers..? He's quite a dancer."
  
  At your table, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says in bendune, leaning into the table, her gaze bright upon you:
       "Do you know his name?"
  
  At your table, you say in bendune, shrugging:
       "No."
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass smiles.
  
  At your table, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says in bendune:
       "He might make a good mate..rhythm like that shouldn't go to waste."
  
  At your table, you say in bendune, commenting:
       "Weak blood."
  
  At your table, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says in bendune, her smile breaking into a grin:
       "Hot blood."
  
  Despairingly, you look at the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass.
  At your table, you say in bendune, hands tightening as they rest folded over a circular table:
       "Poor choice."
  
  At your table, you say in bendune, rising:
       "Come."
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says, out of character:
       "i've got to step out for 15, i'm sorry"
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass stands up from a circular table.
  
  Securing the knot of your tightly-woven sash of dark sandcloth, you stand up from a circular table.
  
  <Nettle's player goes to log. Sometime later...>
  
  You contact the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass with the Way.
  
  You send a telepathic message to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass:
       "Finish business. I'm waiting for you at the Scaien Gates, along the North Road."
  
  l me
  This human would be regarded as moderate in stature, compact, and
  cultured in life-or-death struggles: his body seems well brought-
  upon both fighting and hunger. Long muddy-red and Drov hair hangs
  down to his butt, adorned with small bone-carved skull charms and
  trinkets that twist along the mane in a twine-secured clump. Dark
  of complexion and light of eye, milk white irises appear lifeless
  when beside tight earthen-dusk skin.
  The earthen, trinket-twined man is in excellent condition.
  
  <face>                   numerous interlocked dark and light blue lines, inked at odd angles
  <slung across back>      a darkly-stained styrax spear
  <worn across back>       a raptor-leather, darkly-stained satchel
  <worn on torso>          a darkly-stained, reinforced raptor hide jacket
  <worn as belt>           a tightly-woven sash of dark sandcloth
  <hung from belt>         a darkly stained bone scimitar with a carved hilt
  <worn around body>       a layered black cloak with an agate clasp
  <worn on legs>           a pair of darkly-stained raptor hide leggings
  <worn on feet>           a pair of darkly-stained, knee-high raptor-hide boots
  
  You dissolve the psychic link.
  
  <some time passes>
  
  You contact the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass with the Way.
  
  You send a telepathic message to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass:
       "If you don't make it to the Gates soon, we'll not have enough light."
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass sends you a telepathic message:
       "Bartering can't be rushed."
  
  You send a telepathic message to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass:
       "Yes it can."
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass sends you a telepathic message:
       "Fine..I'm coming."
  
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  You dissolve the psychic link.
  
  <some time passes>
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass sends you a telepathic message:
       "I need you."
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass sends you a telepathic message:
       "I found these branches. I can't lift them."
  
  You contact the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass with the Way.
  
  You send a telepathic message to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass:
       "Where?"
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass sends you a telepathic message:
       "In the herb sellers, in Freil's."
  
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  <ride over to Friel's>
  
  Looking inside a small sandstone building, you see:
  Inside a Neatly Kept, Sandstone Building [Leave]
     This small shop is neatly, immaculately kept.  A wooden rack hangs
  beside the door, filled with assortments of tools, while beside it a set of
  shelves holds lengths of cloth and small baskets of dyes and herbs.  A
  counter lines the back of the room, the more valuable items hanging behind
  it.  The inner walls of this building are adorned with carvings of rippling
  lines, incised into the yellowish white sandstone of its composition.  
  A couple of long agafari branches are here.
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass is standing here, looking tired.
  - she is carrying a sturdy, dark-wood cradle.
  - she is carrying a large bag.
  A weathered, dark-eyed man is here warily keeping watch.
  A lanky, weatherworn man stands near the counter, carving a bit of bone.
  
  You swing your legs to the side and dismount.
  
  You pull on a brown inix's reins.
  A brown inix curls up on the ground.
  
  Moving over quickly, you look down at the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass.
  This nut-brown youth stands no taller than many adolescents, although the
  maturity of her curves indicate she's well done growing.  The rich darkness
  of her arching brows casts a fierce femininity across her features, lending
  her the animalistic quality of a small, wild creature and emphasizing the
  dark clarity of her limpid gaze.  The quirk of her dusky lips and her fine
  chin and jawline lead the eye to where her ears have been pierced and
  stretched for the insertion of two coin-sized bone disks.  Her hair, dark as
  polished thornwood, is all kinky coils and wind-tossed knots, tumbling the
  hourglass slope of her back to taper along the curve of her bottom.  
       Caught in a turbulent wealth of coiling braids, her riotous mane has
  been bound up and secured by a strand of beaded silk, laying free the naked
  slope of her neck.
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass is in excellent condition.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass is using:
  <worn on head>           a thin, beaded silk headband
  <slung across back>      a darkly-stained styrax spear
  <worn across back>       a raptor-leather, darkly-stained satchel
  <worn on torso>          a darkly-stained, reinforced raptor hide jacket
  <worn on left shoulder>  a small, desert-camouflaged lizard
  <worn around wrist>      a bone and leather braided license
  <worn as belt>           a tightly-woven sash of dark sandcloth
  <hung from belt>         a darkly stained bone scimitar with a carved hilt
  <hung from belt>         a darkly-stained raptor bone knife
  <worn around body>       a layered black cloak with an agate clasp
  <worn on legs>           a pair of darkly-stained raptor hide leggings
  <worn on feet>           a pair of darkly-stained, knee-high raptor-hide boots
  
  Scooping it up, you pick up a long agafari branch.
  It is very light.
  
  Her face oddly pallid, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass smiles as you enters.
  
  Wordlessly, you pick up a long agafari branch.
  It is very light.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass falls in behind you.
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man holds out a hand, reaching for the cradle.
  
  Passing it over wordlessly, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass gives you her sturdy, dark-wood cradle.
  Grasping at the cradle, you say to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in sirihish:
       "Better this way."
  
  l cradle
  This cradle is cut from baobab wood and stands about three cords high. Its
  sides can be raised and lowered for easy access. A matting of silk stuffed
  with vestric feathers provides a comfortable rest for any child. The cradle
  is well crafted and very sturdy.
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man lifts your sturdy, dark-wood cradle, resting it on a shoulder.
  
  You step out to...
  
  Moire's Vision [E, W]
     It is difficult to see the path underfoot from the sheer amount of
  debris from a number of thatched huts that have been destroyed in this
  Quarter.  Plantlife in the area has experienced a boon of growth, leaves and
  roots spreading in every direction.  The few structures still standing show
  a healthy amount of dirt and mud sloshed a cord high around the foundations.
  A perpetual stench of decaying wood drifts on the air.  
  A simple cylini hut sits along the path.
  A small sandstone building sits off to one side of the path.
  A brown inix is reclining here.
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass emerges from a small sandstone building.
  
  Glancing over, you ask the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in sirihish:
       "Look pale. Why?"
  
  Tucking herself up close, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass beams a smile up at you.
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man gestures to a brown inix.
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man picks up the reins of a brown inix, passing them to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass.
  
  Gently, you say to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in sirihish:
       "Ride."
  
  You strap your sturdy, dark-wood cradle to a brown inix's back.
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man finishes securing the cradle to a brown inix after a few moments.
  
  Uncertainly, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says to you, in bendune:
       "Oh..."
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man pulls your curved agafari shield from a brown inix, strapping it about your left wrist.
  
  Scrambling awkwardly up, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass jumps up onto a brown inix's back.
  A brown inix rises from the ground, and clambers to his feet.
  
  Brow quirking to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, you hold your curved agafari shield.
  
  You ask the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "Come. Where is inix?"
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says to you, in bendune:
       "My mind is not so sharp..with the way. Between our tents, it's not such trouble but...I think I might get an ox."
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass asks you, in bendune:
       "If I get an ox, would we have to stay another night?"
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says to you, in bendune:
       "Because, you know, I've never seen the Circle of Poets."
  
  Shaking your head, you say to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "No. Stable on way."
  
  Sliding down from the side, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass swings her legs over and jumps off of a brown inix.
  A brown inix curls up on the ground.
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man tugs along the reins of a brown inix, moving quickly.
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man pauses, turning around.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says to you, in bendune:
       "Are you sure? It's awfully late to travel.."
  
  Squinting, you look down at the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass.
  This nut-brown youth stands no taller than many adolescents, although the
  maturity of her curves indicate she's well done growing.  The rich darkness
  of her arching brows casts a fierce femininity across her features, lending
  her the animalistic quality of a small, wild creature and emphasizing the
  dark clarity of her limpid gaze.  The quirk of her dusky lips and her fine
  chin and jawline lead the eye to where her ears have been pierced and
  stretched for the insertion of two coin-sized bone disks.  Her hair, dark as
  polished thornwood, is all kinky coils and wind-tossed knots, tumbling the
  hourglass slope of her back to taper along the curve of her bottom.  
       Caught in a turbulent wealth of coiling braids, her riotous mane has
  been bound up and secured by a strand of beaded silk, laying free the naked
  slope of her neck.
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass is in excellent condition.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass is using:
  <worn on head>           a thin, beaded silk headband
  <slung across back>      a darkly-stained styrax spear
  <worn across back>       a raptor-leather, darkly-stained satchel
  <worn on torso>          a darkly-stained, reinforced raptor hide jacket
  <worn on left shoulder>  a small, desert-camouflaged lizard
  <worn around wrist>      a bone and leather braided license
  <worn as belt>           a tightly-woven sash of dark sandcloth
  <hung from belt>         a darkly stained bone scimitar with a carved hilt
  <hung from belt>         a darkly-stained raptor bone knife
  <worn around body>       a layered black cloak with an agate clasp
  <worn on legs>           a pair of darkly-stained raptor hide leggings
  <worn on feet>           a pair of darkly-stained, knee-high raptor-hide boots
  
  She is carrying:
  nothing obvious
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says to you, in bendune:
       "And I really want a fine uhmm.alright."
  
  Resolutely, you say to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "Sure."
  
  You ask the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "Want what?"
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says to you, in bendune:
       "Well, a nice fresh-tamed ox, with the wild still in her, you know. Not one of their dossil overbred beasts."
  
  Quietly, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says to you, in bendune:
       "Docile."
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man emits a quiet sigh, turning to peer easterly.
  
  Turning back to her, you say to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "Fine."
  
  Wriggling slightly with excitement, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass peers up at you bright-eyed.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass asks you, in bendune:
       "Ohhh...will you help me pick one?"
  
  Nodding, you say to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "Yes."
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass dances a few light-footed steps of excitement.
  
  Watching her feet, you look down at the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass hooks one slight arm through your arm, tugging at you.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass exclaims to you, in bendune:
       "Come on, come on then...let's get the best one before they sell her!"
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man remains in place, staring down at the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass for a while despite all the excitement.
  
  A brown inix isn't yours to make stand.
  
  You begin leading a brown inix.
  A brown inix falls in behind you.
  Puffing with frustration, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass stills, stepping back and peering up at you.
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man loops the reins of a brown inix about your free hand, tugging it along as you is tugged along.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass asks you, in bendune:
       "What?"
  
  You stop leading the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass.
  
  You now follow the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass walks east.
  You follow the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, and walk east.
  
  You release a brown inix's reins.
  
  You say to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "Go on."
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass walks east.
  You follow the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, and walk east.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass walks west.
  You follow the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, and walk west.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass walks south.
  You follow the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, and walk south.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says to you, in bendune:
       "Oops..your lizard."
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass walks north.
  You follow the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, and walk north.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass walks west.
  You follow the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, and walk west.
  
  You begin leading a brown inix.
  A brown inix falls in behind you.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass scowls at a brown inix.
  
  A brown inix rises from the ground, and clambers to his feet.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass walks east.
  You follow the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, and walk east.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass asks you, in bendune:
       "See how they are?"
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass walks south.
  You follow the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, and walk south.
  
  Zaerach's Way [N, E, S]
     It is difficult to see the path underfoot from the sheer amount of
  debris from a number of thatched huts that have been destroyed in this
  Quarter.  Plantlife in the area has experienced a boon of growth, leaves and
  roots spreading in every direction.  The few structures still standing show
  a healthy amount of dirt and mud sloshed a cord high around the foundations.
  A perpetual stench of decaying wood drifts on the air.  
     A small wooden hut is situated along the eastern side of the path, a
  corner of its foundation sunken into the ground.  What was once a waist-high
  agafari fence behind it has been reduced to a broken display of protection,
  several agafari boards missing.  
  A group of Kadian slaves are here moving debris and clutter from around the street and the small hut.
  A small thatched hut sits amidst a group of buildings in this quarter.
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass is standing here, looking tired.
  - she is carrying a large bag.
  A brown inix has arrived from the north.
  
  Placing it atop a brown inix, you stop holding your curved agafari shield.
  
  Agreeably, you say to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "Yes."
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says to you, in bendune:
       "You ought to have one that can think for itself as well."
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass walks south.
  You follow the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, and walk south.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass walks east.
  You follow the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, and walk east.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass walks east.
  You follow the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, and walk east.
  
  A Grassy Field [W]
     A small field covered in light, black-colored gesra grass, this area
  provides suitable support for animals to roam freely.  A few animals, such
  as inix and sunlons, graze about the field, as it sprawls out over the
  countryside.  
     Large buildings sprout up to the north, east and south of here.  A
  large wooden structure lies to the west, the scent of animals wafting in.  
  A beast pen has been constructed here near the structure to the west.
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass is standing here, looking tired.
  - she is carrying a large bag.
  The lanky, gap-toothed man stands near the pens, looking over the mounts.
  The leathery-skinned man walks around here, attending to the mounts.
  A squat mul stands guard in front of the pen.
  A brown inix has arrived from the west.
  
  You say, in bendune:
       "Only one thinker allowed."
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says to you, in bendune:
       "Well..."
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man thumps a fist against your darkly-stained, reinforced raptor hide jacket, indicating himself.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass asks you, in bendune:
       "Right but...I mean, they should know what you want, right?"
  
  Pensively, you say to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "Yes."
  
  Lifting her body half across a heavy wooden fencework and pointing, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass asks, in bendune:
       "That's what I want! That one there, see?"
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man's lips purse as you glances to a brown inix for a moment, making a cursory inspection.
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man eventually turns to see what all the hubbub is about.
  
  Turning her face, wide-eyed, toward you, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass asks you, in bendune:
       "Have a look at her there, will you?"
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass asks you, in bendune:
       "Isn't she fine and wooly?"
  
  Blandly, you say to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "Yes."
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass asks you, in bendune:
       "Well, shouldn't you look her hooves over and things?"
  
  Giving the reins another wrap before tugging him down, you pull on a brown inix's reins.
  A brown inix curls up on the ground.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass shoots the leathery-skinned man an apologetic glance.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass asks the leathery-skinned man, in sirihish:
       "My lrother hare is thi expert in anihal feesh. I vee you wave some oxen. I don't suppose you'b mind if we look them over?"
  
  Smiling, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass looks up at the leathery-skinned man.
  
  l leathery
  You look up at the leathery-skinned man.
  You see before you a tall thin man, nearing the late middle-aged years.
  His skin is a deep rich tan, turned leathery from all of the harsh elements
  on Zalanthas.  His face and hands are beginning to wrinkle with age, yet his
  pale blue eyes seem to burn on with some inner desire.  His face is marked
  with some very faint scars, one short one under his right eye, running down
  and to the right of the eye.
  The leathery-skinned man is in excellent condition.
  
  The leathery-skinned man is using:
  <neck>                   a blue and purple inked band
  <worn on torso>          a blue and white striped linen shirt
  <left wrist>             a purple and blue circle
  <hands>                  a six-pronged star
  <worn on legs>           a pair of blue and white linen pants
  <worn on feet>           a pair of soft blue suede boots
  
  He is carrying:
  nothing obvious
  
  Grasping a handful of grass seed from the mound of dried feed to one side, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass steals the opportunity to spread the find liberally among the cages in her keeping.
  
  You enter a beast pen.
  Inside the Beast Pen [Leave, Save]
     You are standing inside a large fenced-in area.  A tarp covers the
  area keeping out the harsh elements.  There are several large stalls, with
  several people monitoring the various mounts.  In the north eastern corner
  is a large pile of hay bales and various tools used for tending to the large
  beasts of burden and sport beasts.  
  
  leave (some time later)
  You step out to...
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass asks you, in bendune:
       "What do you think of her?"
  
  Nodding, you say to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "Fine."
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass gets her pile of allanaki coins from her raptor-leather, darkly-stained satchel.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass pays the leathery-skinned man for a wooly brown plains-ox, and hops on its back.
  
  Drably, you look up at a wooly brown plains-ox.
  This massive creature's entire head is covered in fluffy wool, making its
  features hard to discern.  Impossible to ignore, however, are the wickedly
  sharp horns that jut from its skull, curling in deadly arcs.  Its body is
  likewise covered in shaggy, wooly brown fur, its texture soft and kinky.  
  A wooly brown plains-ox is in excellent condition.
  
  A wooly brown plains-ox is using:
  <head>                   A black-inked wylrith branding
  
  It is carrying:
  nothing obvious
  
  Afterward, you look up at a brown inix.
  This huge, two-ton lizard is a variegated brown in color, its shell
  striped with gleams of amber and gold.  In size, it is nearly thirteen cords
  from snout to tail.  It eyes the ground, searching for forage with dull
  green eyes.  
  A brown inix is in excellent condition.
  A brown inix is hitched to you.
  
  He is carrying:
  nothing obvious
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass swings her legs to the side and dismounts.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass begins leading a wooly brown plains-ox.
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man pats a brown inix reassuringly.
  
  Leaning in close, you whisper to a brown inix in bendune:
       "Better."
  
  You pull on a brown inix's reins.
  A brown inix rises from the ground, and clambers to his feet.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass scratches a wooly brown plains-ox behind the ears, listening carefully against it.
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man tugs along a brown inix, looking expectantly for the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass to follow.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass pats a wooly brown plains-ox reassuringly.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass falls in behind you.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says to you, in bendune:
       "What do you think I should name her? I like Petal."
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass asks you, in bendune:
       "Do you think it fits?"
  
  You say to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "No."
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says to you, in bendune:
       "How about Stomp..? Maybe I should get to know her a bit, first."
  
  You unstrap your sturdy, dark-wood cradle from a brown inix's back.
  
  As you rests your sturdy, dark-wood cradle onto a shoulder, you say to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "Yes. Know ox first."
  
  You store a brown inix in the stables.
  A purple-haired half-breed stablehand says, in northern-accented sirihish:
       "Here is your ticket. It'll be 20 coins to retrieve it when you return."
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass looks up at a wooly brown plains-ox.
  
  You put your blue and purple-braided leather ticket into your tightly-woven sash of dark sandcloth.
  
  You ask the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "Leave in morning?"
  
  Wrapping her thin dark arms around a wooly brown plains-ox neck, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass hugs it fiercly.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass stores a wooly brown plains-ox in the stables.
  A purple-haired half-breed stablehand says, in northern-accented sirihish:
       "Here is your ticket. It'll be 20 coins to retrieve it when you return."
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass puts her blue and purple-braided leather ticket into her tightly-woven sash of dark sandcloth.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass asks you, in bendune:
       "Well...can we see the Circle of Poets?"
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass asks you, in bendune:
       "Circle of Singers?"
  
  With a shake of her head, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says to you, in bendune:
       "It loses something in the translation."
  
  Tiredly, you look down at the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass.
  
  Plucking it forcibly from its cozy slump across the curve of her shoulder, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass stops using her small, desert-camouflaged lizard.
  
  Shifting its warm body into her cupped palms, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass holds her small, desert-camouflaged lizard.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass shifts her weight between her feet, studying her small, desert-camouflaged lizard.
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man observes the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass blankly for a while before smiling.
  
  You say to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "Come."
  
  <walking walking walking>
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass asks you, in bendune:
       "Do you know what I like about you?"
  
  You say, in bendune:
       "No."
  
  Shifting her smooth-bodied reptile into one hand and tucking the other around your arm, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says to you, in bendune:
       "Everything."
  
  Observing the juggling as you passes, you look up at the willowy, raven-haired woman.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass looks up at the willowy, raven-haired woman.
  
  After hearing that, you look down at the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass.
  
  You begin guarding the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass.
  
  Gesturing, you say to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "Closer."
  
  weather
  It is a warm day.
  A warm breeze blows from the east.
  Jihae, the red moon, is high in the sky.
  
  With a quirking smile, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says to you, in bendune:
       "Well, they'll have to do better than that. I've seen fire jugglers before, in the Black, you know."
  
  You say to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "Amateur."
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass smiles at you.
  
  A dung beetle races down the roadside, moving its ball along before it.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass snorks in excited surprise.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass asks you, in bendune:
       "Did you see that? That beetle?"
  
  You say to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "No."
  
  Glancing back over her slim shoulder, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass exclaims to you, in bendune:
       "It had a ball..!"
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man pauses long enough to nod to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass.
  
  You ask the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "What kind?"
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass asks you, in bendune:
       "Oh, a dung beetle! Do you know that Arabet Dona?"
  
  Nodding, you say to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "Yes."
  
  Shyly, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass asks you, in bendune:
       "I think she wants to bed me. Do you think she wants to bed everyone?"
  
  Shaking your head, you say to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "No."
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man taps your fist against your darkly-stained, reinforced raptor hide jacket with a smug smile.
  
  You say, in bendune:
       "Not Shriek."
  
  Just before the plaza, you ask the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "Weak blood. Remember?"
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says to you, in bendune:
       "Well, I'm not sure how do do it like that, you know...with a sword and no sheath..though I'm sure we could figure it out...."
  
  You say to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "'beti bed most. Seik bed one."
  
  Glancing up, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass asks you, in bendune:
       "Just one?"
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man stares at the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass for a long moment.
  
  You say to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "Most, only one. Sometimes two. Mates gift fetish."
  
  Her dark features composing themselves with thought, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass stares down at her feet.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass whispers to you, in bendune:
       "What kind?"
  
  You whisper to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass in bendune:
       "Fetish creature."
  
  Very quietly, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says, in bendune:
       "Oh."
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man motions for the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass to draw closer with a wave of your hand.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass shifts her slight weight and warmth nearer to you, lifting her face.
  
  Hand resting on your darkly-stained, reinforced raptor hide jacket, you say to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "Source of strength when weak. Feeling of courage when afraid."
  
  Peering down at her, you say to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "Fetish not shared with 'beti. Seik people have great power. Do not waste."
  
  Tipping her head to one side, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass asks you, in bendune:
       "Raptor?"
  
  You say to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "Maybe. Someday, sepa."
  
  You say to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "When Seik mate is had."
  
  Popping out her bottom lip stubbornly, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass exclaims to you, in bendune:
       "Well, there aren't very many!"
  
  The night has begun.
  The earthen, trinket-twined man tenses up.
  
  The Road of Poets [N, E, W]
     Blue-tinged stones, each speckled with a variety of multi-hued flecks,
  have been cut into even and symmetrical squares before being cobbled into
  the path that forms this road.  Numerous buildings can be seen dotting the
  landscape on either side of the road, workers and various artisans scurrying
  to and fro between the structures.  To the south lies the old city wall, its
  scars a reminder of the city's history.  
     An archway in the northern wall leads into a sandstone plaza on which
  numerous tents, all ranging in hue and texture, have been erected.  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass is standing here, looking tired.
  - she is carrying a large bag.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass shifts away, turning both dark hands around her small, desert-camouflaged lizard and crooning to it.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says to you, in bendune:
       "We can't stand here all night."
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass looks up at you.
  
  With a fierce strength, you whisper to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass in bendune:
       "Yes. But... do not act so unready for trial."
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says to you, in bendune:
       "I don't want to do my trial. Do you know Dona said she'd watch over me? But I said you were going to."
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man reaches out a hand to place onto her shoulder.
  
  Glancing up from the warmth of the little reptile, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass looks up at you.
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man wraps your other hand about the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, pulling her in roughly to embrace you should there be no resistance.
  
  Lifting her thin arms around your neck, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass hugs you fiercely.
  
  Hand gripping the back of her head, you say to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "Always watch. Trial will be done. Seik woman soon, remember. 'beti life is never option."
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man smiles down to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass warmly.
  
  Losing the warmth of you, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass falls back a notch, returning your smile.
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man releases the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass.
  
  Turning to the plaza, you say to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "Time to see place."
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says to you, in bendune:
       "Well...I'm hungry."
  
  A Large, Sandstone Plaza [N, S, W]
     Square shaped block of tannish colored sandstone, each three cords by
  three cords in length, have been set into the ground to form a solid footing
  to this plaza.  Tents of every imaginable color lay sprawled across the
  plaza, jumbled together in a meshed spray of brightly splashed hues.
  Various humans and humanoids, each and every one decorated in tribal
  markings, mill about the plaza.  
     An archway in the southern wall leads into a blue-tinged stone road to
  the south.  
  A patchwork hide tent has been erected here.
  The braided, sun-darkened man walks across the plaza.
  A braided, vine-tattooed huntress carries a load of pelts on her shoulder.
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass has arrived from the south.
  
  Tugging it out after digging, you get your strip of dried beetle meat from your raptor-leather, darkly-stained satchel.
  It is very light.
  
  Skipping forward a few steps, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says to you, in bendune:
       "I hope they have something I've never tried before."
  
  Holding it out without looking, you give your strip of dried beetle meat to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass exclaims to you, in bendune:
       "Buuuka!"
  
  You ask, in bendune:
       "What?"
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man stops, turning to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass.
  
  Shoving it back roughly, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass exclaims to you, in bendune:
       "I want something /new/!"
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass gives you her strip of dried beetle meat.
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man's brow knits, fumbling with your strip of dried beetle meat as it is roughly returned.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass asks you, in bendune:
       "Like..I don't know what...can't we see?"
  
  Shrugging, you put your strip of dried beetle meat into your raptor-leather, darkly-stained satchel.
  
  A Large, Sandstone Plaza [N, S, W]
     Square shaped block of tannish colored sandstone, each three cords by
  three cords in length, have been set into the ground to form a solid footing
  to this plaza.  Tents of every imaginable color lay sprawled across the
  plaza, jumbled together in a meshed spray of brightly splashed hues.
  Various humans and humanoids, each and every one decorated in tribal
  markings, mill about the plaza.  
     An archway in the southern wall leads into a blue-tinged stone road to
  the south.  
  A patchwork hide tent has been erected here.
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass is standing here, looking tired.
  - she is carrying a large bag.
  The braided, sun-darkened man walks across the plaza.
  A braided, vine-tattooed huntress carries a load of pelts on her shoulder.
  
  Nodding, you say, in bendune:
       "Yes."
  
  You enter a patchwork hide tent.
  Inside a Hide Tent [Leave]
     A variety of animal hides have been stretched over a lattice of small
  pymlithe branches, forming the framework of this tent.  Skins of duskhorn,
  gizhat, tregil, and even carru not only enclose this structure, but also
  cover most of the floor in their softened furs.  They fall a cord short of a
  stone-circled pit in the northeastern corner, where a large roasting spit
  and several flat rock slabs have been positioned near the burning cooking
  fire.  Just nearby, along the eastern side of the tent, are a set of low
  sandstone blocks that serve as a counter.  Behind them several shelves rise
  up from the floor, on which a plethora of bowls, jars, and plates full of
  various foodstuffs can be seen.  
  The green-eyed, vine-inked elf stands behind the low-stone counter here.
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass has entered a patchwork hide tent.
  
  99/99h, 86/86s, 107/121e [unarmed|standing|walking|bendune|late at night]
  [riding: none|]list
  the green-eyed, vine-inked elf has the following goods to trade:
  01) a bowl of dark-roasted kalans for 38 obsidian coins, many are available.
  02) a bowl of mashed tuber paste for 23 obsidian coins, many are available.
  03) a bowl of spiced duskhorn and root stew for 23 obsidian coins, many are available.
  04) a dried kalan fruit for 56 obsidian coins, many are available.
  05) a grilled rack of ribs for 56 obsidian coins, many are available.
  06) a kalan fruit for 18 obsidian coins, many are available.
  07) a pungent roasted root for 18 obsidian coins, many are available.
  08) a roasted kalan fruit for 90 obsidian coins, many are available.
  09) a roasted sweet yellow root for 20 obsidian coins, many are available.
  10) a slice of gritty brown bread for 2 obsidian coins, many are available.
  11) a small cup of kalan jam for 54 obsidian coins, many are available.
  
  Pointing to the various foodstuffs, leaning over a bit, you say to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "New."
  
  Her bright mood returning in a rush, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass tucks her small, desert-camouflaged lizard away in the smooth folds of her cloak.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass stops using her small, desert-camouflaged lizard.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass puts her small, desert-camouflaged lizard into her layered black cloak with an agate clasp.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass leans on the counter, squinting at the shelves beyond.
  
  Hesitantly, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass asks you, in bendune:
       "What do you think looks good?"
  
  Shaking your head a bit, you say to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "Nothing."
  
  Leaning over, you whisper to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass in bendune:
       "Necks."
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass looks up at the green-eyed, vine-inked elf.
  
  Firmly, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says to the green-eyed, vine-inked elf, in sirihish:
       "I'bl try the stew."
  
  The green-eyed, vine-inked elf trades a bowl of spiced duskhorn and root stew to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass puts her pile of allanaki coins into her raptor-leather, darkly-stained satchel.
  
  Grinding up a bowl of fresh paste, the green-eyed, vine-inked elf says, in northern-accented sirihish:
       "Anothir day begins anew.  Aksen, ak'sa."
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass asks you, in sirihish:
       "Let's take it outside to eat. Do you want one?"
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass gets her pile of allanaki coins from her raptor-leather, darkly-stained satchel.
  
  The green-eyed, vine-inked elf says, in northern-accented sirihish:
       "I am closed, come back at dawx."
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says to you, in sirihish:
       "We'll nhare."
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says to you, in sirihish:
       "It'll be fon."
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man shakes your head in stoic response.
  
  You step out to...
  
  A Large, Sandstone Plaza [N, S, W]
     Square shaped block of tannish colored sandstone, each three cords by
  three cords in length, have been set into the ground to form a solid footing
  to this plaza.  Tents of every imaginable color lay sprawled across the
  plaza, jumbled together in a meshed spray of brightly splashed hues.
  Various humans and humanoids, each and every one decorated in tribal
  markings, mill about the plaza.  
     An archway in the southern wall leads into a blue-tinged stone road to
  the south.  
  A patchwork hide tent has been erected here.
  The braided, sun-darkened man walks across the plaza.
  A braided, vine-tattooed huntress carries a load of pelts on her shoulder.
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass emerges from a patchwork hide tent.
  
  A Large, Sandstone Plaza [N, E, W]
     Square shaped block of tannish colored sandstone, each three cords by
  three cords in length, have been set into the ground to form a solid footing
  to this plaza.  Tents of every imaginable color lay sprawled across the
  plaza, jumbled together in a meshed spray of brightly splashed hues.
  Various humans and humanoids, each and every one decorated in tribal
  markings, mill about the plaza.  
  A tent made of leather and sandcloth has been set up along the plaza.
  A tall, tanned elven tribesman lounges around nearby.
  A squinted, long-nosed tribal man walks through the plaza here.
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass has arrived from the east.
  
  A Large, Sandstone Plaza [N, E, W]
     Square shaped block of tannish colored sandstone, each three cords by
  three cords in length, have been set into the ground to form a solid footing
  to this plaza.  Tents of every imaginable color lay sprawled across the
  plaza, jumbled together in a meshed spray of brightly splashed hues.
  Various humans and humanoids, each and every one decorated in tribal
  markings, mill about the plaza.  
  The lanky, green-haired elf skulks along, trying to blend in.
  A thin, ashen-haired woman squats beneath a leather half-tent.
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass has arrived from the east.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says to you, in bendune:
       "It's all sandstone..everywhere..."
  
  You say, in bendune:
       "Yes."
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says to you, in bendune:
       "I thought it would be flowers."
  
  Dryly, you say to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "Not wasteful enough for city people."
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass asks you, in bendune:
       "Where will we sit? Wait..how about in the shade by that big statue, near the entrance?"
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man shrugs, turning about.
  
  <they find a place to sit>
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man glances around, brow knitting.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass shrugs.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says to you, in bendune:
       "I'm not hungry any more."
  
  Finding a place near the archway, you sit down and rest your tired bones.
  
  Wearily, you look up at the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass gives you her bowl of spiced duskhorn and root stew.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass sits down.
  
  Placing it some distance from himself, you drop your bowl of spiced duskhorn and root stew.
  
  Eyeing you, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass asks you, in bendune:
       "You aren't even going to try it?"
  
  You say to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "Could be poisoned."
  
  Crawling half across you, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass snatches up the stew, drawing it to her.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass picks up a bowl of spiced duskhorn and root stew.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says to you, in bendune:
       "Hmh."
  
  Taking a huge slurp, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass eats a portion of her bowl of spiced duskhorn and root stew.
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man shrugs once to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass takes a bite of her small portion of a bowl of spiced duskhorn and root stew.
  
  Her dusky mouth wet with carelessness, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says to you, in bendune:
       "It's extremely delicious."
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man regards the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass with incredibly obvious worry.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says to you, in bendune:
       "I love duskhorn."
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass eats her small portion of a bowl of spiced duskhorn and root stew.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass puts her pile of allanaki coins into her raptor-leather, darkly-stained satchel.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass gets her darkly-stained water gourd from her raptor-leather, darkly-stained satchel.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass pops the cork with the flats of her thumbs.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass drinks greyish water from her darkly-stained water gourd.
  
  You ask the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "Preparing for trial?"
  
  Refastening it, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass puts her darkly-stained water gourd into her raptor-leather, darkly-stained satchel.
  
  Nervously, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says to you, in bendune:
       "Why? No."
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass asks you, in bendune:
       "How?"
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says to you, in bendune:
       "No."
  
  Tapping a finger to your temple, you say to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "Prepare."
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says to you, in bendune:
       "I don't want to think about it."
  
  Quietly, you say to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "Don't be foolish."
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass looks at you.
  
  Lowering her gaze to her bare hands, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says to you, in bendune:
       "I know."
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man nods once.
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man draws an arm around the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass.
  
  The enormous sun rises above the barren plains in the east.
  The red orb of Jihae, the red moon, begins to vanish as it slowly sets.
  
  Patting her on the back, you say to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "Time for ride."
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass whispers to you, in bendune:
       "I have to be a Seik woman so soon, it makes me want to be so reckless and childish. I'm afraid."
  
  You stop resting, and stand up.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass stands up.
  
  Glancing away, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says to you, in bendune:
       "I have another animal to get from the stables, nearer the gate."
  
  Leaning over, you whisper to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass in bendune:
       "Remember this, then. Always here."
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man nods vaguely as you begins to walk.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass offers you a wan smile.
  
  You say to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "Inix is at Friel's."
  
  Tossing her braid-coiled head, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says to you, in bendune:
       "OX, is at Friel's."
  
  You nod to her.
  
  You ask the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "Have one more?"
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says to you, in bendune:
       "Yes. Dona's lizard."
  
  You ask the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "Why have Dona's lizard?"
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says to you, in bendune:
       "She let me ride him."
  
  Firmly, you say to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "Do not take Dona's lizard."
  
  <walk walk walk>
  
  You get your blue and purple-braided leather ticket from your tightly-woven sash of dark sandcloth.
  It is very light.
  
  You get your pile of allanaki coins from your raptor-leather, darkly-stained satchel.
  There were 440 coins.
  It is very light.
  
  A purple-haired half-breed stablehand takes 20 coins and gets a brown inix from the stables.
  
  You begin leading a brown inix.
  A brown inix falls in behind you.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass gets her blue and purple-braided leather ticket from her tightly-woven sash of dark sandcloth.
  
  You say to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "Say yes, sepa."
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass gets her pile of allanaki coins from her raptor-leather, darkly-stained satchel.
  
  A purple-haired half-breed stablehand takes the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass's money and gets a wooly brown plains-ox from the stables.
  
  You say to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "Return lizard. Not take again."
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass begins leading a wooly brown plains-ox.
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man climbs up a brown inix with a swing of each leg.
  
  Glancing up as she twines the reins around her narrow hand, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says to you, in bendune:
       "I will."
  
  You jump up onto a brown inix's back.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass jumps up onto a wooly brown plains-ox's back.
  
  Nodding, you say to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "Good."
  
  Propping it against a knee, you hold your curved agafari shield.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass straps her large bag to a wooly brown plains-ox's back.
  
  You begin guarding the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass straps her thin, curving bone cage to a wooly brown plains-ox's back.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass straps her thin, curving bone cage to a wooly brown plains-ox's back.
  
  You put your pile of allanaki coins into your raptor-leather, darkly-stained satchel.
  
  You strap your sturdy, dark-wood cradle to a brown inix's back.
  
  <walk walk walk>
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass swings her legs over and jumps off of a wooly brown plains-ox.
  A wooly brown plains-ox curls up on the ground.
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man waits near the edge of the stable with a patient expression.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass gets her leather ticket from her tightly-woven sash of dark sandcloth.
  
  A half-elven stablehand takes the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass's money and gets an inix from the stables.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass begins leading an inix.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass puts her pile of allanaki coins into her raptor-leather, darkly-stained satchel.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass jumps up onto a wooly brown plains-ox's back.
  A wooly brown plains-ox rises from the ground, and clambers to its feet.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass nods at you.
  
  <ride to gates>
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass tugs an inix's reins.
  
  You raise the hood of your layered black cloak with an agate clasp.
  
  Mimicking you, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass raises the hood of her layered black cloak with an agate clasp.
  
  West of the Scaien Gates [N, E, S, W]
     The still intact portions, few though they may be, of this wide stone
  road lie half sunken into mud and are further covered by scrub debris that
  appears to have been violently uprooted and tossed about.  What remains of
  this pale backbone of a road lies across these lands in a long and twisting
  fashion, following the southern border of the Grey Forest.
     The broken, muddy road winds east and west here, running through
  thickets of agafari, their grey-green leaves dancing with each shift of the
  wind.
     Immediately to the east looms the impressive Scaien gates.  Atop their
  carved alabaster entry arch, a beacon blazes at its apex.  To the north, a
  crude tower peeks over the mud spattered Scaien Wall, standing guard over
  the gates from the inside.
  A brown inix stands here, carrying the svelte, well-toned half-giant on his back.
  The short figure in a layered black cloak with an agate clasp has arrived from the east, riding a wooly brown plains-ox.
  An inix has arrived from the east.
  
  The figure in a layered black cloak with an agate clasp's head swivels from side to side alertly as you rides along.
  
  The short figure in a layered black cloak with an agate clasp has arrived from the east, riding a wooly brown plains-ox.
  An inix has arrived from the east.
  
  <riding across North Road>
  
  Guiding an inix southerly along the road, you say, in bendune:
       "Tic tic."
  
  <further along>
  
  North Road [N, E, W]
     The stark white of this wide stone road lies across these scrub
  forests like the spine of some gargantuan carcass.  Blowing, gritty dusts
  cover the road in some places, and pech grasses have, here and there, taken
  root in and among the flagstones.  This pale backbone of a road lies across
  these lands in a long and twisting fashion, following the southern border of
  the Grey Forest.  
     Far to the north lies the dim and shadowy blotch on the horizon which
  marks the Grey Forest, while to the south stretches the vast sweep of the
  scrub plains.  A tangle of thorny bush to the south borders the road.  
  The disembodied head of a gortok is here discarded by the road, plucked clean of eyes.
  The short figure in a layered black cloak with an agate clasp has arrived from the east, riding a wooly brown plains-ox.
  An inix has arrived from the east.
  
  The short figure in a layered black cloak with an agate clasp says to you, in bendune:
       "Ew."
  
  The figure in a layered black cloak with an agate clasp rides by the disembodied head of a gortok after giving it a brief glance.
  
  Commenting, you say, in bendune:
       "Tasted good."
  
  The short figure in a layered black cloak with an agate clasp says to you, in bendune:
       "Not after so long in the sun with the insects."
  
  Replying casually, you say, in bendune:
       "Had fresh."
  
  The short figure in a layered black cloak with an agate clasp shuts up.
  
  Gaze scanning the horizon, the short figure in a layered black cloak with an agate clasp sits clumsily astride a wooly brown plains-ox.
  
  The figure in a layered black cloak with an agate clasp leads the trio of beasts through the stone span, crouching low over an inix.
  
  The short figure in a layered black cloak with an agate clasp looks up at you.
  An inix is in excellent condition.
  An inix does not look tired.
  
  Her voice chirping and bright, the short figure in a layered black cloak with an agate clasp asks you, in bendune:
       "Do you think we'll see a carru?"
  
  You say to the short figure in a layered black cloak with an agate clasp, in bendune:
       "No."
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass lowers the hood of her layered black cloak with an agate clasp.
  
  A wooly brown plains-ox lets out a low, wavering moo.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says to you, in bendune:
       "It's too beautiful a day to hide. Feel that breeze? That is a nice breeze."
  
  The figure in a layered black cloak with an agate clasp slows an inix, bringing it alongside a wooly brown plains-ox.
  
  Straightening atop a wooly brown plains-ox, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass shifts her shoulders and lifts her face into the wind.
  
  The figure in a layered black cloak with an agate clasp leans over with a hand outstretched, pulling up the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass' hood.
  
  You say to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "Hood up."
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass raises the hood of her layered black cloak with an agate clasp.
  
  The short figure in a layered black cloak with an agate clasp slaps lightly at your hand.
  
  The figure in a layered black cloak with an agate clasp frowns at the short figure in a layered black cloak with an agate clasp.
  
  The short figure in a layered black cloak with an agate clasp asks you, in bendune:
       "Why?"
  
  l w
  West of here are Scrub Plains.
  [Very far]
  Nothing.
  [Far]
  Nothing.
  [Near]
  A camp of brightly-colored tents has been pitched just off the road.
  
  You say to the short figure in a layered black cloak with an agate clasp, in bendune:
       "Young one is defenseless."
  
  Matter-of-factly, you say to the short figure in a layered black cloak with an agate clasp, in bendune:
       "Easy rape. Easy steal."
  
  The short figure in a layered black cloak with an agate clasp says to you, in bendune:
       "I have a spear and knife just like you."
  
  You say to the short figure in a layered black cloak with an agate clasp, in bendune:
       "Young face easy to see."
  
  You say to the short figure in a layered black cloak with an agate clasp, in bendune:
       "Young face fools no one."
  
  The short figure in a layered black cloak with an agate clasp turns her hood-shadowed face away from you.
  
  The figure in a layered black cloak with an agate clasp stares at the short figure in a layered black cloak with an agate clasp for a long moment before continuing on.
  
  Scrub Plains [N, E, S, W]
     A vast and rolling plain unfolds in all directions, in an endless
  reach of dry and dusty land.  The browning grasses here are less present
  than in the more southernly plains, and the growths of thornbrush and
  ocotillo are gradually replaced with short, tangled shrubs of a greyish
  color, their thin leaves shaped like spearheads.  Squat agafari trees have
  taken root, widely spaced or in sparse groves.  
     To the east, the white stones of the North Road gleam faintly.
  A camp of brightly-colored tents has been pitched just off the road.
  A feathery-leafed plant grows from the desert soil.
  The short figure in a layered black cloak with an agate clasp has arrived from the east, riding a wooly brown plains-ox.
  An inix has arrived from the east.
  
  You enter a camp of brightly-colored tents, riding a brown inix.
  Before an Encampment of Colorful Tents [N, Leave]
     A pair of thick bone poles flank a narrow passage between the myriad
  tents, each mekillot bone rising four cords in height.  A mantis skull tops
  one, while the angular skull of a gith adorns the top of the other.  A
  simple mat of woven pech grass forms a small, overhead shelter for the
  sentinels stationed here.  A dim babble of voices drifts from the cloister
  of tents around a clearing to the north.  
  The male wearing a thin, white-sandcloth facewrap is standing here.
  The short figure in a layered black cloak with an agate clasp has entered a camp of brightly-colored tents, riding a wooly brown plains-ox
  An inix has entered a camp of brightly-colored tents.
  
  Laughter and the sounds of music float in from the north, drifting lightly on the unseen currents of the wind.
  
  You lower the hood of your layered black cloak with an agate clasp.
  
  Resting it on an inix, you stop holding your curved agafari shield.
  
  You swing your legs to the side and dismount.
  
  Taking her time to settle the folds upon her shoulders, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass lowers the hood of her layered black cloak with an agate clasp.
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man leads an inix further into the camp full of noise and bustling bodies.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass swings her legs to the side and dismounts.
  
  Sparse sands blow across your path.
  A Sandy Clearing Among the Colorful Tents [E, S, W]
     Small campfires dot this central area of the encampment, circling
  around a broad firepit.  Arabeti women sit on sandstone slabs, pouring wax
  on fabric and tending to meats cooking on the fire, while dark-eyed toddlers
  chase each other, their naked skin an assortment of brown and bronze hues.
  A few drums rest near the firepit, their thin membrane covers secured to
  bone bases with sinew and loreshi reeds.  
     On the far end of the area near a meeting tent, several men crouch,
  passing a long-handled bone pipe between them.  The earthy, pungent aroma of
  animal dung wafts from a bone-framed corral in the west.  
     Toward the east, a few couples wander to and from an enormous tent, some
  carrying blankets and pillows in through the paint-adorned flap.  
  An enormous tent of blue and orange batiked fabric looms over the clearing's north end.
  A stone-lined firepit is set in the middle of the open ground.
  The inky-haired, turquoise-eyed young girl sits playing the mandolin.
  The lithe, emerald-eyed young woman sits near a small cask of water.
  The sturdy, topaz-eyed man crouches near the fire, a sword across his lap.
  The burly, greying man relaxes by the firepit.
  The brown-skinned, olive-green eyed woman sits weaving near the campfire.
  A brown inix has arrived from the south.
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass has arrived from the south.
  An inix has arrived from the south.
  A wooly brown plains-ox has arrived from the south.
  
  Sparse sands blow across your path.
  A Crudely Constructed, Bone-framed Corral [E]
     A large swath of dune within the encampment has been enclosed by a
  crude fence which rises from the sands to four cords in height.  The fence
  is constructed of mekillot bones, secured together by knotted lengths of
  hemp rope.  
     Various types of animals, including inix, erdlu and escru are
  cloistered together in groups, separated into smaller paddocks within the
  corral.  The stench of beasts and their dung lingers strongly here, despite
  the gusting of desert winds.  
  The rangy, dark-braided man tosses dried grasses to the mounts.
  The graceful, amber-eyed young woman is here, training a young erdlu.
  A brown inix has arrived from the east.
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass has arrived from the east.
  An inix has arrived from the east.
  A wooly brown plains-ox has arrived from the east.
  
  <shack up beasts>
  
  You ask the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "Where want?"
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man holds up your sturdy, dark-wood cradle.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass puts her small stone token into her tightly-woven sash of dark sandcloth.
  
  You stop leading the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass.
  
  You now follow the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass puts her small stone token into her raptor-leather, darkly-stained satchel.
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass walks east.
  You follow the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, and walk east.
  
  Sparse sands blow across your path.
  A Sandy Clearing Among the Colorful Tents [E, S, W]
     Small campfires dot this central area of the encampment, circling
  around a broad firepit.  Arabeti women sit on sandstone slabs, pouring wax
  on fabric and tending to meats cooking on the fire, while dark-eyed toddlers
  chase each other, their naked skin an assortment of brown and bronze hues.
  A few drums rest near the firepit, their thin membrane covers secured to
  bone bases with sinew and loreshi reeds.  
     On the far end of the area near a meeting tent, several men crouch,
  passing a long-handled bone pipe between them.  The earthy, pungent aroma of
  animal dung wafts from a bone-framed corral in the west.  
     Toward the east, a few couples wander to and from an enormous tent, some
  carrying blankets and pillows in through the paint-adorned flap.  
  An enormous tent of blue and orange batiked fabric looms over the clearing's north end.
  A stone-lined firepit is set in the middle of the open ground.
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass is standing here.
  - she is carrying a large bag.
  The inky-haired, turquoise-eyed young girl sits playing the mandolin.
  The lithe, emerald-eyed young woman sits near a small cask of water.
  The sturdy, topaz-eyed man crouches near the fire, a sword across his lap.
  The burly, greying man relaxes by the firepit.
  The brown-skinned, olive-green eyed woman sits weaving near the campfire.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass enters an enormous tent of blue and orange batiked fabric.
  You enter an enormous tent of blue and orange batiked fabric.
  Communal Area [N, Leave]
     Several of the Arabeti gather in clusters within this spacious tent,
  tending to chores or relaxing together.  Baskets and nets hanging from bone
  supports scatter around the floor, some containing large eggs and skeins of
  wool.  The walls, fashioned from waxed cotton and reinforced with strips of
  dyed leather, exhibit typical Arabeti scenes in muted desert hues.  
     The back wall opens out into another room, with bedrolls, piles of furs,
  and blue-batiked pillows evident through the opening.  Sandstone blocks
  stack up to the high ceilings in each room, beside smoke-holes for campfires
  that flicker and smolder on the ground throughout the tent.  
  A pile of softly-tanned sleeping furs lies along the back of the tent.
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass is standing here.
  - she is carrying a large bag.
  The wiry, sharp-eyed woman stands here, eyes narrowed in observation.
  
  Drawing it back, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass opens the flap.
  
  The wiry, sharp-eyed woman steps aside, allowing the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass to pass.
  Ducking, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass walks north.
  You follow the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, and walk north.
  
  Communal Sleeping Area [S, Quit, Save]
     Bedrolls and pillows of linen and silk are strewn on the ground in
  this wide back room of the tent, placed in groups of two to six around a
  central campfire surrounded by scorched blocks of colorful sandstone.  
     A multi-tiered bone rack crouches beside each grouping, each containing
  various weapons, tools, and assorted batiked clothing draped over the top
  tiers.  Tribal men and women come and go quietly through the sleeping room,
  maneuvering around couples in various states of undress on and underneath
  their hide blankets.  
     Bright stylized stars of mica-augmented grey pigment climb up the tent
  walls in odd clusters, with a bold pearly-white moon and desert-red sun
  surrounding a runic depiction of Suk-Krath's blazing flames on the edges of
  the central smoke hole.  
  A winerack, made of carved bone, sits here.
  A lizard-embossed incense burner, made of fired red clay, sits here.
  Some heavy baobab shelves are full of food and seasonings.
  A tregil-carved wooden chest is here stuffed with tools.
  A rectangular sandy-red carpet is here packed with wood and casks.
  A vivid blue rug, crested in black with fighting hawks, lies spread out here.
  A long yellowed-bone bin is here overflowing with animal parts and stones.
  Sitting low on the floor, on a base of snarling tembo, is a deep maroon table.
  A gwoshi-carved wooden chest is here brimming with plants and herbs.
  A couple of serieses of hanging cloth pockets are here.
  An old, stained barrel is here holding bag, games, and instruments.
  A tun of water sits near the smoke hole, sweating next to a scorched block.
  A pile of softly-tanned sleeping furs is here against the back wall of the tent.
  A tan-colored tent lies here, bound into a portable bundle.
  A clay teapot sits here, floral patterns adorning its sides.
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass is standing here.
  - she is carrying a large bag.
  The hairy, tattoo-faced young man sits beside some tattooed animal hides.
  The wiry, limpid-eyed man slouches nearby, deceptively relaxed.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass puts her large bag onto a low, tembo-carved baobab table.
  
  Glancing around the crowded chamber, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says to you, in bendune:
       "I'm not sure."
  
  Setting it down gently, you put your sturdy, dark-wood cradle onto a low, tembo-carved baobab table.
  
  You put your long agafari branch onto a low, tembo-carved baobab table.
  
  You put your long agafari branch onto a low, tembo-carved baobab table.
  
  With a sigh, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass sits on a pile of softly-tanned sleeping furs.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass gets her small, desert-camouflaged lizard from her layered black cloak with an agate clasp.
  
  Unlacing them, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass stops using her pair of darkly-stained, knee-high raptor-hide boots.
  
  Curtly, you say to the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass, in bendune:
       "Stay in tents this time. Ask to go place."
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man moves toward the flap, reaching out with a hand.
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass exclaims to you, in bendune:
       "I did!"
  
  Pulling one fur across her close-clad legs, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says to you, in bendune:
       "Dona took me north."
  
  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass curls up there in the pile, tossing her boots aside and pillowing her head on her arm.
  
  Settling onto her left side, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass rests on a pile of softly-tanned sleeping furs.
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man turns, squinting over at the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass.
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man's jaw clenches.
  
  Sleepily, her eyelids heavy, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass says to you, in bendune:
       "I wouldn't leave the tents by myself..."
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man opens the flap a bit rougher than is necessary.
  
  s (muttering)
  Communal Area [N, Leave]
     Several of the Arabeti gather in clusters within this spacious tent,
  tending to chores or relaxing together.  Baskets and nets hanging from bone
  supports scatter around the floor, some containing large eggs and skeins of
  wool.  The walls, fashioned from waxed cotton and reinforced with strips of
  dyed leather, exhibit typical Arabeti scenes in muted desert hues.  
     The back wall opens out into another room, with bedrolls, piles of furs,
  and blue-batiked pillows evident through the opening.  Sandstone blocks
  stack up to the high ceilings in each room, beside smoke-holes for campfires
  that flicker and smolder on the ground throughout the tent.  
  A pile of softly-tanned sleeping furs lies along the back of the tent.
  The wiry, sharp-eyed woman stands here, eyes narrowed in observation.
  
  You close the flap.

  The nut-brown, tumble-maned lass idles a moment beside the drab, ochre-skinned woman's jewelry.
  
  The earthen, trinket-twined man steps up beside the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass silently.
  
  You begin guarding the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass.
  
  Reaching down, the nut-brown, tumble-maned lass absently...
  Continue Reading...
• 

  A Tuluki Dance by Rairen
  Added on Nov 16, 2011

  An atypical response to a GDB question about typical Zalanthan dancing. Aja Driamuasek and Ilune Jul Tavan unwind at the Tooth.

  ---

  (Aja Driamusek and Ilune Jul Tavan stumble across each other near the Sanctuary.)

   

   

  The delicate, lofty woman smiles faintly to you, nodding to you.

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman frowns, struggling with her hood as she pulls it over her head.

  You raise the hood of a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak.

  Cracking a shadowed smile, you look up at the delicate, lofty woman.

   

  Lofty of stature and lean of frame, this woman's body bears a delicate portrayal.  With a thick, unruly sprout of brown-black hair that is pushed back in a disheveled heap, she might carry the vague silhouette of a gwoshi when nothing is worn on her head.  A few locks of contrasting hair fall around her brow, their blue shade concealing her bright green eyes at times.

  Her olive facial features are stricken into a defined structure with her freckled cheekbones prominently high, and her thin nose tilted upward, all cradled by a pointed chin.  Small, rounded ears poke out from either side of her head from beneath her mound of hair. 

  The delicate, lofty woman is in excellent condition.

  The delicate, lofty woman is using:

  <head>                   three intricate symbols in cobalt and white

  <worn on face>           a small, golden brown tortoiseshell nose-ring

  <worn around neck>       a tortoiseshell choker

  <worn about throat>      a length of multi-hued blue sandcloth

  <worn on torso>          a ruffled blue silk blouse

  <arms>                   many bands of brightly-colored inkings

  <right wrist>            a few bands of brightly-colored inkings

  <left wrist>             a few bands of brightly-colored inkings

  <worn on legs>           a long purple linen skirt

  <worn on right ankle>    an azure scalloped sandcloth scarf

  <left ankle>             a few bands of brightly-colored inkings

  <worn on feet>           a pair of shaggy quirri-hide boots

   

   

  The stout, crook-nosed man sends you a telepathic message:

       "Nah, and if I remember, last we talked I was a bit snippy..."

  To you casually, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:

     "I is seeing you, friend Aja."

   

   

  The stout, crook-nosed man sends you a telepathic message:

     "Sorry about that."

   

  The delicate, lofty woman holds out a hand above her eyes.

   

   

  The stout, crook-nosed man sends you a telepathic message:

       "I still owe ya a tour of the compound, too...  don't forget.  We should set a definite date."

  Turning to join her, you ask the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:

       "... And I am always glad to see you, Ilune.  Is all well?"

   

   

  You send a telepathic message to the stout, crook-nosed man:

       "Next week too soon?"

   

   

  The stout, crook-nosed man sends you a telepathic message:

       "Next week's perfect."

   

   

  Lifting their voices in unison, the drums reaching to a deafening clamor, a colorful, boisterous drum circle shouts, in sirihish:

       "The world, the whole world at peace! Give us peace!"

  You send a telepathic message to the stout, crook-nosed man:

       "And I don't remember you being snippy with me.  If you were, I hope I did nothing to earn it and if I did, you have my apologies."

   

   

  To you as she reaches out for your hand, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "I is always well, friend Aja. I is missing Jhalav ways of mine. I is wanting spear of mine. I is happy with brother of mine here, though, friend Aja."

  The stout, crook-nosed man sends you a telepathic message:

       "Nah, just the few weeks leadin' up to the event were stressful..."

  Looking to her hand before lifting her own, gloved, and giving a quiet squeeze, you say to the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:

       "If you start to get too... uncomfortable, do what you must.  You'll have a welcome here when you need it."

  You send a telepathic message to the stout, crook-nosed man:

       "Mm. I can only imagine."

  You send a telepathic message to the stout, crook-nosed man:

     "Thank you for your kind words.  I'll see you next week, and finally have a glimpse of this estate of yours."

  Glancing north, then south, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "I is wanting to join friend of mine, if you is wanting I to."

  The stout, crook-nosed man sends you a telepathic message:

       "Yeah, lookin' forward to it."

  The delicate, lofty woman smiles toward you in a charming manner.

  The stout, crook-nosed man sends you a telepathic message:

      "His Light, Aja."

  With a quiet chuckle, you say to the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:

       "If I'm wanting you to?  I think I would hope you would do as you please, within all normal bounds of reason, and enjoy yourself."

  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.

  You send a telepathic message to the stout, crook-nosed man:

       "His Light guard you, Agent, a thousand times over."

  You dissolve the psychic link.

  Sounding confused, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "I is just asking if you is wanting to talk and perhaps dance with I, friend Aja."

  Head canting to one side, her shadowed smile intrigued, you say to the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:

       "... Goodness, you do have a dancer's blood in you.  I would be... delighted... to be able to join you, if you wish it."

  You think:

       "... My other business can wait."

   

  You are carrying:

  a light brown, leather instrument case

   

   

  You now follow the delicate, lofty woman.

  The delicate, lofty woman releases your hand and wraps her arm around your waist, turning southward.

  To you conversationally, the delicate, lofty woman exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "I is Jhalav, friend Aja. Please do not be fooled by brother of mine, who is -shyest- of all Jhalavs!"

  The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak glances over the delicate, lofty woman and gives a surprised laugh, your light brown, leather instrument case bouncing against her hip while she rests her free arm on her shoulder.

   

  (Walking for the Tooth…)

   

   

   

  Mouth quirking, you say to the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:

       "If he is shy, dear Ilune, I fear I don't know what I would make of you."

  You feel like this woman is highly dangerous.

  To you cautiously, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "I is not wanting to ask, friend Aja. I is fearing your answer..."

  (Hemote) The crisp aroma of mint lingers in the air around

  the figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak.

  The figure in a hooded, sandy-brown reinforced sandcloth duster has arrived from the west.

  The delicate, lofty woman glances to you briefly, her eyes then dipping to the ground with a hint of embarrassment.

  Pale eyes amused beneath the shadows of her hood, you say to the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:

       "... I'm afraid I don't know you well enough, although by all accounts you are a sociable, bold, and engaging young woman."

  Head lowering in a faint nod, the figure in a hooded, sandy-brown reinforced sandcloth duster ambles on past.

  The figure in a hooded, sandy-brown reinforced sandcloth duster walks north.

  Shrugging with a light swing of her arm, the delicate, lofty woman walks south.

  To you cheerily, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "I is never called so many things, friend Aja..."

  Peering over, the delicate, lofty woman looks down at you.

  The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak keeps a leisurely pace at the delicate, lofty woman's side, mouth quirking.

  With a hint of wryness to her voice, you ask the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:

       "Never?  Hm.  What have you been called then?"

   

   

  The delicate, lofty woman makes a flippant wave of her hand, laughing softly.

  The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak echoes the delicate, lofty woman's laugh, her own quiet and wry, still.

  Her voice mumbling on the side of amusement, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "I is called lots of things, I is just joking like city women is doing so often, friend Aja."

  With a simple shake of her head, you say to the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:

       "And you do it very well.  I should ask your pardon.  My... humor is at best elusive and at worst non-existent."

  (Hemote) The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak studies the delicate, lofty woman with a sidelong gaze, her tone keeping a serene, conversational cadence.

  Holding out a scab-covered hand, a foul-smelling dwarvish beggar exclaims, in an unfamiliar tongue:

       "ksci! snhi muj gla uhylyzkab!"

   

   

  Shaking her head with a friendly smile to you, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "I is liking you very much, friend Aja. I is not thinking humor of yours is worst."

  The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak frowns down, fleetingly at a foul-smelling dwarvish beggar's hand.

  The delicate, lofty woman tugs you along away from a foul-smelling dwarvish beggar, grimacing.

  Recollecting herself and glancing back to her, you ask the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:

       "You are too kind, my friend.  Are we meeting someone, if I might ask?"

  The delicate, lofty woman asks, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "Is you wanting to, friend Aja?"

  With a simple shake of her head, you say to the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:

       "Not at all.  It was more a question of your own desires."

  You think:

       "She's good."

  You feel that she is very, very good.

   

   

  To you slowly, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "I is not wanting to dance with anyone but my friend Aja."

  You feel that this is utterly intriguing.

  With a softer voice, you ask the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:

       "Where did you learn to dance, Ilune?"

  You think:

       "Because you are breathtaking to watch."

  You feel a weary doubt, that even at your best, that you were never so good.

  To you simply, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "I is learned as young Jhalav in tents of us."

  With a flickering smile, you say to the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:

       "I was dancer - many years ago, when I was much younger than I am now.  It has been a delight, seeing you."

  The delicate, lofty woman squeezes you affectionately, appearing flattered.

  Smiling to herself, the delicate, lofty woman walks south.

  (Hemote) The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak lets out a soft breath, nearly a laugh.

  You think:

       "Very clever girl."

  The delicate, lofty woman turns as she nears the entrance, sliding her hand from around you.

  The delicate, lofty woman takes hold of your hand, tugging you inside.

   

   

   

  "The Tembo's Tooth" - Tavern [EWD Quit]

     Smooth, sanded cylini planks have been laid across the floor of this cramped room, their polished surface flickering in the lights of the candles. Dark stains splatter the wooden floor at odd intervals, disrupting the otherwise smooth contour of the wood with slight warps and bends.  A curved bar, formed from what appears to have once been highly polished agafari wood extends from the northern wall.  Spaced around it are several bare, ascetic wooden barstools.  A sturdy trapdoor has been set in the floor behind the bar.  Several rows of shelves have been inset into the wall behind the bar and contain a variety of local ales and liquor.  Willowy, vine-like plants drape from rounded clay bowls, the gloss of their leaves reflecting the dim light of the candles spaced around the room.  Rows of booths line the northern and southern walls while the center of the room is occupied by two rounded tables.

   

  To you over her shoulder, the delicate, lofty woman asks, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "Where is you wanting to dance, friend Aja?"

  With a chuckle, following her in, lead by the hand, you say to the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:

       "Wherever there's room, in a place like the Tooth."

   

   

  l e

  To the east is "The Tembo's Tooth" - Spice Den.

  [Near]

  The stumpy, gnarled dwarf is sitting on a plush, embroidered couch.

  The short, barrel-chested dwarf stands here, scowling faintly.

  The chubby, brown-haired man is sitting on a plush, embroidered couch.

  The slender, raven-haired woman is sitting on a plush, embroidered couch.

   

   

  The delicate, lofty woman smirks, glancing around the tavern.

  The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak shakes her head, her hood falling away from her face.

  You lower the hood of a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak.

  To you, reaching up to your hood, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "I is wanting to see this pretty hair of yours, friend Aja."

   

  Hair falling across her face as she casts the delicate, lofty woman an arch look, you say to the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:

       "Ask and you shall receive."

  To you, tugging your along through a string of tables to a quiet end of the tavern, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "I is always asking, in case of this, friend Aja."

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman trots along after the delicate, lofty woman, squeezing through a crowd of drinking patrons.

  The delicate, lofty woman stops where there is a good few paces of room, turning around.

  Sliding it across an empty one with a pointed look to a nearby dwarf, you put your light brown, leather instrument case onto a compact agafari table.

  To you with a soothing motion of her hand, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "I is thinking your lute is fine, friend Aja. No one is knowing how to play one here."

  Tugging at the clasp with a gloved hand, you stop using your hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak.

  With a soft breath, you say to the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:

       "They'll leave it be, I think."

  Draping it across it, you put your hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak onto a compact agafari table.

  The delicate, lofty woman smiles encouragingly, both hands on her hips as she awaits you.

  With an intrigued study of her before she steps closer, brushing at a strand of hair along the side of her face, you say to the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:

       "... Well, friend?  Do your worst."

  With a determined glint in her green eyes, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "I is always doing worst of mine."

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman chuckles, softly, reaching for one of the delicate, lofty woman's hands.

  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:

       "Thief! Thief!"

  The coy-looking, young elf raises the hood of a deep-hooded, brown robe.

  (Hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman glances, fleetingly, into the next room.

  The delicate, lofty woman places her hands on your shoulders, smiling in a reassuring way to you.

  Her brow peaking, the delicate, lofty woman looks down at you.

  You notice the delicate, lofty woman start watching you.

  Sliding gloved hands to rest against her waist, shoulders rolling, you say to the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:

       "... You seem to favor slower dances..."

   

   

  (Hemote) The crisp aroma of mint lingers in the air around the ethereal, fair-haired woman.

  To you quietly, nodding faintly, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "You is knowing I well, friend Aja."

  Leaning into the delicate, lofty woman, the ethereal, fair-haired woman steps closer, slipping an arm further around her waist and easing into her rhythm.

  The delicate, lofty woman lifts a hand to rest on your neck, her other not moving from the shoulder.

  You feel acutely aware of everything.

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's pale eyes narrow, attentive in their wry, helpless amusement.

  The delicate, lofty woman twists her hips backward, tugging you along as she makes small steps away.

  You notice: The delicate, lofty woman's bright green eyes remain on you, collecting her form curiously as she moves.

  Arms tensing about the delicate, lofty woman's waist, the ethereal, fair-haired woman follows her, sidestepping and grazing past an admiring, taller man.

  The brutish, red-eyed half-giant has entered the world.

  The delicate, lofty woman guides you to turn to the side, taking a step nearly past you.

  Taking in a slow, relaxed breath, the ethereal, fair-haired woman brushes her knee against the delicate, lofty woman's leg, your flowing white linen skirt brushing against her.

  One of the ethereal, fair-haired woman's hands slips away from the delicate, lofty woman's waist, letting her turn and shift.

  You think:

       "... If only Brethel-da could see this..."

  The delicate, lofty woman's hands trail along your neck, resting to cup under your chin as she shimmies to side-step to each side. Her hips flair out from underneath her long purple linen skirt, and she stretches her leg past you to press her body back to you.

  The delicate, lofty woman bumps against you, offering a polite smile all of a sudden.

   

   

  Quietly, the delicate, lofty woman whispers to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "You is best I has danced with in this city of yours, friend Aja."

  With an answering smile, a slight, teasing wrinkle of her nose, the ethereal, fair-haired woman lets a hand glide up the delicate, lofty woman's leg and hip, settling there as she lets the other hug to her back.

  With a grave tone and glittering eyes, you whisper to the delicate, lofty woman in sirihish:

       "I dare say you say that to whomever you are with... and thank you."

  The delicate, lofty woman throws her head back and laughs loudly.

  Shaking her head faintly, the delicate, lofty woman whispers to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "I is not doing that, friend Aja...."

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's slender body shakes with supressed laughter, giving the delicate, lofty woman a fond squeeze, almost a hug.

  You notice: The delicate, lofty woman's hands squeeze you in return.

  With a quiet click of her tongue as she turns her, giving a slight twist, you whisper to the delicate, lofty woman in sirihish:

       "... My apologies then."

  The delicate, lofty woman releases you, folding her hands behind her back as she takes one step back.

  The delicate, lofty woman's brow lifts to you expectantly, a coy smile on her lips.

  Brow arching, the ethereal, fair-haired woman looks the delicate, lofty woman over from toe to head, taking her time in her quiet inspection, posture still slightly tensed, a dancer's tension.

  The delicate, lofty woman lifts her chin slightly to you, as though beckoning.

  Ever so slowly, the ethereal, fair-haired woman lifts a single gloved hand to the delicate, lofty woman almost but not quite touching her upper arm.

  You notice: The delicate, lofty woman's body twists slightly to touch the gloved hand.

  His curious, red-eyed gaze assessively scanning the area, the brutish, red-eyed half-giant grins broadly as settles back a bit to watch a graceful dance.

   

   

  With an easy flick of her wrist, the ethereal, fair-haired woman stretches further and pushes against the delicate, lofty woman's arm, encouraging her to spin around.

  The delicate, lofty woman giggles as she spins on her heel, stopping with her back facing you.

  The delicate, lofty woman wiggles her bottom from side to side, her hands still behind her back.

  With an easy, smooth stride, the ethereal, fair-haired woman closes the distance to the delicate, lofty woman in the same moment, an arm slipping about her waist.

  Laughter warming her own tone, you whisper to the delicate, lofty woman in sirihish:

       "... Did I get that right?"

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman reaches for one of the delicate, lofty woman's hands, lifting it, placing it at the back of her own neck.

  The delicate, lofty woman wraps her arms around your waist in turn, craning her neck back to lean her cheek against your own.

  The general ruckus in the tavern escalates slightly as a hooded figure rushes up the eastern ramp and into the room from the spice den, holding a sack of coins aloft and bellowing jubilantly.

  Smiling happily, the delicate, lofty woman whispers to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "Yes."

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's hair, too-long, brushes at the delicate, lofty woman's neck and shoulder.

  The delicate, lofty woman's body shudders slightly at the touch, as though tickled.

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's eyes quickly scan over the room, studying the faces of the nearest and most entranced patrons.

  Behind the delicate, lofty woman, the ethereal, fair-haired woman curves and writhes, drawing her along with her to a silent, sinewous dance.

  The delicate, lofty woman's hips shake slowly from side to side, rubbing against you as her feet pad in place.

  You think:

       "Breathe..."

  The delicate, lofty woman's hand trails through your hair as she lets out a soft, content sigh.

  Transfixed by the dance, the brutish, red-eyed half-giant stands as still as stone, his gaze settling on the delicate, lofty woman and you for a long moment.

  With something like contentment teasing at the corner of her mouth, the ethereal, fair-haired woman begins to move backwards, guiding the delicate, lofty woman with cautious tenderness, at first.

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman gives the delicate, lofty woman's waist an assuring squeeze.

  You think:

       "I've got you."

  You think:

       "Feel me, little one.  Listen..."

  You notice: The delicate, lofty woman's hand tugs slightly on your hair as she is squeezed.

  Her smile warming, steadying, the ethereal, fair-haired woman's eyes drift half-closed as she moves faster, her breathing escalating as she gives a sudden twirl, using her body and hands to guide the delicate, lofty woman.

  (hemote) Sweat glistens at the ethereal, fair-haired woman's collarbone.

   

  You think:

       "... Perfect..."

   

  The delicate, lofty woman twirls lightly on her toes, her hand trailing along you as she does. She slides to a stop, her pair of shaggy quirri-hide boots tapping on the ground.

  The delicate, lofty woman takes a decisive step toward you, placing a hand at your lower back and one at your shoulder.

   

  The hand at her waist lifts, the ethereal, fair-haired woman letting it rest against the side of the delicate, lofty woman face while she stills, but for the slightest of rockings from side to side.

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman gives the delicate, lofty woman's face a fond brush, gloved hand soft, while her other arm hangs at her side, motionless.

  You notice: The delicate, lofty woman tilts her head to rub against your hand with a pleased smile as she drifts from side to side.

  She reaches down and snatches up the unused hand, placing it on the delicate, lofty woman's neck.

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman lets the hand slide down to the side of the delicate, lofty woman's neck, joining the other, cupping her neck as she leans into her, swaying with her silent dance.

   

   

  The delicate, lofty woman takes three quick steps to one side, half-twisting back into place after causing no more than a lean in the dance.

  The chubby, brown-haired man has arrived from the east.

  The slender, raven-haired woman has arrived from the east.

  The short, barrel-chested dwarf has arrived from the east.

  The stumpy, gnarled dwarf grunts, squinting as he looks around.

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman's hands are feather light against the delicate, lofty woman's skin.

  The stumpy, gnarled dwarf walks west.

  With a glance around the tavern, the slender, raven-haired

  woman says, in sirihish:

       "Crowd picked up."

  You notice: The delicate, lofty woman's skin is shined with

  sweat.

  With a bright smile, the slender, raven-haired woman says to you, in sirihish:

       "Aja!  Hello. "

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman cracks a sharp, approving smile, her body following the movement of the delicate, lofty woman's own, as they dance a silent, sensuous dance in a quieter corner of the room.

  The brutish, red-eyed half-giant stoops a bit as he nods toward the chubby, brown-haired man, grinning.

  The chubby, brown-haired man nods to the slender, raven-haired woman, looking about.

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman starts, stiffening.

  The slender, raven-haired woman says to the chubby, brown-haired man, in sirihish:

       "Oh, looks like we were missing dancing."

  Smiling, the chubby, brown-haired man asks, in sirihish:

       "Must be because I'm here, hmm?"

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman turns her head, picking out the slender, raven-haired woman and narrowing her pale eyes with amused greeting, body not easing away from the delicate, lofty woman's own.

  The delicate, lofty woman squints out past the gawking patrons immediately around them in the corner of the tavern to the slender, raven-haired woman.

   

   

  The delicate, lofty woman glances back to you, shrugging slightly.

  The delicate, lofty woman whispers to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "I is not caring if all these ones are watching, friend Aja."

  The slender, raven-haired woman grins and waves to the delicate, lofty woman as she watches.

  Looking towards the corner, the chubby, brown-haired man asks, in sirihish:

       "Hmm?  Yes, you'd think I'd be told, hmm?"

  With a tone of grave apology, you whisper to the delicate, lofty woman in sirihish:

       "My pardon, little one.  I am so very out of practice... I shouldn't have let them distract me."

  The chubby, brown-haired man chuckles.

  Curiously, the chubby, brown-haired man looks up at the brutish, red-eyed half-giant.

   

  Shaking her head faintly, the delicate, lofty woman whispers to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "I is needing no apology, friend Aja. I is having best time of life of mine."

  Smiling as he nods, the chubby, brown-haired man says to the brutish, red-eyed half-giant, in sirihish:

       "Hello."

  The slender, raven-haired woman says to the chubby, brown-

  haired man, in sirihish:

       "I fear we interrupted with our entrance."

  The delicate, lofty woman gives you an affectionate peck on the cheek, nodding reassuringly to you.

  Winking, the chubby, brown-haired man says to the slender, raven-haired woman, in sirihish:

       "We'd better go then."

  Head tilting up, the slender, raven-haired woman looks up at the brutish, red-eyed half-giant.

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman cracks a smile, nose grazing the delicate, lofty woman's hair while she chuckles and steps into an easy spin with her.

  The brutish, red-eyed half-giant says to the chubby, brown-haired man, in southern-accented sirihish:

       "Hello Agent. I'm Morjadin."

  The delicate, lofty woman's hands move over your body for a moment before finding their place at each hip.

  With a teasing volume to her voice, you say to the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:

       "I suppose they don't like the dance..."

  To you, half-snorting, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "I is liking it, friend Aja."

  The chubby, brown-haired man looks up at the delicate, lofty woman.

  The chubby, brown-haired man looks at you.

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman slows the spin as easily, laughter fond and returning her hands to the sides of the delicate, lofty woman's neck.

   

  The chubby, brown-haired man says, in sirihish:

       "Hmm...to many clothes."

  The chubby, brown-haired man chuckles, looking back to the brutish, red-eyed half-giant.

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman rolls her eyes skyward for a moment.

  The chubby, brown-haired man says to the brutish, red-eyed half-giant, in sirihish:

       "Ahh, good to see you."

  The slender, raven-haired woman says to the brutish, red-eyed half-giant, in sirihish:

       "Hey there Jadin!  I haven't seen you since that day outside the Bazaar when I talked to you about the Fist.  I was glad to hear you joined. "

  (hemote) Sweat glistening at her skin, the ethereal, fair-haired woman gives her shoulder a subtle lift.

  The slender, raven-haired woman says to the chubby, brown-haired man, in sirihish:

       "Be good.  I still have fruit to pelt you with."

   

   

  The loose shoulder to the ethereal, fair-haired woman's blouse slides down her neck, balancing precariously against her upper arm.

  With a wide grin, his red eyes lighting up a bit, the brutish, red-eyed half-giant says, in southern-accented sirihish:

       "Thanks! I like bein' seen too."

   

   

  After a laugh, the chubby, brown-haired man says to the slender, raven-haired woman, in sirihish:

       "You know I can't be good."

  The delicate, lofty woman rests her head against yours, murmuring softly.

  His eyes settling on the slender, raven-haired woman for a long moment, the brutish, red-eyed half-giant asks the slender, raven-haired woman, in southern-accented sirihish:

       "Oh, you the nice one that sent me to Sergeant Nora?"

  Chuckling, the slender, raven-haired woman says to the chubby, brown-haired man, in sirihish:

       "I know.  That's why I carry so much fruit."

  The chubby, brown-haired man nudges the slender, raven-haired woman.

  The delicate, lofty woman's hands glide up and down you as the two step back and forth, taking turns advancing in their twisting motion.

  Nodding, the slender, raven-haired woman says to the brutish, red-eyed half-giant, in sirihish:

       "That was me, although the Agent may disagree on the nice bit."

  Softly, her dance a slow roll, an unhurried, patient movement against her, you whisper to the delicate, lofty woman in sirihish:

       "Shh..."

  In amusement, the chubby, brown-haired man says to the slender, raven-haired woman, in sirihish:

       "Oh you're nice."

  (hemote) The air in the tavern already heated, humid, the

  ethereal, fair-haired woman's body is quite warm against the delicate, lofty woman's own.

  Raising a brow, the slender, raven-haired woman asks the chubby, brown-haired man, in sirihish:

       "I am?"

  The chubby, brown-haired man asks, in sirihish:

       "Well, let’s get going, hmm?"

  The slender, raven-haired woman nods.

  You notice: The delicate, lofty woman's chest is rising and falling irregularly, her breathing a quiet pant.

  His eyes peering up as he rubs at his brow, the brutish, red-eyed half-giant says, in southern-accented sirihish:

       "Oh. Well, thanks anyway, even if you are not nice. Sergeant Nora was good to me."

   

   

  Smiling, the chubby, brown-haired man says to the slender, raven-haired woman, in sirihish:

       "You always have fruit for me, so yes.  Nice."

  Smiling and waving to you and the delicate, lofty woman, the slender, raven-haired woman says, in sirihish:

       "Have fun dancing."

  The delicate, lofty woman's ruffled blue silk blouse flutters from side to side.

  With a smile as she drags a hand down the delicate, lofty woman's arm, you look at the slender, raven-haired woman.

  With a grin, the slender, raven-haired woman says to the brutish, red-eyed half-giant, in sirihish:

       "I'm glad she was and you joined us."

  Towards the pair dancing, the chubby, brown-haired man says, in sirihish:

       "Less clothes means better tips."

  You feel enraptured.

  The chubby, brown-haired man chuckles.

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman laughs, softly, sliding her hand around the delicate, lofty woman waist, again, letting it settle against the silk.

  The delicate, lofty woman glances down to her tattooed arm.

  Nodding, the chubby, brown-haired man asks the brutish, red-eyed half-giant, in sirihish:

       "See you about, hmm?"

  You contact the chubby, brown-haired man with the Way.

  You send a telepathic message to the chubby, brown-haired man:

       "*sensuous contentment shimmering across her thoughts* You are impossible, Brethel-da Kurac."

  You dissolve the psychic link.

  The chubby, brown-haired man moves towards the street, hand in hand with the slender, raven-haired woman.

  With a polite nod, his eyes closing in his direction, the brutish, red-eyed half-giant says to the chubby, brown-haired man, in southern-accented sirihish:

       "Alright then. Thanks."

  You notice: The delicate, lofty woman's glittering tattoos glisten with her coat of sweat. She drips from her chin.

  Pale eyes refocusing on her face, softening, the ethereal, fair-haired woman cups the delicate, lofty woman's chin between a few gloved fingers.

  Body slowing, stilling, you whisper to the delicate, lofty woman in sirihish:

       "You should rest, little one.  You don't care for yourself..."

  (hemote) A few drops of sweat roll down the ethereal, fair-haired woman's neck, disappearing beneath your loose-cut white linen blouse.

  Stopping, her eyes wandering over you without her chin moving, the delicate, lofty woman whispers to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "I is fine, friend Aja."

  The stout, crook-nosed man has arrived from the west.

  Soothingly, giving a protective squeeze of her other arm, you whisper to the delicate, lofty woman in sirihish:

       "There will always be time for another dance.  Let me find you a drink of water, hm?"

  You notice: The delicate, lofty woman's cheeks begin to glow in a blush.

  Dancing to a sensuous and silent melody, the ethereal, fair-haired woman holds close to the delicate, lofty woman, one hand cupping her chin.

  The stout, crook-nosed man sits at a curved, agafari bar.

  The robust, head-shaven man trades a red-striped granite tankard to the stout, crook-nosed man.

  You feel like this girl is going to faint away if she isn't careful.

   

  Following along, the delicate, lofty woman whispers to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "I is wanting to kiss you, friend Aja. I is too hot to not."

  The delicate, lofty woman stares at you with a serious expression, the fingers of her hand curling over your cheek.

  Apology in her pale eyes, along with understanding before she lowers them, you whisper to the delicate, lofty woman in sirihish:

       "I... can't, Ilune..."

  His brow furrowing as he suddenly straightens, the brutish, red-eyed half-giant grumbles under his breath, shaking his head slowly as he lumbers off.

  Gently, you whisper to the delicate, lofty woman in sirihish:

       "... Forgive me..."

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman leans, just a little, into the delicate, lofty woman's hand.

  Nodding faintly, the delicate, lofty woman whispers to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "I is forgiving of you, friend Aja."

  Smiling faintly, the delicate, lofty woman whispers to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "Perhaps next time us is dancing, friend Aja."

  With a strained laugh, nose brushing her temple, you whisper to the delicate, lofty woman in sirihish:

       "You don't... It is a... long story.  A custom of mine."

   

  With a soft breath that ruffles the delicate, lofty woman's hair, you whisper to the delicate, lofty woman in sirihish:

       "I don't take favorites..."

  Laughing softly, the delicate, lofty woman whispers to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "I is wanting to hear story of yours, friend Aja.

  Perhaps next time, when us is not dancing."

  With a grave nod, pale eyes fond, you whisper to the delicate, lofty woman in sirihish:

       "... Next time.  When you are not getting something to drink."

  The stout, crook-nosed man looks around a curved, agafari bar, then to the doorway.

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman gives the delicate, lofty woman's face a fond brush, again, before pulling back her hands, slowly.

  Regret plain in her eyes, the delicate, lofty woman whispers to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "I is meaning to ask of your story, friend Aja. I is curious where you has learned instruments of yours."

  You think:

       "I'm too old for this."

  The delicate, lofty woman drops her hands from you casually.

  Looking over her, clearing her voice as she lifts it, you say to the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:

       "I might well ask you the same question.  For my part, I am... Circle-born."

   

   

  (hemote) No small amount of tension lingers in the ethereal, fair-haired woman's slender body, even after the dance has ended.

  You notice: The delicate, lofty woman's hand fidgets restlessly at her side, her eyes on you.

  Sliding it free, frowning a little, you get your leather waterskin from your leather-strapped, rich purple satchel.

  With a tone of practiced ease, pushing the skin into her hand, you say to the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:

       "You will take at least a drink of this.  Chaska would never forgive me if I let you faint away here."

  To you, her hand on her cheek, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "I is wanting to talk more about story of yours, friend Aja. I is not having time today. I hope I is able soon."

  You give your leather waterskin to the delicate, lofty woman.

  The delicate, lofty woman accepts her leather waterskin with a polite smile.

  Her eyes on you, the delicate, lofty woman drinks water from her leather waterskin.

  With a deep nod, you say to the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:

       "If you wish, and only if you will share yours as well.  I do not think mine is as of as much interest."

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's breathing slowly calms, steadying.

  You notice: The delicate, lofty woman's green eyes wander over you thoughtfully.

  Hair clinging to her sweat-streaked skin, the ethereal, fair-haired woman gathers the tangled strands in one hand, lifting them away from her neck.

  To you, a hand on her slowly recovering chest, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "I is so happy to. I is looking forward to this story of us, friend Aja."

  Handing it back with a warm smile, the delicate, lofty woman gives you her leather waterskin.

  Watching her before mirroring the gesture, you say to the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:

       "Until next time, Ilune?  His Light watch over you.  And thank you for the dance."

  With a look of quiet relief, you sip from your leather waterskin.

  To you as she steps close, patting your shoulder, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "I is liking you very much, friend Aja. I is definitely reconsidering Jhalav ways of mine so I can share with us story of us."

  You think:

       "Story of us.  Oh, for pity's sake, Aja.  What are you doing?"

  The delicate, lofty woman turns to the side and steps past you, a pleased smile on her face as she drifts into the crowd.

  With a hint of a smile and touching her free hand to her own, you say to the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:

       "I'd be honored if you would... but I would not pry."

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman watches after the delicate, lofty woman before letting out a wry chuckle.

  You think:

       "I'm far, far too old for this."

  Over her shoulder, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "I is offering, friend Aja."

  With a lingering smile, you put your leather waterskin into your leather-strapped, rich purple satchel.

  The delicate, lofty woman takes two steps backward, her eyes on you, then turns around and enters the crowd.

  The delicate, lofty woman has departed from the land of Zalanthas.

  (Aja Driamusek and Ilune Jul Tavan stumble across each other near the Sanctuary.)

   

   

  The delicate, lofty woman smiles faintly to you, nodding to you.

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman frowns, struggling with her hood as she pulls it over her head.

  You raise the hood of...

  
  Continue Reading...
• 

  A Grey Forest Jaunt by Valeria
  Added on Mar 1, 2011

  A young Legions private accompanies her Jihaen and some others on a patrol of the Grey Forest, with life-altering consequences.

  ---

   (This story has been edited to remove a lot of the superfluous spammy material and things not directly related to the story, and to fix some spelling errors and punctuation that was missed in the heat of battle.

   

  By way of background, shortly after the flood in the north, our heroine Private Faith of the Sun Legions has been requested by her Jihaen to prepare for a patrol.  She and some other Legionnaires do so, then ride out to the gates with the Templar, where another group is waiting for adventure.)

   

  You are Fatima, of many people.

  Keywords: dark athletic woman faith

  Sdesc: the dark, athletic woman

  You are 23 years, 1 months, and 157 days old, which by your race and appearance is adult.

  You are 71 inches tall, and weigh 7 ten-stone.

  Your strength is very good, your agility is extremely good, your wisdom is above average, and your endurance is exceptional.

  Your health is 130(130), you have 120(133) stamina, and 127(127) stun.

   

  The Road of Caravans, East of the Scaien Gates [NESW]

     The yellow sandstone that once laid flat to the land to form the bulk of the road here now sports a number of positions where full chunks have been dislodged or sunken into the ground, making it treacherous for the normal wagon traffic it has.  To each side of the street, a number of structures can be seen in various states of distress - some only mud-caked while others have been nearly levelled entirely.  Various forms of small plant-life have already begun to take hold of the cracks underfoot, and

  their scent mixed in with the mud and wood decay combine to cause quite a pungent aroma to assault the senses

      The white pavestones of the North Road - what portions remain fully intact - pass west through the huge arch of the Scaien Gates, their ancient wallwork freed from the overhang of moss and ragged numut vines.  The gates themselves desperately cling onto the stone walls on each side, only the bone supports high up keeping them attached while water decay and rot eat away at the lower halves. 

  An inix stands here, carrying the tall figure in a dusty hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak on his back.

  A reddish-shelled inix stands here, carrying the tall figure in a dusty long, hooded red and white tabard on his back.

  A reddish-shelled inix stands here, carrying the tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe on his back.

  A glossy, black-scaled inix stands here, carrying the gigantic and obese figure

  in a burned hooded, sleeveless grey sandcloth cloak on his back.

  A war beetle stands here, carrying the grey-eyed, stubble-bearded man on its back.

  A war beetle stands here, carrying the thin, short-haired man on its back.

  A war beetle stands here, carrying the ruddy-skinned dwarf on its back.

  A brown inix stands here, carrying the tall male wearing an obsidian mask of a g

  ruesomely twisted gortok on his back.

  A grey-scaled, silver-shelled inix stands here, carrying the freckled, sinewy man on his back.

  A glossy, black-scaled inix stands here, carrying the ivory, black-maned half-giant on his back.

  A crew of slaves led by an overseer is here clearing the road, covered in mud.

  A crew of Tenneshi laborers works here on a building project.

  The small, splotchy dwarf has arrived from the south, riding a reddish-shelled inix.

   

  ~*~

   

  Looking aside to the thin, short-haired man, the tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe exclaims, in sirihish:

       "Rakas, you have the lead!"

   

  The grey-eyed, stubble-bearded man asks the thin, short-haired man, in sirihish:

       "Did you check their tracks, I wonder if they been wandering out of the forest into the grass?"

   

  The tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe exclaims to the thin, short-haired man, in sirihish:

       "Proceed when you are ready!"

   

  The thin, short-haired man dips his head.

   

  (The party heads out along the road, encountering a few gortok and tembo along the way to the forest.  During a short break:)

   

  The thin, short-haired man says to the tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe, in sirihish:

       "Migh' I recommend, Faithful Lord. Given t'clear weather, everone dehood? So we can more quickly tell who migh' need hel."

   

  Reaching up for his scrub-camouflaged facewrap, the male wearing a scrub-camouflaged facewrap says, in sirihish:

       "Sounds good to me."

   

  Rapping the butt of his staff against the ground, the tall Jihaen templar in a d

  usty red hooded templar's robe shouts, in sirihish:

       "Show your faces and report!"

   

  (A lot of hoods are lowered.)

   

  The grey-eyed, stubble-bearded man says, in sirihish:

       "Neeko of Kadius here."

   

  Briskly, you say, in sirihish:

       "Private Fatima reporting Faithful Lord."

   

  Glancing around, the barbarous, black-maned youth says, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "Erak, Kadius."

   

  The towering, curly-blonde man exclaims, in sirihish:

       "Tulor, still alive and well Faithful Lord!"

   

  The small, splotchy dwarf says, in sirihish:

       "Recruit Charl."

   

  The ruddy-skinned dwarf says, in sirihish:

       "T'is on good, Faithful Lord."

   

  The rangy, towheaded young man says to the tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red ho

  oded templar's robe, in sirihish:

       "Private Crisiant here."

   

  Calling out, the ivory, black-maned half-giant exclaims, in sirihish:

       "Dogouth!"

   

  Glancing from the ivory, black-maned half-giant to the towering, curly-blonde ma

  n, the freckled, sinewy man says, in sirihish:

       "Raleris Winrothol, just fine."

   

  Turning a level stare toward the rangy, towheaded young man, the tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe asks, in sirihish:

       "Are you well, Crisiant?"

   

  The thin, short-haired man sits up high on his saddle, gaze roaming full circle

  over the light forest.

   

  Pulling off his red silk veil from his face, the bearded, bronze-hued man says,

  in sirihish:

       "Medic Musadir."

   

  An eery silence overcomes the area, even the insects going quiet.

   

  The rangy, towheaded young man says to the tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe, in sirihish:

       "Took a bite or two, they weren't deep."

   

  The ruddy-skinned dwarf says, in sirihish:

       "Rok."

   

  The tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe slants a narrow-eye

  d gaze out over the surrounding forest.

   

  You feel profoundly nervous.

   

  The thin, short-haired man says to the grey-eyed, stubble-bearded man, in sirihish:

       "If ya get hurt, make sure ya call out fer help."

   

  His voice rumbling past his wet maw, the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty ho

  oded, sleeveless grey sandcloth cloak exclaims, in sirihish:

       "Yeek!"

   

  The rangy, towheaded young man twists in the saddle, gazing in every direction.

   

  The grey-eyed, stubble-bearded man says to the thin, short-haired man, in sirihish:

       "Yes, Boss."

   

  The thin, short-haired man says to the tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe, in sirihish:

       "Ready when you are, Faithful Lord."

   

  The gigantic and obese figure in a dusty hooded, sleeveless grey sandcloth cloak seems less on edge as the chirping of the insects cease.

   

  (Party mounts up, etc.)

   

  As he steps back toward inix, the tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe says to the thin, short-haired man, in sirihish:

       "Continue.  I want a report on condition after every engagement."

   

  The thin, short-haired man nods, continuing.

   

  His voice stern, the tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe says, in sirihish:

       "We have an experienced medic, and there is no excuse in leaving your wounds untended."

   

  The thin, short-haired man glances southward.

   

  Startled by the arriving party a brightly colored bird dashes up from the underbrush, flapping its wings into your face.

   

  The towering, curly-blonde man smiles at you.

   

  The freckled, sinewy man lifts fingers to his eyes and points south.

   

  (The party moves on after it is confirmed that it was just a lizard that was spotted.)

   

  A large, mangy gortok has arrived from the west, yelping in terror.

   

  The thin, short-haired man keeps slow for those having trouble riding.

   

  Yelping in terror, a large, mangy gortok runs east.

   

  The tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe swings his legs to

  the side and dismounts.

   

  The thin, short-haired man blinks.

   

  You swing your legs to the side and dismount.

   

  The thin, short-haired man says, in sirihish:

       "Well, tha' ain't good."

   

  The tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe shouts, in sirihish:

       "Prepare yourselves!"

   

  Glancing over his shoulder, the freckled, sinewy man says, in sirihish:

       "Now what would a gortok be running from..."

   

  You think:

       "Nothing good."

   

  The towering, curly-blonde man says, in sirihish:

       "Never seen a gortok run..."

   

  The towering, curly-blonde man says, in sirihish:

       "Except after my ass."

   

  The thin, short-haired man says to the freckled, sinewy man, in sirihish:

       "We're nearin' t'biggest concentration a' tembo I found las' week. "

   

  Simply, the tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe says to the thin, short-haired man, in sirihish:

       "I would suggest we proceed slowly for a time."

   

  The freckled, sinewy man looks over to the thin, short-haired man with an arched eyebrow and nods.

   

  The thin, short-haired man says to the tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe, in sirihish:

       "Aye, Faithful Lord."

   

  (The party heads further into the forest, some on foot.)

   

  The tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe says to the thin, short-haired man, in sirihish:

       "Hold."

   

  The thin, short-haired man holds, left hand raising to stop the group.

   

  The pervasive silence continues, the stillness clearly broken by the harsh, loud noises of the parties passage alone.

   

  Glancing out over the group, the tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe says to the thin, short-haired man, in sirihish:

       "I would suggest we take some time to rest."

   

  (People pull up their mounts.)

   

  Agafari Grove [NESW]

  (A bunch of people and bugs are here.)

   

  Looking aside to you, the tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe asks, in sirihish:

       "Did you bring the tent, Private?"

   

  The freckled, sinewy man stands near a grey-scaled, silver-shelled inix, pulling his dusty silver-dyed chitin-plated kite shield and his bone-handled, obsidian hawkblade up higher.

   

  The thin, short-haired man says to the tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe, in sirihish:

       "I figure we're about a third a' t'way there, Faithful Lord."

   

  Nodding briskly, you ask the tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe, in sirihish:

       "Yes Faithful Lord.  Do you want me to set it up?"

   

  Nodding sharply, the tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe says to you, in sirihish:

       "Immediately."

   

  The thin, short-haired man says, in sirihish:

       "What we're in now is gonna seem like t'grasslands once we get about three more leagues in."

   

  You unstrap your large bag from a reddish-shelled inix's back.

   

  You get your rolled-up, dark-brown tent from your large bag.

   

  The barbarous, black-maned youth glances to the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty hooded, sleeveless grey sandcloth cloak, then a glossy, black-scaled inix, his face wrinkling.

   

  Kicking some brush out of the way, you drop your rolled-up, dark-brown tent.

   

  The tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe says to the small, splotchy dwarf, in sirihish:

       "Take your rest."

   

  You quickly unroll a rolled-up, dark-brown tent and start to put it together.

   

  Reaching over to pat it, murmuring, the barbarous, black-maned youth says to a glossy, black-scaled inix, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "Easy there, buddy. I know. I know."

   

  A large, mangy gortok has arrived from the south, limping, three-legged, and trailing blood behind it.

   

  The dark, athletic woman shoves poles into the earth, stretching the canvas over them.

   

  Glancing down at a glossy, black-scaled inix, the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty hooded, sleeveless grey sandcloth cloak says to a glossy, black-scaled inix, in sirihish:

       "Uhh...sorry. Forgotted what nobug looked like, so I took da first one in da row.”

   

  A large, mangy gortok howls piteously.

   

  A huge claw snatches the gortok back into the underbrush.

   

  Looking aside to the thin, short-haired man with a nod, the tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe says, in sirihish:

       "Then we won't stay long..."

   

  You think:

       "Uhm."

   

  The thin, short-haired man blinks. Again.

   

  Glancing over, the barbarous, black-maned youth asks, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "What-the!?"

   

  The towering, curly-blonde man asks, in sirihish:

       "What the feck was that?"

   

  The freckled, sinewy man looks away from the ivory, black-maned half-giant, towards the gortok that gets dragged away.

   

  The thin, short-haired man says, in sirihish:

       "Looked a bit bigger 'n a tembo."

   

  You think:

       "I didn't see anything.  But the tent canvas."

   

  The tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe levels his staff toward the undergrowth, his eyes narrowed sharply.

   

  The dark, athletic woman glances up from spreading the canvas over a pitched, dark-brown tent, frowning.

   

  You strap your large bag to a reddish-shelled inix's back.

   

  The gigantic and obese figure in a dusty hooded, sleeveless grey sandcloth cloak yawns, even as the gortok gets ripped into the underbush.

   

  The towering, curly-blonde man says, in sirihish:

       "It was big enough to snatch a full grown gortok up in a paw."

   

  The bearded, bronze-hued man turns his head left and right as he looks around the surrounding brush, keeping his shield up.

   

  A HOWL of anguish pierces the forest.  For a quarter of second.  Then the crunching begins.

   

  The thin, short-haired man says to the small, splotchy dwarf, in sirihish:

       "Tents up."

   

  Your mood is now fucking nervous.

   

  Shakily holding his bone-handled, obsidian hawkblade up, the freckled, sinewy man says to the ivory, black-maned half-giant, in sirihish:

       "Just pay attention."

   

  The tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe shouts, in sirihish:

       "Break camp!"

   

  Suddenly noticing the howl, the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty hooded, sleeveless grey sandcloth cloak says, in sirihish:

       "Uhhh...sounds like some bugs somewhere. "

   

  You think:

       "I just got the tent up, too."

   

  With a scowl, the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty hooded, sleeveless grey sandcloth cloak looks east.

   

  You quickly disassemble a pitched, dark-brown tent and start rolling it up.

   

  (Everyone mounts up.)

   

  Sharply, the tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe exclaims to the thin, short-haired man, in sirihish:

       "Get us out of this brush!"

   

  The thin, short-haired man asks the tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe, in sirihish:

       "Back to t'road?"

   

  Shaking his head, the tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe says to the thin, short-haired man, in sirihish:

       "To the grasslands!"

   

  The grey-eyed, stubble-bearded man says, in sirihish:

       "Fuck."

   

  (The party starts heading back the way they came.)

   

  You think:

       "I didn't even get a second to rest, either."

   

  The thin, short-haired man asks, in sirihish:

       "Jus' ta be sure... grasslands, east a' Tuluk?"

   

  Glancing back, the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty hooded, sleeveless grey  sandcloth cloak says, in sirihish:

       "We not gonna go 'quish 'em? "

   

  A large, mangy gortok has arrived from the east.

   

  You leap in front of the bearded, bronze-hued man, protecting him.

  A reddish-shelled inix throws you from his back!

   

  A dusty, ebon-shelled kryl has arrived from the east.

   

  (The kryl attacks Faith.  Fighting ensues.  While the battle is ongoing:)

   

  The tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe shouts, in sirihish:

       "Kryl!"

   

  A dusty, ebon-shelled kryl has arrived from the east.

   

  The towering, curly-blonde man exclaims, in sirihish:

       "KRYL!"

   

  The barbarous, black-maned youth exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "Gah! The hells!"

   

  Childlike, surprised, the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty hooded, sleeveless grey sandcloth cloak exclaims, in sirihish:

       "Yeeeeiiieekkk!"

   

  The gigantic and obese figure in a dusty hooded, sleeveless grey sandcloth cloak shouts, in sirihish:

       "BUGGGS!"

   

  The freckled, sinewy man exclaims, in sirihish:

       "Quickly! Put it down!"

   

  The dark, athletic woman whoofs as she gets knocked out of the way by the tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe.

   

  Chittering fills the air, rising in volume.

   

  You charge into the fight!

   

  The barbarous, black-maned youth exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "Fuck me!"

   

  (The fighting continues until the kryl are put down.)

   

  The thin, short-haired man says, in sirihish:

       "Huh. Unexpected."

   

  Slipping his bone-handled, obsidian hawkblade back into his kenku-buckled, tembo-hide swordbelt, the freckled, sinewy man asks, in sirihish:

       "The -fuck- are kryl doing on the opposite end of His Domain?"

   

  Simply, the tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe asks the thin, short-haired man, in sirihish:

       "I thought you said there was a clearing ahead?"

   

  The barbarous, black-maned youth says, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "Erak. Kadius. Okay."

   

  A dusty, ebon-shelled kryl has arrived from the east.

  A dusty, ebon-shelled kryl has arrived from the east.

   

  Shaking out her wrist, you say, in sirihish:

       "Private Fatima a little wounded Faithful Lord."

   

  The barbarous, black-maned youth exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "MORE!"

   

  A pack of kryl has arrived from the east.

   

  (Some people starting getting absolutely beaten up.)

   

  A pack of kryl hits the grey-eyed, stubble-bearded man on his body.

  The grey-eyed, stubble-bearded man reels from the blow.

   

  The barbarous, black-maned youth exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "Fuck, get them off me!"

   

  The tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe shouts, in sirihish:

       "Pull back south!"

   

  A pack of kryl hits the grey-eyed, stubble-bearded man's head, inflicting a grievous wound.

   

  Turning southward, the freckled, sinewy man exclaims, in sirihish:

       "Cavaliers! Retreat, retreat!"

   

  Spilling out of the underbrush, the insects swarm!

   

  (People flee out.)

   

  The barbarous, black-maned youth exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "Tembo to the south!"

   

  The gigantic and obese figure in a dusty hooded, sleeveless grey sandcloth cloak shouts, in sirihish:

       "BUGGGGGSS! EEEEEIEIIIIK!"

   

  You chop a dusty, ebon-shelled kryl's thorax.

  A dusty, ebon-shelled kryl crumples to the ground.

   

  [hemote] The dark, athletic woman grits her teeth.

   

  The tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe brutally jabs a dusty, ebon-shelled kryl on her thorax.

  A dusty, ebon-shelled kryl's eyes roll back in her head.

  A dusty, ebon-shelled kryl crumples to the ground.

   

  The tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe shouts, in sirihish:

       "Tend to the wounded!"

   

  Agafari Grove [NESW]

  The body of the grey-eyed, stubble-bearded man lies crumpled among the scrub trees.

  A few bodies of a dusty, ebon-shelled kryl are here.

  The body of a large, mangy gortok lies crumpled among the scrub trees.

  (Various people and animals are also here.)

   

  The barbarous, black-maned youth exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "The noble is in a fight! Souther!"

   

  (Everyone heads south to help.  After the tembo there is dispatched:)

   

  All around, the sound of insects rises to an enormous, unbelievable whine.

   

  The towering, curly-blonde man asks the freckled, sinewy man, in sirihish:

       "Are you ok Chosen Lord?"

   

  The thin, short-haired man asks the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty hooded, sleeveless grey sandcloth cloak, in sirihish:

       "Did you get Neeko?"

   

  Turning his head left and right, the bearded, bronze-hued man asks, in sirihish:

       "Alright, anybody seriously hurt?"

   

  Climbing up onto a grey-scaled, silver-shelled inix, the freckled, sinewy man says, in sirihish:

       "I'm fine."

   

  The barbarous, black-maned youth exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "Someone left their beetles back north!"

   

  The thin, short-haired man sighs.

   

  The small, splotchy dwarf says, in sirihish:

       "Someone died."

   

  The tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe shouts, in sirihish:

       "Rok!"

   

  The thin, short-haired man says to the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty hood

  ed, sleeveless grey sandcloth cloak, in sirihish:

       "Please go back 'n get Neeko's body."

   

  The barbarous, black-maned youth asks, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "Neeko died!?"

   

  The barbarous, black-maned youth exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "Fuck!"

   

  The tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe exclaims to the thin, short-haired man, in sirihish:

       "Go for the body, quickly!  We are pulling back!"

   

  The towering, curly-blonde man says, in sirihish:

       "Fucking had a whole pack of kryl trying to eat me..."

   

  The chitters grow louder, louder. Nearby brush shudders and rattles.

   

  The gigantic and obese figure in a dusty hooded, sleeveless grey sandcloth cloak walks north.

   

  The thin, short-haired man shouts, in sirihish:

       "Forget it Yeek, come on!"

   

  The dark, athletic woman edges closer to the bearded, bronze-hued man.

   

  You hear a man's voice shout from the north in sirihish:

       "NO! I not let bugs eat him!"

   

  The thin, short-haired man shouts, in sirihish:

       "Yeek!"

   

  Sharply, the freckled, sinewy man says, in sirihish:

       "We. Need. To move."

   

  A dusty, ebon-shelled kryl has arrived from the east.

  A dusty, ebon-shelled kryl has arrived from the east.

   

  The barbarous, black-maned youth shouts, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "Yeek, fuck it! Grab my inix and let's go!"

   

  A dusty, ebon-shelled kryl attacks the small, splotchy dwarf.

  A dusty, ebon-shelled kryl attacks the ruddy-skinned dwarf.

   

  (More fighting ensues.)

   

  A dusty, ebon-shelled kryl has arrived from the east.

   

  A war beetle's eyes roll back in its head.

  A war beetle cries out in pain.

  A war beetle crumples to the ground.

   

  The towering, curly-blonde man exclaims, in sirihish:

       "Someone’s mount is dead!"

   

  Swarming over the mounts, one drops in sizzling wreckage.

   

  The barbarous, black-maned youth exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "Fuck the mount!"

   

  (The party starts retreating eastward through the forest, then doubles back to retrieve the other half of the party still fighting kryl nearby.)

   

  The tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe shouts, in sirihish:

       "Calm yourselves!"

   

  The barbarous, black-maned youth exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "Gah! Yeek has my beetle and my stuff.. Fucking.. half-giant!"

   

  The freckled, sinewy man exclaims, in sirihish:

       "Rok and Dogouth!"

   

  A dusty, ebon-shelled kryl has arrived from the south.

   

  (More fighting ensues.)

   

  You think:

       "Oh this is bad."

   

  (The most recent wave of kryl is dispatched.)

   

  The thin, short-haired man says, in sirihish:

       "Everyone fall in on Rakas please."

   

  The barbarous, black-maned youth exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "My mount is dead!"

   

  A dusty, ebon-shelled kryl has arrived from the north.

  A dusty, ebon-shelled kryl has arrived from the north.

  A dusty, ebon-shelled kryl has arrived from the west.

   

  (Even more fighting ensues.)

   

  The barbarous, black-maned youth exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "Fuck me!"

   

  The towering, curly-blonde man does not look well.

  rescue tulor

  You fail the rescue.

   

  The towering, curly-blonde man exclaims, in sirihish:

       "Tulor needs help!"

   

  You think:

       "He looks bad."

   

  (Tulor flees out and comes back.)

   

  The barbarous, black-maned youth asks, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "Rakas, how do I get out of here on foot!?"

   

  (The kryl are eventually dispatched, again.)

   

  The tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe grunts painfully.

   

  You feel her heart pounding hard enough to almost burst.

   

  You think:

       "We need to get out of here!"

   

  The freckled, sinewy man exclaims, in sirihish:

       "Move! Or we're dead!"

   

  Under heavy breaths, the bearded, bronze-hued man asks the tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe, in sirihish:

       "You alright, Faithful Lord?"

   

  The barbarous, black-maned youth exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "Walk! I can't run!"

   

  The towering, curly-blonde man says, in sirihish:

       "I’m... I’m hurt bad..."

   

  The tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe shouts, in sirihish:

       "Proceed at a slow walk!"

   

  A war beetle runs east, carrying the thin, short-haired man on its back.

  (With the party following.)

   

  The barbarous, black-maned youth exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "WALK!"

   

  A war beetle runs south, carrying the thin, short-haired man on its back.

  (The party continues to follow along.)

   

  The freckled, sinewy man exclaims, in sirihish:

       "Slow the fuck down!"

   

  The gigantic and obese figure in a dusty hooded, sleeveless grey sandcloth cloak says to the thin, short-haired man, in sirihish:

       "I don't have da bug. "

   

  The gigantic and obese figure in a dusty hooded, sleeveless grey sandcloth cloak says to the thin, short-haired man, in sirihish:

       "Er...lizzard. "

   

  The barbarous, black-maned youth exclaims to the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty hooded, sleeveless grey sandcloth cloak, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "My damn lizard!"

   

  A war beetle walks south, carrying the thin, short-haired man on its back.

  (The party follows along at a slower pace now.)

   

  The barbarous, black-maned youth exclaims to the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty hooded, sleeveless grey sandcloth cloak, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "GAH!"

   

  The barbarous, black-maned youth exclaims to the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty hooded, sleeveless grey sandcloth cloak, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "All my stuff was on that lizard! My bow! My shit!"

   

  The thin, short-haired man shouts, in sirihish:

       "Tulor!"

   

  To the north is Scrub Forest.

  [Near]

  A brown inix stands here, carrying the towering, curly-blonde man on his back.

   

  The towering, curly-blonde man has arrived from the north, riding a brown inix.

   

  The gigantic and obese figure in a dusty hooded, sleeveless grey sandcloth cloak says to a glossy, black-scaled inix, in sirihish:

       "It's north n'west..."

   

  The barbarous, black-maned youth says to the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty hooded, sleeveless grey sandcloth cloak, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "I bought it _this week_"

   

  A dusty, ebon-shelled kryl has arrived from the east.

  A dusty, ebon-shelled kryl has arrived from the east.

   

  The freckled, sinewy man says to the towering, curly-blonde man, in sirihish:

       "Stick with us you fucking idiot."

   

  The gigantic and obese figure in a dusty hooded, sleeveless grey sandcloth cloak

   says to the thin, short-haired man, in sirihish:

       "We should...re..."

   

  (Fighting ensues.  While the fighting is ongoing:)

   

  The barbarous, black-maned youth exclaims to the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty hooded, sleeveless grey sandcloth cloak, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "You better get me my damn inix!"

   

  The small, splotchy dwarf does not look well.

  rescue charl

  But nobody is fighting him?

   

  The thin, short-haired man says to the barbarous, black-maned youth, in sirihish:

       "SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

   

  The dark, athletic woman pants as she lashes out at the body of a dusty, ebon-shelled kryl.

   

  (The kryl are again dispatched.)

   

  The gigantic and obese figure in a dusty hooded, sleeveless grey sandcloth cloak says to the thin, short-haired man, in sirihish:

       "WE GOTTA REST!"

   

  Dropping a foot into a sinkhole, a brown inix collapses, roaring in pain!
  A brown inix sits down to rest.

   

  The gigantic and obese figure in a dusty hooded, sleeveless grey sandcloth cloak says to the thin, short-haired man, in sirihish:

       "Or else all die!"

   

  The barbarous, black-maned youth exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "Fuck!"

   

  (The party continues on at a walk.)

   

  A dusty, ebon-shelled kryl has arrived from the north.

  A dusty, ebon-shelled kryl has arrived from the north.

   

  (They attack a dwarf as the party is heading to the south; the dwarf gets left behind.)

   

  The barbarous, black-maned youth exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "I can't walk much further!"

   

  The barbarous, black-maned youth exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "Hold up!"

   

  The rangy, towheaded young man says, in sirihish:

       "Nor I."

   

  (The party turns around to go back for the dwarf.)

   

  The ruddy-skinned dwarf swiftly dodges a dusty, ebon-shelled kryl's pinches.

   

  (People rush in to try and help the dwarf and pull him out.  As the fight is ongoing:)

   

  The barbarous, black-maned youth exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "Hold, PLEASE!"

   

  The barbarous, black-maned youth shouts, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "I CAN'T WALK ANY FURTHER!"

   

  You charge into the fight!

   

  The towering, curly-blonde man says, in sirihish:

       "Wheres my mount?"

   

  The barbarous, black-maned youth shouts, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "If you walk, I will die!"

   

  (Fight is still going on:)

   

  The tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe exclaims to the freckled, sinewy man, in sirihish:

       "Chosen Lord!   Go!  Tell them the eyeless have shown themselves!"

   

  The freckled, sinewy man attempts to flee.

  The freckled, sinewy man runs south.

   

  The small, splotchy dwarf looks near death.

  rescue charl

  But nobody is fighting him?

   

  (The last kryl is finally put down.  The party stands around, looking more or less fuckitized.)

   

  The small, splotchy dwarf sits down to rest.

   

  The ruddy-skinned dwarf shouts, in sirihish:

       "Git up!"

   

  The barbarous, black-maned youth sits down to rest.

   

  (Various others plop down to rest.)

   

  The small, splotchy dwarf says, in sirihish:

       "I can't move any more."

   

  The barbarous, black-maned youth says, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "I can't.. go on! I am to tired."

   

  [ Fatima : standing  ]

  < 108/130hp 121/121sn 39/133sm (early afternoon) armed (walking) >

   

  The tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe sits down to rest.

   

  Gingerly, you sit down.

   

  The thin, short-haired man says, in sirihish:

       "We're close ta t'road."

   

  The tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe stands up.

   

  You think:

       "I'm following Khentim's lead."

   

  You stand up.

   

  The thin, short-haired man says, in sirihish:

       "Incoming"

   

  A dusty, ebon-shelled kryl has arrived from the east.

  A dusty, ebon-shelled kryl has arrived from the east.

   

  Panting hard, the barbarous, black-maned youth says, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "I can't.. walk! You ran.. when I said.. walk.. and my mount is dead.. and fuck."

   

  (Fighting ensues.  While it is ongoing:)

   

  The barbarous, black-maned youth exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "Someone who can walk, please lend me your mount!"

   

  You say, in sirihish:

       "We lost Charl."

   

  The tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe shouts, in sirihish:

       "Leave him!"

   

  The barbarous, black-maned youth exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "I need a mount, please!"

   

  The gigantic and obese figure in a dusty hooded, sleeveless grey sandcloth cloak says, in sirihish:

       "Norther one, north!"

   

  The thin, short-haired man says, in sirihish:

       "East."

   

  The tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe exclaims to the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty hooded, sleeveless grey sandcloth cloak, in sirihish:

       "Grab Erak and head south!"

   

  A dusty, ebon-shelled kryl has arrived from the east.

   

  (Guess what?  More fighting ensues.  When it is barely over:)

   

  The ruddy-skinned dwarf says, in sirihish:

       "On' north."

   

  The tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe shouts, in sirihish:

       "We are Riding!"

   

  The gigantic and obese figure in a dusty hooded, sleeveless grey sandcloth cloak says to the thin, short-haired man, in sirihish:

       "We gotta squish all da bugs...movin'just gonna kill us when we can't move no more."

   

  The tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe shouts, in sirihish:

       "South!"

   

  A war beetle walks south, carrying the thin, short-haired man on its back.

  (People following, until:)

   

  l n

  To the north is a Ridge of Dull Red Rock.

  [Far]

  The gigantic and obese figure in a dusty hooded, sleeveless grey sandcloth cloak is standing here, bleeding lightly.

  - he is carrying the body of the grey-eyed, stubble-bearded man.

  A huge, four-legged, reddish-shelled lizard is here, nosing about for forage.

  [Near]

  The towering, curly-blonde man lies on the ground stunned, unable to move.

  A brown inix stands here, nosing the ground for vegetation.

   

  The thin, short-haired man asks, in sirihish:

       "Do we go back fer Tulor?"

   

  Rubbing the nape of his neck, the rangy, towheaded young man exclaims, in sirihish:

       "Ugh!"

   

  The ruddy-skinned dwarf says, in sirihish:

       "Weh lost Neeko tah."

   

  A unit of Tuluki half-giant soldiers tromps up to the ridge, slamming weapons against shields.

   

  The tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe exclaims to a unit of Tuluki half-giant soldiers, in sirihish:

       "Protect the fallen!"

   

  A war beetle walks north, carrying the thin, short-haired man on its back.

  (The party follows.)

   

  A unit of Tuluki half-giant soldiers has arrived from the south.

   

  A dusty, ebon-shelled kryl has arrived from the east.

   

  (After being decimated by the half-giant soliders:)

  A dusty, ebon-shelled kryl runs east.

   

  The thin, short-haired man exclaims to the towering, curly-blonde man, in sirihish:

       "On yer feet!"

   

  The tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe exclaims to the thin, short-haired man, in sirihish:

       "To Ayun Iskandir!"

   

  A unit of Tuluki half-giant soldiers shouts, in sirihish:

       "Hoo-rah!"

   

  The thin, short-haired man exclaims, in sirihish:

       "Fall in on me now!"

   

  The tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe exclaims to the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty hooded, sleeveless grey sandcloth cloak, in sirihish:

       "Grab him!"

   

  (The party starts moving along the ridge.)

   

  The thin, short-haired man shouts, in sirihish:

       "Yeek!"

   

  The gigantic and obese figure in a dusty hooded, sleeveless grey sandcloth cloak has arrived from the north.

   

  Rising up out of the forest to the south, everything looks deceptively quiet and calm.

   

  Sharply, the tall Jihaen templar in a dusty red hooded templar's robe exclaims to the thin, short-haired man, in sirihish:

       "To Ayun Iskandir, now!"

   

  (A moment later:)

   

  Suddenly you are jerked into the underbrush!

   

  A Ridge of Dull Red Rock [NES]

  A slender, black-shelled insectoid scours the terrain for prey.

   

  A dusty, ebon-shelled kryl runs north.

   

  A dusty, ebon-shelled kryl has arrived from the north.

   

  A dusty, ebon-shelled kryl attempts to grab you, but you wrestle away.

   

  A foreign presence contacts your mind.

   

  The bearded, bronze-hued man sends you a telepathic message:

       "Where are you?"

   

  The bearded, bronze-hued man sends you a telepathic message:

       "Are you hurt, dieing? Where?"

   

  The dark, athletic woman edges away from a dusty, ebon-shelled kryl.

   

  s

  Stinging sand swirls around you.

  A Ridge of Dull Red Rock [NES]

   

  A dusty, ebon-shelled kryl has arrived from the north.

   

  A dusty, ebon-shelled kryl attempts to grab you, but you wrestle away.

   

  The dark, athletic woman yells and thrashes!

   

  The dark, athletic woman manages to free her foot, kicking out at a dusty, ebon-

  shelled kryl.

   

  A dusty, ebon-shelled kryl keeps moving after you.

   

  s

  Atop an Archway [NS]

   

  A dusty, ebon-shelled kryl has arrived from the north.

   

  You think:

       "I can't run much farther."

   

  < 110/130hp 121/121sn 23/133sm (late afternoon) unarmed (walking) >

   

  The dark, athletic woman stumbles along the archway, panting.

   

  s

  A Narrow Ridge of Red Rock [NW]

   

  A dusty, ebon-shelled kryl has arrived from the north.

   

  A dusty, ebon-shelled kryl subdues you, despite your attempts to struggle away.

  You stop guarding the bearded, bronze-hued man.

   

  You think:

       "Oh fuck me."

   

  The dark, athletic woman starts with the thrashing, again, kicking at a dusty, ebon-shelled kryl.

   

  A dusty, ebon-shelled kryl runs north, dragging you behind her.

  Atop an Archway [NS]

   

  You struggle in vain against a dusty, ebon-shelled kryl.

   

  A dusty, ebon-shelled kryl drags you along with a clawed hand.

   

  A dusty, ebon-shelled kryl runs north, dragging you behind her.

  A Ridge of Dull Red Rock [NES]

   

  (The kryl drags her further north, back into the forest.)

   

  You feel one last burst of adrenaline is about all she can manage.

   

  The dark, athletic woman kicks one more time at a dusty, ebon-shelled kryl.

   

  You struggle against a dusty, ebon-shelled kryl and break free.

   

  You draw a crescent-bladed obsidian axe.

   

  The dark, athletic woman half yells, half-sobs.

  A dusty, ebon-shelled kryl subdues you, despite your attempts to struggle away.

   

  kill kryl

  You are held tight, and unable to do anything.

   

  The sound of angry insects is all around you.

   

  The bearded, bronze-hued man sends you a telepathic message:

       "Please wake up...or be able to help us...are you alright?"

   

  A dusty, ebon-shelled kryl grabs at you and keeps moving along, dragging.

   

  The dark, athletic woman seems to run out of fight, drug along passively.

   

  Agafari Grove [NESW]

  A massive, winged insect towers above the ground, leathered wings outstretched.

   

  Chittering noisily, a hulking, bloated kryl looks up at you.

   

  You contact the bearded, bronze-hued man with the Way.

   

  You send a telepathic message to the bearded, bronze-hued man:

       "It's got me.  Sorry, friend.  It don't look good."

   

  A dusty, ebon-shelled kryl drags up you behind itself and holds you before a hulking, bloated kryl.

   

  Towering over the vegetation, a hulking, bloated kryl waddles sloppily towards you.

   

  The bearded, bronze-hued man sends you a telepathic message:

       "Where? Do you know where you are? What it is?"

   

  You send a telepathic message to the bearded, bronze-hued man:

       "I don't.  There's a giant... thing.  Tell Faithful Lord Khentim, it was a

  pleasure serving with him.  Okay?"

   

  The bearded, bronze-hued man sends you a telepathic message:

       "What does it look like?"

   

  The dark, athletic woman feebly tries to lift your crescent-bladed obsidian axe, but can't seem to get leverage around a dusty, ebon-shelled kryl's grip.

   

  The bearded, bronze-hued man sends you a telepathic message:

       "Are you just in the forest? A cave?"

   

  You send a telepathic message to the bearded, bronze-hued man:

       "A grove somewhere.  One of those things has me.  There's a larger one here, ugly as sin."

   

  A dusty, ebon-shelled kryl holding you in clawed hands it brings you to a hulking, bloated kryl.

   

  A foreign presence contacts your mind.

   

  A hulking, bloated kryl looms over you, cords and cords high, and with one of the bony spines jutting from its mouth knocks your axe away.

   

  You send a telepathic message to the bearded, bronze-hued man:

       "I'm all out of energy, Musa.  This one's dragging me at it.  I tried to hit it with my axe, but..."

   

  You drop a crescent-bladed obsidian axe.

   

  The bearded, bronze-hued man sends you a telepathic message:

       "Dragging you where?"

   

  You send a telepathic message to the bearded, bronze-hued man:

       "I don't know.  I'm going to pass out in a second.  It was fun."

   

  You dissolve the psychic link.

   

  A hulking, bloated kryl says, out of character:

       "There is going to be some mostly stylized gore if you consent to it."

   

  You say, out of character:

       "consent to gore, go ahead"

   

  A hulking, bloated kryl says, out of character:

       "Proceeding with gore."

   

  A dusty, ebon-shelled kryl holds you perfectly still before a hulking, bloated kryl, barely making a noise.

   

  contact khentim

  You are unable to reach their mind.

   

  In your mind, a sudden, stark image. Thousands and thousands more dark insects s

  warming across the grasslands and over the walls of Tuluk.

   

  You think:

       "If I could just.. tell Khentim..."

   

  As the surrounding forest darkens, from all about the surrounding underbrush can be heard chittering and scuttling.

   

  contact khentim

  You contact the falconine, gold-toned man with the Way.

   

  The falconine, gold-toned man sends you a telepathic message:

       "Fatima!  Fatima?"

   

  You send a telepathic message to the falconine, gold-toned man:

       "Sir, there are thousands out here.  I see... them swarming the walls."

   

  A dusty, ebon-shelled kryl starts to chitter lightly as it holds you perfectly still before a hulking, bloated kryl.

   

  < 116/130hp 6/117sn 10/133sm (dusk) unarmed (walking) >

  You dissolve the psychic link.

   

  The dark, athletic woman lies limply, entirely exhausted.

   

  A hulking, bloated kryl lowers the impossibly large bulk of its head and the spines jutting from her mouth press against your arm, where it sockets against your shoulder.

   

  The bearded, bronze-hued man sends you a telepathic message:

       "I ain't leaving you...we will find you..."

   

  The dark, athletic woman closes her eyes and turns her head away, teeth gritted.

   

  contact khentim

  You contact the falconine, gold-toned man with the Way.

   

  You feel sudden, sharp, impossible pressure as the unthinkable weight of the creature focuses on the small points against your arm.

   

  A dusty, ebon-shelled kryl starts to chitter louder as a hulking, bloated kryl comes near, holding you perfectly still.

   

  You send a telepathic message to the falconine, gold-toned man:

       "*pained* I did my best."

   

  The falconine, gold-toned man sends you a telepathic message:

       "Do you know what awaits you?"

   

  The chittering of surrounding insects grows louder, heaving and cresting in unison - a single, unworldly note of rage and hunger.

   

  You dissolve the psychic link.

   

  You feel that she can't hold the link a second longer, it just takes too much concentration.

   

  The falconine, gold-toned man sends you a telepathic message:

       "Should you have any toxin, any weapon, use it on yourself.  Do not leave yourself to their devices."

   

  You think:

       "I can't move!  I don't have anything."

   

  Suddenly, quickly, but mercilessly, the spikes pierce your flesh and bone, tearing through sinew and muscle.

   

  The dark, athletic woman screams through her clenched teeth, only briefly.

   

  barrier

  Your vision goes black.

   

  The rending of raw flesh is clearly heard.

   

  Slime gushes from the mouth of the creature, burning you horrificly and somehow cutting off the flow of blood as your arm dangles from your body by mere strands.

   

  The dark, athletic woman passes out entirely, from pain, exhaustion, the whole thing.

   

  You feel herself drop like a stone, deeper than dreams, and she'd be thankful for that, if she could.

   

  (Time passes.)

   

  Just inside the fortress, Someone nods brusquely at someone.

   

  Someone peers northward, suspiciously.

   

  Just inside the fortress, Someone frowns at that, turning, and wiping away a tear.

   

  Just inside the fortress, Someone sighs as he looks towards someone with wide eyes, lowering his head.

   

  (More time passes.)

   

  Someone bends and then lifts you up.

   

  Just inside the fortress, Someone looks down at the ground.

   

  Someone steps aside, allowing someone to pass.

   

  The sleeping woman has had her arm nearly severed. It dangles from her shoulder

  by strands of sinew and flesh.

   

  The wound is a mass of burnt tissue, apparently cauterized somehow, and there is little bleeding though she is covered in blood.

   

  Someone wipes a hand down his ichor-laden his new chitinous breastplate, now smeared with your blood.

   

  The dark, athletic woman remains dusky pale, and very, very unconscious.

   

  Someone kneels on the opposite side of you.

   

  Someone kneels down next to you, running a hand over her as he inspects closely.

   

  Someone watches them work on you sadly.

   

  Someone pulls out his needle and thread from his cylindrical wooden box, threading it quickly.

   

  Someone begins to carefully examine you.

   

  You dream:

       "About drowning, in fits and starts."

   

  Someone presses his needle through the soft flesh of your shoulder as he begins to sew up the wound, dipping it with his salve-covered bandage as he goes.

   

  Your head clears and your eyes flutter open.

   

  The woman's arm is nearly severed at the shoulder, hanging by mere threads of sinew and tissue.

   

  The thin, short-haired man says to the tall male wearing a red silk veil, in sirihish:

       "We're gonna have ta take t'arm off."

   

  The dark, athletic woman screams into consciousness, thrashing weakly.

   

  The tall male wearing a red silk veil ties off the thread as he looks over towards you.

   

  You notice that your right arm is hanging by near threads, there is no pain as it all feels numb.

   

  The thin, short-haired man says to you, in sirihish:

       "Yer alive, Lass. Amongst friends."

   

  Moving up to your shoulder with a quiet, hurried voice, the tall male wearing a

  red silk veil says, in sirihish:

       "Hold still Faith, I am here. Musadir. "

   

  The tall male wearing a red silk veil gets his scattering of spotted leaves from his cylindrical wooden box.

   

  The dark, athletic woman stops struggling against the thin, short-haired man, panting harshly.

   

  Your arm just hangs there, like as if on a string... you don't feel it there anymore, you can't make it respond.

   

  The tall male wearing a red silk veil begins rubbing your shoulder with the leaves, pressing his bandage upon the open wound.

   

  You think:

       "I can't feel it.  Oh thank Utep for small favors."

   

  Opening several compartments within his cylindrical wooden box, the tall male wearing a red silk veil says, in sirihish:

       "Where is that glimmergrass...there it is..."

   

  The tall male wearing a red silk veil gets his sprig of aromatic leaves from his cylindrical wooden box.

   

  [hemote] The dark, athletic woman grinds her teeth nearly hard enough to hear.

   

  Looking around dazedly until she seems to find him, voice rough and weak, you ask the falconine, gold-toned Jihaen templar, in sirihish:

       "Faithful Lord?"

   

  Your mood is now delirious.

   

  The tall male wearing a red silk veil presses the bandage lightly over the torn exposed flesh of your shoulder.

   

  You think:

       "I've got to tell him.  I've got to."

   

  Your head clears a little as the tall male wearing a red silk veil bandages your wounds.

   

  The ruddy-skinned dwarf asks the tall male wearing a red silk veil, in sirihish:

       "Can T'is on' help Doc?"

   

  Lowering himself to one knee beside you, the falconine, gold-toned Jihaen templar says to you, in sirihish:

       "Rest, Private.  All is being taken care of."

   

  Tilting his head up, the tall male wearing a red silk veil says to the ruddy-ski

  nned dwarf, in sirihish:

       "The arm must come off all the way. I have flame in my pack. Get it. The flask."

   

  Clearing her throat, sounding half-delirious, you say to the falconine, gold-toned Jihaen templar, in sirihish:

       "There's.. thousands of them.. Faithful Lord.  In my head.  They want the city.  You have to tell Khentim.  I mean, Faithful Lord Khentim."

   

  The tall male wearing a red silk veil pulls out a sharp obsidian scaple from his cylindrical wooden box, looking it over carefully.

   

  The tall male wearing a red silk veil cuts the end of the sinewy off carefully,

  moving the arm to the side.

   

  After a few moments the dark, athletic woman's right arms finally falls off and

  hits the ground with a squishy thud.

   

  The ruddy-skinned dwarf gets his carved wooden flask from his sizeable leather backpack.

   

  The tall male wearing a red silk veil moves to cut around your shoulder, removing the hanging bits of sinew and muscle.

   

  You see it laying there, the bloody, mangled arm twitches lightly.

   

  Looking up, the tall male wearing a red silk veil says to the thin, short-haired man, in sirihish:

       "You see anything? Anything at all? "

   

  With a slow shake of his head, the thin, short-haired man says, in sirihish:

       "Nothin' obvious."

   

  The dark, athletic woman oddly enough doesn't seem to notice her arm go, but she does flinch and wince as the tall male wearing a red silk veil cleans up her shoulder, when the knife bites into the good tissue.

   

  Handing it to him, the ruddy-skinned dwarf gives his carved wooden flask to the tall male wearing a red silk veil.

   

  A dismembered, humanoid arm twitches slightly upon the ground near to the dark, athletic woman.

   

  As he cuts down a half the last of the hanging tissue, the tall male wearing a red silk veil says, in sirihish:

       "Hold still, the runebane should help the pain...but it'll hurt."

   

  You feel almost incoherent.

   

  You think:

       "Such a small thing.  An arm.  Oh, is that mine?  It should matter more, I

  think."

   

  You think:

       "Hold still.  Easy for him to say."

   

  The towering, curly-blonde man says, in sirihish:

       "Faithful Lord."

   

  Pressing it into the hand that is left, the tall male wearing a red silk veil gives you his carved wooden flask.

   

  The thin, short-haired man settles down beside you as the worst passes, shifting his attention between the tall male wearing a red silk veil's work and checking his gear over.

   

   

  The tall male wearing a red silk veil says to you, in sirihish:

       "Drink some of that, it'll help the pain."

   

  The towering, curly-blonde man asks, in sirihish:

       "The chosen lord wishes to know our plans here, counter strike, or pull back to the city?"

   

  (The pair of men exchange some bandages back and forth.)

   

  The dark, athletic woman doesn't seem to be entirely aware of what's going on, or your carved wooden flask, her eyes shifting randomly around the room.

   

  The gigantic and obese figure in a bloodied hooded, sleeveless grey sandcloth cloak cracks his knuckles, looking down.

   

  The gigantic and obese figure in a bloodied hooded, sleeveless grey sandcloth cloak says, in sirihish:

       "So we gonna quash da queenie?"

   

  Looking up, the tall male wearing a red silk veil says to the thin, short-haired man, in sirihish:

       "Help her if you would, just a little sip...too much would be bad...but a little would help. The rest we can use."

   

  Looking aside to towering, the falconine, gold-toned Jihaen templar says, in sirihish:

       "I would ask that he meet us on the road in the morning to help us return t

  he wounded to the Ivory."

   

  Your mood is now delirious.

   

  The tall male wearing a red silk veil moves down your body, tugging on pieces of armor as he looks you over.

   

  The towering, curly-blonde man says to the falconine, gold-toned Jihaen templar, in sirihish:

       "He says he will be there."

   

  The arm that is no longer there starts to feel pain... as if the echo of arm starts to register the pain it felt.

   

  The tall male wearing a red silk veil begins setting a bandage around your wounded wrist, carefully pressing the herb side upon the stitches.

   

  Dabbing sweat from his brow, the tall male wearing a red silk veil says, in sirihish:

       "Rakas, help me here...there are several more spots...bleeding bad."

   

  Squirming to the side, but not very energetically, you say, in sirihish:

       "Owowow..."

   

  Placing a hand on his shoulder, the falconine, gold-toned Jihaen templar asks the tall male wearing a red silk veil, in sirihish:

       "Will we be able to move her soon?"

   

  The towering, curly-blonde man ignores his own pain, and bloody bandages as he limps in his pacing around the men operating on you.

   

  The thin, short-haired man nods as he kneels back up. With some splashes from his burned water gourd, he cleans out a wound, and very carefully lays a bandage over it.

   

   

  The ruddy-skinned dwarf stares down at you shaking his head.

   

  You feel bewildered.

   

  You think:

       "My arm hurts."

   

  The pain shoots into your body from where the arm used to be... the empty spot burning a fire.

   

  The thin, short-haired man makes his way along your body, searching for additional in jury.

   

  Lifting his face up, the tall male wearing a red silk veil says to the falconine, gold-toned Jihaen templar, in sirihish:

       "Shortly...once we have the bleeding under control. I can continue to check her for...anything...once we are in a secure location."

   

  With gritted teeth, slamming her good hand against the ground, you exclaim, in sirihish:

       "Fuck!"

   

  Knocking it aside, you drop your carved wooden flask.

   

  You think:

       "My arm /really/ hurts."

   

  The thin, short-haired man says to the tall male wearing a red silk veil, in sirihish:

       "I think she's about as stable as we can make 'er. She'll need a fully body

   examination fer implantations, though, when we get back."

   

  Nodding his head firmly, the tall male wearing a red silk veil says to the thin, short-haired man, in sirihish:

       "Yes, I will lead an inspection upon her. I can make any necessary incisions should I find anything."

   

  You feel herself begging someone, something.

   

  You think:

       "I'd rather be unconscious.  Please.  I don't want to know about this."

   

  The thin, short-haired man says, in sirihish:

       "Might wanna burn tha' cut arm, too. Na' really sure how their egg layin' works."

   

  Puffing out his cheeks, the tall male wearing a red silk veil runs a hand over your body slowly as he inspects numerous cuts and scrapes.

   

  The towering, curly-blonde man asks, in sirihish:

       "Will... will she be ok?"

   

  The thin, short-haired man says to the towering, curly-blonde man, in sirihish:

       "Time'll tell, fellah. Time'll tell."

   (This story has been edited

  to remove a lot of the superfluous spammy material and things not directly

  related to the story, and to fix some spelling errors and punctuation that was

  missed in the heat of battle.

   

  By way of background,

  shortly after the flood in the north, our...

  
  Continue Reading...
• 

  Those Goofy Insubordinate Runners by Zoltan
  Added on Jan 22, 2011

  Thrill as Lieutenant Raul of the T'zai Byn deals with a murder and rampant insubordination!

  ---

  [Told from the perspective of Lieutenant Raul of the T'zai Byn (Demonslayer, Hero of Deeds, etc.), the rugged, mustachioed man.]
  
  [The following description stuff is cobbled together from a few logs, but it's about right.]
  
  You are Raul, of many people. (type 'tribes' to see your tribes).
  Keywords: rugged mustachioed man
  Sdesc: the rugged, mustachioed man
  You are 29 years, 0 months, and 8 days old,
   which by your race and appearance is adult.
  You are 68 inches tall, and weigh 7 ten-stone.
  Your strength is extremely good, your agility is very good,
    your wisdom is average, and your endurance is exceptional.
  [still my most epic reroll to date, and this was before reroll undo, whippersnappers!]
  You are currently speaking sirihish with a southern accent.
  
  This man's body tells a tale of battle, and of years of hard living.  He
  is a little shorter than the Zalanthan average.  His body is made up of
  long, muscular limbs, a broad chest, a sturdy neck, and heavily-calloused
  hands and feet.  All of this is sheathed in skin made dark and a little
  leathery from much exposure to the sun.  His dark brown hair is kept short
  and slicked back, though a few errant strands break the mold here and there.
  Bushy eyebrows sit below a tall, moderately wrinkled forehead and shade his
  eyes, which are a deep brown in color.  He has a large, slightly pointed
  nose, and his thin lips are chapped.  His chin is rather delicate looking in
  contrast to his rugged features.  He has a thick, well-maintained mustache.
  Many old scars cover his flesh, ranging from large and rather grotesque to
  small and mundane.
  
  <worn on head>           a black chitin helm
  <worn around neck>       an obsidian-carved, silver-etched gorget
  <worn about throat>      a water gourd
  <slung across back>      a serrated bone warsword
  <worn across back>       a bone-studded backpack
  <worn on torso>          a mantis-shell breastplate
  <worn on left shoulder>  a scrab-shell shoulder plate
  <worn on arms>           a new pair of three-knotted studded sleeves
  <worn around wrist>      a bone-spiked, black-leather bracer
  <worn around wrist>      a long, leather-strapped bone buckler
  <worn on hands>          a pair of spiked duskhorn gauntlets
  <worn on forearms>       a leather and chitin strap-sheath
  <worn as belt>           a leather knife belt
  <hung from belt>         a bloodied curved, black-hilted shortsword
  <hung from belt>         a waterskin
  <worn around body>       a hooded, black military aba
  <worn about waist>       a leather swordbelt
  <worn on legs>           a pair of sandy-yellow chitinous leggings
  <worn on right ankle>    a small leather pouch
  <worn on left ankle>     a thin, grey-sandcloth ankle wrap
  <worn on feet>           a pair of brown knee-high boots
  
  [These events occurred not long before he was slain in the events of the HRPT, and this scene in particular was one of my favorites I ever had with this or any other character. I only wish I did more thinks and feels with Raul, but he really was my least “inner monologue/contemplative” character, despite having some complex motivations and such.]
  
  The Officers' Barracks [ES Quit]
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You contact the large, sideburned man with the Way.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the large, sideburned man:
       "You guys make it back? Well, -you- are alive, anyway."
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  The large, sideburned man sends you a telepathic message:
       "Yes, sir, we got back. But Pfirsich has killed Gil."
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the large, sideburned man:
       "Please gimme some more detail. What. The. Fuck."
  
  [Raul heads off to the detention cell]
  
  The large, sideburned man sends you a telepathic message:
       "He's in the brig now."
  
  Stinging sand swirls around you.
  The Drill Yard [NESW]
  The ebon-braided half-elf stands here, surveying the yard.
  The lanky, obsidian-haired young man is here, marching around the yard.
  The ebony-skinned, raven-haired woman stretches and twists her form here.
  The brown-eyed, tattooed man is standing here.
  
  To the north, a doorway is set into a small stone building.
  The door is closed.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the large, sideburned man:
       "You in there?"
  
  The large, sideburned man sends you a telepathic message:
       "He says Gil was harrassing him... err... we closed the door. He's still there.  anyway, says Gil was telling him about how he was goign to kill him when Gil became militia."
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the large, sideburned man:
       "Come to the detention cell."
  
  The large, sideburned man sends you a telepathic message:
       "How northernes should be enslaved.."
  
  The large, sideburned man has arrived from the east.
  
  The rugged, mustachioed man beckons to the large, sideburned man.
  
  The sun begins its long voyage across the heavens.
  
  The large, sideburned man falls in behind you.
  
  You open the door.
  
  To the north, a doorway is set into a small stone building.
  The door is open.
  [Near]
  It's completely dark over there.
  
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  You get your green glow-crystal from your hooded, black military aba.
  It is very light.
  
  The wind changes direction.
  The wind loses some momentum.
  You hold your green glow-crystal.
  You light a green glow-crystal.
  
  Sparse sands blow across your path.
  The area is filled with a green light.
  The Detention Room [S Quit]
  The effeminate wisp of a man is reclining here.
  The large, sideburned man has arrived from the south.
  
  Slamming it, you close the door.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  The large, sideburned man says, in sirihish:
       "Gil's body is in the workshop, sir."
  
  You open your bone-studded backpack.
  
  You get your unlit rag-wrapped bone torch from your bone-studded backpack.
  It is very light.
  
  You drop an unlit rag-wrapped bone torch.  Shown to the room as:
  An unlit simple torch made of a piece of bone lies here.
  
  You light an unlit rag-wrapped bone torch.
  
  You extinguish a dim green glow-crystal.
  You put your green glow-crystal into your hooded, black military aba.
  
  The rugged, mustachioed man nods aside to the large, sideburned man, eyes boring into the effeminate wisp of a man.
  
  You look down at the effeminate wisp of a man.
  A tall man, his regal characteristics have been emphasized by grooming.
  Soft and silky blonde hair is cut neatly about his ears, and parted so that
  his bangs sweep down the left side of his forehead to dance with one of his
  deep blue eyes.  His eyebrows are not entirely thin, but consist of such a
  light color so they do not appear prominently.  A rosy hue tints his cheeks,
  which are high-boned.  Flawlessly straight, his nose is thin and arched.
  The completely hairless jaw of this man is quite well defined, and his jaw
  muscles bulge slightly.  The deep red lips on his face a full, and seem
  somewhat pouty, as though constantly puckering for a kiss.  Slender
  shoulders and thin arms, his torso is lightly built.  His legs are long, and
  buttocks firm. 
  A cluster of white blossoms spills out from beneath his helmet, seemingly
  tucked behind an ear. 
  The effeminate wisp of a man is in excellent condition.
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man is using:
  <worn on head>           a gurth shell helmet
  <worn in hair>           a cluster of lacy white blossoms
  <worn around neck>       a bloodied gurth shell collar
  <worn about throat>      a milky-white linen scarf
  <worn on torso>          a new bloodied tan tembo-hide cuirass
  <worn on left shoulder>  a gortok-stitched, deep blue patch
  <worn around wrist>      a stained studded bone bracer
  <hands>                  a tattoo of a six-pronged star
  <worn as belt>           a gizhat-leather belt
  <worn around body>       a hooded, brown military aba
  <worn about waist>       a tough, grey chitin codpiece
  <worn on legs>           a smelly pair of rough canvas pants
  <worn on feet>           a smelly pair of grey hide boots
  
  He is carrying:
  nothing obvious
  
  You lock the door with a black stone key with one purple stripe. - *click*
  
  You put your black stone key with one purple stripe into your leather swordbelt.
  
  You say to the effeminate wisp of a man, in sirihish:
       "Stand up."
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man blinks as he notices the light.
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man rises from the ground, and clambers to his feet.
  
  Growling, you say to the effeminate wisp of a man, in sirihish:
       "Now."
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man presses a fist to his chest.
  
  Ignoring the salute, you ask the effeminate wisp of a man, in sirihish:
       "What made you think you had the right to murder one've my men?"
  
  You dissolve the psychic link.
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man says to you, in northern-accented sirihish:
       "I didn't consider it that way, Lieutenant."
  
  You ask the effeminate wisp of a man, in sirihish:
       "How did you 'consider' it then?"
  
  Reaching a battered hand up to run over his jaw, the effeminate wisp of a man says to you, in northern-accented sirihish:
       "It was the rage he built up in me, that's about all the consideration I had for it."
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man says to you, in northern-accented sirihish:
       "Since he joined he just got worse and worse, until I couldn't take it anymore."
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man says to you, in northern-accented sirihish:
       "The things he said... Well, they pushed me over the edge."
  
  Glancing over at the large, sideburned man, clearly getting worked up, you exclaim to the effeminate wisp of a man, in sirihish:
       "Rage? Rage? I'm familiar with that feelin'. In fact, I'm feelin' a lot of rage right now!"
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man says to you, in northern-accented sirihish:
       "I asked him to stop repeatedly, and he wouldn't. Then I snapped."
  
  Dipping his head, the effeminate wisp of a man says to you, in northern-accented sirihish:
       "I imagine you are Lieutenant."
  
  Getting in his face, barking, you exclaim to the effeminate wisp of a man, in sirihish:
       "Sounds like a problem to be dealt with by a -sergeant- or an -officer-!"
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man's eyes squint involuntarily at the volume presented to his face.
  
  A dim rag-wrapped bone torch flickers feebly.
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man says to you, in northern-accented sirihish:
       "I didn't run because I meant no disrespect. I don't mean to hide, or belittle my actions."
  
  Growling over his shoulder at him, you say to the large, sideburned man, in sirihish:
       "Sergeant, get a torch lit that -ain't- flickerin'."
  
  The large, sideburned man holds his purple glow-crystal.
  The large, sideburned man lights a purple glow-crystal.
  
  The large, sideburned man picks up a dim rag-wrapped bone torch.
  The large, sideburned man extinguishes a dim rag-wrapped bone torch.
  
  You say to the effeminate wisp of a man, in sirihish:
       "You -killed- one of my men."
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man says to you, in northern-accented sirihish:
       "I made the choice, I killed a man, and I apologize to you on a personal level Sergeant... But I do believe he deserved it."
  
  Snarling, you say to the effeminate wisp of a man, in sirihish:
       "Somethin' that could've been taken care of simply enough by -me-."
  
  Wincing, the effeminate wisp of a man says, in northern-accented sirihish:
       "Lieutenant."
  
  Shaking his head as his gaze lowers, the effeminate wisp of a man says, in northern-accented sirihish:
       "Krath.."
  
  Lifting two fingers, practically jabbing them in his face, you exclaim to the effeminate wisp of a man, in sirihish:
       "Two words, Runner! Two fecki-- -Look at me-!"
  
  The rugged, mustachioed man slaps the effeminate wisp of a man roughly.
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man takes the slap, his head twisted to the side for a few moments before he meets your gaze.
  
  You exclaim to the effeminate wisp of a man, in sirihish:
       "I have lost -enough- men without this -stupid- kankshit!"
  
  Growing suddenly calmer, you ask the effeminate wisp of a man, in sirihish:
       "How'd you do 'im?"
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man says to you, in northern-accented sirihish:
       "The day went like most. He was swearing at my for my northern roots, and I told him to mind his manners and we sparred."
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man says to you, in northern-accented sirihish:
       "I beat him soundly, and afterword he continued."
  
  The rugged, mustachioed man holds his tongue, listening.
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man says to you, in northern-accented sirihish:
       "He tossed down his weapons, I tossed down mine, and I intended to knock him out."
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man says to you, in northern-accented sirihish:
       "He ran, and I found him unconscious outside the latrines, so I tossed him in there and went back to training."
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man says to you, in northern-accented sirihish:
       "One of the giants, I have trouble telling them apart... One of them put him in the barracks, and after he came back he started at me again."
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man says to you, in northern-accented sirihish:
       "I told him once more, to mind his manners or one day I would kill him."
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man says to you, in northern-accented sirihish:
       "He went on, once more, about how all northies would be slaves, and that he would be militia and I would be made to beg for death."
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man says to you, in northern-accented sirihish:
       "I told him that I was going to kill him, I drew my rapier, and I did so."
  
  Voice low, you say to the effeminate wisp of a man, in sirihish:
       "Strip. Everythin' off, now. Drop it."
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man says to you, in northern-accented sirihish:
       "He told me as I stabbed that I had made a big mistake. He likely wasn't wrong... I think he thought his death would put me in more trouble."
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You contact the large, sideburned man with the Way.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the large, sideburned man:
       "This is gonna get ugly."
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man dips his head as he falls into silence, lifting up a foot to tug at his boots.
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man stops using his smelly pair of grey hide boots.
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the large, sideburned man:
       "The plan is to strip this fucker down, I'll lash 'em till he can't walk straight, an' then we toss 'im."
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the large, sideburned man:
       "I ain't gonna kill 'im, but this can't stand."
  
  The large, sideburned man sends you a telepathic message:
       "To his credit, sir, he conteacted me after it happened and surrendered without incident or resistance."
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the large, sideburned man:
       "So he won't die."
  The short, red-headed woman sends you a telepathic message:
       "mornin Lieutenant Yummy"
  
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  The large, sideburned man sends you a telepathic message:
       "And Gil had even threatened me before."
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the large, sideburned man:
       "Yeah, Gil was a cunt. Again, this is why this northie lives another day."
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man says to you, in northern-accented sirihish:
       "I presume you won't trust me this much, Lieutenant... But if there's a way you'd accept it I had every intention of giving your Warband my service for another seven years."
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man drops a smelly pair of grey hide boots.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the large, sideburned man:
       "This is -our- command, Ryzen, an' we can't let this stuff happen. No matter how deserved."
  
  You dissolve the psychic link.
  
  Sliding it over his hand, the effeminate wisp of a man stops using his stained studded bone bracer.
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man drops a stained studded bone bracer.
  
  The large, sideburned man sends you a telepathic message:
       "Plan understood, sir."
  
  Expression stony, you say to the effeminate wisp of a man, in sirihish:
       "You murdered another Bynner."
  
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man stops using his gurth shell helmet, shaking out his sweaty hair.
  
  Stoicly, the large, sideburned man looks at the effeminate wisp of a man.
  
  You say to the effeminate wisp of a man, in sirihish:
       "Over words an' idle threats. Stuff I could've taken care of."
  
  As he lets his gurth shell helmet fall, the effeminate wisp of a man says to you, in northern-accented sirihish:
       "Far be it from me to argue that, Lieutenant, but some good many might tell you they prefer that I did."
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man drops a gurth shell helmet.
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man stops using his bloodied gurth shell collar, revealing a blue and purple inked band.
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man drops a bloodied gurth shell collar.
  
  You say to the effeminate wisp of a man, in sirihish:
       "If you truly were a trooper, I would be able to protect you from some cocksucker of a little militia guy, for cryin' out feckin' loud."
  
  Unwrapping his milky-white linen scarf, the effeminate wisp of a man says to you, in northern-accented sirihish:
       "I thought with him alive I would never live in this city to see Trooper."
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man stops using his milky-white linen scarf.
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man drops a milky-white linen scarf.
  
  You say to the effeminate wisp of a man, in sirihish:
       "Sure."
  
  It is late morning on Barani, the 109th day of the Low Sun,
  In the Year of Jihae's Agitation, year 56 of the 21st Age.
  
  Rubbing the tattooed band on his neck, the effeminate wisp of a man says, in northern-accented sirihish:
       "Not by his hands."
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man stops using his new bloodied tan tembo-hide cuirass.
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man drops a new bloodied tan tembo-hide cuirass.
  
  You say to the effeminate wisp of a man, in sirihish:
       "Hurry up."
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man stops using his gortok-stitched, deep blue patch.
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man puts his gortok-stitched, deep blue patch into his hooded, brown military aba.
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man stops using his gizhat-leather belt.
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man drops a gizhat-leather belt.
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man stops using his hooded, brown military aba.
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man drops a hooded, brown military aba.
  
  Glancing down at himself, the effeminate wisp of a man asks you, in northern-accented sirihish:
       "All?"
  
  You ask the effeminate wisp of a man, in sirihish:
       "Did I stutter before?"
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man stops using his tough, grey chitin codpiece.
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man drops a tough, grey chitin codpiece.
  
  The large, sideburned man looks at the effeminate wisp of a man.
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man stops using his smelly pair of rough canvas pants.
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man drops a smelly pair of rough canvas pants.
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man spreads his arms, turning slowly with every bit of him exposed.
  
  The rugged, mustachioed man eyes the effeminate wisp of a man coldly for a long moment, his hand resting on your bloodied curved, black-hilted shortsword's hilt.
  
  You say to the large, sideburned man, in sirihish:
       "Sergeant, take hold of Runner Pfirsich an' bring 'im to the trainin' hall."
  
  You get your black stone key with one purple stripe from your leather swordbelt.
  It is very light.
  
  The large, sideburned man nods.
  His arms spread wide, the effeminate wisp of a man says, in northern-accented sirihish:
       "Shame it had to end like this. I hope you profit more from my gear than the losses I've given you."
  
  The large, sideburned man moves to take hold of the effeminate wisp of a man.
  
  Blithely, you say to the effeminate wisp of a man, in sirihish:
       "Shut up."
  
  The large, sideburned man hastily drops a glowing purple glow-crystal.
  A glowing purple glow-crystal goes out.
  The area is enveloped in darkness.
  Someone subdues someone.
  
  You unlock the door with a black stone key with one purple stripe. - *click*
  
  You can't find a 'glow' here to light.
  
  You open the door.
  
  The Drill Yard [NESW]
  The lean, ponytailed man is standing here.
  - he is carrying a large bag.
  The ebon-braided half-elf stands here, surveying the yard.
  The lanky, obsidian-haired young man is here, marching around the yard.
  The ebony-skinned, raven-haired woman stretches and twists her form here.
  The brown-eyed, tattooed man is standing here.
  The large, sideburned man has arrived from the north, dragging the effeminate wisp of a man behind.
  
  You close the door.
  
  You put your black stone key with one purple stripe into your leather swordbelt.
  
  The sun reaches its highest point in the sky.
  The red moon, Jihae, rises over the streets of Allanak.
  
  The lean, ponytailed man walks east.
  
  You say to the large, sideburned man, in sirihish:
       "Procede, Sergeant. I'll be along shortly."
  
  You stop leading the large, sideburned man.
  
  The large, sideburned man walks west, dragging the effeminate wisp of a man behind him.
  
  Sparse sands blow across your path.
  A Large Workshop [NW]
  A rough canvas backpack lies here.
  A stained backpack made of leather lies here.
  A few small piles of sawdust are here.
  The body of the short, curly-haired male is here is layed out on the ground here, arms over his chest.
  A couple of large bags are here.
  The lean, ponytailed man is sitting on an old, dark-grained workbench.
  - he is carrying a large bag.
  The austere, fine-boned blonde is sitting on an old, dark-grained workbench.
  - she is carrying a plain bag of cloth.
  The petite, freckled youth is sitting on an old, dark-grained workbench.
  The barbarous, black-maned youth is sitting on a stained, wooden crate.
  The gaunt, cold-eyed man stands here, keeping watch over the workshop.
  The old, scarred mul slave stitches a torn leather tunic as he sits here.
  The rugged mul slave is here, sorting through armor and weapons slowly.
  
  A horn blast sounds from somewhere to the southwest.
  
  You say, in sirihish:
       "All of you, into the trainin' hall, now."
  
  The lean, ponytailed man stands up from an old, dark-grained workbench.
  
  Speaking up, chin propped on her hands, the austere, fine-boned blonde says, in northern-accented sirihish:
       "I suppose that Zuib and Kromp were not reco-"
  
  A Large Storeroom [S Quit Save]
  A red footlocker is here in a line of lockers.
  A bone-sided obsidian-handled chest is here filled with tools.
  A bone-sided obsidian-handled chest is here filled with ranged weapons.
  A small sandstone footlocker is here in a row with the others.
  A long wooden bench is along the eastern wall.
  A bone sided chest is here filled with sparring weapons.
  A large obsidian bin is here filled with armor.
  A simple wooden chest is here filled with herbs and flowers.
  A long yellowed-bone bin is here filled with foul-smelling gear.
  A long yellowed-bone bin is here filled with weapons.
  The flabby, ebony-skinned dwarf stands here, sweating profusely.
  The dark red mul is standing here, keeping watch over the storeroom.
  The dragon-tattooed, black dwarf is here, snarling and gnashing his teeth.
  
  You get your wickedly barbed whip from a wooden weapons rack.[Up until that point, Raul avoided that particular whip because he found it to be too cruel]
  It is very light.
  
  The dark red mul and you salute each other.
  A Large Workshop [NW]
  A rough canvas backpack lies here.
  A stained backpack made of leather lies here.
  A few small piles of sawdust are here.
  The body of the short, curly-haired male is here is layed out on the ground here, arms over his chest.
  A couple of large bags are here.
  A stained, wooden crate lies here.
  The petite, freckled youth is sitting on an old, dark-grained workbench.
  The gaunt, cold-eyed man stands here, keeping watch over the workshop.
  The old, scarred mul slave stitches a torn leather tunic as he sits here.
  The rugged mul slave is here, sorting through armor and weapons slowly.
  
  The petite, freckled youth looks up at you.
  
  Growling, you say to the petite, freckled youth, in sirihish:
       "Move."
  
  The petite, freckled youth stands up from an old, dark-grained workbench.
  
  Sparing it a glance, you look at the body of the short, curly-haired male.
  This man's skin is tanned and very smooth, unscarred and clean.  He is
  rather short, and built with sinewy muscles, his shoulders broad.  His
  shoulders taper slightly to his waist and his abdominals and pectorals are
  very well toned.  His arms and legs are short and the muscle causes the
  veins to seem to bulge.  He has small, calloused hands and small, but wide
  feet.  His hair is mid-length and curly, the brown locks falling just to
  where his bushy eyebrows frame his sapphire blue eyes.  His nose is thin and
  sharp and is set above a thin lipped mouth with yellowed teeth.  He has a
  long beard that has been twisted into two strands that come to his navel. 
  
  The petite, freckled youth asks, in sirihish:
       "Move where?"
  
  The petite, freckled youth edges back.
  
  You say to the petite, freckled youth, in sirihish:
       "Trainin' hall."
  
  [they go]
  
  You enter a stone archway.
  The Exercise Hall [NS Leave]
  The lean, ponytailed man is standing here.
  - he is carrying a large bag.
  The dark-haired, hazel-eyed man is standing here, bleeding lightly.
  The barbarous, black-maned youth is standing here.
  The austere, fine-boned blonde is standing here.
  - she is carrying a plain bag of cloth.
  The effeminate wisp of a man is standing here held by the large, sideburned man.
  
  The petite, freckled youth has entered a stone archway.
  
  The rugged, squat half-giant has arrived from the north.
  
  The austere, fine-boned blonde salutes the large, sideburned man.
  
  The rangy, bushy-headed half-giant has arrived from the north.
  
  The austere, fine-boned blonde salutes you.
  
  The dark-haired, hazel-eyed man renders a salute to the large, sideburned man and you.
  
  The sturdy, square-jawed man has arrived from the north.
  
  As he unfurls your wickedly barbed whip, you say to the large, sideburned man, in sirihish:
       "Get 'im against the wall."
  
  The rangy, bushy-headed half-giant thumps a fist to his chest in a salute at large.
  
  The rugged, squat half-giant mashes his hand into his chest, saluting you, and then the large, sideburned man.
  
  You brandish your wickedly barbed whip.
  
  The lean, ponytailed man looks up at the effeminate wisp of a man.
  
  The large, sideburned man moves the effeminate wisp of a man up against a wall, continueing to restain his naked person.
  
  The rugged, mustachioed man strides past the salutes, letting the end of your wickedly barbed whip trail on the dirty floor.
  
  The dark-haired, hazel-eyed man stands well back of the range of the whip.
  
  The petite, freckled youth looks up at the effeminate wisp of a man.
  
  The lean, ponytailed man flinches as he notices the effeminate wisp of a man is naked.
  
  The sturdy, square-jawed man chews thoughtfully on the inside of his cheek, stopping in the middle of the hallway to eye the rugged, squat half-giant.
  
  The austere, fine-boned blonde stands up in a line with the other mercenaries, clasping her hands behind her back.
  
  Hollaring over the crowd, the rangy, bushy-headed half-giant exclaims to the effeminate wisp of a man, in sirihish:
       "You gonna get it now!"
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  The petite, freckled youth flaps her lips, watching on.
  
  The rugged, squat half-giant growls low in his throat, bobbing his head at the rangy, bushy-headed half-giant.
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man clenches his jaw, and lets his eyes close slowly.
  
  The large, sideburned man sends you a telepathic message:
       "By the way, I havn't had the opportunity to lash Erak yet for being drunk and missing a whole day."
  
  The sturdy, square-jawed man asks the rangy, bushy-headed half-giant, in sirihish:
       "You think he doesn't know that?"
  
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  The lean, ponytailed man looks at the sturdy, square-jawed man.
  
  Addressing the crowd in a low, deadly tone, you say, in sirihish:
       "Let it be known, Runner Gil Grim was somethin' of a cunt. Some've you may think that the naked man 'ere may've done this Known World a favor."
  
  The austere, fine-boned blonde keeps her gaze firmly upon you, standing up straight.
  
  You say, in sirihish:
       "Some've you may be right. But no one, -no one- gets away with murderin' one've -my- men."
  
  The barbarous, black-maned youth slumps a bit in the back of the crowd.
  
  The lean, ponytailed man stands stiffly with his large bag over a shoulder, eyeing the effeminate wisp of a man with a nod.
  
  Loudly, the rangy, bushy-headed half-giant exclaims, in sirihish:
       "Yeah, nobody!"
  
  The large, sideburned man continues his restraint of the effeminate wisp of a man with stoic resolve and expression.
  
  Turning to prepare for the lashing, you say to the effeminate wisp of a man, in sirihish:
       "Runner Pfirsich of Tuluk, for the murder of my runner, I'm gonna take the skin off yer back an' expel you from my company."
  
  Muttering as she shakes her head, the petite, freckled youth says, in sirihish:
       "What about leaving them to die..."
  
  The barbarous, black-maned youth suddenly jabs an elbow at the petite, freckled youth, not to hard but in a gruff way.
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man lets his head fall, keeping his mouth firmly shut.
  
  The rugged, mustachioed man cuts an icy glare over at the petite, freckled youth.
  
  Tossing a brief, curious look, the rangy, bushy-headed half-giant looks down at the petite, freckled youth.
  
  The lean, ponytailed man shows the petite, freckled youth his fist.
  
  Gaze following that of most of the crowd, the sturdy, square-jawed man looks down at the petite, freckled youth.
  
  The austere, fine-boned blonde's cobalt gaze widens as she watches on.
  
  The barbarous, black-maned youth gives the petite, freckled youth a look with pushed together brows.
  
  The petite, freckled youth meets your gaze for a second and then looks down at her feet.
  
  The dark-haired, hazel-eyed man look on with a grim expression.
  
  The sturdy, vivid-eyed dwarf has arrived from the north.
  
  The rangy, bushy-headed half-giant turns his gaze back over toward the rugged, squat half-giant.
  
  The rugged, mustachioed man watches the petite, freckled youth for a long moment before turning back to the effeminate wisp of a man.
  
  The rugged, squat half-giant whispers something to the rangy, bushy-headed half-giant.
  
  The petite, freckled youth bites her lower lip, staring at the ground.
  
  You raise a wickedly barbed whip and lash out at the effeminate wisp of a man.
  *CRACK* A long, bloody gash opens up on the effeminate wisp of a man's back.
  
  The rugged, squat half-giant nods.
  
  The petite, freckled youth blinks hard.
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man lets out an involuntary help of pain.
  
  The sturdy, vivid-eyed dwarf stands quietly, arms folding over his chest.
  
  The rugged, mustachioed man wordlessly continues the punishment, visciously lashing out with your bloodied wickedly barbed whip.
  
  You raise a wickedly barbed whip and lash out at the effeminate wisp of a man.
  *CRACK* A long, bloody gash opens up on the effeminate wisp of a man's back.
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man's head whips about, his back arching as every muscle in his body tenses.
  
  The rangy, bushy-headed half-giant reflexively grimaces at the sharp *CRACK* of the barbed whip.
  
  You raise a wickedly barbed whip and lash out at the effeminate wisp of a man.
  *CRACK* A long, bloody gash opens up on the effeminate wisp of a man's back.
  
  The petite, freckled youth covers her eyes with her arm.
  
  The lean, ponytailed man blinks at the sound of your whip cracking.
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man's body begins to tremble, held up by the large, sideburned man.
  
  The rugged, mustachioed man's jaw sets as he carries on, breathing audibly through his nose in the relative silence of the hall.
  
  You raise a wickedly barbed whip and lash out at the effeminate wisp of a man.
  *CRACK* A long, bloody gash opens up on the effeminate wisp of a man's back.
  
  The barbarous, black-maned youth winces with each whip-lash.
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man goes limp, blood pouring from the slashes on his back.
  
  The sturdy, vivid-eyed dwarf doesn't flinch at all as the whip rends the effeminate wisp of a man's back.
  
  The petite, freckled youth says, in sirihish:
       "This isn't fair..."
  
  The petite, freckled youth wiggles her head in disbelief.
  
  The sturdy, square-jawed man chews idly at the inside of his cheek, his eyes impassively watching the whip snap back and forth across the effeminate wisp of a man's back.
  
  Weakly, the effeminate wisp of a man says, in northern-accented sirihish:
       "Yes... it is.."
  
  In a low growl, you say to the effeminate wisp of a man, in sirihish:
       "D'you know what it's like to be dead? D'you know just what you did? Lemme tell you, it's worse'n this." [Raul's prompt had in fact read “dead” in a prior RPT, giving him some first-hand experience with the phenomenon]
  
  The barbarous, black-maned youth lays an arm around the petite, freckled youth's shoulders.
  
  You say to the effeminate wisp of a man, in sirihish:
       "It's so much worse."
  
  You raise a wickedly barbed whip and lash out at the effeminate wisp of a man.
  *CRACK* A long, bloody gash opens up on the effeminate wisp of a man's back.
  The effeminate wisp of a man's eyes roll back in his head.
  The effeminate wisp of a man crumples to the ground.
  
  Tossing it aside, you drop your bloodied wickedly barbed whip.
  Shown to the room as:
  A bloodied coils of a barbed whip lie curled here.
  
  The effeminate wisp of a man's body goes entirely limp.
  
  The rugged, squat half-giant applauds, grinning.
  
  The petite, freckled youth buries her face into the barbarous, black-maned youth's shoulder, crying.
  
  You say to the large, sideburned man, in sirihish:
       "Sergeant, toss 'im outside the gate, just like that. Discharge 'im, he's done. Do not report 'is crimes to the authorities."
  
  The rangy, bushy-headed half-giant merely looks over at the rugged, squat half-giant, blinking a few times.
  
  The large, sideburned man says, in sirihish:
       "Yes, sir."
  
  You say, in sirihish:
       "He can make 'is livin' as a beggar, the piece of shit."
  
  The large, sideburned man drags the effeminate wisp of a man behind him.
  
  The large, sideburned man leaves a stone archway.
  The large, sideburned man drags the effeminate wisp of a man out as well.
  
  The rangy, bushy-headed half-giant claps too, just a few times.
  
  The barbarous, black-maned youth full on hugs the petite, freckled youth, looking wholly disturbed by the events himself.
  
  Curiously, the rugged, squat half-giant asks, in sirihish:
       "Food now?"
  
  The rugged, squat half-giant leaves a stone archway.
  
  Looking irritably over his shoulder at the petite, freckled youth, the sturdy, square-jawed man asks, in sirihish:
       "What's wrong with 'er?"
  
  Stalking up to her and the barbarous, black-maned youth, you ask the petite, freckled youth, in sirihish:
       "So, I left you to die?"
  
  The petite, freckled youth says, in sirihish:
       "Why now...Why after all..."
  
  The petite, freckled youth pulls back at the sound of your sudden proximity.
  
  The austere, fine-boned blonde looks down at the bloody path on the ground, made by the passage of the punished man.
  
  The barbarous, black-maned youth tries to straighten a bit on his wounded leg.
  
  Softly, though intensely, you say to the petite, freckled youth, in sirihish:
       "Look at me."
  
  Peering down at her, the rangy, bushy-headed half-giant says to the petite, freckled youth, in sirihish:
       "That guy Puhfearsnek.."
  
  Peering into your eyes with her own wet mismatched gaze, the petite, freckled youth looks at you.
  
  The rugged, mustachioed man squats some to look into the petite, freckled youth's face.
  
  The sturdy, vivid-eyed dwarf watches you quietly, arms loosely draped over his chest.
  
  Out of the corner of her mouth, to the rangy, bushy-headed half-giant, the austere, fine-boned blonde says, in northern-accented sirihish:
       "Pfirsich."
  
  The rangy, bushy-headed half-giant shuts up, looking to you.
  
  The lean, ponytailed man tilts his head back, eyes wandering upwards as he scratches his hairy neck.
  
  You ask the petite, freckled youth, in sirihish:
       "D'you really think I liked the situation?"
  
  The large, sideburned man has entered a stone archway.
  
  Blinking down at her for a second, the rangy, bushy-headed half-giant says to the austere, fine-boned blonde, in sirihish:
       "I said that."
  
  You say to the petite, freckled youth, in sirihish:
       "Speak. Get it off yer chest, girl."
  
  Crossing her arms over her diminutive chest, staring into your eyes, the petite, freckled youth says to you, in sirihish:
       "It's your fault for making Xing a Sergeant. He isn't a good Sergeant. Not like Urrik. Not like Niema. You just promoted him because there wasn't anyone better."
  
  The austere, fine-boned blonde coughs into a gloved fist, and then falls silent once more, staring firmly at the ground.
  
  The barbarous, black-maned youth's jaw droops a little as he eyes the petite, freckled youth.
  
  The lean, ponytailed man sighs, rolling his eyes at the ground, before finding the petite, freckled youth.
  
  Looking over to the large, sideburned man, and then back to you, the petite, freckled youth says to you, in sirihish:
       "He's one of the best fighters i've ever seen. But he isn't a good Sergeant."
  
  Furrowing his bushy brows, staring daggers at her, the rangy, bushy-headed half-giant exclaims to the petite, freckled youth, in sirihish:
       "That's my Sarge your talkin' about!"
  
  Nodding faintly, you say to the petite, freckled youth, in sirihish:
       "That's right. There is no one better. I mean, I happen to be pleased with Sergeant Xing's performance... but my vantage is different."
  
  The rugged, mustachioed man lifts a hand in restraint at the rangy, bushy-headed half-giant, watching the petite, freckled youth.
  
  The lean, ponytailed man clamps his hands infront of his waist, eyeing the petite, freckled youth and you with a stern watch.
  
  You say to the petite, freckled youth, in sirihish:
       "What's he done wrong, Runner? Enlighten me, please."
  
  The rangy, bushy-headed half-giant abruptly lifts his head, shooting an annoyed look off through the hall at nothing in particular.
  
  The rugged, mustachioed man remains hunched over, eye to eye with the petite, freckled youth.
  
  The rangy, bushy-headed half-giant puffs a loud sigh, folding his massive arms across his chest.
  
  The petite, freckled youth bites her lower lip, narrowing her eyes a little bit as she meets yours.
  
  You say to the petite, freckled youth, in sirihish:
       "C'mon, my young runner. Speak yer mind."
  
   The large, sideburned man watches patiently, still stoic.
  
   The barbarous, black-maned youth looks between you and the petite, freckled youth in a mix of amazment and disbelief.
  
   His voice dripping condescension, you say, in sirihish:
       "I'm -so- interested in the perspectives on military leadership that a fourteen year old runner has."
  
   Reaching up high, the sturdy, vivid-eyed dwarf claps the rangy, bushy-headed half-giant's lower back once gently.
  
   The sturdy, square-jawed man blurts out a laugh at that.
  
  The rugged, squat half-giant has entered a stone archway.
  
   The sturdy, square-jawed man says to the rugged, squat half-giant, in sirihish:
       "Good one-- eh.. Leiutenant."
  
   Turning his piercing brown eyes, the lean, ponytailed man says to the sturdy, square-jawed man, in sirihish:
       "Shut up."
  
   The sturdy, square-jawed man's voice trails off into a quiet murmer.
  
   The lean, ponytailed man glances at the petite, freckled youth, tilting his head, big sandy brows angled sharply.
  
  Leaning in somewhat, you ask the petite, freckled youth, in sirihish:
       "Quirri got yer tongue?"
  
   The petite, freckled youth says to you, in sirihish:
       "Well at least I have a long life to live ahead of me, one where I don't have to go to sleep at night seeing the faces of the hundreds of people i've sent to their deaths because of my stupid mistakes. Sir."
  
   The petite, freckled youth lifts her chin a little bit.
  
   The rugged, mustachioed man smirks openly.
  
   You say to the petite, freckled youth, in sirihish:
       "I can count on one hand the guys that died under -my- command. An' I'll be generous, two died to a stupid mistake of mine. Despite certain guys tryin' to assure me otherwise." [Technically true, as Raul never counted deaths that occurred while he wasn't actually on the scene running things]
  
   Over his shoulder, you ask the large, sideburned man, in sirihish:
       "How many did you lose, Sergeant?"
  
   The large, sideburned man says to you, in sirihish:
       "Two now."
  
   He raises his hands, holding up eight fingers, the barbarous, black-maned youth says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
       "We've lost eight. So far, Lieutenant. Since I joined."
  
   The lean, ponytailed man counts off four fingers on his hand, then continues counting his fingers.
  
   The sturdy, vivid-eyed dwarf glances about at the speakers, expression impassive.
  
   You ask the large, sideburned man, in sirihish:
       "How? Did you not order them to knock the arrows out of the air in time? Did you not order them to be filled to the teeth with cures for unknown poisons?"
  
   The large, sideburned man says to you, in sirihish:
       "Kromp decided to try to disarm a gith. Zan Zuib got an arrow. THey knew to try to stop them and they had cures."
  
  The rangy, bushy-headed half-giant rubs a large hand over his jaw while he looks down at the large, sideburned man.
  
   The rugged, mustachioed man nods a couple times.
  
   Shaking his head, the lean, ponytailed man says to the large, sideburned man, in sirihish:
       "Nor for peraine, Sergeant. Nobody seems t'know it's cure. And it's th'taint fangs use most often."
  
   You say, in sirihish:
       "It's the [nope] one, I hear."
  
   You say, in sirihish:
       "In fact, it was Gil that was so certain on that tidbit, so take it or leave it."
  
   Sniffing a little bit, the petite, freckled youth says, in sirihish:
       "Makes you wonder why we even fought the Gith, when we knew there was an elf probably following us."
  
  The lean, ponytailed man gets his [nope] from his hooded, brown military aba.
  
  The lean, ponytailed man holds his [not here, either] up to his eye.
   
  Glancing over, the barbarous, black-maned youth asks you, in tribal-accented sirihish:
       "Are you dismissing Slim, Lieutenant?"
  
  You say to the petite, freckled youth, in sirihish:
       "Well, Raveni, how would -you- run things? I bet if you were doin' it, no one would ever get hurt an' we'd be a happy family of psychos..."
  
   You say to the barbarous, black-maned youth, in sirihish:
       "He -is- dismissed. He's done."
  
   The barbarous, black-maned youth simply nods at the rugged, squat half-giant.
  
   You say to the barbarous, black-maned youth, in sirihish:
       "He's lucky I didn't just take 'is head."
  
   The barbarous, black-maned youth nods at you, too.
  
   The sturdy, vivid-eyed dwarf grunts at your last words.
  
   The barbarous, black-maned youth turns, and starts to leave.
  
   The barbarous, black-maned youth leaves a stone archway.
  The petite, freckled youth leaves a stone archway.
  
   The petite, freckled youth has entered a stone archway.
  
   You say to the large, sideburned man, in sirihish:
       "Get Erak."
  
   The large, sideburned man leaves a stone archway.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You contact the large, sideburned man with the Way.
  
  The petite, freckled youth says, in sirihish:
       "No, sir. I don't think I could."
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the large, sideburned man:
       "Don't let 'im get shit from the detention cell."
  
  The large, sideburned man has entered a stone archway.
  
  Clearing his throat, the lean, ponytailed man says to you, in sirihish:
       "A suggestion sir."
  
  The large, sideburned man leaves a stone archway.
  
  You dissolve the psychic link.
  
  You say to the lean, ponytailed man, in sirihish:
       "Sure, Zik. Fuck, I'm wide open for 'em today."
  
  Clasping his hands by his waist, standing stiffly, the lean, ponytailed man says to you, in sirihish:
       "We should never cross Tan Sarak again with weary mounts nor any less than five solid Bynners sir. Tainted arrows, archers'n all. S'too dangerous. Instead, we should make a waypoint at Luirs"
  
  Nodding, you say to the lean, ponytailed man, in sirihish:
       "I like that reasonin', Runner. Shit sounds good to me."
  
   Also speaking up, her hands clasped behind her back, the austere, fine-boned blonde says, in northern-accented sirihish:
       "Perhaps it would be wise to scout additional routes through to the North, if possible. And mayhap we can offer our services to House Kurac, to assist in clearing the road."
  
   The large, sideburned man has entered a stone archway.
  
   The barbarous, black-maned youth has entered a stone archway.
  
   Nodding easily, you say to the austere, fine-boned blonde, in sirihish:
       "Already bein' worked on, but yes, very good suggestion."
  
   He trots back in, the barbarous, black-maned youth says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
       "Pardon."
  
   The lean, ponytailed man nods once, his piercing brown eyes ahead.
  
   The austere, fine-boned blonde glances aside at the lean, ponytailed man for a brief moment before returning her dark blue gaze to you.
  
   The petite, freckled youth sighs a little bit through her nose.
  
   Quirking a small smile, you say, in sirihish:
       "I actually know a pretty interestin' way up, but yeah... heh, not exactly practical."
  
   You ask the petite, freckled youth, in sirihish:
       "Anyway, is the crushin' shittiness of this life fully sunk in for you yet?"
  
   The petite, freckled youth says to you, in sirihish:
       "Well, when you put it that way, yes."
  
   You say to the petite, freckled youth, in sirihish:
       "Good."
  
   You ask the barbarous, black-maned youth, in sirihish:
       "An' where did you run off to?"
  
   The petite, freckled youth says to you, in sirihish:
       "Doesn't mean I like it."
  
  You say to the petite, freckled youth, in sirihish:
       "I don't think anyone but the psychos do, Runner. I sure as shit don't."
  
  He jerks a thumb over to the barracks, the barbarous, black-maned youth says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
       "Take a nap. Still have three holes, Sir."
  
  The rugged, mustachioed man nods absently to the barbarous, black-maned youth.
  
  The rugged, mustachioed man rubs his chin thoughtfully, looking over those gathered.
  
  The rugged, squat half-giant raises his hand tentatively.
  
  A horn blast sounds from somewhere to the southeast.
  
  The barbarous, black-maned youth leans on his unbandaged leg.
   
  Nodding a little bit and finally lowering her gaze, the petite, freckled youth says to you, in sirihish:
       "I'm looking forward to Graduation. -Sir-. Thank you."
  
  The rugged, mustachioed man nods over at the rugged, squat half-giant.
  
  Tucking his chin while he looks down at the group, the rangy, bushy-headed half-giant says, in sirihish:
       "Hey, I thought this place was full of toughs."
  
  The sturdy, vivid-eyed dwarf cocks his head way up at the rugged, squat half-giant.
  
  Burbling, the rugged, squat half-giant asks, in sirihish:
       "We get paid for killing someone soon?"
   
  The sturdy, vivid-eyed dwarf nods agreeably.
   
  You say to the rugged, squat half-giant, in sirihish:
       "Yes, I sure hope so. I'm workin' on it."
   
  The rugged, squat half-giant bobs his head.
   
  The barbarous, black-maned youth asks, in tribal-accented sirihish:
       "Can we leave, Lieutenant?"
  
  The petite, freckled youth holds her hands behind her back.
  
  Pointing at the floor, you say, in sirihish:
       "You know, -this-, this kind've weirdness. It happens with like every cycle... It's like eternal recurrence in my life or some shit..."
  
  The dark-haired, hazel-eyed man looks down at the floor.
  
  You ask the barbarous, black-maned youth, in sirihish:
       "Runner, I heard you skipped out've duty 'cause you... just sat 'round bein' drunk? You didn't even try to lie or hide it or anythin'?"
  
   Shaking his head, his tone dull and tired, the barbarous, black-maned youth says to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:
       "Part of being a Bynner, Chasing women and being drunk, Lieutenant. Shall you wish to abolish me for this. Then you can claim my aba this very instant."
  
   You say to the barbarous, black-maned youth, in sirihish:
       "You can suck my dick, is what you can do. Sheesh."
  
   Peering down at him, the rangy, bushy-headed half-giant says to the barbarous, black-maned youth, in sirihish:
       "Gotta get tough."
  
   Waving a hand, you say to the barbarous, black-maned youth, in sirihish:
       "Three lashes."
  
   The petite, freckled youth's eyes widen.
  
   The petite, freckled youth exclaims, in sirihish:
       "What?!"
  
   The sturdy, vivid-eyed dwarf simply nods.
  
   The lean, ponytailed man sighs, rubbing at his face.
  
   Shaking it off, the barbarous, black-maned youth stops using his dusty hooded, brown military aba.
  
   You say to the large, sideburned man, in sirihish:
       "You wanna handle this one? Fuck, I could go all day."
  
   Practically breathing out the words, the sturdy, square-jawed man says, in sirihish:
       "Krath's sakes."
  
   The barbarous, black-maned youth opens his worn, carru-hide pack.
  
   The barbarous, black-maned youth empties his dusty hooded, brown military aba into his worn, carru-hide pack.
  
   The barbarous, black-maned youth closes his worn, carru-hide pack.
  
   The barbarous, black-maned youth stops using his dusty gortok-stitched, deep blue patch.
  
   The large, sideburned man says to you, in sirihish:
       "It's up to you, sir."
  
   The barbarous, black-maned youth folds up his dusty hooded, brown military aba and his dusty gortok-stitched, deep blue patch in a small ball.
  
   Dropping it by his feet neatly, the barbarous, black-maned youth drops his dusty hooded, brown military aba.
  
   Dropping it by his feet neatly, the barbarous, black-maned youth drops his dusty gortok-stitched, deep blue patch.
  
   The austere, fine-boned blonde watches on silently, unmoving from her position.
  
   You say to the large, sideburned man, in sirihish:
       "Eh, hold 'im."
  
   The rangy, bushy-headed half-giant watches the barbarous, black-maned youth intently from where he stands.
  
   Walking back over to it, you pick up a bloodied wickedly barbed whip.
  It is very light.
  
   The large, sideburned man moves to restrain the barbarous, black-maned youth.
  
   Tugging down on his bone-studded backpack's shoulder strap, the sturdy, square-jawed man says to the rugged, squat half-giant, in sirihish:
       "Can I get leave to get some food, Leiutenant?  Haven't eaten in like a fek'n day."
  
   The large, sideburned man subdues the barbarous, black-maned youth, despite his attempts to struggle away.
  The barbarous, black-maned youth stops guarding the lean, ponytailed man.
  
   The rugged, mustachioed man nods aside to the sturdy, vivid-eyed dwarf.
  
  The sturdy, square-jawed man grumbles as his eyes glance askance to the barbarous, black-maned youth.
  
   The large, sideburned man moves the barbarous, black-maned youth to the same position as before.
  
   The barbarous, black-maned youth lies limp in the large, sideburned man's grip.
  
   The rugged, mustachioed man nods aside to the sturdy, square-jawed man, rather.
  
   Turning on his heels, the sturdy, square-jawed man says to the rugged, squat half-giant, in sirihish:
       "Thanks, g'luck with these two sir."
  
  The sturdy, square-jawed man leaves a stone archway.
  
   The rugged, mustachioed man takes up position behind the barbarous, black-maned youth, his features betraying a trace of weariness and boredom.
  
   The sturdy, vivid-eyed dwarf watches the goings on quietly, crimson eyes and unexpressive face revealing nothing.
  
   Eyes widening, the petite, freckled youth asks, in sirihish:
       "This is insane! How does this accomplish anything?"
  
   You ask the petite, freckled youth, in sirihish:
       "Does it look fun gettin' whipped?"
  
   A single, firmly spoke word, the sturdy, vivid-eyed dwarf says to the petite, freckled youth, in sirihish:
       "Discipline."
  
   The petite, freckled youth opens her mouth to speak, and then closes it.
  
   The austere, fine-boned blonde opens her mouth for a second, looking over at the petite, freckled youth, and then immediately snaps it shut again.
  
   The barbarous, black-maned youth's features look sad, if anything.
  
   Shaking his head, you ask, in sirihish:
       "Is this shit for real? Did I die an' end up in some topsy-turvy world after all?"
  
   You say to the barbarous, black-maned youth, in sirihish:
       "Three lashes, Runner, for blatant skippin' of duty an' mild insubordination."
  
  Readying it, you brandish your bloodied wickedly barbed whip.
  
   You raise a wickedly barbed whip and lash out at the barbarous, black-maned youth.
  The blow is deflected by the barbarous, black-maned youth's worn, carru-hide pack. [whoops]
  
  The barbarous, black-maned youth stops using his worn, carru-hide pack.
  
  The barbarous, black-maned youth stops using his used stained tan tembo-hide cuirass.
  
   You raise a wickedly barbed whip and lash out at the barbarous, black-maned youth.
  *CRACK* A long, bloody gash opens up on the barbarous, black-maned youth's back.
  
   In a tiny voice, the petite, freckled youth says, in sirihish:
       "He's already so hurt...Why..."
  
   The barbarous, black-maned youth yelps, his eyes watering up as his whole body tenses.
  
   The petite, freckled youth yelps too, looking away.
  
   The rugged, mustachioed man looks over at the petite, freckled youth strangely.
  
  The rugged, mustachioed man just shakes his head to himself, mutely and wearily carrying out the whipping.
  
  Arms folded across his chest, the rangy, bushy-headed half-giant says, in sirihish:
       "Gotta tough up some of these people."
  
  You raise a wickedly barbed whip and lash out at the barbarous, black-maned youth.
  *CRACK* A long, bloody gash opens up on the barbarous, black-maned youth's back.
  
  The barbarous, black-maned youth foot rubs at the ground, making an invisible trench as he bites down with a gurgled groan upon his own teeth.
  
  The lean, ponytailed man sinks his gaze at the ground, releasing a distraught sigh.
  
  The barbarous, black-maned youth's back reddens and cracks in the common redness that is whipped skin.
  
  Glancing up, the lean, ponytailed man says to the rangy, bushy-headed half-giant, in sirihish:
       "Funny, I didn't see you fightin' off gith'n fangs, Carl."
  
  The rugged, mustachioed man exhales slowly and hauls the whip up once again.
  
  The rugged, squat half-giant furrows his brow.
  
  You raise a wickedly barbed whip and lash out at the barbarous, black-maned youth.
  *CRACK* A long, bloody gash opens up on the barbarous, black-maned youth's back.
  
  Pointing at the rangy, bushy-headed half-giant and the rugged, squat half-giant, the lean, ponytailed man says, in sirihish:
       "You, and you. Shut your fuckin' big mouths until you're on a contract'n you -see- what I've -seen-."
  
  Rolling it up, you stop using your bloodied wickedly barbed whip.
  
  You say to the lean, ponytailed man, in sirihish:
       "Zik, Zik... relax."
  
  Shifting a glance over, the rangy, bushy-headed half-giant says to the lean, ponytailed man, in sirihish:
       "I asked. I wanted to go, but they said I needed a mount'n stuff."
  
   The rugged, squat half-giant glances down at the lean, ponytailed man.
  
  The barbarous, black-maned youth's knees buckles a bit, he lets out a hoarse yelp in pain.
  
  The large, sideburned man releases the barbarous, black-maned youth, who immediately moves away.
  
  You say to the large, sideburned man, in sirihish:
       "Please show 'im to 'Bones to get the wounds taken care of."
  
  The large, sideburned man nods.
  
  His bandaged arm tensing as his fingers make a fist, the lean, ponytailed man says to you, in sirihish:
       "It's . . . hard. Sir."
  
  The rugged, squat half-giant says to the lean, ponytailed man, in sirihish:
       "Not said anything.  You got a problem.  You come to ring with me."
  
  In a gurgle, the barbarous, black-maned youth says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
       "No.."
  
  The petite, freckled youth watches the barbarous, black-maned youth's back in horror.
  
  The lean, ponytailed man says to the rugged, squat half-giant, in sirihish:
       "Okay, maybe not you. But Carl . . . "
  
  The lean, ponytailed man looks up at the rangy, bushy-headed half-giant.
  
  You say to the lean, ponytailed man, in sirihish:
       "Zik, I know very well how hard it is. I've seen some shit. Hell, I've been whipped to a pulp myself. All of it."
  
  You say to the lean, ponytailed man, in sirihish:
       "The giant don't mean nothin'."
  
  Very quietly, as he passes by, the austere, fine-boned blonde says to the barbarous, black-maned youth, in northern-accented sirihish:
       "Erak. Do not be foolish. Go to Bones."
  
  You say to the barbarous, black-maned youth, in sirihish:
       "You need those wounds treated. Believe me."
  
  Gesturing at the two giants, the lean, ponytailed man says to you, in sirihish:
       "It's just, I saw Zuib'n Kromp fall yesterday. They could both outmatch either giant here."
  
  The rugged, squat half-giant snorts loudly.
  
  Waving a hand, hoarsly, the barbarous, black-maned youth exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:
       "Just throw me out! I won't change, and I wish not death!"
  
  The large, sideburned man looks to you.
  
   Shrugging his huge shoulders, the rangy, bushy-headed half-giant says, in sirihish:
       "Figures. See? Not tough enough."
  
  You say to the lean, ponytailed man, in sirihish:
       "I've been betrayed an' backstabbed by friends an' allies, I've watched one love get torn apart before me an' the other disappeared without a trace."
  
  The barbarous, black-maned youth yelps at his own outburst, grimacing at his pain.
  
  You say to the lean, ponytailed man, in sirihish:
       "We can just keep goin' an' goin'..."
  
  You say to the barbarous, black-maned youth, in sirihish:
       "I'll toss you out in a few weeks."
  
  You say to the barbarous, black-maned youth, in sirihish:
       "Get fixed."
  
  His sandy brows furrowed, the lean, ponytailed man says to you, in sirihish:
       "My point is, all this trainin' is useless if it ain't applied correctly. We need more than just tons of muscle to kill the Fangs."
  
  Tries to fold a hand to his back, grimacing, the barbarous, black-maned youth says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
       "I beg you, Lieutenant.. This, I care not for, anymore! I have payed my mistake."
  
  You say to the lean, ponytailed man, in sirihish:
       "I agree completely. The wheels are in motion..."
  
  Slowly turning back to him, you say to the barbarous, black-maned youth, in sirihish:
       "Get. Fixed."
  
  Biting her lower lip, the petite, freckled youth looks up at the barbarous, black-maned youth.
  
  He breaks out in a childlike whine, the barbarous, black-maned youth exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:
       "I wish release from this! Release me! Please!"
  
  The lean, ponytailed man lets out a weary sigh, picking a sliver of bone from his pocket to stick between his teeth. He chews on it tensely.
  
  Stumbling down to a knee, crawling towards you, the barbarous, black-maned youth sits down.
  
  You say to the large, sideburned man, in sirihish:
       "Sergeant, please, restrain the runner an'... aw, damn it, Erak."
  
  The large, sideburned man attempts to grab the barbarous, black-maned youth, but he wrestles away.
  
  You say to the barbarous, black-maned youth, in sirihish:
       "Get fixed up, or yer gonna regret it. I don't mean it as a threat, I'm just genuinely concerned here, Krath."
  
  The petite, freckled youth stifles some tears, sniffing loudly and huffing. She tries to maintain her composure, failing a little bit.
   
  Watery eyed, almost bawling, the barbarous, black-maned youth exclaims to the rugged, squat half-giant, in tribal-accented sirihish:
       "I don't want to anymore! They're all going to die! I don't want to! Please.. I can shovel dung! I can shovel it good! Just let me go!"
  
  The lean, ponytailed man shuffles behind the petite, freckled youth as he chews on some bone, placing a shaking hand to perch atop her shoulder.
  
  The dark-haired, hazel-eyed man stares at the barbarous, black-maned youth in mild astonishment.
  
  Mockingly, you say, in sirihish:
       "'They're all goin' to die!' Yes, yes they are. We all are."
  
  Pointing to the aba on the floor, the rangy, bushy-headed half-giant says to the rugged, squat half-giant, in sirihish:
       "See, when he threw his colors on the floor.. I was like, yeah.. he's a cunt. He don't wanna be here cause someone caught up to his stupid shit."
  
  You say to the barbarous, black-maned youth, in sirihish:
       "Erak, we can speak when yer fixed up an' calmed down."
  
  The barbarous, black-maned youth slumps down before the rugged, squat half-giant, crying openly.
  
  The barbarous, black-maned youth slumps down before you, crying openly.
  
  The rangy, bushy-headed half-giant says to the rugged, squat half-giant, in sirihish:
       "I asked, hey Sarge, can I skip chores too? I hate chores, but no - I gotta do it."
  
  To nobody in particular, the austere, fine-boned blonde says, in northern-accented sirihish:
       "I am afraid that I have gate duty."
  
  The rugged, mustachioed man eyes the barbarous, black-maned youth with a trace of disgust on his features and motions to the large, sideburned man.
  
  The large, sideburned man attempts to grab the barbarous, black-maned youth, but he wrestles away.
  
   You say to the austere, fine-boned blonde, in sirihish:
       "Yes, go on."
  
  The austere, fine-boned blonde salutes to you.
  
  The barbarous, black-maned youth exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:
       "Just.. Please! I am begging you! Why!"
  
  The large, sideburned man attempts to grab the barbarous, black-maned youth, but he wrestles away.
  
  You say to the barbarous, black-maned youth, in sirihish:
       "Stop fightin', yer only gonna make it worse."
  
  The large, sideburned man subdues the barbarous, black-maned youth, despite his attempts to struggle away.
  
  The petite, freckled youth exclaims, in sirihish:
       "What are you going to do to him!"
  
  The austere, fine-boned blonde leaves a stone archway.
  
  You exclaim to the petite, freckled youth, in sirihish:
       "Gettin' 'im healed, for cryin' out loud!"
  
  The lean, ponytailed man says to the petite, freckled youth, in sirihish:
       "Nothin'. Now calm down."
  
  The large, sideburned man pulls the barbarous, black-maned youth away from you.
  
  Shrugging his large shoulders a bit as he returns his gaze toward the barbarous, black-maned youth, the rangy, bushy-headed half-giant says to the rugged, squat half-giant, in sirihish:
       "Best to do what Sarge says, see."
  
  The petite, freckled youth reaches a hand out towards the barbarous, black-maned youth.
  
  You say to the large, sideburned man, in sirihish:
       "Get 'im to 'Bones, he knows what to do."
  
  The large, sideburned man drags the barbarous, black-maned youth to the entrance.
  
   The large, sideburned man leaves a stone archway.
  The large, sideburned man drags the barbarous, black-maned youth out as well.
  
  You ask the petite, freckled youth, in sirihish:
       "So, what're you gonna do?"
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from outside in tribal-accented sirihish:
       "Pleaaaaaaaase!"
  
  Snubbing some tears with a knuckle, the petite, freckled youth asks you, in sirihish:
       "Whaddyamean?"
  
  The rugged, mustachioed man peers out the archway momentarily.
  
  The sturdy, vivid-eyed dwarf settles his implacable stare on the petite, freckled youth.
  
  You ask the petite, freckled youth, in sirihish:
       "You gonna dramatically remove yer uniform?"
   
  The lean, ponytailed man gets his loaf of brown bread from his red-striped canvas backpack.
  
  The lean, ponytailed man gets his loaf of brown bread from his red-striped canvas backpack.
  
  Growling, the petite, freckled youth says to you, in sirihish:
       "I wouldn't give you the -satisfaction-. Sir."
  
  The rugged, mustachioed man smiles briefly.
  
  Walking over to the rugged, squat half-giant and the rangy, bushy-headed half-giant, the lean, ponytailed man says, in sirihish:
       "Sorry for yellin' harsh, big guys. Here's some bread eh."
  
  The lean, ponytailed man gives his loaf of brown bread to the rugged, squat half-giant.
  
   The lean, ponytailed man gives his loaf of brown bread to the rangy, bushy-headed half-giant.
   
  The rugged, squat half-giant gives his loaf of brown bread to the lean, ponytailed man.
  
  Shrugging, the lean, ponytailed man eats a portion of his loaf of brown bread.
  
  The rugged, squat half-giant hands the loaf back, frowning.
  
  Rubbing a hand over his mouth momentarily, you say to the petite, freckled youth, in sirihish:
       "Alright."
  
  Peering down at him, the rangy, bushy-headed half-giant says to the lean, ponytailed man, in sirihish:
       "It's okay. I get mad too, sometimes."
  
  Stuffing it into his mouth, the rangy, bushy-headed half-giant eats a portion of his loaf of brown bread.
  
  The lean, ponytailed man eats his half eaten loaf of brown bread.
  
  You say to the petite, freckled youth, in sirihish:
       "Yer dismissed. Cross me again an' it's the lash."
  
  The lean, ponytailed man puts his octagonal purple tablet into his small leather pouch.
  
  The rangy, bushy-headed half-giant eats his half eaten loaf of brown bread.
  
  Addressing the group as a whole, you say, in sirihish:
       "It's like guys don't think I'm bothered by Zuib an' Kromp bitin' it, shit..."
  
  The rugged, mustachioed man rolls his eyes to himself.
  
  Chewing loudly, the rangy, bushy-headed half-giant says to you, in sirihish:
       "I didn't know 'em."
  
  To everyone but the petite, freckled youth, you ask, in sirihish:
       "Other guys, we good?"
  
  The petite, freckled youth frowns, crossing her tiny arms.
  
  The dark-haired, hazel-eyed man says, in sirihish:
       "Yes sir."
  
  Scratching at his patchy beard, the lean, ponytailed man says, in sirihish:
       "Mostly Zuib, but . . . eh."
  
  Smacking his lips while he chews, the rangy, bushy-headed half-giant says to you, in sirihish:
       "Real good, Lootenent."
  
  The rugged, squat half-giant shrugs, watching the others in the hall.
  
  Hesitantly, the lean, ponytailed man says to you, in sirihish:
       "I'm good. I think."
  
  Voice unexpressive, the sturdy, vivid-eyed dwarf says to you, in sirihish:
       "Everyone's been bothered to some extent, that much is obvious, sir.  But you've got all my talents as always, Sir."
  
  The rugged, mustachioed man nods his understanding to the sturdy, vivid-eyed dwarf before patting a hand once on the lean, ponytailed man's shoulder.
  
  You say, in sirihish:
       "Alright, yer all dismissed. Rest, recover... we got work to do in the near future. Vengeance work."
  
  Glancing up, his piercing eyes wide, the lean, ponytailed man says to you, in sirihish:
       "T'last thing that fang will see is my face. And it will be smilin', sir."
  
  The dark-haired, hazel-eyed man renders a salute.
  
   The rugged, mustachioed man nods firmly to the lean, ponytailed man.
  
  The dark-haired, hazel-eyed man leaves a stone archway.
  
  Nodding to the rangy, bushy-headed half-giant, the sturdy, vivid-eyed dwarf asks the rugged, squat half-giant, in sirihish:
       "We're going to train you big fecks how to kill neckers.  How's that sound?"
  
  The lean, ponytailed man salutes with his bandaged arm.
   
  The sturdy, vivid-eyed dwarf taps off a firm salute to you.
  
  The rangy, bushy-headed half-giant says, in sirihish:
       "Skinny pie. I make it good, yeah."
  
  The rugged, mustachioed man returns the salute crisply before stooping over for your hooded, black military aba.
  
  Shrugging, the rugged, squat half-giant asks, in sirihish:
       "Okay.  Hit in face, right?"
  
  You pick up a dusty hooded, brown military aba.
  It is very light, and empty.
   
  Wiping a hand across his mouth, the rangy, bushy-headed half-giant walks north.
  
  You brush the dust off of a stained hooded, brown military aba.
  
  Chuckling, the sturdy, vivid-eyed dwarf says, in sirihish:
       "Not that simple, Bok.  Not that simple."
  
  The petite, freckled youth watches you with fiery, silent intensity.
  
  The rangy, bushy-headed half-giant has arrived from the north.
  
  Arching a brow, the lean, ponytailed man asks the sturdy, vivid-eyed dwarf, in sirihish:
       "Grab them first, then punch in t'face?"
  
  You think:
       "I did this right."
  
  The rugged, squat half-giant walks south.
  
  You feel certain.
  
  The rugged, squat half-giant has arrived from the south.
  
  Holding his long wooden plank to him, the rangy, bushy-headed half-giant asks the sturdy, vivid-eyed dwarf, in sirihish:
       "This yours?"
  
  The rugged, squat half-giant wanders off.
  
  The sturdy, vivid-eyed dwarf nods agreeably to the lean, ponytailed man.
  
  The petite, freckled youth just sort of sighs.
  
  The rugged, squat half-giant leaves a stone archway.
  
  The rugged, mustachioed man meets the petite, freckled youth's gaze for a moment before heading out.
  
   [Raul moseys over to the barracks]
   
  The Main Barracks [EU Quit]
  A multi-ringed dartboard is here hanging on the northern wall.
  A large barrel of water is shoved in the corner.
  The barbarous, black-maned youth [CREATING] is reclining on a small leather cot.
  - he is carrying a worn, carru-hide pack.
  The bulky, bald man is sitting here.
  The brown-haired, blue-eyed man looks around slowly from his pallet here.
  The thin, chestnut-haired woman stands here, watching the stairs.
  The grey-maned, wooden-legged man sits here, sharpening a bone-toothed saw.
  The dimpled, shaven-headed man looks over a wounded mercenary here.
  
  The rugged, squat half-giant has arrived from the east.
  
  The rugged, mustachioed man purses his lips to the side as he spots the barbarous, black-maned youth.
  
  Dropping it near him, you give your stained hooded, brown military aba to the barbarous, black-maned youth.
  
  The rugged, mustachioed man turns and leaves.
  
  The barbarous, black-maned youth lies on his side, face a watery and messy mess.
  
  The large, sideburned man has arrived from the east.
  
  The barbarous, black-maned youth exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:
       "Lieutenant!"
  
  The rugged, mustachioed man stops.
  
  The large, sideburned man stops holding his dim rag-wrapped bone torch.
  The large, sideburned man extinguishes a dim rag-wrapped bone torch.
  
   The rugged, squat half-giant sits down to rest.
  
  The rugged, mustachioed man glances from the grey-maned, wooden-legged man to the barbarous, black-maned youth.
  
  You ask the barbarous, black-maned youth, in sirihish:
       "Yeah?"
  
  The rugged, squat half-giant yawns, stretching out along a wall.
   
  He whimpers, the barbarous, black-maned youth exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:
       ".. please. I.. can't.. Eight! Nine!"
  
   The rugged, mustachioed man holds a finger to his lips and shushes the barbarous, black-maned youth.
  
  You say to the barbarous, black-maned youth, in sirihish:
       "Two, three weeks."
  
  The barbarous, black-maned youth says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
       "But Slim! I promised Slim.. He'll die."
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  The petite, freckled youth sends you a telepathic message:
       "I'm sorry sir. I'm...This is a lot to take in. I won't do it again."
  
  The barbarous, black-maned youth tries to wipe some snot away from his face.
  
  You say to the barbarous, black-maned youth, in sirihish:
       "He might. Guess he shouldn't've murdered my man."
  
  The petite, freckled youth sends you a telepathic message:
       "I promise. I will follow orders...I'll learn. I'll do what you tell me to do."
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You contact the petite, freckled youth with the Way.
  
  The barbarous, black-maned youth exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:
       "I have a place to stay.. I can live! Worry.. Please.. Just! Don't leave me here. .With them!"
  
  The rugged, squat half-giant raises a bushy eyebrow, peering at the barbarous, black-maned youth.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the petite, freckled youth:
       "I know, it was all very shitty. Every new wave has a meltdown at some point. It's just the reality of the situation."
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the petite, freckled youth:
       "Take care. Stick to yer work. Erak is a broken man. Yer already stronger."
  
  The petite, freckled youth sends you a telepathic message:
       "It sounds so...Awesome from the outside. Sell-swords. Drunkards. Sex...Not that I know what that's like really."
  
  Grunting, you say to the barbarous, black-maned youth, in sirihish:
       "You ain't gonna die. Calm down, let yer wounds heal."
  
  A loud horn blast sounds from the northeast.
  
  The barbarous, black-maned youth asks the rugged, squat half-giant, in tribal-accented sirihish:
       "I don't.. want to be here no more! Why are you holding me!?"
  
  The petite, freckled youth sends you a telepathic message:
       "It's hard to...It's all a fantasy until it becomes a reality. I poked my first thing today and made it bleed. We were all going to celebrate when we got back...But then...Then people died."
  
  You say to the barbarous, black-maned youth, in sirihish:
       "No one -here- is gonna fuck with you, 'cause they'd get some mighty harsh treatment."
  
  The thin, chestnut-haired woman intently scans the area.
  
  You say to the barbarous, black-maned youth, in sirihish:
       "'Cause I can. I like you here, right now, for yer recovery."
  
  The sturdy, vivid-eyed dwarf has arrived from the east, plodding along.
  
  Quietly, the large, sideburned man says, in sirihish:
       "He doesn't mean us, sir."
  
  The petite, freckled youth sends you a telepathic message:
       "It is all fun and games until people die. And then it becomes so vivid...Almost unreal. I'm sorry...I just. I guess i'll have to be a hardass now, since you told everyone how old I am."
  
  He pleads, bringing up his hands, the barbarous, black-maned youth exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:
       "You.. did! Just.. let me go, please, sir!"
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the petite, freckled youth:
       "Sorry, I didn't realize that was a secret. I guess it makes sense that it was."
  
  The sturdy, vivid-eyed dwarf trudges over to a small leather cot.
  
  Flopping down into it, the sturdy, vivid-eyed dwarf rests on a small leather cot.
  
  The petite, freckled youth sends you a telepathic message:
       "It's okay. I'll get by, sir."
  
  You say to the barbarous, black-maned youth, in sirihish:
       "I will eventually. Relax."
  
  The rugged, squat half-giant lays down, beginning to snore.
  
  The rugged, squat half-giant has departed from the land of Zalanthas.
  
  You say to the large, sideburned man, in sirihish:
       "Sergeant, if you got just one moment..."
  
  The rugged, mustachioed man beckons to the large, sideburned man.
  
  The large, sideburned man nods at you.
  
  He laments at the ceiling, the barbarous, black-maned youth exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:
       "They are so cruel! Please!"
  
  The large, sideburned man steps over.
  
  The petite, freckled youth has arrived from the east.
  
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  You dissolve the psychic link.
  
  The barbarous, black-maned youth exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:
       "I beg you! Release me, I don't want to be here! I can take care of my own!"
  
  You look at the petite, freckled youth.
  This young, small girl has barely hit puberty, leaving most of her
  body covered with bits of baby fat and underdeveloped muscle; what muscle is
  visible lies around her arms and legs.  Her eyes are a mismatched hazel brown
  and viridian blue, in the left and right respectively.  A tiny nose sits in
  the middle of her freckled face, a swath of blonde hair rolling over her head
  to about her shoulders.  Her teeth are mostly grown in, though there're a few
  gaps of teeth still missing.  Freckles adorn most of her body, especially
  around the forearms.  A hoop of bone intersects her lower lip right in the center. 
  The petite, freckled youth is in excellent condition.
  
  The petite, freckled youth is using:
  <worn on head>           an used dusty chitin-plated leather helmet
  <worn around neck>       a dusty stiff, black-leather gorget
  <slung across back>      a dusty short bone sparring spear
  <worn across back>       a dusty bone-studded backpack
  <worn on torso>          a stained chitin-plated leather cuirass
  <worn on left shoulder>  a dusty purple, bloody claw-sewn patch
  <worn around wrist>      an used sweat-stained dark leather bracer
  <worn around wrist>      a studded hide wrist-wrap
  <worn as belt>           a brown leather pouched belt
  <hung from belt>         an obsidian-bladed kirisigi dagger
  <hung from belt>         a bloodied black mandible-headed spear
  <worn around body>       a dusty hooded, brown military aba
  <worn on legs>           an used sweat-stained pair of dark leather leggings
  <worn on feet>           an used dusty pair of chitin-plated leather boots
  
  She is carrying:
  nothing obvious
  
  The petite, freckled youth sits on a small leather cot.
  
  The sturdy, vivid-eyed dwarf exhales a long breath, then moves to ease up from his cot.
  
  The sturdy, vivid-eyed dwarf stands up from a small leather cot.
  
  The rugged, mustachioed man turns from the barbarous, black-maned youth and heads for the stares.
  
  The Main Barracks [ND Quit]
  A multi-ringed dartboard hangs on a wall here.
  The grizzled, long-fingered mercenary sits on a pallet here, tattooing.
  The barrel-chested, ebony-skinned man lies here on a grimy pallet, sleepy-eyed.
  The tattooed, square-headed man lays restlessly on a cot.
  The lanky, bald-headed woman stands here, looking bored.
  
  The large, sideburned man has arrived from below.
  
  Lowering his voice as he peers over the railing, you whisper to the large, sideburned man in sirihish:
       "I'm keepin' 'im here as somethin' of a gamble..."
   
  The large, sideburned man nods at you.
  
  Looking back to him, you whisper to the large, sideburned man in sirihish:
       "One, I'd like 'im to recover before I set 'im loose. I don't do that to guys that don't deserve it. Two..."
  
  You whisper to the large, sideburned man in sirihish:
       "He's totally broken right now. I wanna see how he develops, an' I want the others to see it."
  
  You whisper to the large, sideburned man in sirihish:
       "It'll weed some've the weaker ones out, an' it'll strengthen the hard ones."
  
  The large, sideburned man whispers to you, in sirihish:
       "He came unhinged when Urrik was shot too."
  
  You whisper to the large, sideburned man in sirihish:
       "I noticed that, an' I thought he'd turn like Raveni just did. It don't always work that way, though."
  
  You whisper to the large, sideburned man in sirihish:
       "This was a pretty shitty day. Days..."
  
  The large, sideburned man whispers to you, in sirihish:
       "I don't think we can escort Tasok back in four weeks, sir... not in the face of what just happened."
  
  The rugged, mustachioed man blows out a breath and wipes his hand down his face.
  
  You whisper to the large, sideburned man in sirihish:
       "No, we can't. Instead, we need to prepare for revenge. I'll smooth things an' make 'em right with the Agent."
  
  The large, sideburned man whispers to you, in sirihish:
       "not only is it risking our best runner, but Tasok himself."
   
  The rugged, mustachioed man nods.
   
  You whisper to the large, sideburned man in sirihish:
       "Sorry things got brutal. But you see, it's very necessary. Sometimes it builds up an' boils over like this."
   
  The large, sideburned man whispers to you, in sirihish:
       "Revani may not take my orders anymore."
  
  You whisper to the large, sideburned man in sirihish:
       "She will. Yer my man, an' she knows not to cross me."
  
  The large, sideburned man whispers to you, in sirihish:
       "Once the arrows started ocming I paniced out there.. Tried to get Kromp and Zuib to flee, but was too late."
  
  Resting a hand on his shoulder, you whisper to the large, sideburned man in sirihish:
       "I know. I know very well how it goes. But I know you've learned, too. I got faith in you, Sergeant."
  
  The large, sideburned man nods at you.
  
  You whisper to the large, sideburned man in sirihish:
       "It was a tough spot. An' really, tough spots are hard to avoid someties."
  
  The large, sideburned man whispers to you, in sirihish:
       "I'm glad Niema got sick when she did." [ie pregnant with Raul's baby, I believe]
  
  The rugged, mustachioed man nods after a pause. [It was a... complicated situation in some ways]
  
  You whisper to the large, sideburned man in sirihish:
       "Yeah... believe me, I worry. I try not to get hung up on shit, but I do worry 'bout you guys."
  
  The large, sideburned man whispers to you, in sirihish:
       "What do we do with Gil's body?"
  
  The large, sideburned man opens his bloodied bahamet-embroidered leather backpack.
  
  The large, sideburned man gets his blue and purple ceramic bottle from his bloodied bahamet-embroidered leather backpack.
  
  Passing it over, the large, sideburned man gives you his blue and purple ceramic bottle.
  
  The large, sideburned man closes his bloodied bahamet-embroidered leather backpack.
  
  You whisper to the large, sideburned man in sirihish:
       "We'll dump it outside by the sewer pipes. Won't be the first time. Won't be the last."
  
  The rugged, mustachioed man accepts the bottle gratefully.
  
  You drink the firestorm's flame.
   
  The large, sideburned man whispers to you, in sirihish:
       "Strip it?"
  
  The rugged, mustachioed man nods.
  
  The large, sideburned man whispers to you, in sirihish:
       "I'll take care of it, sir."
   
  You whisper to the large, sideburned man in sirihish:
       "Take it all, put the armor an' shit into the storeroom. I know it's been a long week, so if you gotta just toss it all on the bench, it's fine."
  
  You whisper to the large, sideburned man in sirihish:
       "The coin is yers."
  
  The large, sideburned man whispers to you, in sirihish:
       "I'll sort it all.... though I may need to get this piece of gith spear out of me first..."
  
  The rugged, mustachioed man chuckles quietly.
  
  You whisper to the large, sideburned man in sirihish:
       "Priorities, eh?"
  
  The large, sideburned man whispers to you, in sirihish:
       "Carl cracked my jerkin before we left, so all I had was a leather vest."
  
  The rugged, mustachioed man gives the large, sideburned man's shoulder a companionable slap.
  
  Flashing a grin, you whisper to the large, sideburned man in sirihish:
       "That... sucks."
  
  The large, sideburned man gives a short rueful chuckle.
  
   
  You whisper to the large, sideburned man in sirihish:
       "I gotta go. This is gonna make one helluva report."
  
   The large, sideburned man nods at you.
  
   You say to the large, sideburned man, in sirihish:
       "'Sid an' glory, sergeant."
  
   The rugged, mustachioed man moves for the stairs.
  
  The Main Barracks [EU Quit]
  A multi-ringed dartboard is here hanging on the northern wall.
  A large barrel of water is shoved in the corner.
  The austere, fine-boned blonde is standing here.
  - she is carrying a plain bag of cloth.
  The sturdy, vivid-eyed dwarf is reclining on a small leather cot.
  - he is carrying a large bag.
  - he is carrying a couple of bone-studded backpacks.
  The barbarous, black-maned youth is reclining on a small leather cot.
  - he is carrying a worn, carru-hide pack.
  The bulky, bald man is sitting here.
  The brown-haired, blue-eyed man looks around slowly from his pallet here.
  The thin, chestnut-haired woman stands here, watching the stairs.
  The grey-maned, wooden-legged man sits here, sharpening a bone-toothed saw.
  The dimpled, shaven-headed man looks over a wounded mercenary here.
  
  Whimpering, the barbarous, black-maned youth says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
       "No one understands.. I almost died out there. No one looked at me twice. No orders.. Zik saved us all."
   
  From his cot, the sturdy, vivid-eyed dwarf dips his head to you as you comes down the stairs.
   
  The rugged, mustachioed man descends the stairs languidly and heads on out.
  
  [he strolls to the Officers' Barracks]
  
  The rugged, mustachioed man snorts out a chuckle.
  
  Feeling relief, you think:
       "Well, that turned out better'n it could've."
  
  You think:
       "Ah, Ryzen, you'll learn."
  
  You get your black stone key with one purple stripe from your leather swordbelt.
  It is very light.
  
  You unlock the door with a black stone key with one purple stripe. - *click*
  
  You open the door.
  
   A Small Hallway [ESW]
  The lean, sharp-eyed woman is here, leaning casually against a wall.
  The dark, war-painted dwarf looks around as he stands here.
  The thin, trim-bearded half-elf stands here, watching the hallway.
  
  You close the door.
  
  You lock the door with a black stone key with one purple stripe. - *click*
  
   You put your black stone key with one purple stripe into your leather swordbelt.
  
  You think:
       "There's always a crisis for the new guy."
  
   The Officers' Barracks [ES Quit]
  
   You sit down and rest your tired bones.
  
  You think:
       "It's happened to every single one've us."
  
  The rugged, mustachioed man shakes his head slowly to himself.
  
  You think:
       "Everyone'll see Erak as the broken man. Only in the soft will it cause some discontent."
  
  [the end]
  
  
  
  

  [Told from the perspective of Lieutenant Raul of the T'zai Byn (Demonslayer, Hero of Deeds, etc.), the rugged, mustachioed man.]
  
  [The following description stuff is cobbled together from a few logs, but it's about right.]
  
  You are Raul, of many people. (type 'tribes' to see your tribes).
  Keywords:...
  Continue Reading...
• 

  An Unprecedented Meeting by Maglos
  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? by Maglos
  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...
• 

  When Bynners Get Drunk by Semper
  Added on Dec 5, 2010

  Just before a contract to head north, a group of runners of the T'zai Byn get together to drink and have fun. A lot of craziness ensues.

  ---

  From the perspective of "the compact, sun-bronzed woman".
  
  
  Looking down from his impressive height, the blond, strapping man stares unblinking at the red-haired, lean woman.
  
  Clasping both her hands behind her, the red-haired, lean woman says, in sirihish:
       "We are currently in the final steps of being awarded a contract from the northers. It involves patroling and guardind labourers clearing the North Road just north of Luir's."
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man glances at the tall, heavily-scarred man.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man tenses, slightly, the hint of a frown touching his lips.
  
  The blond, strapping man says, in sirihish:
       "Ah . .. "
  
  The red-haired, lean woman says, in sirihish:
       "They asked for the Ragin' Tembos specifically, but I'll talk to Sergeant Cael about borrowing some of his men too."
  
  The short, ebony-skinned elf nods, smiling.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man says to the red-haired, lean woman, in sirihish:
       "Aye... clear'n it'a what?  Ah heard some-- yeh."
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man says to the red-haired, lean woman, in sirihish:
       "Sergeant, if I may..."
  
  Looking to him, the red-haired, lean woman asks the tall, heavily-scarred man, in sirihish:
       "Yes?"
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man asks the red-haired, lean woman, in sirihish:
       "This doesn't happen to have anything to do with the Kryl gathering in Grey Forest, does it?"
  
  Shaking her head, the red-haired, lean woman says, in sirihish:
       "We are not going into the Forest as far as I know."
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man says to the red-haired, lean woman, in sirihish:
       "... Trust me, you don't have to."
  
  With a nod, the red-haired, lean woman says to the tall, heavily-scarred man, in sirihish:
  
  Flicking his gaze aside to the tall, heavily-scarred man briefly, the blond, strapping man says, in sirihish:
       "Its right near the Pah."
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man says to the red-haired, lean woman, in sirihish:
       "Alright. That's all I wanted to know."
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man sighs.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man says to the tall, heavily-scarred man, in sirihish:
       "Yeh, so need to go piss'n yer pants."
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man chuckles at the tall, heavily-scarred man.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man refocuses his attention back on the red-haired, lean woman.
  
  As she looks around, the red-haired, lean woman asks, in sirihish:
       "I've spent ten years here in this company. I know a unit when it's ready and when it's not. We ain't all there yet. I need every man mounted, and every 'necker with a tent. Who doesn't have a mount yet?"
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man glances around, for a moment.
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man raises a hand.
  
  To the lean, brown-skinned man, the red-haired, lean woman asks, in sirihish:
       "That's one... and anyone else?"
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man gets his pile of allanaki coins from his rough canvas backpack.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man hums, and picks out a pouch, counting it up, before nodding slowly.
  
  With a nod, the red-haired, lean woman says, in sirihish:
       "Alright, we can work with that. We also need everyone armored and ready in fightin' order."
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man puts his pile of allanaki coins into his rough canvas backpack.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man says to the red-haired, lean woman, in sirihish:
       "I'm as armored as I'll get."
  
  The short, ebony-skinned elf says, in sirihish:
       "Just need an escort, Sarge, or permission, and I can get the cash for the tent.  Ain't been able to find a shovel for the shit, yet.  "
  
  Chuckling, the lean, brown-skinned man says, in sirihish:
       "Well, damn."
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man closes his hooded, brown military aba.
  
  The red-haired, lean woman says to the short, ebony-skinned elf, in sirihish:
       "Escort? You can get a tent down in miners road. I'll take you there myself."
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man says to the red-haired, lean woman, in sirihish:
       "Ah'v got armored covered, pretty much.  Figure ah'll go buy a better blade at th' bazaar..."
  
  The short, ebony-skinned elf says, in sirihish:
       "Escort or permission for the flats, was what I meant."
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man asks the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man, in sirihish:
       "You need a sword?"
  
  Looking over, the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man says to the tall, heavily-scarred man, in sirihish:
       "'ey, shithead.  Lemme see that one poker yeh had in your pack."
  
  The short, ebony-skinned elf says, in sirihish:
       "I been wandering around the city for some time alone. "
  
  The short, ebony-skinned elf chuckles.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man asks the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man, in sirihish:
       "... The rapier or the shortsword?"
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man says to the tall, heavily-scarred man, in sirihish:
       "Yeh, sorta.  That rapier-thin'."
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man wipes a hand down his face.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man holds up his bloodied rib-hilted bone rapier, and his bloodied double-edged bone shortsword.
  
  Returning her attention to the group, the red-haired, lean woman says, in sirihish:
       "Now we haven't sealed the deal yet but we will soon, meanin' you have time to prepare and that's why I'm talkin' to you today."
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man nods to the rapier.
  
  Off to the side, you sit down, relaxing.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man says to the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man, in sirihish:
       "Which one you want? Both're fuckin' Militia swords from up north."
  
  The red-haired, lean woman asks, in sirihish:
       "Any questions?"
  
  Handing it over handle first, the tall, heavily-scarred man gives his bloodied rib-hilted bone rapier to the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man says to the tall, heavily-scarred man, in sirihish:
       "Lemme borrow it fer th' trip, aye?  Ah'll watch yer back for't."
  
  The short, ebony-skinned elf shakes his head.
  
  Your new ldesc is:
  The compact, sun-bronzed woman sits here by the wall, relaxing
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man says to the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man, in sirihish:
       "Sure. Just don't lose it, that's high quality shit..."
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man shakes his head.
  
  The blond, strapping man says, in sirihish:
       "No, Sergeant."
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man slants the tall, heavily-scarred man a smile, taking his bloodied rib-hilted bone rapier by its carved hilt.
  
  The red-haired, lean woman looks down at the tall, heavily-scarred man.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man says to the red-haired, lean woman, in sirihish:
       "And nah, I'm ready to go."
  
  The red-haired, lean woman asks the tall, heavily-scarred man, in sirihish:
       "Why do you have militia swords?"
  
  Weighing his bloodied rib-hilted bone rapier in his hand, the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man says, in sirihish:
       "Shet, this' heavy."
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man says to the red-haired, lean woman, in sirihish:
       "They were given to me by a Half-Giant."
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man quickly wipes the blood off of a bloodied rib-hilted bone rapier.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man holds his rib-hilted bone rapier.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man slings a rib-hilted bone rapier across his back.
  
  The compact, sun-bronzed woman breathes out an amused chuckle.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man shrugs, off-handedly.
  
  The red-haired, lean woman says to the tall, heavily-scarred man, in sirihish:
       "We're going to be stationed in the north. Those swords will need to be replaced."
  
  The blond, strapping man glances over to you.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man says to the red-haired, lean woman, in sirihish:
       "They won't know the difference, trust me."
  
  Extending a hand, the red-haired, lean woman says to the tall, heavily-scarred man, in sirihish:
       "Show me."
  
  The short, ebony-skinned elf stops using his bloodied short stabbing halfspear.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man says to the red-haired, lean woman, in sirihish:
       "They're 'militia' swords, in that they came from there, but you can buy that shit from anywhere up north."
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man gives his bloodied double-edged bone shortsword to the red-haired, lean woman.
  The lean, brown-skinned man sighs.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man says to the red-haired, lean woman, in sirihish:
       "Ain' a big deal sarge.  Doesn' even have no emblems on't or brandings."
  
  The red-haired, lean woman nods.
  
  The red-haired, lean woman says, in sirihish:
       "Alright."
  
  The short, ebony-skinned elf quickly wipes the blood off of a bloodied short stabbing halfspear.
  
  The short, ebony-skinned elf brandishes his short stabbing halfspear.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man says to the red-haired, lean woman, in sirihish:
       "They came out of the Militia stocks, no brands. Otherwise I'd never have taken em."
  
  The short, ebony-skinned elf sheathes a short stabbing halfspear.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man holds his hand out, for the shortsword.
  
  A Small Training Hall [S]
     This small, bare stone hall has thick straw pads on the walls, and also
  on part of the floor, to provide some small degree of cushioning from the
  violent activity normally seen here. Around the hall, a few pairs of rough-
  looking mercenaries engage in close-combat drills or sparring. The smell of
  stale sweat hangs heavily in the air. A large archway opens up to a larger
  hall to the south.
  A couple of large, etched wooden casks are here.
  The blond, strapping man is standing here, looking a bit winded.
  - he is carrying a large bag.
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man is standing here.
  The red-haired, lean woman is here, hands clasped behind her back.
  The lean, brown-skinned man is standing here.
  The tall, heavily-scarred man is sitting here.
  The short, ebony-skinned elf is reclining here.
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  The red-haired, lean woman says, in sirihish:
       "Well, that's all I wanted to say. Get ready, really. Use the barracks if you want to drink. I'll be takin' Vhryss down to miners road."
  
  The short, ebony-skinned elf says, in sirihish:
       "Think I'm gonna want to lay in a few more throwing knives, and I still gotta get some armor."
  
  The blond, strapping man sends you a telepathic message:
       "You are fun drunk?"
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man says to the red-haired, lean woman, in sirihish:
       "Aye, ma'm."
  
  Loudly, the red-haired, lean woman says, in sirihish:
       "Dismissed."
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You contact the blond, strapping man with the Way.
  
  The blond, strapping man offers a salute to you.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man gets his waterskin from his small bag.
  
  The red-haired, lean woman snaps a fist to her chest.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man says to the red-haired, lean woman, in sirihish:
       "Yea- Hey, hold it."
  
  The blond, strapping man trods over to a large, etched wooden cask.
  
  The short, ebony-skinned elf says to the red-haired, lean woman, in sirihish:
       "I know the way, Sarge. I meant, an escort or permission for the flats, I ain't figured the shovelling of the shit yet."
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man chuckles, and raps a fist onto the chest-bit of his used bloodied chitin-banded leather cuirass.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man chuckles over at the tall, heavily-scarred man.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the blond, strapping man:
       "Eeeeh. Well. Just don't get on my bad side. I've nevah hit no non-bynner..."
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man glances at the blond, strapping man before saluting the red-haired, lean woman.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man glances over his shoulder once to the blond, strapping man then walks over to one of the casks.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man fills up a waterskin from a large, etched wooden cask.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man drinks firestorm's flame from his waterskin.
  
  The blond, strapping man picks up a large, etched wooden cask.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man picks up a large, etched wooden cask.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man says to the red-haired, lean woman, in sirihish:
       "Gonna need that sword back, y'know."
  
  The blond, strapping man says to the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man, in sirihish:
       "Lets haul these to the barracks, Berk."
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the blond, strapping man:
       "Actually...jes' might. Dunno. It's always a risk even for me to get drunk, heh."
  
  Gesturing with a hand, the red-haired, lean woman says to the short, ebony-skinned elf, in sirihish:
       "Well, you get a shovel, go to the stables, collect the shit in a bag, go on Merchants road 'till you reach the man with the cart. He'll pay you for it."
  
  You stand up, dusting herself off.
  
  You dissolve the psychic link.
  
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  Passing it back hilt first, the red-haired, lean woman gives her bloodied double-edged bone shortsword to the tall, heavily-scarred man.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man says to the short, ebony-skinned elf, in sirihish:
       "And get my bag from Berk."
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man puts his bloodied short bone sparring sword into his small bag.
  
  The short, ebony-skinned elf says, in sirihish:
       "Ah, 'twas the shovel part that fucked me up then."
  
  The blond, strapping man says, in sirihish:
       "Someone doesn't ant to drink."
  
  Cask halphazardly under one arm as he gives his waterskin a shake, the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man says to the blond, strapping man, in sirihish:
       "Looks like yeh got a good deal, Blondie."
  
  The blond, strapping man walks south.
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man walks south.
  You follow the blond, strapping man, and walk south.
  
  The Main Barracks [EU Quit]
     This massive, two-story hall seems to have undergone heavy rebuilding
  at some time in the past. Most of the vast room is open air, with the first
  story above ground level being nothing more than a balcony of sorts,
  several cords wide and running along the walls of the building. Both upper
  and lower floors are devoid of furniture, with several hundred grimy
  pallets arranged in semi-orderly rows along the walls. Solid stone stairs
  lead to the upper level from the western end of the hall. Suspended from
  the ceiling, more than twenty-five cords above, is a large black banner
  bearing a purple dragon.
     The hall appears mostly empty except for a few mercenaries here and
  there, mending armor, sharpening weapons, or just talking quietly.
  A multi-ringed dartboard hangs on a wall here.
  A large barrel of water is shoved in the corner.
  The blond, strapping man is standing here, looking tired.
  - he is carrying a large, etched wooden cask.
  - he is carrying a large bag.
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man is standing here.
  - he is carrying a large, etched wooden cask.
  The brown-haired, blue-eyed man looks around slowly from his pallet here.
  The thin, chestnut-haired woman stands here, watching the stairs.
  The grey-maned, wooden-legged man sits here, sharpening a bone-toothed saw.
  The dimpled, shaven-headed man looks over a wounded mercenary here.
  
  Flopping it down, the blond, strapping man drops his large, etched wooden cask.
  
  Slouching it against the wall, the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man drops his large, etched wooden cask.
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man has arrived from the east.
  
  Glancing over a shoulder, you say, in sirihish:
       "We should make one of the new guys eat part of the rat to join the party. Heh. Heh."
  
  Chuckling, the lean, brown-skinned man says, in sirihish:
       "Heh-heh... drinkin'."
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man fills up a waterskin from a large, etched wooden cask.
  
  The blond, strapping man says, in sirihish:
       "Ok, newbies."
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man drinks firestorm's flame from his waterskin.
  
  The blond, strapping man says, in sirihish:
       "Berk and Kar here can drink when and what they want, but you feckers."
  
  After a loud breath, the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man says, in sirihish:
       "Hard stuff."
  
  The blond, strapping man says, in sirihish:
       "There's one, simple rule."
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man drinks firestorm's flame from his waterskin.
  
  The blond, strapping man says, in sirihish:
       "I drink:  you drink."
  
  Smirking, the lean, brown-skinned man says, in sirihish:
       "I bet I can drink you under the table."
  
  The blond, strapping man says, in sirihish:
       "I promise, you'll be asleep by afternoon."
  
  The blond, strapping man opens his bone-studded backpack.
  
  The blond, strapping man gets his waterskin from his bone-studded backpack.
  
  The blond, strapping man closes his bone-studded backpack.
  
  Shuffling over to you, the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man says, in sirihish:
       "Kar..."
  
  Chuckling, the lean, brown-skinned man says to you, in sirihish:
       "I don't think he seen me drink before."
  
  Glancing toward the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man, you ask, in sirihish:
       "Hmmm?"
  
  Easing down near a large, etched wooden cask, the blond, strapping man sits on a small leather cot.
  
  Holding out his waterskin, the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man says to you, in sirihish:
       "Shoulda try some'a this."
  
  The blond, strapping man drinks water from his waterskin.
  
  The blond, strapping man drinks water from his waterskin.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man turns his waterskin over, cocking an eye down its contents.
  
  Turning back to a large, etched wooden cask, the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man says, in sirihish:
       "Shit."
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man fills up a waterskin from a large, etched wooden cask.
  
  Curiously, you ask the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man, in sirihish:
       "What's it?"
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man gets his waterskin from his small bag.
  
  You are carrying:
  an unlit dusty simple, leather-wrapped bone torch
  an used round black shield
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man asks you, in sirihish:
       "Yeh ain' ever had flame?"
  
  A bone-studded backpack is already open!
  
  You get your leather waterskin from your bone-studded backpack.
  It is very light, and full.
  
  You get your waterskin from your bone-studded backpack.
  It is very light, and about half full.
  
  pour skin barrel
  There is no room for more.
  
  The blond, strapping man pulls down his leather and jet-colored chitin coif with a gentle tug.
  
  You drink the water.
  You do not feel thirsty.
  
  You are carrying:
  a waterskin
  a leather waterskin
  an unlit dusty simple, leather-wrapped bone torch
  an used round black shield
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man says to you, in sirihish:
       "Yeh, well, ah haven' either."
  
  It's less than half full of a clear liquid.
  
  The blond, strapping man carefully pours his waterskin's scant remains over his head.
  
  The blond, strapping man pours his waterskin on the ground.
  
  Slumping back, the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man rests on a small leather cot.
  
  drink skin
  Your stomach can't contain anymore!
  
  You sigh.
  
  You put your waterskin into your bone-studded backpack.
  
  You put your leather waterskin into your bone-studded backpack.
  
  You get your shot-glass from your bone-studded backpack.
  It is very light, and empty.
  
  The blond, strapping man fills up a waterskin from a large, etched wooden cask.
  
  Shaking your shot-glass, you say, in sirihish:
       "Got this for emergencies."
  
  fill shot cask
  Ok.
  
  You open your small leather pouch.
  
  You get your deck of Kruth cards from your small leather pouch.
  It is very light.
  
  You close your small leather pouch.
  
  You sit on a small leather cot.
  
  With a woozy gaze, the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man lifts his waterskin to his mouth.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man drinks firestorm's flame from his waterskin.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man stops guarding the blond, strapping man.
  
  You shuffle a deck of Kruth cards.
  
  Bringing your shot-glass to her lips, you say, in sirihish:
       "Now, tah start it off."
  
  Pausing his hoist of his waterskin, the blond, strapping man asks you, in sirihish:
       "Hey, Kar, going to brush up that hair today?"
  
  You drink the firestorm's flame.
  You do not feel thirsty.
  
  You say, in sirihish:
       "Jes' might. But only cause i's you guys."
  
  Tilting his head back to take a few gulps, the blond, strapping man drinks firestorm's flame from his waterskin.
  
  You are carrying:
  a deck of Kruth cards
  an empty shot-glass
  an unlit dusty simple, leather-wrapped bone torch
  an used round black shield
  
  Just chugging away, the blond, strapping man drinks firestorm's flame from his waterskin.
  
  Chuckling, the lean, brown-skinned man says to the blond, strapping man, in sirihish:
       "Let me get a drink, then."
  
  You ask, in sirihish:
       "Alrigh'. High card to see who drinks or does a dare?"
  
  The blond, strapping man says to the lean, brown-skinned man, in sirihish:
       "You're a waterskin down already."
  
  The blond, strapping man says, in sirihish:
       "I'm in, for a dare round."
  
  Chuckling, the lean, brown-skinned man says to the blond, strapping man, in sirihish:
       "Be back."
  
  Hastily, the lean, brown-skinned man walks east.
  
  You say, in sirihish:
       "We got all feck'n weekend. Whoo."
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man has arrived from the east.
  
  You are carrying:
  a deck of Kruth cards
  an empty shot-glass
  an unlit dusty simple, leather-wrapped bone torch
  an used round black shield
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man fills up a waterskin from a large, etched wooden cask.
  
  The blond, strapping man fills up a waterskin from a large, etched wooden cask.
  
  The thin, chestnut-haired woman intently scans the area.
  
  Grinning as he holds up his waterskin, the lean, brown-skinned man says, in sirihish:
       "Let's get to drinkin'."
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man drinks firestorm's flame from his waterskin.
  
  You say, in sirihish:
       "Normal Kruth ranks, Suits before Ranks, Whira on top."
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man drinks firestorm's flame from his waterskin.
  
  You deal a Kruth card to the lean, brown-skinned man.
  You deal a Kruth card to the blond, strapping man.
  You deal a Kruth card to the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man.
  You deal yourself a Kruth card: the Water of Kings.
  
  The compact, sun-bronzed woman drops down your Kruth card: the Water of Kings.
  
  fill shot cask
  Ok.
  
  The blond, strapping man says, in sirihish:
       "Feh."
  
  Looking down at his card, the lean, brown-skinned man says, in sirihish:
       "Aw, shit..."
  
  Flipping it over, the blond, strapping man drops his Kruth card: the Stone of Truth.
  
  While presenting his Kruth card: the Stone of Deceit, the lean, brown-skinned man drinks firestorm's flame from his waterskin.
  
  As if it were water, the blond, strapping man drinks firestorm's flame from his waterskin.
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man fills up a waterskin from a large, etched wooden cask.
  
  While watching the cards from the corner of her eye, you drink the firestorm's flame.
  You are feeling very intoxicated.
  You do not feel thirsty.
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man watches the blond, strapping man grinning.
  
  You are Kahya, a Runner of the T'zai Byn.
  Keywords: compact sun-bronzed woman Kharsa Kar
  Sdesc: the compact, sun-bronzed woman
  Objective: Survive and become a Trooper of the Byn.
  Long Description:
  Code Generated Long Description.
  You are 25 years, 0 months, and 140 days old,
   which by your race and appearance is adult.
  You are 71 inches tall, and weigh 7 ten-stone.
  ...
  You are neither hungry nor thirsty.
  You are intoxicated.
  ...
  You have been playing for 3 days and 9 hours.
  You are sitting on a small leather cot.
  You are currently speaking sirihish with a southern accent.
  
  
  You are carrying:
  a Kruth card: the Water of Kings
  a deck of Kruth cards
  an empty shot-glass
  an unlit dusty simple, leather-wrapped bone torch
  an used round black shield
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man sits on a small leather cot.
  
  Lowering your shot-glass, you say, in sirihish:
       "Whew...damn I've gotten weak. I'm feel'n it already."
  
  The blond, strapping man chuckles over at you.
  
  Smirking, the lean, brown-skinned man asks you, in sirihish:
       "Shit... two shots?"
  
  l in cask
  It is empty.
  
  Amusement in his tone, the blond, strapping man says, in sirihish:
       "I know who'se getting hit first."
  
  Squeezing it a short distance into his mouth, the lean, brown-skinned man drinks firestorm's flame from his waterskin.
  
  You say to the lean, brown-skinned man, in sirihish:
       "Hey, I'm a light-weight for now."
  
  The blond, strapping man asks, in sirihish:
       "So who lost?"
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man raises a hand.
  
  The blond, strapping man says to the lean, brown-skinned man, in sirihish:
       "Go lay a kiss on Serg."
  
  Tossing it aside, the lean, brown-skinned man discards his Kruth card: the Stone of Deceit.
  
  You say to the blond, strapping man, in sirihish:
       "Hey, tha's a nice one."
  
  The blond, strapping man dips his head, grinning.
  
  You say, in sirihish:
       "We gotta watch 'im do it."
  
  Looking about, the lean, brown-skinned man asks, in sirihish:
       "Where's 'e at?"
  
  The blond, strapping man says, in sirihish:
       "Watch this."
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man stares at the blond, strapping man.
  
  The thin, chestnut-haired woman intently scans the area.
  
  The compact, sun-bronzed woman regards the lean, brown-skinned man with a flush to her cheeks.
  
  Shrugging, the lean, brown-skinned man asks, in sirihish:
       "Who I gotta kiss?"
  
  The short, ebony-skinned elf has arrived from the east.
  
  The blond, strapping man says, in sirihish:
       "The Serg, who'se coming."
  
  The short, ebony-skinned elf puts his waterskin into his bone-studded backpack.
  
  The short, ebony-skinned elf nods, and heads back out, raising his hood.
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man scowls at the short, ebony-skinned elf.
  
  The short, ebony-skinned elf runs east.
  
  Easing it back, the blond, strapping man drinks firestorm's flame from his waterskin.
  
  A loud horn blast sounds from the northeast.
  
  Suddenly, the lean, brown-skinned man stands up from a small leather cot.
  
  Absently, swaying a glance over to no-one in particular, you ask, in sirihish:
       "Hey, sharp-ear. Hands off the shit, hmm?"
  
  The blond, strapping man blinks a few times.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man has arrived from the east.
  
  The blond, strapping man says, in sirihish:
       "Drov. . . I'm finally feeling it"
  
  Looking up, the lean, brown-skinned man asks, in sirihish:
       "Wait... no. She said we got leave days, right?"
  
  The thin, chestnut-haired woman intently scans the area.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man steps in, and blinks, before motioning to the grey-maned, wooden-legged man, and laying himself down on a small leather cot.
  
  The blond, strapping man tilts his head back, laughing merrily!
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man sits on a small leather cot.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man sits on a small leather cot.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man rests on a small leather cot.
  
  Smirking before laughing loudly!, the lean, brown-skinned man looks at the blond, strapping man.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man closes his eyes, while the grey-maned, wooden-legged man gets to work wrapping his wrist -again - as well as a slash on his head.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man sleeps on a small leather cot.
  
  You say to the lean, brown-skinned man, in sirihish:
       "Oh, shet! I forgot! Kell, sarge said yah had to spar that elfie."
  
  The blond, strapping man says to the lean, brown-skinned man, in sirihish:
       "Drink.  You're still a skin behind."
  
  Thumbing at himself, the lean, brown-skinned man says to you, in sirihish:
       "I can beat that elf's stupid ass. I done it before, and I do it again."
  
  With a slow smirk, pointing at the tall, heavily-scarred man, you say to the lean, brown-skinned man, in sirihish:
       "Oh. There's the one yah gotta kiss."
  
  Wavering on his cot, the lean, brown-skinned man says, in sirihish:
       "Even as drunk as I am..."
  
  The red-haired, lean woman has arrived from the east.
  
  Stepping in, the red-haired, lean woman asks, in sirihish:
       "Runners. How's the drink going?"
  
  Pointing at the lean, brown-skinned man, the blond, strapping man says to the red-haired, lean woman, in sirihish:
       "He's the one."
  
  Glaring at the tall, heavily-scarred man, the lean, brown-skinned man exclaims to you, in sirihish:
       "Grinz!? You want me  kiss -that- ass-hat?!"
  
  The red-haired, lean woman looks down at the tall, heavily-scarred man.
  
  You say to the lean, brown-skinned man, in sirihish:
       "Yah should drink one more shot, Kell."
  
  The blond, strapping man exclaims to the lean, brown-skinned man, in sirihish:
       "You're a skin behind, and a dare behind.  Get to work!"
  
  Eyes half-lidded, the lean, brown-skinned man asks you, in sirihish:
       "Absolutely right... what was I thinkin'?"
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man sips from his waterskin.
  
  The red-haired, lean woman asks, in sirihish:
       "Anyone here seen Sergeant Cael?"
  
  The blond, strapping man scoffs.
  
  Wearing a loose grin, the compact, sun-bronzed woman pulls her hair out from her eyes, looking from the lean, brown-skinned man to the red-haired, lean woman.
  
  The blond, strapping man says to the red-haired, lean woman, in sirihish:
       "I've not . . .," he pauses to hiccup, "Serg."
  
  Shrugging, the lean, brown-skinned man asks, in sirihish:
       "So who'm I kissin'!?"
  
  The blond, strapping man points a long finger at the red-haired, lean woman.
  
  The compact, sun-bronzed woman points absently toward the red-haired, lean woman along with the blond, strapping man.
  
  Slowly turning his head, the lean, brown-skinned man looks up at the red-haired, lean woman.
  
  The blond, strapping man fails to stifle a huge grin.
  
  fill shot 2.cask
  Ok.
  
  Looking away from the red-haired, lean woman, the lean, brown-skinned man asks the blond, strapping man, in sirihish:
       "Sure she won't mind?"
  
  The blond, strapping man exclaims to the lean, brown-skinned man, in sirihish:
       "Not at all, look, she's beckoning you over!"
  
  With a low groan, to find his head wrapped up lightly, and his wrist set in a heavier bandages, the tall, heavily-scarred man awakens.
  
  You exclaim to the lean, brown-skinned man, in sirihish:
       "Jes' do it. Yah gotta catch her off-guard!"
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man asks, in sirihish:
       "Ohh, ohh fuckin'... Ehh..?"
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man glances around, for a moment.
  
  The compact, sun-bronzed woman tries to talk in a whisper, which is rather loud.
  
  To the lean, brown-skinned man, the red-haired, lean woman says, in sirihish:
       "If you want a good lashin', Runner, go ahead."
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man asks, in sirihish:
       "The fuck's goin' on here..?"
  
  Passing it over, the red-haired, lean woman gives her round black shield to the tall, heavily-scarred man.
  
  The blond, strapping man chuckles a bit, eyeing the red-haired, lean woman.
  
  Grimacing, the lean, brown-skinned man says to the red-haired, lean woman, in sirihish:
       "Aw... but it's a dare. I can't -not- do it."
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man blinks, at his round black shield, and grins.
  
  Tossing that over, the tall, heavily-scarred man gives his cracked smelly round black shield to the red-haired, lean woman.
  
  The red-haired, lean woman says to the lean, brown-skinned man, in sirihish:
       "You'll do as your told Runner, drunk or not."
  
  The blond, strapping man fills up a waterskin from a large, etched wooden cask.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man asks the red-haired, lean woman, in sirihish:
       "What's he doin'...?"
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man opens his rough canvas backpack.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man gets his waterskin from his rough canvas backpack.
  
  Scratching at his scalp, the lean, brown-skinned man asks, in sirihish:
       "Then I... don't?"
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man sips from a tun of water.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man sips from a tun of water.
  
  In a stage whisper, you ask the lean, brown-skinned man, in sirihish:
       "A kiss on the cheek?"
  
  The blond, strapping man exclaims to the lean, brown-skinned man, in sirihish:
       "Go kiss Grinz then!"
  
  Hopping up, the blond, strapping man stands up from a small leather cot.
  
  Settling down, the red-haired, lean woman sits on a small leather cot.
  
  Bobbing a nod, sitting back, you say to the blond, strapping man, in sirihish:
       "Lost 'is chance though."
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man tries to drink from his waterskin but it's empty!
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man exclaims, in sirihish:
       "Ohh, SHIT!"
  
  The compact, sun-bronzed woman offers your shot-glass toward the red-haired, lean woman a moment.
  
  Nodding a bit, the blond, strapping man says, in sirihish:
       "Definitely lost."
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man says, in sirihish:
       "Hahah, look at this..."
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man drinks firestorm's flame from his waterskin.
  
  Rushing over to the tall, heavily-scarred man, the lean, brown-skinned man stands up from a small leather cot.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man slams his waterskin back, and coughs.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man exclaims, in sirihish:
       "Ohh SHIT Firestorm! FUCK yeah! Tuluki liquor!"
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man tackles the tall, heavily-scarred man, smooching him.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man drinks firestorm's flame from his waterskin.
  
  Easing down beside you, the blond, strapping man sits on a small leather cot.
  
  You say to the tall, heavily-scarred man, in sirihish:
       "Whoooa, shit."
  
  The compact, sun-bronzed woman goes and hugs a large, etched wooden cask protectively.
  
  The blond, strapping man chuckles a bit.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man blinks, and falls off a small leather cot, hitting the floor and sputtering, throwing an arm up to get the lean, brown-skinned man off.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man exclaims, in sirihish:
       "Ge- GET OFF ME!"
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man stands up from a small leather cot.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man sits down to rest.
  
  The blond, strapping man says to the tall, heavily-scarred man, in sirihish:
       "That's enough for you, then."
  
  Pushing up, the lean, brown-skinned man says to the tall, heavily-scarred man, in sirihish:
       "There. Dare done."
  
  Staggering, the lean, brown-skinned man gets to his feet.
  
  The compact, sun-bronzed woman returns to her cot after the mess is over.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man spits, and sputters, before standing up, and raising his fist at the lean, brown-skinned man.
  
  Holding out his waterskin, the lean, brown-skinned man asks, in sirihish:
       "Fill me up?"
  
  You shuffle a deck of Kruth cards.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man exclaims to the lean, brown-skinned man, in sirihish:
       "I'll kick yer fuckin' ass!"
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man drinks firestorm's flame from his waterskin.
  
  At your seat, the blond, strapping man says in sirihish, smiling as he glances about the barracks:
       "It was worth seven small."
  
  Holding out a hand, you say to the lean, brown-skinned man, in sirihish:
       "Pass it ovah'"
  
  The red-haired, lean woman stands up from a small leather cot.
  
  The red-haired, lean woman walks east.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man blinks, and coughs, before stepping aside, and grabbing hold of a small leather cot to keep himself steady.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man puts his waterskin into his rough canvas backpack.
  
  Taking a very long step, the lean, brown-skinned man gives you his waterskin.
  
  Glancing east, you say, in sirihish:
       "Awww, we chased the sarge off."
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man says, in sirihish:
       "Ohh... ohhhh..."
  
  l in 2.cask
  It's about half full of a reddish liquid.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man rises from the ground, and clambers to his feet.
  
  fill skin 2.cask
  Ok.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man closes his rough canvas backpack.
  
  l in skin
  It's full of a reddish liquid.
  
  l in 2.cask
  It's less than half full of a reddish liquid.
  
  You give your waterskin to the lean, brown-skinned man.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man says to the lean, brown-skinned man, in sirihish:
       "You... you slimy... slimy fucker..."
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man says to the lean, brown-skinned man, in sirihish:
       "Let's... let's go. Right... right now... Mess Hall... you n'me..."
  
  Smiling, the lean, brown-skinned man exclaims to the tall, heavily-scarred man, in sirihish:
       "Mess hall rumble!!"
  
  Pumping her fists, you exclaim, in sirihish:
       "Whoooo!"
  
  Holding out a hand, the lean, brown-skinned man says to you, in sirihish:
       "My skin, please."
  
  The blond, strapping man shakes his head, chuckling.
  
  You are carrying:
  a deck of Kruth cards
  a shot-glass
  an unlit dusty simple, leather-wrapped bone torch
  an used round black shield
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man coughs, and steps past, half-stumbling, before moving beyond the group, seeking the exit - and the mess hall.
  
  Blinking, you say to the lean, brown-skinned man, in sirihish:
       "I gave it tah yah, shithead."
  
  The blond, strapping man says to the lean, brown-skinned man, in sirihish:
       "Still down an entire skin, lightweight."
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man looks down at his already full hand.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man attempts to walk, but trips over his feet.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man hits the floor, and... stays there.
  
  Nodding, the lean, brown-skinned man says to you, in sirihish:
       "so ya did."
  
  The blond, strapping man chuckles, eyeing the prostrate the tall, heavily-scarred man.
  
  The compact, sun-bronzed woman barks out a chuckle.
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man steps over the tall, heavily-scarred man.
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man attempts to walk, but trips over his feet.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man stands up.
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man and then trips.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man grunts, and stands himself up, intentionally - or not - tripping the lean, brown-skinned man in the process.
  
  Laughing riotously, the blond, strapping man exclaims, in sirihish:
       "Idiots!"
  
  Glancing around, you ask, in sirihish:
       "Wha' happened tah Berk? He pass out already?"
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man staggers east.
  
  Exhaling, the lean, brown-skinned man stands up.
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man staggers east.
  
  Nodding a bit, the blond, strapping man says, in sirihish:
       "That he did."
  
  The Main Barracks [EU Quit]
     This massive, two-story hall seems to have undergone heavy rebuilding
  at some time in the past. Most of the vast room is open air, with the first
  story above ground level being nothing more than a balcony of sorts,
  several cords wide and running along the walls of the building. Both upper
  and lower floors are devoid of furniture, with several hundred grimy
  pallets arranged in semi-orderly rows along the walls. Solid stone stairs
  lead to the upper level from the western end of the hall. Suspended from
  the ceiling, more than twenty-five cords above, is a large black banner
  bearing a purple dragon.
     The hall appears mostly empty except for a few mercenaries here and
  there, mending armor, sharpening weapons, or just talking quietly.
  A Kruth playing card is here: the Stone of Truth.
  An empty large wooden cask, etched with flames, rests here.
  A large wooden cask, etched with flames, rests here.
  A multi-ringed dartboard hangs on a wall here.
  A large barrel of water is shoved in the corner.
  The blond, strapping man is sitting on a small leather cot.
  - he is carrying a large bag.
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man lays on a cot here, plastered and passed out.
  The brown-haired, blue-eyed man looks around slowly from his pallet here.
  The thin, chestnut-haired woman stands here, watching the stairs.
  The grey-maned, wooden-legged man sits here, sharpening a bone-toothed saw.
  The dimpled, shaven-headed man looks over a wounded mercenary here.
  
  You say, in sirihish:
       "Awww. Damn."
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man is in excellent condition.
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man looks completely rested.
  
  You look down at the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man.
  Numerous bald spots break out all around this man's scalp, leaving only a
  few patches of unkempt black hair.  His face is angular and his body lean,
  though his arms are sinewy with muscle and harshly tanned in contrast to the
  rest of him, showing that he's someone used to the unforgiving rays of the
  sun and physical labor.  Much more noticable about him is his dark eyes,
  which seem to be permanently slanted downwards in a surly stare. 
  Crude cut marks are visible along his stubbled jaw, most likely where he
  slipped shaving. 
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man is in excellent condition.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man is using:
  <worn on head>           a dusty cuirbouilli helmet
  <worn around neck>       a dusty dusky chitin neck-guard
  <slung across back>      a rib-hilted bone rapier
  <worn on torso>          a bloodied thick beetle-carapace cuirass
  <worn on left shoulder>  a dusty red-slashed, tembo-sewn patch
  <worn around wrist>      a stained leather wrist guard
  <worn around wrist>      a stained leather wrist guard
  <worn on hands>          a dusty pair of chitin-plated leather gloves
  <primary hand>           a cracked round black shield
  <worn as belt>           a black belt
  <hung from belt>         a small bag
  <hung from belt>         an obsidian shortsword
  <worn around body>       a dusty hooded, brown military aba
  <worn about waist>       a tough, grey chitin codpiece
  <worn on legs>           a pair of patched sandcloth pants
  <worn on feet>           a dusty pair of sandcloth and leather boots
  
  He is carrying:
  nothing obvious
  
  Simply, the blond, strapping man says, in sirihish:
       "He's earned that right."
  
  You cannot wake him up!
  
  The blond, strapping man leans over and gently claps the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man's shoulder once.
  
  With a cheeky grin, the compact, sun-bronzed woman stumbles over to the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man.
  
  The blond, strapping man squints up at you, then glances down to the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man's eyes flutter open.
  
  Grabbing the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man's hand, the compact, sun-bronzed woman loosens up his pants at the front, sticking the hand in.
  
  Giving the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man's crotch a light tap, the compact, sun-bronzed woman stumbles back to her cot.
  
  Mumbling, you say, in sirihish:
       "We need tah get chalk nex' time..."
  
  You drink the firestorm's flame.
  You are feeling very intoxicated.
  You do not feel thirsty.
  
  Pulling up casually on his tough, grey chitin codpiece's strap, the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man says to you, in sirihish:
       "Well 'ey Kar."
  
  The blond, strapping man chuckles softly, grinning ear to ear.
  
  As she shakes her shot-glass over her head, empty, you ask, in sirihish:
       "Hey to yahself, Berkie. Have a nice dream?"
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man slumps back against the cot, leaning sideways on an elbow.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man says to you, in sirihish:
       "Yeh.  Real nice."
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man smiles slowly to you.
  
  The blond, strapping man says to you, in sirihish:
       "Oh yeah, I wanted to ask you."
  
  Expression fading, the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man says to you, in sirihish:
       "But now ah got a feck'n headache to all krath."
  
  The blond, strapping man cocks his head, pointing a finger at his neck.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man rubs at his eyes, clenching them tightly closed.
  
  The blond, strapping man asks you, in sirihish:
       "You like that smell?"
  
  Slowly turning her gaze toward the blond, strapping man, you ask, in sirihish:
       "Like...what smell?"
  
  The compact, sun-bronzed woman sniffs around.
  
  Blinking some, the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man asks, in sirihish:
       "Can' even see straight.  What'd they put in this stuff?"
  
  The blond, strapping man says to you, in sirihish:
       "No, here, my skin."
  
  You are a little hungry.
  
  Looking at him out of the corner of his eyes, the blond, strapping man says to the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man, in sirihish:
       "Its just water."
  
  You are carrying:
  a deck of Kruth cards
  an empty shot-glass
  an unlit dusty simple, leather-wrapped bone torch
  an used round black shield
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man stares dubiously at the blond, strapping man.
  
  In a wet slur, the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man says to the blond, strapping man, in sirihish:
       "Shut up, Blondie."
  
  You look at the blond, strapping man.
  A stocky and compact frame stretches to impressive height to shape the
  foundation of this human male.  Broad shoulders give way to a thick neck
  which supports a face shaped by a strong jaw and moderate lips set under a
  complimenting nose.  His eyes, a lusterous viridian, are framed by thin
  brows with a distinctive curve in their shape.  Short and tussled, his blond
  hair is thick and full, with a hue lightened to radiant heights by Krath's
  influence.  Lean, and suitably proportioned legs end in nondescript feet.
  His arms are defined, and his hands bare long fingers marked with callouses
  and scars. 
  His coif has been pulled back to lay against his broad shoulders.  Meticulously
  groomed, his bright blond hair is styled in a backwards-sweeping look.
  The blond, strapping man is in excellent condition.
  
  The blond, strapping man is using:
  <worn on head>           a leather and jet-colored chitin coif
  <face>                   an angular, crescent shaped scar
  <worn around neck>       a reddish-brown chitinous collar
  <slung across back>      a short bone sparring club
  <worn across back>       a bone-studded backpack
  <worn on torso>          a new chitin-banded leather cuirass
  <worn on left shoulder>  a red-slashed, tembo-sewn patch
  <worn on arms>           a pair of agafari-wood armguards
  <worn around wrist>      a jet, chitin-layered leather bracer
  <worn around wrist>      a jet, chitin-layered leather bracer
  <worn on hands>          a pair of gurth shell and leather gloves
  <worn as belt>           a leather swordbelt
  <hung from belt>         a bone-hilted, carru-antler longknife
  <hung from belt>         a short bone sparring spear
  <worn around body>       a hooded, brown military aba
  <worn about waist>       a scrab shell breechguard
  <worn on legs>           a pair of inix hide pants
  <worn on feet>           a pair of sturdy sandcloth and leather boots
  
  He is carrying:
  nothing obvious
  
  The blond, strapping man grins ear to ear.
  
  The thin, chestnut-haired woman intently scans the area.
  
  Flicking his dark blue eyes back to you, the blond, strapping man asks you, in sirihish:
       "Well?"
  
  Still staring at the blond, strapping man, you ask, in sirihish:
       "I don' see it. Yah're play'n a trick?"
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man has arrived from the east.
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man looks relatively fit.
  The lean, brown-skinned man does not look tired.
  
  Shaking his head, the blond, strapping man asks, in sirihish:
       "No trick, but do you like it?"
  
  Moving to a small leather cot, the lean, brown-skinned man says, in sirihish:
       "Need... bed."
  
  Glancing over, you say to the lean, brown-skinned man, in sirihish:
       "Oooh. Hey Kell. Nice of yah to join the party."
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "I'm... comin'.... comin' for ya!"
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man has arrived from the east.
  
  The blond, strapping man chuckles over at the lean, brown-skinned man.
  
  Bobbing an idle nod over, you say to the blond, strapping man, in sirihish:
       "Uh huh. Smells real nice."
  
  Face-down, the lean, brown-skinned man rests on a small leather cot.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man stumbles in, and stops near the entrance, eyes dimly scouring around, before he spots the lean, brown-skinned man.
  
  Smiling a bit, the blond, strapping man says, in sirihish:
       "Good, good."
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man says to the blond, strapping man, in sirihish:
       "Leave Kar alone.  Ah got'r ask'r somethin'."
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man says to the lean, brown-skinned man, in sirihish:
       "There... there ya are... ya... ya worthless fuck'n bunch'a...."
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man exclaims to the blond, strapping man, in sirihish:
       "YOU!"
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man says to you, in sirihish:
       "Kar, stick yer hand in m' pants again.  Think ah liked that."
  
  Grunting and staring over, the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man looks up at the tall, heavily-scarred man.
  
  Rolling over, the lean, brown-skinned man sits on a small leather cot.
  
  You ask the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man, in sirihish:
       "Who, me? Yah sure that was me?"
  
  The blond, strapping man cocks his head over at the tall, heavily-scarred man.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man asks, in sirihish:
       "Hands... in pants...?"
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man grunts, and half-stumbles over to the blond, strapping man.
  
  The blond, strapping man says to the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man, in sirihish:
       "It was Grinz."
  
  Blinking one eye, the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man says to you, in sirihish:
       "Thought't was..."
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man exclaims to the blond, strapping man, in sirihish:
       "You... an'... an' me...!"
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man sips from his waterskin.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man exclaims to the blond, strapping man, in sirihish:
       "What the fuck!"
  
  Turning a wild-eyed stare, the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man looks up at the tall, heavily-scarred man.
  
  The compact, sun-bronzed woman begins breaking up into a laugh, rolling on her cot.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man rises from the ground, and clambers to his feet.
  
  Brows raised as he waves on a cot, the lean, brown-skinned man says, in sirihish:
       "Ooh."
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man says to the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man, in sirihish:
       "Y'wish... t'was m'hand... in yer pants..."
  
  The blond, strapping man places a hand over his mouth, watching the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man and the tall, heavily-scarred man intently.
  
  Stumbling a step forward, the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man says to the tall, heavily-scarred man, in sirihish:
       "You'n me.  Let's go."
  
  Muffled behind his hand, the blond, strapping man says, in sirihish:
       "That's what he said.  He said he liked it."
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man unslings a rib-hilted bone rapier from his back.
  
  Whispering loudly, the lean, brown-skinned man says to the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man, in sirihish:
       "Teach that ass-hat some manners."
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man asks the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man, in sirihish:
       "Aw.... y'wanna.... fuckin'.... stick me?"
  
  ~rapier held lazily and its tip dragging against the ground, the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man stumbles more over to the tall, heavily-scarred man.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man says to the tall, heavily-scarred man, in sirihish:
       "Yeh, ah do."
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man hisses, and shakes his head, lifting his left fist.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man says to the tall, heavily-scarred man, in sirihish:
       "Gonna poke yer feck'n eye out.  Get'n the training hall."
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man says to the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man, in sirihish:
       "Yeah.... sure..."
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man staggers east.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man attempts to walk, but trips over his feet.
  
  fill shot 2.cask
  Ok.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man stands up.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man runs east.
  
  The compact, sun-bronzed woman breaks out into another wave of laugher.
  
  The blond, strapping man shakes his head, watching the retreating figures.
  
  Plopping back, you rest on a small leather cot.
  
  Grunting, the lean, brown-skinned man rests on a small leather cot.
  
  Glancing over to you, the blond, strapping man says, in sirihish:
       "I'll show you where to do that, by the way, one of these days."
  
  Staring up at the ceiling, the lean, brown-skinned man says, in sirihish:
       "Drunk..."
  
  Bobbing a nod, you say to the blond, strapping man, in sirihish:
       "Yeah...tha' would be nice."
  
  The blond, strapping man says to the lean, brown-skinned man, in sirihish:
       "One flask?  So much for your prowess."
  
  You think:
       "Wha's he even talk'n about?"
  
  The blond, strapping man chuckles, wearing a wide grin.
  
  Holding up lazy finger, the lean, brown-skinned man asks, in sirihish:
       "You remember the trick I told you about drinkin'?"
  
  Holding your shot-glass in hand, still full, you say to the lean, brown-skinned man, in sirihish:
       "Suuuure do."
  
  Exhaling softly, the lean, brown-skinned man asks, in sirihish:
       "What?"
  
  You ask the lean, brown-skinned man, in sirihish:
       "Are yah drunk?"
  
  Eyes half-lidded, the lean, brown-skinned man says to you, in sirihish:
       "Nnn...-yes."
  
  Snickering, the blond, strapping man says, in sirihish:
       "Pusses."
  
  With a shrug, head tilting to one side, you say, in sirihish:
       "Then meee too."
  
  drink shot
  You drink the firestorm's flame.
  You are completely drunk.
  You are a little hungry.
  You do not feel thirsty.
  
  Chuckling, the lean, brown-skinned man says to you, in sirihish:
       "Well if it counts... I had three bottles of spirits before this."
  
  Finishing your shot-glass with a flourish, the compact, sun-bronzed woman keeps her head tilted back a moment.
  
  Chuckling, the lean, brown-skinned man says, in sirihish:
       "What's his face thought he could beat me too..."
  
  Snickering, the blond, strapping man says, in sirihish:
       "Right, sure, three bottles."
  
  Pulling it off, you stop using your bloodied crimson-dyed, leather skullcap, letting down her hair, speckled with old blood.
  
  Gesturing with his waterskin, the lean, brown-skinned man says to the blond, strapping man, in sirihish:
       "Uhh... Ghani! Yeah. Ask him. Wasted all that saltin' 'sid to do it."
  
  The blond, strapping man says to the lean, brown-skinned man, in sirihish:
       "Right, like I'd trust a northie."
  
  Wobbling a little, the blond, strapping man stands up from a small leather cot.
  
  You ask, in sirihish:
       "Who the feck is Ghandi?"
  
  The blond, strapping man says to you, in sirihish:
       "Stay right there."
  
  Frowning, the lean, brown-skinned man asks the blond, strapping man, in sirihish:
       "He's a northie?"
  
  The blond, strapping man plods over to a tun of water.
  
  The blond, strapping man scoops up some water in his hands, carefully.
  
  The blond, strapping man strolls back over to you.
  
  Holding out a hand, the lean, brown-skinned man exclaims to you, in sirihish:
       "Look out!"
  
  The blond, strapping man says to you, in sirihish:
       "We'll get that hair fixed up good, just, stay still."
  
  The compact, sun-bronzed woman seems not to notice anything.
  
  Grunting, the lean, brown-skinned man just shrugs.
  
  The blond, strapping man holds his hands above your head, slowly letting the water trickle out into your hair.
  
  As her hair gets wet, the compact, sun-bronzed woman kind of slumps forward onto the blond, strapping man's leg.
  
  Groaning, the lean, brown-skinned man says, in sirihish:
       "Krath, I hate it when people say I can't drink..."
  
  Japping a finger into the blond, strapping man's knee, you say, in sirihish:
       "Ahhh feck. Why's my cot so hard."
  
  The blond, strapping man chuckles, but doesn't move, letting the water spill onto his leg somewhat.
  
  The blond, strapping man says to you, in sirihish:
       "Wrong way"
  
  With a faint groan, the compact, sun-bronzed woman drops back the other way onto her cot before turning onto her stomach.
  
  The blond, strapping man gets his garnet studded bone comb from his leather swordbelt.
  
  Pushing herself back up, squinting, you ask, in sirihish:
       "Feck, what happened tah the party?"
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man scratches at the bridge of his nose.
  
  Looking around, you sit on a small leather cot.
  
  Chuckling as he leans over, the blond, strapping man says, in sirihish:
       "Fighting and passing out."
  
  Holding up his waterskin, the lean, brown-skinned man says, in sirihish:
       "Drinks."
  
  The blond, strapping man holds his garnet studded bone comb.
  
  The blond, strapping man picks up a strand of your hair, brushing at it firmly.
  
  His voice sounding intense and focused, the blond, strapping man says, in sirihish:
       "See, tangles and knots.  You've got to comb it daily."
  
  The compact, sun-bronzed woman kind of waves the blond, strapping man away with a hand for a moment.
  
  Wagging a finger, the lean, brown-skinned man says, in sirihish:
       "Daily..."
  
  The blond, strapping man rights himself, eyeing you.
  
  A loud horn blast sounds from the northeast.
  
  The blond, strapping man says to the lean, brown-skinned man, in sirihish:
       "You're next."
  
  Wincing, the lean, brown-skinned man says, in sirihish:
       "Uhg... horn loud."
  
  Squinting, you say to the lean, brown-skinned man, in sirihish:
       "Berk, is that yah? What are yah doing with that twig.."
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  The thick-necked, beefy human has entered the world.
  
  The thick-necked, beefy human yawns.
  
  Waving his waterskin, the lean, brown-skinned man says to you, in sirihish:
       "I was showin' ya how to comb your hair."
  
  Adding on, the lean, brown-skinned man says, in sirihish:
       "Daily."
  
  The thick-necked, beefy human sits on a small leather cot.
  
  Sitting still, you ask the lean, brown-skinned man, in sirihish:
       "Why do I want to comb my hair?"
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man places with a long braid of hair.
  
  Leaning too far to the side, the lean, brown-skinned man sits on a small leather cot.
  
  The thick-necked, beefy human stretches.
  
  The blond, strapping man taps his garnet studded bone comb in his empty hand, eyeing you.
  
  Righting himself, the lean, brown-skinned man says to you, in sirihish:
       "Because..."
  
  The thick-necked, beefy human looks at the lean, brown-skinned man.
  
  In an entirely earnest manner, the blond, strapping man asks you, in sirihish:
       "Why wouldn't you?"
  
  Inclining his head, the lean, brown-skinned man says to you, in sirihish:
       "Yeah?... wait... no."
  
  Waving a hand absently, you say, in sirihish:
       "Ish...too much trouble."
  
  Nodding, the lean, brown-skinned man says to the blond, strapping man, in sirihish:
       "Yeah... She could be drinkin' instead."
  
  Chuckling, the blond, strapping man says, in sirihish:
       "She *is* drinking."
  
  Nodding her head slowly, you say to the lean, brown-skinned man, in sirihish:
       "I *am* drinking..."
  
  Nodding sagely, the lean, brown-skinned man says, in sirihish:
       "You *are* drinking..."
  
  The compact, sun-bronzed woman brings up your shot-glass to her lips, emptying it out into her mouth...which has nothing in it.
  
  Waving your shot-glass around in the air, you say to the lean, brown-skinned man, in sirihish:
       "I *am*  drinking."
  
  Holding up a finger, the lean, brown-skinned man exclaims to you, in sirihish:
       "But!"
  
  The compact, sun-bronzed woman wipes her mouth with a finger.
  
  The blond, strapping man staggers a bit, then corrects himself.
  
  The thick-necked, beefy human stands up from a small leather cot.
  
  The thick-necked, beefy human gets his sharp bone dart from a multi-ringed dartboard.
  
  Pointing, the lean, brown-skinned man says to you, in sirihish:
       "You aren't combing your hair."
  
  The thick-necked, beefy human gets his sharp bone dart from a multi-ringed dartboard.
  
  The thick-necked, beefy human gets his sharp bone dart from a multi-ringed dartboard.
  
  The thick-necked, beefy human brandishes his sharp bone dart.
  
  You ask the lean, brown-skinned man, in sirihish:
       "Huh? Why would I want tah comb mah hair?"
  
  Shrugging, the lean, brown-skinned man asks you, in sirihish:
       "Why wouldn't you?"
  
  The thick-necked, beefy human stands at the mark etched on the ground.
  
  Looking up slightly, the lean, brown-skinned man says, in sirihish:
       "Uh..."
  
  The thick-necked, beefy human hurls a sharp bone dart at a multi-ringed dartboard.
  a sharp bone dart struck the Noble ring.
  
  After a pause in which she has a finger to her lips, you say to the lean, brown-skinned man, in sirihish:
       "I...don't know. Can't remember..."
  
  The thick-necked, beefy human asks the lean, brown-skinned man, in sirihish:
       "You saying she's got something to hide?"
  
  Wiping a hand down his face, the lean, brown-skinned man says, in sirihish:
       "Because... shit. I know, I know."
  
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  The thick-necked, beefy human brandishes his sharp bone dart.
  
  Looking up, the lean, brown-skinned man says to the thick-necked, beefy human, in sirihish:
       "Uh..."
  
  The thick-necked, beefy human hurls a sharp bone dart at a multi-ringed dartboard.
  a sharp bone dart thumps in the Templar ring.
  
  The blond, strapping man says to the thick-necked, beefy human, in sirihish:
       "Drink."
  
  The thick-necked, beefy human brandishes his sharp bone dart.
  
  The thick-necked, beefy human says, in sirihish:
       "Nah, I'm pro'ly just gonna sleep."
  
  The blond, strapping man indicates a cask with a slightly misplaced finger.
  
  Waving a hand toward the ground, you say to the thick-necked, beefy human, in sirihish:
       "Si'down. Yah're making my head spin."
  
  The thick-necked, beefy human hurls a sharp bone dart at a multi-ringed dartboard.
  a sharp bone dart thumps in the Templar ring.
  
  The thick-necked, beefy human sits on a small leather cot.
  
  Offering his waterskin, the lean, brown-skinned man says to the thick-necked, beefy human, in sirihish:
       "One of us..."
  
  The thin, chestnut-haired woman intently scans the area.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man has arrived from the east.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man has arrived from the east.
  
  Tilting his head back, the blond, strapping man drinks firestorm's flame from his waterskin.
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man shakes his waterskin in front of the thick-necked, beefy human.
  
  The blond, strapping man stumbles a bit after the massive gulps.
  
  The thick-necked, beefy human holds out his hand.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man stumbles in, behind the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man, heaving, with blood set on his armor, and hands.
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man stops holding his waterskin.
  
  Reaching, the lean, brown-skinned man gives his waterskin to the thick-necked, beefy human.
  
  Spilling onto it, the blond, strapping man sits on a small leather cot.
  
  The thick-necked, beefy human looks up at the tall, heavily-scarred man.
  
  The thick-necked, beefy human drinks firestorm's flame from his waterskin.
  
  Shoving the tall, heavily-scarred man away with a bloodied shoulder, the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man says, in sirihish:
       "That's what... yeh get."
  
  The thick-necked, beefy human gives his waterskin to the lean, brown-skinned man.
  
  Groggily, the blond, strapping man says, in sirihish:
       "Third . . flasks the charm."
  
  Seeming to spot the blond, strapping man, appearing mildly surprised, you ask, in sirihish:
       "Hey, Blondie. How'd yah get there?"
  
  The thick-necked, beefy human says to the lean, brown-skinned man, in sirihish:
       "Cheers."
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man takes one step, before throwing his weight into the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man, in an attempt to knock his ass down.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man exclaims to the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man, in sirihish:
       "Fuck... you!"
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man stabs the tip of his bloodied rib-hilted bone rapier to the ground, leaning into its hilt.
  
  The blond, strapping man says to you, in sirihish:
       "I . . . drank."
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man squeezes his waterskin.
  
  Slipping on his bloodied boots, leaving a smear across the floor as he falls, the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man sits down.
  
  Wearing a loose smile, you say to the blond, strapping man, in sirihish:
       "No shet? Me too."
  
  Grabbing a pillow, the thick-necked, beefy human rests on a small leather cot.
  
  Falling on the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man, and glaring darkly, the tall, heavily-scarred man sits down.
  
  The compact, sun-bronzed woman kind of drags a large, etched wooden cask over to herself, dipping in her shot-glass.
  
  The blond, strapping man grins, bobbing his head wildly at you.
  
  Pushing him meakly off, the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man says to the tall, heavily-scarred man, in sirihish:
       "Get off me yeh feck'n shithead."
  
  fill shot 2.cask
  Ok.
  
  l in 2.cask
  It's less than half full of a reddish liquid.
  
  While fumbling for his neck, the tall, heavily-scarred man exclaims to the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man, in sirihish:
       "Y'... y'take that back!"
  
  You are Kahya, a Runner of the T'zai Byn.
  ...
  You are a little hungry and not thirsty.
  You are totally plastered.
  ...
  You have been playing for 3 days and 10 hours.
  You are sitting on a small leather cot.
  You are currently speaking sirihish with a southern accent.
  
  Moving over to a large, etched wooden cask, the lean, brown-skinned man stands up from a small leather cot.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man cuts slowly and uselessly at the tall, heavily-scarred man with his bloodied rib-hilted bone rapier.
  
  Beside a large, etched wooden cask, the lean, brown-skinned man sits down.
  
  Loudly, the thick-necked, beefy human says, in sirihish:
       "You know, I think we got a pretty good crew here."
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man reaches to grab his neck, and -very- weakly strangle the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man.
  
  The red-haired, lean woman has arrived from the east.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man exclaims to the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man, in sirihish:
       "... Take i'.... take i' back!"
  
  The red-haired, lean woman looks down at the thick-necked, beefy human.
  
  The thick-necked, beefy human stands up from a small leather cot.
  
  In a slow, mumbling chant, you say to the lean, brown-skinned man, in sirihish:
       "Drink, drink, drink, driinnn...."
  
  The thick-necked, beefy human salutes.
  
  The red-haired, lean woman snaps a fist to her chest.
  
  Flling up his waterskin, the lean, brown-skinned man says, in sirihish:
       "Drink..."
  
  The thick-necked, beefy human rests on a small leather cot.
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man fills up a waterskin from a large, etched wooden cask.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man continues to uh... hold his neck, without actually applying any legitimate pressure to it at all.
  
  The compact, sun-bronzed woman kind of brings a hand up to her chest but waves it at the red-haired, lean woman instead.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man grunts and smacks the tall, heavily-scarred man in the side of the head with the blunted edge of his bloodied rib-hilted bone rapier, using it like a sword.
  
  With an unfocused gaze, the blond, strapping man says, in sirihish:
       "Yeah, I'm downing my third skin you puss."
  
  Glancing at the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man, the lean, brown-skinned man sips from his waterskin.
  
  The red-haired, lean woman says, in sirihish:
       "Who's that medic in the Fist? I forgot his name."
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man blinks, and shakes his head, before actually -squeezing- this time, and attempting to slam his head off the floor, throwing his weight down to pin the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man.
  
  Holding it out, you say to the red-haired, lean woman, in sirihish:
       "Wanna' drink, Luja? Bes' stuff."
  
  Biting into his lower lip for a moment first, the blond, strapping man exclaims, in sirihish:
       "Ahh I know!"
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man exclaims to the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man, in sirihish:
       "Take i'... take i' back.... righ' now!"
  
  Regarding the shot-glass, you say, in sirihish:
       "Well...one 'of the good ones, at least."
  
  The blond, strapping man says, in sirihish:
       "Its . . its. . .old man. . . asshole . . . tries to kill me all day . . ."
  
  In a slur as he holds the point of his bloodied rib-hilted bone rapier to the tall, heavily-scarred man's side, the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man exclaims to the red-haired, lean woman, in sirihish:
       "He grabbed my crotch, sarge!"
  
  Suddenly belting it out, the blond, strapping man exclaims, in sirihish:
       "Arrun!"
  
  You say, in sirihish:
       "Arrr...arrrrr"
  
  Turning his attention back to the tall, heavily-scarred man, wiping some matted hair from his face, the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man says, in sirihish:
       "Gonna... cut yer eye out."
  
  Pointing a finger toward the blond, strapping man, you say to the blond, strapping man, in sirihish:
       "Arrrun."
  
  Shrugging, the lean, brown-skinned man says, in sirihish:
       "Arrrrrr...."
  
  Pointing at the blond, strapping man, the thick-necked, beefy human asks the red-haired, lean woman, in sirihish:
       "Him maybe?"
  
  Laughing, then slurring it suitably, the blond, strapping man says, in sirihish:
       "Arrrrrrun."
  
  With a hiss, leaning his face over his face, the tall, heavily-scarred man exclaims to the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man, in sirihish:
       "Ain' gonna... gonna do shit!"
  
  Calling out, face toward the ceiling, the lean, brown-skinned man says, in sirihish:
       "Arrrrrr......"
  
  You say to the blond, strapping man, in sirihish:
       "Arrrrr...."
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man tries to make a prod for the tall, heavily-scarred man's eye with his bloodied rib-hilted bone rapier, only weakly scratching the skin near it.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man says to the tall, heavily-scarred man, in sirihish:
       "Shut up.. an quit movin'."
  
  Laughing to the floor, the lean, brown-skinned man says, in sirihish:
       "Arr...heh-heh..."
  
  To no one in particular, the blond, strapping man shouts, in sirihish:
       "You hear that old man!  ARRRRRRRRR!"
  
  Kind of spilling a lot of it by accident, you give your shot-glass to the red-haired, lean woman.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man bats the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man across the face, and leans in to give the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man a kiss on the lips before -throwing- himself back, and scurrying behind the red-haired, lean woman for cover.
  
  You shout in sirihish:
       "ARRRR!"
  
  The thin, chestnut-haired woman intently scans the area.
  
  Grinning, the red-haired, lean woman says, in sirihish:
       "I thought you'd never ask."
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man stands up.
  The red-haired, lean woman sits on a small leather cot.
  
  The red-haired, lean woman holds her shot-glass.
  
  From his prone position, the lean, brown-skinned man shouts, in sirihish:
       "Arr!!!"
  
  Knocking it back, the red-haired, lean woman drinks firestorm's flame from her shot-glass.
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man lies down on the ground and rests.
  
  Spitting to the floor, the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man exclaims to the red-haired, lean woman, in sirihish:
       "Ah'm gonna.. feck'n kill'm!"
  
  Blinking up at her and offering a salute that manages to hit his own face, the blond, strapping man exclaims to the red-haired, lean woman, in sirihish:
       "Arrrr!"
  
  The thick-necked, beefy human has departed from the land of Zalanthas.
  
  Slipping over his bloodied boots, the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man sits down.
  
  With a chuckle, pointing in the direction of a large, etched wooden cask, you say to the red-haired, lean woman, in sirihish:
       "Still a good deal left. Yah need at least two..."
  
  Making a face, the red-haired, lean woman says, in sirihish:
       "Aaarr."
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man scurries over the cots, tripping himself up a couple times, before half-diving under her cot.
  
  The red-haired, lean woman stands up from a small leather cot.
  
  The red-haired, lean woman walks over to a large, etched wooden cask.
  
  l in cask
  It is empty.
  
  l in 2.cask
  It's less than half full of a reddish liquid.
  
  Laughing at the red-haired, lean woman, the lean, brown-skinned man exclaims, in sirihish:
       "Yea-arrr!"
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man intently scans the area.
  
  The red-haired, lean woman stops using her shot-glass.
  
  The thin, chestnut-haired woman intently scans the area.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man says to the lean, brown-skinned man, in sirihish:
       "Shut up."
  
  The red-haired, lean woman fills up a shot-glass from a large, etched wooden cask.
  
  You say to the lean, brown-skinned man, in sirihish:
       "Kell-ARRRR."
  
  Knocking it back, the red-haired, lean woman drinks firestorm's flame from her shot-glass.
  
  Sitting up, the lean, brown-skinned man exclaims to you, in sirihish:
       "Ka-karr!!!"
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man stops resting.
  
  Stumbling a few times as he rights himself, the blond, strapping man stands up from a small leather cot.
  
  The compact, sun-bronzed woman giggles a little.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man shouts, in sirihish:
       "AAAAAAAARRRRRRRR!"
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man does that from under one of the cots.
  
  Wincing, the red-haired, lean woman says, in sirihish:
       "This shit is weak. Gypsy brew is a lot better."
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man squints on eye, roving his bloodied gaze over the cots.
  
  The red-haired, lean woman sits on a small leather cot.
  
  The blond, strapping man weaves and trips his way over to the red-haired, lean woman.
  
  The red-haired, lean woman holds her shot-glass.
  
  The blond, strapping man thrusts his waterskin haphazardly at the red-haired, lean woman.
  
  You say to the red-haired, lean woman, in sirihish:
       "Kinda'...hits yah at the end."
  
  The blond, strapping man says to the red-haired, lean woman, in sirihish:
       "That . . .was my third.  Rules . . . you gotta catch me . . ."
  
  Spotting him, the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man exclaims to the tall, heavily-scarred man, in sirihish:
       "Gonna cutcher feck'n mouth off nex' time yeh do that!"
  
  Aggreeing with you, the lean, brown-skinned man says, in sirihish:
       "yar."
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man exclaims to the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man, in sirihish:
       "Ya.... YA LIKED IT!"
  
  You say to the lean, brown-skinned man, in sirihish:
       "karr"
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man says to the tall, heavily-scarred man, in sirihish:
       "Feck yeh.  No I didn'."
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man snickers, and crawls over to the lean, brown-skinned man, before rapping him on the shoulder a couple times.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man says to the tall, heavily-scarred man, in sirihish:
       "Feck'n manlover.  Now ah'm gonna cutcher cock off too, breed."
  
  You are a little hungry.
  Probably trying to right himself, the lean, brown-skinned man says, in sirihish:
       "Karr. Karr."
  
  Pressing on his bloodied rib-hilted bone rapier for support, the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man stands up.
  
  The blond, strapping man jiggles his waterskin at the red-haired, lean woman, staring at her appraisingly.
  
  You stand up from a small leather cot, staggering a little in one direction.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man says to the lean, brown-skinned man, in sirihish:
       "Hey.... Hey you...."
  
  The red-haired, lean woman nods to the blond, strapping man.
  
  Smiling, the lean, brown-skinned man says, in sirihish:
       "Kellar. I like that..."
  
  The red-haired, lean woman accepts the waterskin.
  
  Looking up, the lean, brown-skinned man asks the tall, heavily-scarred man, in sirihish:
       "Huh?"
  
  Nearly dropping it, the blond, strapping man gives his waterskin to the red-haired, lean woman.
  
  Making her way over to the blond, strapping man, you say, in sirihish:
       "Here...Berk...I'll show yah someth'n yah can like..."
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man latches onto his face, and plants a big, sloppy kiss on his lips!
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man barks out a laugh at the lean, brown-skinned man.
  
  Bringing it to her lips, the red-haired, lean woman sips from her waterskin.
  
  As he is smooched, the lean, brown-skinned man exclaims, in sirihish:
       "Ugh...!"
  
  Falling over, the lean, brown-skinned man lies down to rest.
  
  Expression going stern, the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man exclaims to the lean, brown-skinned man, in sirihish:
       "Now yeh know how a' felt!  Kill'm!  Cut 'is cock off!"
  
  Knocking it back, the red-haired, lean woman drinks firestorm's flame from her waterskin.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man releases the lean, brown-skinned man, and smirks.
  
  The blond, strapping man stands blissfully unaware of his surroundings.
  
  Slumping forward, one hand draping over the blond, strapping man's shoulder, the compact, sun-bronzed woman reaches down to his crotch, giving a light squeeze, before giggling.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man makes a charging motion at the tall, heavily-scarred man with a wave of his bloodied rib-hilted bone rapier.
  
  The red-haired, lean woman burps, her eyes turning red.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man exclaims to the lean, brown-skinned man, in sirihish:
       "Y'ain' wanna ge' kissed... y'don' e- WHOA!"
  
  Groaning, the lean, brown-skinned man says, in sirihish:
       "So the tables have turned..."
  
  Passing it back, the red-haired, lean woman gives her waterskin to the blond, strapping man.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man stumbles back, and scurries under the cots again!
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man exclaims, in sirihish:
       "Fuck you!"
  
  The red-haired, lean woman stops using her shot-glass.
  
  The blond, strapping man gazes down at his own crotch for a moment, blinking.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man stalks over to the line of cots.
  
  Her hands behind her head, the red-haired, lean woman rests on a small leather cot.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man gets his bloodied double-edged bone shortsword from his rough canvas backpack.
  
  As she stumbles back to her cot, you ask the red-haired, lean woman, in sirihish:
       "Did it hit yah yet, Luja?"
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man prods the lumps under the threadbare linen sheets with his boot.
  
  At 1) a small leather cot are:
        a couple of empty seats.
  At 2) a small leather cot are:
        a couple of empty seats.
  At 3) a small leather cot are:
        a couple of empty seats.
  At 4) a small leather cot are:
        the red-haired, lean woman, and one empty seat.
  At 5) a small leather cot are:
        a couple of empty seats.
  At 6) a small leather cot are:
        a couple of empty seats.
  At 7) a small leather cot are:
        a couple of empty seats.
  At 8) a small leather cot are:
        a couple of empty seats.
  At 9) a small leather cot are:
        a couple of empty seats.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man slips his bloodied double-edged bone shortsword out, and continues scurrying, working his way in the opposite direction of the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man.
  
  Idly, the red-haired, lean woman says, in sirihish:
       "Oh, yeah. Feelin' like a fuckin' pickled ginka."
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man asks, in sirihish:
       "Where are yeh, you coward?"
  
  Squinting at her, the blond, strapping man says to you, in sirihish:
       "Hey . . .that's not my . . ., " another hiccup escapes, "hair."
  
  The red-haired, lean woman stops using her carved carru-skull face-guard.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man comes out near the entrance, as far as the cots go, and stands up, pointing at the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man.
  
  The thin, chestnut-haired woman intently scans the area.
  
  Managing to pick the same cot as the red-haired, lean woman to rest at, you rest on a small leather cot, kind of draping an arm around the red-haired, lean woman's waist.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man exclaims to the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man, in sirihish:
       "Y'come on, suck on m'dick, tough guy!"
  
  The red-haired, lean woman stops using her decorated anakore-skull helm.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man spots the tall, heavily-scarred man and throws his bloodied rib-hilted bone rapier like a spear over at him.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man stops using his bloodied rib-hilted bone rapier.
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man rises from the ground, and clambers to his feet.
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man staggering onto a cot.
  
  The end of it bouncing harmlessly off the wall, the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man gives his bloodied rib-hilted bone rapier to the tall, heavily-scarred man.
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man sits on a small leather cot.
  
  You exclaim to the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man, in sirihish:
       "Do it 'n bite if off!"
  
  The blond, strapping man dopily smiles off at a blank area of the barracks.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man blinks, and steps back, falling, with the rapier skimming right byhis head. Then... he grabs it.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man stops using his round black shield.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man holds his bloodied rib-hilted bone rapier.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man nods to you and stalks over to where the tall, heavily-scarred man was.
  
  After a moment, you ask, in sirihish:
       "Ew...what was I talk'n about again?"
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man eyes the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man, for a moment, before whipping his bloodied rib-hilted bone rapier up, and angling it toward the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man looks up at the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man says to the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man, in sirihish:
       "Y'don' wanna fuck with me..."
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man draws an obsidian shortsword.
  
  Stumbling towards the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man and the tall, heavily-scarred man, the blond, strapping man exclaims, in sirihish:
       "Uh . . ah . . One small on Berk!"
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man looks in the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man's direction.
  
  Holding up a hand, the lean, brown-skinned man says, in sirihish:
       "Berk. Three coins."
  
  Mumbling against the red-haired, lean woman's side, you say, in sirihish:
       "Why's this so comfortable..."
  
  Meeting his rapier with his shortsword, the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man says to the tall, heavily-scarred man, in sirihish:
       "Back off an lemme take yer eye out, yeh coward."
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man brings his bloodied double-edged bone shortsword out, and around, resting it beside his bloodied rib-hilted bone rapier, his right foot set back, eyes dimly recovering.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man says to the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man, in sirihish:
       "Y'jus... try it..."
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man asks the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man, in sirihish:
       "Think you can beat me...?"
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man starts moving the sharp edge of his obsidian shortsword towards the tall, heavily-scarred man's face.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man lashes out, smashing his shortsword away with his bloodied double-edged bone shortsword.
  
  The blond, strapping man staggers about uncertainly on his feet, watching the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man and the tall, heavily-scarred man with a bright, almost cherubic smile.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man grunts and moves his obsidian shortsword back over relentlessly.
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man also watches the tall, heavily-scarred man and the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man.
  
  Absently, the blond, strapping man exclaims, in sirihish:
       "Just like . . .home!"
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man zips his bloodied rib-hilted bone rapier in, and thrusts it at his hand, while using his bloodied double-edged bone shortsword as a guard.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man sets the tip of his obsidian shortsword just above the tall, heavily-scarred man's eye.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man curses as the rapier bites into his hands, but keeps one forearm loped over his obsidian shortsword's pommel.
  
  Blinking as he stares, enthralled by the martial stand off, the blond, strapping man exclaims, in sirihish:
       "Kick . . . kick his groin!"
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man blinks, then does just that, knocking his sword aside and throwing a hard right foot up.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man shirks to the right, moving his crotch, and legs out of the way.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man steps back, out of the barracks... and calls out...
  
  Rounding on the blond, strapping man, the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man exclaims, in sirihish:
       "What th' feck, Blondie?!  Ah nearly cut 'is eye out!"
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man shouts, in sirihish:
       "COME AND GET ME MOTHER FUCKER!"
  
  Babbling on, the blond, strapping man exclaims, in sirihish:
       "B. . . burp!  headbuthim!"
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man stands up.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man staggers east.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man attempts to walk, but trips over his feet.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man stands up.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man staggers east.
  
  The blond, strapping man laughs whimsically, staggering slowly through the barracks.
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Shut yer trap!"
  
  The red-haired, lean woman stands up from a small leather cot.
  
  From her spot at the cot, you shout in sirihish:
       "GO! Get the motherfucker!"
  
  Watching the two fall over themselves, the lean, brown-skinned man says, in sirihish:
       "I hope Grinz dies or somethin'..."
  
  The red-haired, lean woman shakes her head.
  
  The red-haired, lean woman places her carved carru-skull face-guard onto her face.
  
  The red-haired, lean woman places her decorated anakore-skull helm on her head.
  
  The red-haired, lean woman staggers east.
  
  The blond, strapping man says, in sirihish:
       "Just like . . . when I tried to kill Jaro."
  
  The Main Barracks [EU Quit]
     This massive, two-story hall seems to have undergone heavy rebuilding
  at some time in the past. Most of the vast room is open air, with the first
  story above ground level being nothing more than a balcony of sorts,
  several cords wide and running along the walls of the building. Both upper
  and lower floors are devoid of furniture, with several hundred grimy
  pallets arranged in semi-orderly rows along the walls. Solid stone stairs
  lead to the upper level from the western end of the hall. Suspended from
  the ceiling, more than twenty-five cords above, is a large black banner
  bearing a purple dragon.
     The darkened hall is crammed with sleeping mercenaries, most still and
  snoring, but a few not so still, and definitely not asleep. The occasional
  figure can be seen dressing and then slipping quietly out through the large
  hallway to the east.
  A Kruth playing card is here: the Stone of Truth.
  A couple of empty large, etched wooden casks are here.
  A multi-ringed dartboard hangs on a wall here.
  A large barrel of water is shoved in the corner.
  The lean, brown-skinned man is sitting on a small leather cot.
  The blond, strapping man is standing here.
  - he is carrying a large bag.
  The brown-haired, blue-eyed man looks around slowly from his pallet here.
  The thin, chestnut-haired woman stands here, watching the stairs.
  The grey-maned, wooden-legged man sits here, sharpening a bone-toothed saw.
  The dimpled, shaven-headed man looks over a wounded mercenary here.
  
  Looking over, the lean, brown-skinned man asks the blond, strapping man, in sirihish:
       "You tried killin' a guy one time?"
  
  The blond, strapping man slams full speed into a small leather cot and crumples atop it, face first.
  
  *thunk*, the blond, strapping man rests on a small leather cot.
  
  Mumbling, you say to the blond, strapping man, in sirihish:
       "Blondie...Blondie..."
  
  The compact, sun-bronzed woman mumbles a bit more, indecipherably.
  
  Snapping suddenly upright and leveling a hard gaze at a small leather cot, the blond, strapping man exclaims, in sirihish:
       "You . .. you got a problem!"
  
  The blond, strapping man laces his fingers together and throws a hard rabbit punch at a small leather cot, to no avail.
  
  The thin, chestnut-haired woman intently scans the area.
  
  The blond, strapping man stands up from a small leather cot.
  
  Spilling off a small leather cot onto the floor, the blond, strapping man sits down to rest.
  
  In a loud voice which quickly disappates, you say, in sirihish:
       "Fix it! YAH MOTherfuck'n cockshushk'n whor...."
  
  Staring blankly up at the ceiling, the blond, strapping man says, in sirihish:
       "I . . tried every day to kill Jaro."
  
  While lying on her cot, you say, in sirihish:
       "What happened tah Jaro?..."
  
  Nodding slowly, the lean, brown-skinned man says to the blond, strapping man, in sirihish:
       "I know what ya mean, Blond-man."
  
  The blond, strapping man lifts his head, glancing about in a daze.
  
  A loud horn blast sounds from the northeast.
  
  Matter of factly, the blond, strapping man says, in sirihish:
       "He killed everyone but me.  I haven't found him yet."
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man winces at the loud sound.
  
  Holding his hands to his ears, the blond, strapping man says, in sirihish:
       "Ohhhhhhh."
  
  Brows raised, the lean, brown-skinned man says to the blond, strapping man, in sirihish:
       "No shit?..."
  
  Plugging her ears with a hand, you say, in sirihish:
       "Oooowww. Someone shut that thing up."
  
  Frowning, the blond, strapping man says, in sirihish:
       "I need more booze."
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man has arrived from the east.
  
  Mostly stable, the blond, strapping man rises and stands.
  
  Giving the handle of his obsidian shortsword a slow pat, the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man says, in sirihish:
       "Took't right out."
  
  The blond, strapping man attempts to fill his waterskin from both casks, then gazes down at them with a slack jaw.
  
  The blond, strapping man shouts, in sirihish:
       "THE BOOZE IS GONE!?"
  
  Mumbling, you say, in sirihish:
       "Need moah booooooze..."
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man turns his attention to the casks, looking just as slack jawed as the blond, strapping man.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man exclaims to the blond, strapping man, in sirihish:
       "Ah only got like three feck'n skin fulls'a that stuff!"
  
  Frowning, the lean, brown-skinned man asks, in sirihish:
       "What? The Booze's gone?"
  
  Stuffing a hand into his small bag, the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man says, in sirihish:
       "Wait.. ah think ah got some."
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man gets his waterskin from his small bag.
  
  The thin, chestnut-haired woman intently scans the area.
  
  The blond, strapping man begins savegely attacking a large, etched wooden cask with kicks, elbows, and punches.
  
  Looking over to everyone else, the lean, brown-skinned man asks, in sirihish:
       "Whe's all the booze gone?"
  
  You say, in sirihish:
       "Berk saves deh day..."
  
  Wailing on a large, etched wooden cask, the blond, strapping man exclaims, in sirihish:
       "Give me more booze!"
  
  Stumbling a step over, the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man says to the blond, strapping man, in sirihish:
       "S'alright Blondie, it's okay now."
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man holds out his waterskin to the blond, strapping man.
  
  The blond, strapping man pauses his animalistic beating on a large, etched wooden cask, looking at the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man.
  
  All traces of violence fading, the blond, strapping man says, in sirihish:
       "Oh."
  
  As he holds out his waterskin in a blood crusted hand, the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man says, in sirihish:
       "Yeh, still some left in't."
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man gives his waterskin to the blond, strapping man.
  
  The red-haired, lean woman has arrived from the east.
  
  Burping, the red-haired, lean woman sits on a small leather cot.
  
  The blond, strapping man tilts his head back and pounds another large helping of liqour.
  
  The blond, strapping man drinks firestorm's flame from his waterskin.
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man has arrived from the east.
  
  Narrowing one eye, the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man says to the blond, strapping man, in sirihish:
       "But don' drink't all."
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man exclaims to the blond, strapping man, in sirihish:
       "'ey!"
  
  The compact, sun-bronzed woman continues mumbling, the dawn light exposing half of her figure, and keeping the rest in the shadow.
  
  Handing it over clumsily, the blond, strapping man gives his waterskin to the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man makes a grab for the waterskin.
  
  Placing both hands behind her head, the red-haired, lean woman rests on a small leather cot.
  
  The thin, chestnut-haired woman intently scans the area.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man stares up from his waterskin as its lopped into his arms.
  
  Stepping over to a small leather cot, and hissing, shaking his head, while the grey-maned, wooden-legged man lets out a sigh of his own, and comes over to check the tall, heavily-scarred man out, the tall, heavily-scarred man sits on a small leather cot.
  
  The blond, strapping man stumbles over to you, gazing down at you.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man says to the blond, strapping man, in sirihish:
       "Feck'n krath, Blondie."
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man rests on a small leather cot.
  
  You have no feeling about the weather indoors.
  
  At 1) a small leather cot are:
        the lean, brown-skinned man, and one empty seat.
  At 2) a small leather cot are:
        a couple of empty seats.
  At 3) a small leather cot are:
        a couple of empty seats.
  At 4) a small leather cot are:
        the red-haired, lean woman, and the compact, sun-bronzed woman.
  At 5) a small leather cot are:
        a couple of empty seats.
  At 6) a small leather cot are:
        a couple of empty seats.
  At 7) a small leather cot are:
        a couple of empty seats.
  At 8) a small leather cot are:
        a couple of empty seats.
  At 9) a small leather cot are:
        the tall, heavily-scarred man, and one empty seat.
  
  Frowning, the lean, brown-skinned man says, in sirihish:
       "I feel like I should of been doing something..."
  
  The blond, strapping man asks you, in sirihish:
       "You look pretty.  How do you do that?"
  
  The tall, heavily-scarred man sleeps on a small leather cot.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man reels his head back, squeezing his waterskin over his mouth.
  
  The blond, strapping man swipes his hand at the growing light.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man stops what he's doing to focus on the blond, strapping man and you.
  
  Grumbling, waving a hand toward the blond, strapping man, you say, in sirihish:
       "Like ah haven't heard that... gunna punch yah in the face..."
  
  The blond, strapping man exclaims to you, in sirihish:
       "Hah!  Try it . . .bitch!"
  
  You are a little hungry.
  
  The blond, strapping man lifts his hands clumsily, leaving his entire lower body exposed.
  
  Glancing aside, the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man looks at the blond, strapping man.
  
  Sitting up suddenly, you exclaim, in sirihish:
       "Wha'?!"
  
  Groaning, the lean, brown-skinned man says, in sirihish:
       "Uhg... not enough shit to buy mount."
  
  Groaning, clutching at her head, you say, in sirihish:
       "Oohhh, my head."
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man says to the blond, strapping man, in sirihish:
       "Feck Blondie, cover't up.  Get'n sick of seein' cock today."
  
  The blond, strapping man asks you, in sirihish:
       "You say you'll punch me but I'll punch you or . . .wait, why would I punch you?"
  
  Glancing about, the blond, strapping man asks, in sirihish:
       "Where's Grinz, I want to punch someone?"
  
  Looking up, the lean, brown-skinned man says, in sirihish:
       "I wanna punch Grinz too."
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man looks over his shoulder.
  
  The compact, sun-bronzed woman suddenly lifts a foot up in a jerk reaction right between the blond, strapping man's legs.
  
  Nodding to the tall, heavily-scarred man, who's near the grey-maned, wooden-legged man, the patchy-haired, dark-eyed man says, in sirihish:
       "Over 'ere."
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man says, in sirihish:
       "Think ah got that eye ah wanted."
  
  Crumpling like a heap of stone, the blond, strapping man lies down and falls asleep.
  
  The patchy-haired, dark-eyed man squints over at the tall, heavily-scarred man.
  
  The lean, brown-skinned man grimaces at the groin kick.
  
  Mumbling, holding a dreamy smile, the compact, sun-bronzed woman adjusts her position on her cot.
  
  Dozing off, you sleep on a small leather cot.
  You stop guarding the blond, strapping man.
  
  Someone presses his boot to your side and gives you a nudge.
  
  Someone mumbles in his sleep, "I'll . . . cut it off . . . don't . . . not agian . . ."
  
  Someone burps and looks up at the ceiling.
  
  Someone snorts, rolling onto his back, and mumbling something to the tune of "Rocks.... and trees.... and trees.... and rocks..."
  
  Someone prods his waterskin into his mouth, sucking a bit on its emptiness before tossing it angrily into his small bag.
  
  Someone thrashes about on the floor.
  
  Someone grumbles "I'll  . . . always . . you."
  
  You are a little hungry.
  
  The compact, sun-bronzed woman shifts on your cot, first an arm rolling off the edge, and then later your whole body, landing with a small *thud* on the ground, followed by a groan.
  
  Grumbling, someone steps over you.
  
  Someone rolls off the bed, and awakens with a start, blinking.
  
  Someone tries to walk out of the barracks!
  
  Your new ldesc is:
  The compact, sun-bronzed woman lies here beside a cot, one leg still on it.
  
  Someone nudges a large, etched wooden cask.
  
  Someone grunts, and crawls under the cots, before slipping over to a large, etched wooden cask.
  
  Someone sets his blood-crusted hand to his knee, pushing himself wobbily up.
  
  It is early morning on Ocandra, the 144th day of the Low Sun,
  In the Year of Desert's Peace, year 58 of the 21st Age.
  
  You are a little hungry and not thirsty.
  You are intoxicated.
  ...
  You have been playing for 3 days and 11 hours.
  You are asleep on a small leather cot.
  You are currently speaking sirihish with a southern accent.
  
  Someone crawls over to a small leather cot, and climbs onto it, shaking his head.
  
  You are a little hungry.
  
  Someone sweats and rests uneasily, turning and tossing about on the floor.
  
  

  From the perspective of "the compact, sun-bronzed woman".
  
  
  Looking down from his impressive height, the blond, strapping man stares unblinking at the red-haired, lean woman.
  
  Clasping both her hands behind her, the red-haired, lean woman says, in sirihish:
       "We are currently in the final steps of...
  Continue Reading...
• 

  The forgetful bard by Akaramu
  Added on Jul 4, 2010

  Zach and Nyli, both Fale employees, run into each other for the first of many times.

  ---

  The lissome, kohl-eyelined man rubs his forehead gently, a gradually deepening look of exhaustion crossing his features.

  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the nubile, aureate-braided woman:
       "Hopefully, no crazy lasses will disturb my sleep! Have a wonderful and entertaining week, my lady."

  You dissolve the psychic link.

  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.

  The lissome, kohl-eyelined man straightens himself to sit upright, then directs an absent glance to the lightly-tanned, one-armed woman.

  You look at the lightly-tanned, one-armed woman.
  This human woman's skin seems to have been spared the brunt of
  Suk-Krath's glare, leaving it with a lighter shade of bronze than that of
  the average Zalanthan.  Her face is mostly plain with pale lips, an
  average-sized nose, and dark eyebrows.  The only distinctive exceptions are
  her wide-set, startling pale-blue eyes.  Her dirty-blonde hair undulates
  loosely as it falls, reaching halfway down her back.  Her left arm ends in a
  hand that is soft but clearly no stranger to some sort of labor, while her
  right terminates midway between shoulder and elbow in an old, neatly healed
  wound.  The rest of her physique is trim, with a flat stomach and
  well-proportioned legs. 
  The lightly-tanned, one-armed woman is in excellent condition.

  The lightly-tanned, one-armed woman is using:
  <worn in hair>           a purple hair bangle
  <worn in left ear>       a small jade earring
  <worn in right ear>      a small jade earring
  <worn around neck>       a small jade brooch
  <worn about throat>      a translucent scarf of emerald muslin
  <worn across back>       a loose, purple-silk knapsack
  <right shoulder>         a vibrant indigo bird tattoo
  <worn around wrist>      a purple-spiralled bone bracelet
  <worn on left finger>    a bone ring set with lavender salt crystals
  <worn on left finger>    a smooth obsidian ring
  <worn on left finger>    a feathered maar ring
  <worn around body>       a purple and green silk cloak bearing the Fale sigil
  <worn on legs>           a gauzy green cotton skirt
  <worn on feet>           a pair of knee-high purple and green silk boots

  She is carrying:
  nothing obvious

  The lissome, kohl-eyelined man blinks.

  At your table, the lightly-tanned, one-armed woman says in sirihish, staring back at you with widened eyes:
       "What?"

  At your table, you say in sirihish, a somewhat weak, but friendly smile easing its way around his lips:
       "Where have I seen that cloak before?"

  The lissome, kohl-eyelined man pushes your black-feathered, purple hat into a straight position on top of his head, then gives the lightly-tanned, one-armed woman another look, his attention lingering longer this time.

  At your table, the lightly-tanned, one-armed woman says in sirihish, smiling again:
       "Probably on my shoulders, where I always keep it."

  At your table, you say in sirihish:
       "Ah, I've seen you around! Don't tell me... Nalya, was it? Or Nuri? mmmmh..."

  The lissome, kohl-eyelined man purses his full lips in thought.

  The lightly-tanned, one-armed woman waits with a patient smile.

  The lissome, kohl-eyelined man clicks his fingers.

  At your table, you say in sirihish:
       "I got it now!"

  At your table, you say in sirihish:
       "Nirya, am I right?"

  The lightly-tanned, one-armed woman shakes her head, her smile widening a bit more.

  The lissome, kohl-eyelined man exhales an overdramatic sigh.

  At your table, you say in sirihish:
       "Ah, I'm shite with names."

  The lissome, kohl-eyelined man lifts your black-feathered, purple hat from his head with a sweep of one hand, then turns it over demonstratively.

  At your table, the lightly-tanned, one-armed woman says in sirihish, chuckling:
       "Well good.  I'd feel awful if you knew my name but I couldn't even guess at yours."

  You stop using your black-feathered, purple hat.

  At your table, you say in sirihish:
       "The hat is too small, you see? There is only room for three, four, at most five names in there."

  The lissome, kohl-eyelined man chuckles in amusement at his own remark.

  The lightly-tanned, one-armed woman chuckles again.

  At your table, you say in sirihish:
       "Ah. Normally I have to get women drunk before they begin to enjoy my terrible jokes."

  At your table, the lightly-tanned, one-armed woman says in sirihish:
       "Why?  That one was clever."

  At your table, you say in sirihish, dipping his head forward somewhat to gaze deep into the lightly-tanned, one-armed woman's eyes before he continues, softly:
       "I am sorry dear, I am dead tired and it would likely be fair to make another attempt with your name when I feel more awake."

  At your table, you say in sirihish, supporting his words with a sweep of a hand:
       "Find me another day, and I'll get it right, I promise."

  At your table, the lightly-tanned, one-armed woman says in sirihish, pursing her lip:
       "Hmm, but, well, what if we saved eachother the embarassment and just pretend we've never actually met?  That sounds like more fun to me."

  At your table, you say in sirihish:
       "Just follow the slapping noises and someone will have found Zach the bard."

  The lissome, kohl-eyelined man blurts out a hearty chuckle.

  At your table, you say in sirihish:
       "Alrite then, next time we meet, it will be the first time."

  At your table, the lightly-tanned, one-armed woman says in sirihish, grinning:
       "Alright."

  At your table, you say in sirihish, crooking a slender finger:
       "But don't wait too long, or I might have forgotten that I already like you."

  The lissome, kohl-eyelined man shows the lightly-tanned, one-armed woman a playful wink from a single eye before he adjusts your black-feathered, purple hat, and rises from his seat.

  You stand up from a short wooden bar.

  Waving, the lightly-tanned, one-armed woman says to you, in sirihish:
       "Alright.  Goodbye, stranger-who-I-never-met."

  Humming quietly to himself, the lissome, kohl-eyelined man meanders between the tables towards the entryway, one hand fluttering a small wave over his shoulder.

  The lissome, kohl-eyelined man rubs his forehead gently, a gradually deepening look of exhaustion crossing his features.

  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the nubile, aureate-braided woman:
       "Hopefully, no crazy lasses will disturb my sleep! Have a wonderful...

  
  Continue Reading...
• 

  The confused bard by Akaramu
  Added on Jul 4, 2010

  Women are trouble, such is life. And noble ladies? They are very fond of their songbirds. Sometimes, there is no easy choice to make.

  ---

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, his gaze drifting between your partially eaten bowl of erdlu wings and the nubile, aureate-braided woman as he speaks, a boyish smile lingering:

  "Ah, those are delightful."

  At your seat, the nubile, aureate-braided woman says in sirihish, her voice gentle as she swirls the contents of her goblet:

  "I must agree with you."

  You think:

  "Hopefully she still likes those almost inproper little remarks, heh."

  You eat your partially eaten bowl of erdlu wings.

  You are no longer hungry.

  Having emptied the bowl, the lissome, kohl-eyelined man eyes your green glass brandy snifter and switches it from his left to his right hand, still watching the nubile, aureate-braided woman from the corner of an eye.

  At your seat, you say in sirihish:

  "Have you had a delightful week, my lady?"

  You sip from your green glass brandy snifter.

  This tastes like strongly spiced brandy.

  You think:

  "This is the Krath-damned good stuff. Nothing like the gith piss in the Gaj."

  At your seat, the nubile, aureate-braided woman says in sirihish, eyes lifting to your face, ignoring the pleasantries:

  "What do you want to do Zach. I am really curious if it was your desire to be my concubine. I want to know your thoughts pet."

  You think:

  "Ah, so this is it..."

  Waiting expectantly, the nubile, aureate-braided woman sips from her round, amethyst-rimmed lapis goblet.

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, contemplating the contents of his glass as he speaks, in a cautiously respectful tone:

  "My lady, it is my desire to please you... however, this simple-minded bard does not know any of the... rules, or what is required."

  At your seat, you say in sirihish:

  "Lady Lapitia never spoke of... such things."

  You think:

  "Would I still be able to see Zara? But Krath, if I mention a common woman now, she might think I prefer Zara over her."

  At your seat, the nubile, aureate-braided woman says in sirihish, slender finger tracing the rim of her goblet idly, her tone patient and soft:

  "I am not Lady Lapitia my dear, but do not fret. If you were to be my concubine, I fear it would stun your creative avenues. You would never be allowed to be with..."

  You think:

  "And do I even have a free will in this? I don't want to lose her favor..."

  At your seat, the nubile, aureate-braided woman says in sirihish, clearing her throat:

  "You sould never be allowed to be with another while my concubine, Zach."

  At your seat, the nubile, aureate-braided woman says in sirihish, blinking at her goblet:

  "Would.."

  The nubile, aureate-braided woman sips from her round, amethyst-rimmed lapis goblet.

  The lissome, kohl-eyelined man nods as he listens, his gaze flicking towards the curving lines of the nubile, aureate-braided woman's lips briefly.

  You think:

  "Ah, Krath. Life will never be simple again, eh?"

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, softly, allowing his gaze to linger on the nubile, aureate-braided woman's lips for a longer time:

  "My lady, no other woman could match your charms."

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with an undertone of amusement:

  "But half of the servant lasses within the household might fret..."

  At your seat, you say in sirihish:

  "I could be strangled in my sleep, or beaten with brooms."

  At your seat, the nubile, aureate-braided woman says in sirihish, artistically arched brow raising as her dark eyes lift to you:

  "I do not want to take your freedoms Zach. That is not my intent. Unfortunately I must be careful for obvious reasons, with who I lay with. If it is not your desire to be killed..."

  At your seat, the nubile, aureate-braided woman says in sirihish, continuing with some humor:

  "..with brooms, decline the position."

  The lissome, kohl-eyelined man considers the nubile, aureate-braided woman sidelong for a moment, his kohl-lined gaze softening as it traces along her braids and neck.

  The lissome, kohl-eyelined man releases a deep breath.

  You think:

  "I am likely a Krath-damned idiot, no matter what I do."

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, softly:

  "My lady, would you be offended... if I think about this, for a week or two?"

  You sip from your green glass brandy snifter.

  This tastes like strongly spiced brandy.

  The nubile, aureate-braided woman crosses her legs primly and readjusts the silk over her legs then lets her free hand drape over her knee.

  At your seat, the nubile, aureate-braided woman says in sirihish, smiling gently:

  "Of course I would not be opposed Zach. But I will give you another offer within this to consider."

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, curiously:

  "Another offer, my lady?"

  At your seat, the nubile, aureate-braided woman says in sirihish, her eyes focusing softly as she looks across the carriage:

  "Should you decide to be my concubine, if you find love your heart needs to persue, even after a week in that service.."

  At your seat, the nubile, aureate-braided woman says in sirihish, eyes moving up to focus on your face:

  "I will release you to your freedoms, while still remaining employed with me."

  The lissome, kohl-eyelined man takes another small sip from your green glass brandy snifter, apparently attempting to focus his attention on something other than the nubile, aureate-braided woman's curving bosom.

  You think:

  "Ah, shite. I always knew that in the end, women would get me into the most trouble."

  You think:

  "I know it... no matter what I do, at some time, it will result in trouble."

  You think:

  "But Krath, she's perfect..."

  You feel aroused.

  At your seat, you say in sirihish:

  "You are very kind, and generous, to make such an offer, my lady."

  At your seat, the nubile, aureate-braided woman says in sirihish, voice soft:

  "I could not keep my songbird in a gilded cage."

  The nubile, aureate-braided woman lifts her hand from her knee to rest on yours, fingertips gently tracing over it.

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, in an equally soft tone, favoring the nubile, aureate-braided woman with his warmest smile:

  "The songbird will always chant his sweetest songs, no matter what happens, because he adores his lady."

  The lissome, kohl-eyelined man gently places his hand on top of the nubile, aureate-braided woman's hand, each slender finger lightly caressing her skin.

  The nubile, aureate-braided woman grins briefly before lifting her chin and leaning towards you, her full lips grazing your jawline, warm breath washing down your neck.

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, mumbling with mock disapproval:

  "Ah, my lady, if this was a Kruth game... I would say you are cheating."

  The lissome, kohl-eyelined man releases a faint sigh, then closes his eyes, tilting his head slightly to ease the nubile, aureate-braided woman's access.

  Her lips moving up to linger over your ear teasingly, her voice low and lascivious, the nubile, aureate-braided woman whispers to you, in sirihish:

  "Wouldn't my Seniors be proud of me then, my pet?"

  You think:

  "Must... resist... her... now. I need some fecking time to think..."

  You think:

  "Resist..."

  You feel internal struggle.

  The lissome, kohl-eyelined man tightens his grip on the nubile, aureate-braided woman's hand somewhat, then releases it with a vague, and weak shake of his head.

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a somewhat strained tone as he turns his face away from the nubile, aureate-braided woman:

  "Forgive me, my lady... I need time... to think."

  At your seat, the nubile, aureate-braided woman says in sirihish, dropping back to her place in the chair, eyes on your:

  "I'm not trying to seduce you into an answer now Zach. Just seduce you."

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, a look of vague confusion crossing his features as he glances over to the nubile, aureate-braided woman:

  "Would this not mean... I am, I mean... would it make me..."

  The lissome, kohl-eyelined man sighs softly.

  At your seat, you say in sirihish:

  "See my lady, your charm is so strong... you turn me into a babbling idiot."

  You think:

  "And sometimes, that scares me... very much."

  At your seat, the nubile, aureate-braided woman says in sirihish, her hand under yours turning up to entangle her fingers amongst yours:

  "Not this once, my curiosity has the better of me Zach, anyway, would you not be the same man a week or two from now, should you accept?"

  A Pilot's Chamber [D Quit Save]

  A carved and gilded wooden bench, upholstered with comfortable purple

  leather padding, stands at the front of this low- ceilinged pilot's chamber,

  while other ornately fashioned benches, sitting a little further back against

  the walls, provide the occupants with a comfortable vantage point from which

  they can see out over the pilot's shoulder. A large baobab cabinet, fastened

  with a small gilt catch, sits within easy reach of the pilot, while a gilded

  wooden cask sits atop it, ready to dispense wine. Underfoot, a purple and

  green rug completely obscures the wooden planking of the floor. The walls

  are covered with woven tapestries, depicting scenes of Allanaki glory. The

  chamber smells of perfume and burnt spice.

  A leather-strapped, rich purple satchel is slung over the footboard of a large, agafari bed.

  A small, black-dyed wooden cask with silver stripes is pushed in the corner behind the table.

  An unlit slender yellow taper is standing upright in a small sconce built into the wall.

  An octagonal agate-topped table is set just to the side of the pilots bench, several chairs pulled around it.

  A small, purple-dyed wooden cask with green stripes is here pushed in the corner, strapped down to keep from sloshing.

  Affixed with leather ties, a plump leather cushion pads the driver's bench.

  A large tray is placed in the middle of the table, filled with various foods.

  The nubile, aureate-braided woman is sitting on a leather-covered, gilt-armed easy chair.

  The unibrowed, wide-shouldered man is standing here alertly.

  The lissome, kohl-eyelined man settles back on his seat, giving the nubile, aureate-braided woman's hand a gentle, though somewhat absent squeeze as he appears to mull the question over.

  At your seat, you say in sirihish:

  "I don't know, my lady. I am not the same man now than I was before I wore this cloak... "

  At your seat, you say in sirihish:

  "I might be a better man, or I might be a babbling idiot, who only comes to life in your presence. A more skilled artist, mayhaps..."

  At your seat, you say in sirihish:

  "but one with fewer friends?"

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with an undertone of bitterness:

  "Envy runs like crotch-rot among the common populace."

  At your seat, you say in sirihish:

  "A bard with few friends does a poorer job, with less birds whispering into his ear. We work with stories, and the inspiration of others."

  At your seat, the nubile, aureate-braided woman says in sirihish, a soft smile curling her lips as she looks to her hand in yours:

  "You need not tell people. Nor do you need to fret over the future just now. All I want at this moment is to lay with you."

  At your seat, the nubile, aureate-braided woman says in sirihish, squeezing your hand before releasing it and moving to stand:

  "If you wish for it to not happen I suggest you make your desires known now."

  Witha graceful rise, silks clinging to her ample form, the nubile, aureate-braided woman stands up from a leather-covered, gilt-armed easy chair.

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, his features brightening at the instant as he considers the nubile, aureate-braided woman once more, and watches her rise:

  "Mmmmh... not tell anyone? I believe I would like... that, I like secrets, my lady... of course, none from you..."

  The nubile, aureate-braided woman turns to face you, head canting faintly.

  Wetting her full lips as she regards you, the nubile, aureate-braided woman asks you, in sirihish:

  "I didn't hear you pet. What was that?"

  You think:

  "Didn't I want to ask something today? Eh... can't fecking remember..."

  You think:

  "Something about... swords? Ah... no matter..."

  You think:

  "A flurry of sexual images"

  Speaking in a slightly darker tone as he pulls back the rim of your black-feathered, purple hat and turns his face to her, you say to the nubile, aureate-braided woman, in sirihish:

  "It was nothing important, my lady. Just a waste of time, and words."

  Turning with a swirl of lilac silk about her ankles, the nubile, aureate-braided woman asks you, in sirihish:

  "I am about to lock the trapdoor, do you choose to be inside our outside when it is done?"

  The nubile, aureate-braided woman moves over to a leather-strapped, rich purple satchel hung across the cramped bed wiht a silent stride.

  The nubile, aureate-braided woman opens a leather-strapped, rich purple satchel.

  The nubile, aureate-braided woman gets her jade-glazed keyring from a leather-strapped, rich purple satchel.

  You ask the nubile, aureate-braided woman, in sirihish:

  "Will I be able to walk, my lady?"

  The nubile, aureate-braided woman closes a leather-strapped, rich purple satchel.

  Arching a brow curiously as she turns to face you again, the nubile, aureate-braided woman asks you, in sirihish:

  "What do you mean Zach?"

  The lissome, kohl-eyelined man scratches his chin above the two hairy prongs of his goatee with a thumb, the flicker of a grin playing along his lips as he takes in every one of the nubile, aureate-braided woman's movements.

  You say to the nubile, aureate-braided woman, in sirihish:

  "Well, sometimes it works like an excellent drink... leaving me too light-headed and exhausted to climh down stairs, or ladders."

  Pursing her lips in thought as she watches your expression, the nubile, aureate-braided woman says to you, in sirihish:

  "I certainly hope you will still have minimal use of those legs. But Wesley can help you down if the need should arise."

  The nubile, aureate-braided woman flashes a grin and moves for the tradoor, pausing to look at you once more.

  Holding up her jade-glazed keyring, the nubile, aureate-braided woman asks you, in sirihish:

  "And what is your decision?"

  The lissome, kohl-eyelined man lifts a hand to flutter a small, playful wave towards the unibrowed, wide-shouldered man before returning his attention to the nubile, aureate-braided woman.

  The unibrowed, wide-shouldered man grunts, eyes darting off to look out on the yard.

  You say to the nubile, aureate-braided woman, in sirihish:

  "Mmmh, mayhaps outside then, my lady."

  You say, in sirihish:

  "Or inside? I am no good with decisions."

  You think:

  "Does it fecking matter?"

  His eyes locked on the nubile, aureate-braided woman as he speaks, distractedly, you say, in sirihish:

  "Mmh, no... outside it is."

  Leaning into the wall of the chamber with a sharply jutting hip, brown eyes still on you, the nubile, aureate-braided woman says to you, in sirihish:

  "As you wish pet."

  A quick glimps of disappointment crosses the nubile, aureate-braided woman's visage, quickly hidden behind an amicable smile.

  The nubile, aureate-braided woman stops using her round, amethyst-rimmed lapis goblet.

  The nubile, aureate-braided woman switches hands with her round, amethyst-rimmed lapis goblet and her keyring, taking her jade-glazed keyring in her right palm with an almost inaudible sigh.

  The nubile, aureate-braided woman walks across the carriage and sets down her goblet quietly on the table.

  The nubile, aureate-braided woman puts her round, amethyst-rimmed lapis goblet onto an octagonal agate-topped table.

  The lissome, kohl-eyelined man rises with a smooth motion and a soft rustle of your purple and green silk cloak bearing the Fale sigil, then sets your green glass brandy snifter down on the table with a forceful 'thud' before approaching the nubile, aureate-braided woman with a few swift strides.

  You stand up from a leather-covered, gilt-armed easy chair.

  You put your green glass brandy snifter onto an octagonal agate-topped table.

  Placing both hands on the wall to her right and left as he speaks, in a dark but gentle tone, next to her ear, you ask the nubile, aureate-braided woman, in sirihish:

  "Is it locked, my lady?"

  The nubile, aureate-braided woman looks at you with an interested flick of her gaze, watching you assessively.

  Softly, the nubile, aureate-braided woman says to you, in sirihish:

  "No."

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, his gaze drifting between your partially eaten bowl of erdlu wings and the nubile, aureate-braided woman as he speaks, a boyish smile lingering:

  "Ah, those are delightful."

  At your seat, the nubile, aureate-braided woman says in sirihish, her voice gentle...

  
  Continue Reading...
• 

  Solike, what? by Is Friday
  Added on Jun 15, 2010

  A Tor medic named Quinne is an oblivious, ditzy, and self-conscious young woman. In this scene she tries to make small talk with a blue robe and explain her role as the Jade Saber's temporary medic.

  ---

  To the supple, frazzle-maned young templar quietly, you say, in sirihish:
       "Solike, I was a herblist most a my kid life an then I joined Tor cause I wanted to be a medic instead a sellin mul mix to whores an stuff."
  
  Gesturing to a small sandstone footlocker, the supple, frazzle-maned young templar says, in sirihish:
       "If there's anything in there you'd use for cures, then take it now."
  
  The supple, frazzle-maned young templar nods to you.
  
  The small, shailoti curled lass bends over a small sandstone footlocker, digging around.
  
  The supple, frazzle-maned young templar gets her small wooden box from a small white-boned footlocker.
  
  The supple, frazzle-maned young templar puts her small wooden box into a heavy agafari trunk.
  
  The supple, frazzle-maned young templar gets her dusty bone-studded backpack from a small white-boned footlocker.
  
  Rambling on as you half-buries herself in a small sandstone footlocker, you say, in sirihish:
       "Anlike, I'm real good at it so they was like 'oh you're jus a cadet but ya should be the medic like right now'. So I was the medic then."
  
  Lost in your own world inside a small sandstone footlocker, you say, in sirihish:
       "Anlike, then Silver Kite was like 'hey ya should be a medic for the militia too cause they need one'. Anlike, I met Sergeant Zoan an he hated me but that was okay cause he needed me."
  
  Tossing a pack to -plunk- down near you, the supple, frazzle-maned young templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "There's bimbal in here, and more in the other locker, too."
  
  The supple, frazzle-maned young templar drops a dusty bone-studded backpack.
  
  Not replying outright to the supple, frazzle-maned young templar, and instead continuing with your distant recollection, you say, in sirihish:
       "Yaknow I liked Zoan even though I bugged him a lot. I also once saw his penis. It was pretty big.... Probly a good thing he hated me."
  
  The supple, frazzle-maned young templar rubs a hand to her forehead.
  
  Struggling with something inside a small sandstone footlocker, you say, in sirihish:
       "So -any-way, then I was the unit medic cause they needed me here."
  
  The supple, frazzle-maned young templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "Do not discuss the size of the Sergeant's penis with me. Chet nearly got himself tossed in the pit for some inappropriate comments."
  
  Peeking out to the supple, frazzle-maned young templar with a glazed over expression, you say, in sirihish:
       "Oh. Did I say somethin bout his dick? Sorry Lady Templar. Sometimes I like... ramble an stuff...."
  
  The small, shailoti curled lass winces slowly, trying to uphold a good-natured smile despite this.
  
  
  < later on >
  ----
  
  
  Gaze wandering over to a heavy agafari trunk, you say, in sirihish:
       "Solike, I saw this reallyreally awesome hat in here, Lady Templar. Can I have it pretty please? I aint ever seen anybody use it ever, an I know all the officers that come in here."
  
  Lips quirking, the supple, frazzle-maned young templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "You may be able to trade your month's pay for it, I'll have to talk with the Lady Templar Kinnis to see if she had any plans for it."
  
  To the supple, frazzle-maned young templar quickly, you exclaim, in sirihish:
       "Oh I'd trade -three- months pay for it, Lady Templar!"
  
  The small, shailoti curled lass' knees wiggle a little as your body is wracked with obvious excitement.
  
  The supple, frazzle-maned young templar asks you, in sirihish:
       "Mm, we'll see. Anything else you wanted to ask?"
  
  The small, shailoti curled lass' face turns visibly pensive as your lips pucker.
  
  To the supple, frazzle-maned young templar after a long moment, you ask, in sirihish:
       "Solike, Lady Templar, I'm tryin to find the ingredients to a boobie growin potion when I'm not workin. If I find some stuff in what I got here an it aint bein used for like... tablet makin, can I use it?"
  
  The supple, frazzle-maned young templar just stares at you a moment, before bursting into laughter.
  
  The small, shailoti curled lass' expression pales as you holds an awkward demeanor, gaze falling.
  
  Meekly, you ask, in sirihish:
       "Solike, no?"
  
  Still chuckling, the supple, frazzle-maned young templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "Oh, my. A boobie making potion? You could just wait, you know."
  
  Half-mumbling as your round cheeks redden, you say, in sirihish:
       "Ya what-ever- Lady Templar... I want big boobies -now-."
  
  The supple, frazzle-maned young templar chuckles more, shaking her head from side to side with mirth.
  
  The supple, frazzle-maned young templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "I think you're the -only- person I have -ever- heard talking to a Templar about boobie potions. Dear me."
  
  Amusement plain on her face, the supple, frazzle-maned young templar asks you, in sirihish:
       "Dare I ask why it's so important to have them now?"
  
  Bravely lifting your chin to stare at her, you say to the supple, frazzle-maned young templar, in sirihish:
       "Well like, people don really take me all that serious cause a my small boobies. Mostly they're like 'oh look at them small boobies, that's weird'... an then like... it's hard to really..."
  
  Going on with an exposed expression to your features, you say to the supple, frazzle-maned young templar, in sirihish:
       "... yaknow, talk to people, cause they're always thinkin 'what small boobies'. Now if I had big boobies then people wouldn't really notice an then..."
  
  Shaking her head a bit, smiling faintly, the supple, frazzle-maned young templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "Don't you have a sister or mother to talk with about this? Big boobies can be all sorts of trouble, you know."
  
  Going on with a bit of hope and reverie entering your tone, you say to the supple, frazzle-maned young templar, in sirihish:
       "No no, but like, if I had big boobies then like, they wouldn't be starin at my small ones anymore, an then they could like, get to know me an stuff. They'd probably say like......"
  
  Face contorting as you attempts to put on a voice, you say, in sirihish:
       "Hey I bet she's got some really great smarts an stuff."
  
  Returning to your normally squeaky and mousy voice, you say, in sirihish:
       "Butlike, they can't say that cause they're too busy starin at my small boobies. Nobody is really like, takin me seriously or anythin."
  
  Both eyebrows shooting up, the supple, frazzle-maned young templar asks you, in sirihish:
       "You think people will think you're smart if you have BIG breasts?"
  
  To the supple, frazzle-maned young templar with a quick set of nods, you say, in sirihish:
       "Ya probly. It's reallyreally hard havin small boobies yaknow, Lady Templar. I betya never had small ones..."
  
  The small, shailoti curled lass sighs morosely.
  
  The supple, frazzle-maned young templar asks you, in sirihish:
       "Hon, whoever's looking at your boobs is going to be -more- distracted if you have bigger ones. The bigger they are, the less men hear you say. Did I mention that they get in the way, too?"
  
  The supple, frazzle-maned young templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "You'll have Drov-aweful back problems, trying to keep those things supported."
  
  Waving a finger at the supple, frazzle-maned young templar with your other hand planted on your hip, grinning with a determined gleam in your pale eyes, you say to the supple, frazzle-maned young templar, in sirihish:
       "Ya-right-, Lady Templar! I'm a medic, I can do all sorta stuff for big boobie support."
  
  The supple, frazzle-maned young templar just starts flat-out laughing again.
  
  Gasping to regain her composure, the supple, frazzle-maned young templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "Oh, my. I'm sorry it's just... Oh dear."
  
  The small, shailoti curled lass bites your bottom lip, staring at the supple, frazzle-maned young templar as though having no idea what is funny.
  
  Shaking her head back and fourth and chuckling, the supple, frazzle-maned young templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "No, you may not use the barracks supplies to make a boobie potion, but you may use your own."
  
  Mumbling sadly as your gaze drifts to the ground, you say, in sirihish:
       "... ya okay."
  
  The supple, frazzle-maned young templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "Oh my. You're quite the brave or oblivious one, asking a Templar about a boobie potion."
  
  Rubbing at your hand with your other gently, you say, in sirihish:
       "Ya... sorta gets me in trouble sometimes, Lady Templar."
  
  To the supple, frazzle-maned young templar distantly, you say, in sirihish:
       "Ma said I was like, eatin truth root an stupid salve too much."
  
  Shaking her head still, in amusement, the supple, frazzle-maned young templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "Generally, it's best not to ask Templars or nobles about those things. You're lucky I was amused. Watch your tongue a little more, it is going to get you into horrible trouble some day."
  
  Nursing your hand with a quiet tone, you say, in sirihish:
       "Ya okay Lady Templar."
  
  Struggling to prevent a firm face, the supple, frazzle-maned young templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "Now, we didn't talk about this. Don't go saying you talked to me about a boobie potion. It's not good to present the idea that that can be talked about with a Templar."
  
  To the supple, frazzle-maned young templar with a slow nod, you say, in sirihish:
       "Ya okay, Lady Templar."

  To the supple, frazzle-maned young templar quietly, you say, in sirihish:
       "Solike, I was a herblist most a my kid life an then I joined Tor cause I wanted to be a medic instead a sellin mul mix to whores an stuff."
  
  Gesturing to a small sandstone footlocker, the supple, frazzle-maned young...
  Continue Reading...
• 

  Village Kid by Jakub
  Added on Jun 15, 2010

  A red-robed Allanaki templar of the War Ministry encounters a piece of his own past.

  ---

  Meleth's Circle [NESW]
  The rugged, one-eyed templar is standing here.
  The burly, long-haired bouncer stands here, guarding the inn's entrance.
  An aged human beggar sits cross-legged against the wall of the inn here.
  
  Hurrying out of the tavern, the blue-eyed, rawboned lad stops dead.
  Eyes wide, you look at the rugged, one-eyed templar.
  
  This man's hard-lined, weather-worn face is drawn and taut, with stress
  wrinkles beginning to show around his eyes and at the corners of his lips.
  Chin-length, sienna-shaded hair frames the austere visage, appearing
  relatively clean and free of tangles.  A thin stubble coats his square jaw
  and the flat planes of his cheeks, and his skin looks rough and tanned
  bronze by the harsh sun.  His right eye shines a keen, clean blue, but the
  left is covered by damaged, scarred flesh, clearly unusable.  His corded
  neck is attached to a set of broad shoulders which top out a thick, defined
  chest, and muscular arms end in strong, calloused hands.  An impressive
  height somewhat disguises his toned musculature, lending him a sturdy look
  overall without being especially bulky.
  The rugged, one-eyed templar is in excellent condition.
  
  The rugged, one-eyed templar is using:
  <worn on head>           a wide-brimmed black hat
  <worn on face>           an ivory eyepatch inlaid with a jade cross
  <worn in left ear>       a diamond earring stud
  <worn around neck>       an obsidian-carved, silver-etched gorget
  <worn about throat>      a medallion of Tektolnes
  <slung across back>      a narrow, etched bronze longsword
  <worn across back>       an oversized black backpack
  <worn on left shoulder>  a red silk sash
  <worn on arms>           a pair of black, bone scalemail arm-guards
  <worn around wrist>      a glossy, jet-colored shell bracer
  <worn around wrist>      a glossy, jet-colored shell bracer
  <worn on hands>          a pair of spike-knuckled, black leather gloves
  <worn on forearms>       a leather and chitin strap-sheath
  <worn around body>       a red, hooded templar's robe
  <worn on legs>           a set of glossy, jet-colored shell greaves
  <worn on right ankle>    a polished, jade-capped gith claw
  <worn on feet>           a pair of high, polished black leather boots
  
  Feeling terrified, you think:
       "It's-- a Red Robe. Mightn't be Him."
  
  An aged human beggar stirs a clump of dirt on the street with his finger.
  An aged human beggar mutters something about elves.
  
  The sun rises over the spires of Allanak's east wall.
  A final glimmer of red light marks the red moon Jihae's slow descent.
  
  Standing by the burly, long-haired bouncer, the blue-eyed, rawboned lad stares at the rugged, one-eyed templar, transfixed.
  
  Groaning and holding his stomach, an aged human beggar exclaims, in sirihish:
       "Alms, food for the poor!"
  
  Shaking his head distantly, the rugged, one-eyed templar says, in sirihish:
       "Ugh."
  An aged human beggar picks a flea out of his raggedy cloak.
  Buzzing, a kank-fly circles in the dusty air, passing low over the blue-eyed, rawboned lad before disappearing down the street.
  
  As his eye refocuses from staring off at nothing, the rugged, one-eyed templar looks at you.
  His form stiffening at the rugged, one-eyed templar's gaze, the blue-eyed, rawboned lad drops quickly to one knee, bowing.
  
  After a few moments, the rugged, one-eyed templar asks you, in sirihish:
       "That Salarr's new getup, son?"
  
  102/102hp 93/93st 127/128mv walking standing riding: none > l me
  Perfectly straight, jet-black hair, neatly trimmed to a single hand's
  breadth, frames the lean face of this young human man, matched by a fine
  layer of dark stubble on his cheeks and chin.  His face and forearms are
  bronzed beyond their natural hue by Suk-Krath's fierce rays, contrasting
  starkly with the keen, startling blue of his eyes.  Though his tall,
  broad-shouldered frame shows the promise of a powerful adult body, the last
  vestiges of rawboned youth conspire to lend him a lingering malnourished
  look.
  The blue-eyed, rawboned lad is in excellent condition.
  
  <worn about throat>      a black sandcloth bandana
  <slung across back>      a cross-hilted, bone bastard sword
  <worn across back>       a small pack
  <worn on left shoulder>  an orange cloth epaulette
  <worn on arms>           a pair of carru leather sleeves
  <worn around wrist>      a studded hide wrist-wrap
  <worn around wrist>      a leather wrist guard
  <worn on hands>          a pair of hide gloves
  <worn around body>       a black leather and steel-grey sandcloth greatcloak
  <worn on legs>           a pair of black leather pants
  <worn on feet>           a pair of chalton leather boots
  
  Your tone indistinct, you ask the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "...bf fff.... ..ord?"
  Clearing your throat, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "I...I suppose yes, Great Lord."
  Sounding slightly amused and looking vaguely curious, the rugged, one-eyed templar asks you, in sirihish:
       "Y'suppose?"
  Still on one knee, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "'Tis Salarr gear, Great Lord. I couldn't say if it's new."
  After a moment, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "No newer than me, that is."
  Folding his arms, the rugged, one-eyed templar asks you, in sirihish:
       "How new's you?"
  Your eyes lifting to study his face, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "I been workin' in the stables seven months, Great Lord. Ever since I come to the City, really."
  Nodding idly, the rugged, one-eyed templar asks you, in sirihish:
       "Village kid?"
  Dipping a little nod, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "Menos, Great Lord."
  The rugged, one-eyed templar says, in sirihish:
       "Or tribal? Y'don' sound tribal."
  Quickly, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "Oh, no, Great Lord, I'm His citizen."
  Looking a bit more interested, the rugged, one-eyed templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "Menos? No shit. I was out there years ago."
  After a moment's hesitation, matter-of-factly, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "You're Great Lord Rennick."
  Nodding once, the rugged, one-eyed templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "Samos Rennik."
  Reaching up to tap his ivory eyepatch inlaid with a jade cross, the rugged, one-eyed templar says, in sirihish:
       "Had two eyes and a blue robe when I was out there."
  Flushing, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "Everbody speaks of you there, Great Lord."
  Chuckling quietly, the rugged, one-eyed templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "Yeh, I reckon I put 'em on th' map."
  
  The short female wearing a thin veil of deep blue silk has arrived from the east.
  The short figure in a purple and green silk cloak bearing the Fale sigil has arrived from the east.
  
  Hesitating, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "Yes, Great Lord. My... Lots of 'em remember those days."
  Your new ldesc is:
  The blue-eyed, rawboned lad kneels by the tavern door.
  
  The short female wearing a thin veil of deep blue silk looks up at the rugged, one-eyed templar.
  Glancing aside, the rugged, one-eyed templar looks down at the short female wearing a thin veil of deep blue silk.
  The short female wearing a thin veil of deep blue silk bows to the rugged, one-eyed templar respectfully, the short figure in a purple and green silk cloak bearing the Fale sigil doing the same.
  On one knee near the tavern door, the blue-eyed, rawboned lad starts slightly as the short female wearing a thin veil of deep blue silk passes.
  
  The rugged, one-eyed templar reaches up to touch the brim of his hat, returning a nod to the short female wearing a thin veil of deep blue silk's bow.
  The short female wearing a thin veil of deep blue silk says to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "Great Lord Templar Samos? It's an honor."
  Feeling mostly awestruck, you think:
       "It's him, it's him."
  You look at the rugged, one-eyed templar, your eyes flickering over the red-robed form.
  
  The tall figure in an inky-black, hooded sandcloth greatcloak slows, bowing to the rugged, one-eyed templar as he passes, attempting to make himself as small possible.
  
  Glancing over at you briefly, the short female wearing a thin veil of deep blue silk says to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "I'm Lady Samira. Unfortunately, I'm afraid I've got something very pressing to attend to. "
  Bowing again before turning to leave, the short female wearing a thin veil of deep blue silk says to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "His Shadow upon you, Great Lord Templar."
  The short female wearing a thin veil of deep blue silk walks west.
  The short figure in a purple and green silk cloak bearing the Fale sigil walks west.
  
  The blue-eyed, rawboned lad glances briefly at the short female wearing a thin veil of deep blue silk as she passes.
  Chuckling softly to himself, the rugged, one-eyed templar says, in sirihish:
       "Always make 'em nice, them Fales."
  The blue-eyed, rawboned lad's bronzed ears turn a bit pink.
  The blue-eyed, rawboned lad grins slightly, then wipes the expression clean.
  
  You are Jakub, Servant/Slave/Recruit/Partisan of the House Salarr.
  Keywords: blue-eyed rawboned lad
  Sdesc: the blue-eyed, rawboned lad
  Objective:
  Long Description:
  The blue-eyed, rawboned lad kneels by the tavern door.
  
  You are 18 years, 1 months, and 179 days old,
   which by your race and appearance is young.
  You are 73 inches tall, and weigh 8 ten-stone.
  Your strength is above average, your agility is extremely good,
    your wisdom is average, and your endurance is above average.
  You are neither hungry nor thirsty.
  Your health is 102(102), you have 127(128) stamina, and 93(93) stun.
  
  You have been playing for 3 days and 15 hours.
  You are standing.
  You are currently speaking sirihish with a southern accent.
  
  Looking to the tavern and back, the rugged, one-eyed templar asks you, in sirihish:
       "What's your name?"
  You begin watching the rugged, one-eyed templar.
  You say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "Jakub, Lord Templar."
  After a moment, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "From the Darhurds, if you...remember them."
  Unnecessarily, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "I'm taller'n them, though."
  After a moment, the rugged, one-eyed templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "Ah.. yeh. Yeh, I reckon I do. Come on with me, son. I'll buy y' a drink."
  The blue-eyed, rawboned lad stares at the rugged, one-eyed templar, unmoving.
  Blinking, the blue-eyed, rawboned lad stands up.
  You say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "Yes, Great Lord."
  You now follow the rugged, one-eyed templar.
  
  Keeping a good distance away from the rugged, one-eyed templar, the blue-eyed, rawboned lad hesitantly makes your way to a position to his side.
  Smirking, the rugged, one-eyed templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "S'what I was on about anyways, so I reckon you can join me 'n tell me 'bout Menos."
  An aged human beggar fearfully scrambles out of the rugged, one-eyed templar's way.
  The rugged, one-eyed templar walks east.
  You follow the rugged, one-eyed templar, and walk east.
  Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
  
  The Trader's Inn [WU]
     The stone walls of this building rise up about fifteen cords and are
  devoid of windows.  Only the doorway to the west admits any light from
  outside, and that much is diffused by the colorful jade and black beads that
  hang from the doorframe.  Two large torches stick out on each side of the
  doorway, unlit.  Cool shadows cover most of the bar, except where oil lamps
  hang on long bone chains above tables crowded with patrons, giving the inn a
  quiet, subdued air.  The slate floor underfoot is polished and clean.
     A polished bar runs the length of the building's east end, where it meets
  a staircase that leads up to the rooms that patrons often rent during their
  stay in Allanak.
  A wall here is designated as a message board.
  The rugged, one-eyed templar is standing here.
  A bartender stands behind the long bar, quietly waiting on customers.
  The slight, black-haired man stands at attention beside a side table here.
  The massive, grey-bearded man sits at a side table here, watching quietly.
  A slim, half-elf server moves from table to table, taking orders.
  A lithe, sable-haired woman converses gently with a group at a table.
  A half-giant soldier of Tektolnes walks along here.
  A human Allanaki soldier has arrived from the west.
  
  Making his way to a small table at the north end, the rugged, one-eyed templar says to the quiet bartender, in sirihish:
       "Two wines. Don' much care what kind, long as it ain't shit."
  Claiming a seat for himself, the rugged, one-eyed templar sits at a small table at the north end.
  The blue-eyed, rawboned lad follows in the rugged, one-eyed templar wake, murmurs, bows, and curious glances rippling through the quiet tavern.
  
  Making your way to the other side of a small table in the back, the blue-eyed, rawboned lad hesitates, then bows low to the rugged, one-eyed templar and pulls back a chair.
  Eyes on the rugged, one-eyed templar, you sit at a small table in the back.
  
  At a small table at the north end, the rugged, one-eyed templar speaks, as the wine is speedily delivered.
  The rugged, one-eyed templar gives you his fine white alabaster goblet.
  
  You stand up from a small table in the back.
  You sit at a small table at the north end.
  
  At your table, the rugged, one-eyed templar says in sirihish, as the wine is speedily delivered:
       "Darhurds, eh."
  At your table, you say in sirihish, gripping your fine white alabaster goblet:
       "Yes, Great Lord. We're all ranchers, if you remember...mebbe the, ah, third or fourth biggest herd?"
  At your table, you say in sirihish, turning your fine white alabaster goblet around and around in your hand without taking a drink:
       "...Though I dun't know how big it was in your time."
  At your table, the rugged, one-eyed templar says in sirihish, with an easy, reminiscent smile:
       "Feels like ages ago. Have t' say I might've let details like that slip on by. Knew it all pretty well 'n good when I was tax collectin' 'r sendin' men after stray chalton, though."
  At your table, you say in sirihish, glancing down at your fine white alabaster goblet:
       "Everbody's real proud to have knowed you once, Great Lord. My ma speaks of you sometimes."
  Hunching your shoulders, you sip from your fine white alabaster goblet.
  Chuckling quietly, the rugged, one-eyed templar sips from his fine white alabaster goblet.
  At your table, the rugged, one-eyed templar says in sirihish:
       "Yeah? What's she say?"
  At your table, you say in sirihish, glancing up, avoiding the rugged, one-eyed templar's eyes:
       "Just...that you was a real fine Lord. An'...kind. To folks."
  At your table, the rugged, one-eyed templar says in sirihish, leaning back on his seat:
       "Tried t' be. Your family survive th' gith attack all right?"
  At your table, you say in sirihish, your own posture ramrod straight:
       "They did, Great Lord. I...thought mebbe I caught a glimpse of you then. But they wouldn' let me near the gate."
  At your table, you say in sirihish, to the rugged, one-eyed templar, indifferently:
       "We lost some stock, I guess. I wasn't watchin' tallies, back then."
  At your table, you say in sirihish, softly, glancing down at your fine white alabaster goblet:
       "Nor now, o' course."
  Nodding once, the rugged, one-eyed templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "Was me and a handful of others that broke through. Savin' chalton wasn' exactly on my mind right then."
  
  At your table, you say in sirihish, raising your eyes to his, with a slight shake of your head:
       "They call it Samos' village now, Great Lord. We'd o' been all kilt f'sure, otherwise."
  At your table, the rugged, one-eyed templar says in sirihish, laughing and leaning back on his seat:
       "Yeh. Some days I wanna take my girls 'n move on back."
  At your table, you say in sirihish, one eye squinting spasmotically:
       "Your gir--"
  At your table, you say in sirihish, ducking your head:
       "You, ah, have kids, Great Lord? if I may ask?"
  At your table, the rugged, one-eyed templar says in sirihish, nodding easily:
       "Oldest 's gonna wear a Blue herself, some day."
  At your table, you say in sirihish, faintly, flushing crimson:
       "That's real fine, Great Lord."
  You think:
       "My sister? A templar?"
  The rugged, one-eyed templar furrows his brow, watching you.
  You think:
       "But maybe it's not true. He's so.."
  You think:
       "Lordly."
  At your table, the rugged, one-eyed templar says in sirihish, after a moment, leaning forward again:
       "What'd y'say yer mother's name was?"
  Raising your eyes from your fine white alabaster goblet, you look at the rugged, one-eyed templar.
  At your table, you say in sirihish, dropping your gaze again:
       "Chalta, Great Lord."
  Slowly lowering it, the rugged, one-eyed templar puts his fine white alabaster goblet onto a small table at the north end.
  The blue-eyed, rawboned lad glances down at the floor, your fine white alabaster goblet tipping a bit in your hand.
  You think:
       "Even so, he wouldn't know her."
  At your table, the rugged, one-eyed templar says in sirihish, after a few moments:
       "How old are you?"
  You think:
       "Even if it's true."
  At your table, you say in sirihish, to the rugged, one-eyed templar, your fine white alabaster goblet recovering its equilibrium:
       "Eighteen, Great Lord, take a month."
  Lifting it to your lips, you sip from your fine white alabaster goblet.
  The rugged, one-eyed templar lifts his gaze a moment, eye going distant.
  You look at the rugged, one-eyed templar, your expression veiled.
  At your table, the rugged, one-eyed templar says in sirihish, after a longer pause:
       "Reckon I knew her"
  At your table, you say in sirihish, after a moment:
       "She's spoke of you afore, Great Lord, like I said."
  At your table, the rugged, one-eyed templar says in sirihish, taking in a deep breath:
       "What'd.. she say?"
  
  The short female wearing a dusty thin veil of deep blue silk has arrived from the west.
  The short figure in a dusty purple and green silk cloak bearing the Fale sigil has arrived from the west.
  The short figure in a dusty purple and green silk cloak bearing the Fale sigil dusts the short female wearing a dusty thin veil of deep blue silk off.
  The short figure in a dusty purple and green silk cloak bearing the Fale sigil dusts herself off.
  
  At your table, you say in sirihish, your complexion now paling a little:
       "That, that you was real kind. And Lordly. Like no man she'd ever met."
  
  Patiently, the short female wearing a thin veil of deep blue silk waits for the short figure in a purple and green silk cloak bearing the Fale sigil to dust her off, then continues into the tavern towards a short wooden bar.
  The short female wearing a thin veil of deep blue silk sits at a short wooden bar.
  By the short female wearing a thin veil of deep blue silk, the short figure in a purple and green silk cloak bearing the Fale sigil stands at a short wooden bar.
  The quiet bartender trades a small cake to the short female wearing a thin veil of deep blue silk.
  The short female wearing a thin veil of deep blue silk takes a bite of her small cake.
  
  At your table, the rugged, one-eyed templar says in sirihish, wetting his lips before speaking:
       "Yeh, I recall I treated 'er nice."
  At your table, you say in sirihish, your tone a bit hushed, avoiding the rugged, one-eyed templar's eyes now:
       "I, I guess she'd have been about your age then, Great Lord."
  
  The short female wearing a thin veil of deep blue silk eats her half eaten small cake.
  The blue-eyed, rawboned lad glances up at the rugged, one-eyed templar's words, your fine white alabaster goblet touching a small table at the north end with a little *clink*.
  At your table, the rugged, one-eyed templar says in sirihish, inclining his head in recollection:
       "Yeh. She was. How's she doin', these days?"
  At your table, you say in sirihish, the tilt of your head unconsciously matching his:
       "She's well, Great Lord. She's been...a bit hard put, mebbe. But well."
  At your table, the rugged, one-eyed templar says in sirihish:
       "I don' reckon I've heard much from 'er since I left."
  At your table, you say in sirihish, flushing slightly:
       "I don' s'pose so, Great Lord."
  At your table, you say in sirihish, softly, studying your fine white alabaster goblet:
       "Things went a bit off for her after I started growin' up."
  At your table, the rugged, one-eyed templar says in sirihish, frowning a bit:
       "How's that?"
  At your table, you say in sirihish, not meeting the rugged, one-eyed templar's gaze:
       "'s a long story, Great Lord. She was s'pposed to..."
  At your table, you say in sirihish, exhaling hard:
       "They brought a fella into the family for her. My... Well, Kettin. They was s'pposed to have four kids right off."
  At your table, you say in sirihish, sliding your fine white alabaster goblet back and forth minutely:
       "They got to be talk goin' around that she didn' keep the Contract."
  The blue-eyed, rawboned lad utters the last word with some reverence.
  
  Picking it up, you drink the ocotillo wine.
  The rugged, one-eyed templar nods slowly, expression rather grave.
  More closely, the rugged, one-eyed templar looks at you.
  At your table, you say in sirihish, mumbling, but still ramrod straight on your chair:
       "I don' mean to bore you, Great Lord."
  At your table, the rugged, one-eyed templar says in sirihish, shaking his head firmly:
       "No, I ain't. Keep on."
  At your table, you say in sirihish, your voice barely audible:
       "She tol' me, don't ever pay no mind to all that. That I could always be proud o' who my pa was."
  Setting it down, you put your fine white alabaster goblet onto a small table at the north end.
  
  At your table, the rugged, one-eyed templar says in sirihish, quietly, but firmly:
       "I reckon I'm done with my drink. How's about you walk with me a ways?"
  At your table, you say in sirihish, nodding slightly:
       "By yer word, Great Lord."
  
  The rugged, one-eyed templar stands up from a small table at the north end.
  You now follow the rugged, one-eyed templar.
  With a quickened pace, the rugged, one-eyed templar walks west.
  You follow the rugged, one-eyed templar, and walk west.
  
  You can't see a thing; sand swirls about you!
  The blue-eyed, rawboned lad fumbles in your small pack.
  A faint shape says, in sirihish:
       "Fuckin'... don't have time for sandstorms."
  You get your unlit dusty simple, leather-wrapped bone torch from your small pack.
  You light an unlit dusty simple, leather-wrapped bone torch.
  
  A faint shape exclaims, in sirihish:
       "Mighty Tektolnes, allow my eyes the power to penetrate all darkness!"
  A faint shape utters an incantation.
  You say to a faint shape, in sirihish:
       "I got a tor--"
  A faint shape exclaims, in sirihish:
       "Mighty Tektolnes, allow my eyes the power to penetrate all darkness!"
  A faint shape utters an incantation.
  A faint shape's eyes take on a red hue.
  A faint shape's eye flashes red.
  
  In the swirling sand, the blue-eyed, rawboned lad takes a step back.
  Grabbing you by the arm, a faint shape says, in sirihish:
       "C'mon."
  
  You follow a faint shape, and walk west.
  The blue-eyed, rawboned lad follows a faint shape with sure steps, your arm gripped tight.
  
  ...
  
  Waving him off, a faint shape says to a faint shape, in sirihish:
       "Yer dismissed, Private."
  
  A faint shape gets his thornwood and leather keyring from his dusty oversized black backpack.
  A faint shape unlocks the gates with a carved, black stone key.
  A faint shape opens the gates.
  You follow a faint shape, and walk east.
  A faint shape closes the gates.
  
  A faint shape leads you through the dark and sandy night into the courtyard.
  
  Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
  A Small Porch and Entryway [EW Save]
      Dark red and slate grey tiles checker the narrow walkway up to the
  door.  The area has been swept free from dust and debris, appearing to be
  well maintained.  Shade from the two balconies hanging overhead covers the
  area.  The door leading into the building here is painted a bright ruby red
  with a large silver scorpion emblazoned on the front.  The scorpion is of a
  high gloss and appears almost metallic, due to its highly polished sheen.
  A shadow falls over the area, driving off the uncomfortable heat.
  The rugged, one-eyed templar is standing here.
  A human soldier of Tektolnes stands guard here.
  A black-haired, rip-scarred man stands on guard here.
  A human soldier of Tektolnes walks along here.
  
  You follow the rugged, one-eyed templar, and walk east.
  
  A Large Sitting Room [ESWU Save]
      The high, wide hinged glass windows of this sitting room allow as
  much outside light as possible to wash in over its elegant furnishings.
  Swathes of gauzy white cotton, tied back with knotted umber cording,
  serve as curtains. A plush, dark red carpet spreads itself across the
  floor.  A wooden staircase, its banisters carved with flowers, is set
  along the northern wall and leads upstairs, and a door is set into the
  southern wall, while the rest of the room flows east into a dining
  area.  Shelves on the northern wall hold a variety of glazed clay pots
  and vases, a careful eye evident in the way they have been chosen and
  displayed.
  A luxuriant, sprawling kiyet-fur rug stretches out in the center of the room.
  Gleaming, a large, elegantly crafted gold and purple harp stands against one wall.
  A light brown, leather instrument case is sitting beside the harp.
  A tall, full-leaved plant with purple flowers sits to one side of the eastern doorway.
  An empty large wooden cask, etched with flames, rests here.
  A large canvas painting hangs on the wall.
  The rugged, one-eyed templar is standing here.
  
  You stop watching the rugged, one-eyed templar.
  You intently scan the area.
  
  Eyes wide, you look at the rugged, one-eyed templar.
  The rugged, one-eyed templar glances up the stairs as if listening for noise, then slowly nods.
  Quietly, with a note of question, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "We're not in the Noble's Quarter, Great Lord."
  
  Turning back to you and taking a deep breath, the rugged, one-eyed templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "I already know th' answer t' this, but who'd she say yer -- I know we ain't."
  Finishing his question, the rugged, one-eyed templar asks you, in sirihish:
       "Who'd she say yer father is?"
  Exhaling hard, closing your eyes, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "Lord Templar Samos Rennick. Great Lord."
  Softly, your eyes still closed, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "She didn't tell me 'til I had to leave."
  The rugged, one-eyed templar exhales a sigh and nods, wiping a palm down his face.
  Sinking down to the couch, which is luckily behind him, the rugged, one-eyed templar sits on a well-padded, red leather couch.
  Stubbly jaw set, the blue-eyed, rawboned lad stands before a well-padded, red leather couch, back straight but shoulders hunched.
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  His voice a mix of emotions, not all pleasant, the rugged, one-eyed templar asks you, in sirihish:
       "She didn' see fit t' tell me all this time?"
  Opening your eyes, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "I don' think she wanted you to know back then, Great Lord. I unnerstood she was s'posed to be usin' the Mix."
  The frazzled, ebon-tressed lass sends you a telepathic message:
       "Jakub, I hope the meeting with the Great Lord Templar Rennik is going well."
  Glancing down, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "An' it wouldn' have done for the fambly to know, neither."
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You contact the frazzled, ebon-tressed lass with the Way.
  The frazzled, ebon-tressed lass sends you a telepathic message:
       "I couldn't believe my eyes. Where did you find him?"
  You send a telepathic message to the frazzled, ebon-tressed lass:
       "*confusion, an emotional current running high* Yeh, I'm...I'm fine."
  You dissolve the psychic link.
  
  Lifting his gaze incredulously, the rugged, one-eyed templar asks you, in sirihish:
       "It wouldn't? Y'think I care what they'd think? I have a... you've been out there in Menos eighteen years 'n I didn' even KNOW?"
  The rugged, one-eyed templar's voice starts to raise, but he abruptly quiets down, looking up the stairs.
  Meeting the rugged, one-eyed templar's gaze, the blue-eyed, rawboned lad straightens your shoulders, your dusty cross-hilted, bone bastard sword shifting on your back.
  
  The frazzled, ebon-tressed lass sends you a telepathic message:
       "I'll let you focus, then. Mind your manners like you have been and you'll do fine."
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  Faintly, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "I didn' know either, Great Lord. I know she didn' mean an offense."
  Exhaling a huge sigh, the rugged, one-eyed templar says, in sirihish:
       "Krath sake. Fuck."
  The blue-eyed, rawboned lad's teeth grate, and you relaxes your jaw.
  After a few more silent moments, the rugged, one-eyed templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "I ain' angry at you. I just..."
  The rugged, one-eyed templar trails off.
  Frowning to himself after the pause, the rugged, one-eyed templar says, in sirihish:
       "Y'know..... she's.. probably right. If y'had known... 'f people'd known... I don' know what it woulda been like for ya."
  After a moment, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "I won't tell no one, Great Lord. I know...havin' a kid you didn' mean to..."
  The rugged, one-eyed templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "Cerys... barely ever goes out. Never without somebody watchin' 'er, usually me."
  Softly, you ask the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "Your girl, Great Lord?"
  Looking at you seriously, the rugged, one-eyed templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "There are people, who 'f they knew who's son y'were... they'd be after you all day 'n night. Terrible people like y'hear bedtime stories about t'scare ya."
  Nodding again, the rugged, one-eyed templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "My girl. Oldest. She's five."
  The blue-eyed, rawboned lad nods faintly.
  Faintly, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "Enemies of th' Highlord."
  Flopping it off and raking a hand back through his hair, the rugged, one-eyed templar stops using his dusty wide-brimmed black hat.
  Quietly, the rugged, one-eyed templar asks you, in sirihish:
       "Yeh. Enemies 'f ME. Y'know just a couple years back, a defiler went after th' fields out in Taki?"
  The rugged, one-eyed templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "Dumbasses thought it was Menos. They wanted t' draw me out."
  You ask the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "A dust-layer?"
  The rugged, one-eyed templar says, in sirihish:
       "Ash-layer. Sorcerer."
  
  The blue-eyed, rawboned lad nods, jerkily.
  
  A loud bell chimes, echoing across the city.
  A loud bell chimes, echoing across the city.
  A loud bell chimes, echoing across the city.
  It is dawn on Abid, the 91st day of the Low Sun,
  In the Year of Desert's Defiance, year 47 of the 21st Age.
  
  The blue-eyed, rawboned lad tilts your head slightly, the bell echoing dully in the broad, carpeted room.
  Glancing just for a moment in the direction of the bell, the rugged, one-eyed templar asks you, in sirihish:
       "... yer normal, right? I didn't pass on any... anything I oughta know?"
  Hesitating, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "Y'mean, silt-cur-- tetched, or somethin'? No, Great Lord, nothin' funny about me."
  With a slight, mirthless smile, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "I can ride anythin' with legs, I guess."
  Cracking just a hint of a grin, the rugged, one-eyed templar asks you, in sirihish:
       "Includin' th' girls?"
  A broad grin beaming across your face for a moment, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "Th' ones that count, Great Lord."
  The rugged, one-eyed templar lets out a short laugh.
  You feel that you are not going to die just yet.
  
  His mirth fading almost as quickly as it came, the rugged, one-eyed templar says, in sirihish:
       "Don' go braggin' to 'em. Y'shouldn' have to, but don't."
  Your tone turning serious, almost cold, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "I see that, Great Lord. I won'."
  Pushing back up off his seat, the rugged, one-eyed templar asks you, in sirihish:
       "And y'said you're a.. stableboy for Salarr?"
  The rugged, one-eyed templar stands up from a well-padded, red leather couch.
  Glancing down, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "For now, Great Lord."
  Nodding slowly, the rugged, one-eyed templar asks you, in sirihish:
       "What's yer plan?"
  Shifting your feet and lifting your eyes, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "The Tor Academy, Great Lord. If they'll let me. I got the fee nearly saved."
  Glancing away, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "An' after that, I don't know. I don' think I can go back to Menos."
  Nodding slowly, the rugged, one-eyed templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "It's a.. place y'can be when yer world is that small. Hard t' go back to 't when y'leave."
  With something that might be an approving smile, the rugged, one-eyed templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "Tor'd be a good place t' be."
  Rubbing fingers over the back of your neck, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "I got an offer to work for that Lady Fale, mebbe. But I don't want to be...tied down, yet."
  Adding, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "Great Lord."
  Catching his expression, you ask the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "You think it's the right thing to do?"
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  Nodding slowly, the rugged, one-eyed templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "Yeh, that's... find a place for yerself. Make it one that serves th' Highlord. Takes care 'f th' people y'care for."
  The blue-eyed, rawboned lad nods slowly.
  
  Studying his face, you ask the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "Serving the Highlord. You mean in His Arm, Great Lord?"
  Shaking his head after a moment, the rugged, one-eyed templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "Not necessarily. Th' Arm's fine and good. So 's Tor... so 's servin' other nobles if yer workin', and not lazin'."
  Quietly, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "The Lady Fale's...she's..."
  Stammering slightly, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "..lovely. But I dunno how many parties I could serve in my life."
  The rugged, one-eyed templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "This City... it's got a lot 'f work cut out for 't. Needs th' strong t' pull all their weight 'n then some. I fight hard, kid.. but it ain' for me. I don' much care about glory 'r havin' a statue."
  The blue-eyed, rawboned lad nods, your adam's apple moving.
  Motioning to the upstairs, the rugged, one-eyed templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "I got two little girls I wanna see have better days. I got other people I'd lay my life out for, not just th' Highlord. S' my duty t' him, t' fight 'n protect so we're all better."
  Chucklng a little at himself, the rugged, one-eyed templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "Now look 't me. I'm lecturin'. But... keep that in mind. Life ain' all parties 'n games."
  
  Your expression vaguely troubled, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "I think that's all some folks knows, Great Lord. An' others...can't put thought past making their water an' food."
  Nodding bitterly, the rugged, one-eyed templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "It is all some knows, 'n even I can't change that. But I can try t' make more folk see things how they are. We're a city 'f fighters, Jakub, 'f strength. We stop fightin'... well, that ain' us."
  The blue-eyed, rawboned lad nods.
  Sighing and shaking his head, with a frown, the rugged, one-eyed templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "As for.. th' rest.. I dunno what t' tell you. I.. need t' think about things."
  The blue-eyed, rawboned lad dips a nod, dropping your gaze to the rugged, one-eyed templar's knees.
  Eyes lowered, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "I'm...I'm grateful t' have yer blood, Great Lord. Or some of it."
  Glancing back up, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "Great Lord, when you're fightin' for all that--"
  Nodding gravely, his tone a bit forceful, the rugged, one-eyed templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "Don't waste 't, then. And don' let 't go to yer head. Th' last thing I'll let you do is strut around livin' off my name."
  Tone softening as he adds, the rugged, one-eyed templar says, in sirihish:
       ".. though it seems like y'wouldn't. And it'd be a damn fool thing t' do anyway."
  Realizing he interrupted a question, the rugged, one-eyed templar asks you, in sirihish:
       "Yeah?"
  
  Your tone almost frosty, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "I wouldn' do that, Great Lord. I promised you I won't tell no one."
  Rubbing a palm over your chin, your shoulders slumping a bit, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "Well, talki-- seein' all these Nobles and all-- sometimes I think I'll jus' get crushed, or et, or somethin' if I get too near 'em."
  Continuing, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "How they, they kill folks jus' for spite, or--"
  Breaking off, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "--I shouldn' have said that, Great Lord."
  Wryly, the rugged, one-eyed templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "It ain' like Menos, is it."
  Uncomfortably, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "Not much, Great Lord."
  Looking a bit more serious, the rugged, one-eyed templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "I could preach at you more about 'em bein' yer betters, and not t' question 'em. By all rights in th' law, they are, nobody'd question. Whatever y'think, keep in mind that's how 't is."
  Soberly, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "I unnerstand, Great Lord."
  Sighing, the rugged, one-eyed templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "They're people who.. don' really know a life like you've ever had. It's their privledge. How they choose t' use 't 's up t' them. They ain' all.. eh.. spiteful."
  
  Simply, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "'s the Highlord's will."
  With a frown, the rugged, one-eyed templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "Yeh."
  The rugged, one-eyed templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "I ain't gonna stand here and tell you that you're on their level cos of me. What I will say is a person's greatness don't come from a title they have or a ring they wear."
  The rugged, one-eyed templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "Least not in my eyes. Be th' best y'can make of yerself."
  The blue-eyed, rawboned lad flushes, nodding again.
  A little huskily, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "I'll do it, Great Lord."
  After a moment, nodding slowly, the rugged, one-eyed templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "Good. Jakub, I'll say this much... I brought y'in t' this world, so I'll make sure it don' end you 'f I have a say so."
  Your eyes unnaturally bright, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "I think the City's a lot like the wastes, Great Lord. You've got to learn the sands an' the beasts before you can think to tread easy."
  Shaking your head, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "Meanin'...I won' be foolish."
  Gruffly, the rugged, one-eyed templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "But I ain' gonna coddle you either. You don' much strike me as stupid. I reckon I'm pleased 't that. I'll expect you t' take care 'f yerself as a grown man should."
  Straightening your shoulders, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "O' course, Great Lord."
  
  Glancing upstairs again, the rugged, one-eyed templar asks you, in sirihish:
       "One of 'em's gonna wake up in just a bit. Y'have anything else you'd ask me?"
  Hesitating, you ask the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "You're not angry with my ma, Great Lord?"
  Opening his mouth, closing it, then finally delivering an answer after a bit, the rugged, one-eyed templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "I don't know. I ain' gonna hurt 'er."
  The blue-eyed, rawboned lad nods, your posture relaxing just a little.
  The rugged, one-eyed templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "Bringin' her t' live with me probably ain' gonna happen, though."
  Shaking your head, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "Didn' expect nothin' like that, Great Lord."
  Exhaling hard, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "I guess I got a lot to think about."
  The rugged, one-eyed templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "We both do."
  
  Rubbing your chin, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "There's a chance they won't let me into the Academy."
  With a grim smile, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "Which I got a plan for, too."
  After a few moments, the rugged, one-eyed templar asks you, in sirihish:
       "What's that?"
  Letting several moments pass, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "Might be that Lady Samira would sponsor it, if they won't take me of myself. But I guess Tor an' Fale ain't on the friendliest terms."
  Glancing away, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "But there's slower ways, too. Work through the Byn, say."
  Nodding slowly, the rugged, one-eyed templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "Work it out a ways. If yer good enough 'n make a good enough case, I think you'll manage."
  Meeting his eyes, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "I will, Great Lord. "
  The rugged, one-eyed templar smiles back at you briefly.
  
  As the crying of a small child come from upstairs, the rugged, one-eyed templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "I better show y'out. I'll.. try 'n stay in touch."
  Quietly, nodding, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "Thank you for...tellin' me, Great Lord. That you're really..."
  The blue-eyed, rawboned lad shrugs, your voice trailing off.
  You now follow the rugged, one-eyed templar.
  
  Quietly, as he steps out, the rugged, one-eyed templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "Yeh. Part 'f me wasn' sure I should've."
  
  The rugged, one-eyed templar walks west.
  You follow the rugged, one-eyed templar, and walk west.
  A Small Porch and Entryway [EW Save]
  You follow the rugged, one-eyed templar, and walk west.
  A Large Courtyard [NESW]
  Halting beside the gate, the blue-eyed, rawboned lad drops again to one knee, bowing low to the rugged, one-eyed templar.
  
  The rugged, one-eyed templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "Remember what I said."
  The rugged, one-eyed templar unlocks the gates with a carved, black stone key.
  
  Quietly, you say to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "Tell nobody. Be smart. Serve the Highlord."
  The blue-eyed, rawboned lad stands up, with the ease of youthful joints.
  A faint shape says to you, in sirihish:
       "'n be yer best."
  Holding the gate open in the fading light, a faint shape says to you, in sirihish:
       "'n His shadow, kid."
  Your tone wondering, you say to a faint shape, in sirihish:
       "His Shadow, Great Lord."
  The blue-eyed, rawboned lad slips out the open gate.
  
  

  Meleth's Circle [NESW]
  The rugged, one-eyed templar is standing here.
  The burly, long-haired bouncer stands here, guarding the inn's entrance.
  An aged human beggar sits cross-legged against the wall of the inn here.
  
  Hurrying out of the tavern, the blue-eyed, rawboned lad stops dead.
  Eyes wide, you...
  Continue Reading...
• 

  The lousy Allanaki bard by Akaramu
  Added on Apr 24, 2010

  Running into another, overly confident bard in Allanak, Zach decides to play down his skills, and just showoff his storytelling and entertainment value instead.

  ---

  At your table, the cherubic, silvery-eyed teen says in sirihish, leaning forward some:

  "Are you gonna write a song 'bout the war, then? D'you do that for 'sid?"

  The lissome, kohl-eyelined man's eyes have a roguish sparkle to them as he glances sidelong to the cherubic, silvery-eyed teen.

  The cherubic, silvery-eyed teen sips from her miniature barrel.

  At your table, you say in sirihish:

  "Mmmh. Sure, everyone likes 'sid... but 's about time I come up with another song, anyway."

  You think:

  "Wanna play the clues game with me, mmmh? Smart lass."

  The lissome, kohl-eyelined man splays the slender fingers of his right hand briefly.

  At your table, you say in sirihish:

  "These were gettin' a bit bored..."

  At your table, the cherubic, silvery-eyed teen says in sirihish, glancing at your hand:

  "Well.. the drum's borin'."

  At your table, the cherubic, silvery-eyed teen says in sirihish, shrugging:

  "Without a mandolin, anyway."

  The cherubic, silvery-eyed teen grins.

  At your table, the cherubic, silvery-eyed teen says in sirihish, looking into her miniature barrel:

  "I do it for 'sid. Doesn't pay good."

  At your table, you say in sirihish:

  "Ah, aye, I know... I used tha have a flute, and a mandolin... but 's the women, they always take what I have."

  At your table, the cherubic, silvery-eyed teen says in sirihish, frowning:

  "Women took your mandolin and flute? You should'a pounded them o'er the head"

  At your table, you say in sirihish, with a sheepish glance to the cherubic, silvery-eyed teen:

  "And play clues games with me."

  The cherubic, silvery-eyed teen chuckles.

  At your table, the cherubic, silvery-eyed teen says in sirihish, glancing sidelong at you:

  "Sounds like an interestin' story..."

  The cherubic, silvery-eyed teen stops using a miniature barrel.

  Passing it to the tall, amber-eyed woman, the cherubic, silvery-eyed teen discards her miniature barrel.

  At your table, you say in sirihish:

  "Well, there was this lass... Lia? Leya? I don't remember..."

  The cherubic, silvery-eyed teen nods briskly, watching you.

  At your table, you say in sirihish:

  "And we spent a nice long night... talkin'..."

  The cherubic, silvery-eyed teen nods a couple times.

  At your table, you say in sirihish:

  "And, well, as I wake up, all my things are gone."

  The lissome, kohl-eyelined man chuckles.

  You think:

  "And none of this is true."

  At your table, the cherubic, silvery-eyed teen says in sirihish, shaking her fist:

  "I would'a found her and..."

  At your table, the cherubic, silvery-eyed teen says in sirihish, sternly:

  "Nobody takes me mandolin"

  The cherubic, silvery-eyed teen sighs at you.

  At your table, you say in sirihish:

  "Mmmh, what to say, I'm a nice guy."

  At your table, the cherubic, silvery-eyed teen says in sirihish, thoughtfully:

  "Too nice."

  At your table, the cherubic, silvery-eyed teen says in sirihish, to you, grinning:

  "Maybe you'll let me steal your songs."

  At your table, the cherubic, silvery-eyed teen says in sirihish, sweetly:

  "I'll make them better."

  A look of exagerrated helplessness flushes across the lissome, kohl-eyelined man's face as he stares at his hands, sighing.

  The cherubic, silvery-eyed teen grins broadly.

  At your table, you say in sirihish:

  "Mmmh, maybe you steal 'em no matter what I say, neh?"

  At your table, the cherubic, silvery-eyed teen says in sirihish, with a smirk:

  "Well, it ain't like stealin' your things, but I'll keep me ears good and open."

  At your table, you say in sirihish, sweetly:

  "I'm just a party singer. Surely I could neh match your skill at the competition."

  At your table, the cherubic, silvery-eyed teen says in sirihish, shrugging:

  "Well - you know... I -am- the best song maker in 'Nak."

  The cherubic, silvery-eyed teen stiffles a chuckle, then nods gravely.

  The lissome, kohl-eyelined man dips his head closer to the cherubic, silvery-eyed teen, the three piercings within his left ear shimmering darkly as a handful of tresses fall over his shoulder.

  The cherubic, silvery-eyed teen inches back a little, nervously.

  At your table, you say in sirihish, giving the cherubic, silvery-eyed teen an apoplogetic, dark-lashed gaze:

  "Got any master's advice, mayhaps?"

  At your table, you say in sirihish:

  "To level the playin' field a little? I'd hate ta see a nice lass like you bored..."

  At your table, the cherubic, silvery-eyed teen says in sirihish, relaxing:

  "Uh... well.. I ain't heard your stuff enough to comment."

  At your table, you say in sirihish, shifting back into his former position:

  "Mmmh."

  At your table, you say in sirihish:

  "Maybe we can fix that, neh?"

  You are carrying:

  a spiral-glazed goblet drum

  Grinning slightly, the cherubic, silvery-eyed teen flicks a finger toward the stage.

  The lissome, kohl-eyelined man lifts your spiral-glazed goblet drum from his lap and gently brushes some dust from it with his fingertips.

  The Main Room of the Bard's Barrel [NSW]

  A myriad of grinning skulls, each painted with bright colors laid

  over the pallid bone, stare down from the broad wooden shelf that lines this

  spacious room at eye level. Splashes of blue, green and red cover the clay

  brick walls in an enthusiastic but inexpert abstract mural, some spatters of

  the same paint dotted across the red tiled floor. The room is filled with

  clamor: the clink and clatter of dishes and drinks, instruments being tuned,

  scraps of song, and a general constant roar of conversation. A small wooden

  stage sits along the northern wall, two ragged velvet curtains framing it,

  looped back with blue-dyed ropes. A wide archway leads out onto the dusty

  street, while a smaller one to the west provides a glimpse of a smaller,

  quieter chamber.

  A wall here is designated as a message board.

  The cherubic, silvery-eyed teen is sitting at a boxy wooden bar.

  A lean, grey-eyed bard leans against the stage.

  A lean, spike-haired elf drums softly in the corner.

  A tall, amber-eyed woman polishes glasses behind the boxy wooden bar.

  The husky, weatherworn dwarf is here, seated at a large table, drinking ale.

  The huge, sun-bronzed man surveys the room casually from a table here.

  The bald, muscular woman slouches at a large table, drinking ale.

  The small, dark-haired man sits at a table in the back, staring into his drink.

  The solemn, club-footed man limps slowly along here.

  At your table, you say in sirihish, following the cherubic, silvery-eyed teen's motion with his eyes:

  "Ah, neh... that's tha' host's place."

  The cherubic, silvery-eyed teen glances at the stage once more, then nods.

  At your table, you say in sirihish:

  "Would be bold ta claim it..."

  The lissome, kohl-eyelined man winks to a grey-eyed bard from the shade of his hat.

  At your table, the cherubic, silvery-eyed teen says in sirihish, dipping her chin:

  "Awight"

  The lissome, kohl-eyelined man tucks your spiral-glazed goblet drum beneath his left arm, his dark lashes sinking downwards slowly.

  The lissome, kohl-eyelined man begins to play a crude rhythm, his dancing palm and fingers producing a pattern of a few simple beats.

  The cherubic, silvery-eyed teen's head very subtly bobs with the beat, eyes shifting between you and your drum.

  A rough, coarse and not very melodic tone to his voice, you sing, in sirihish:

  "I'm a lousy bard..."

  His gaze shifting towards a nearby table of gamblers, you sing, in sirihish:

  "Can not even play a card..."

  Amusement flashes across the cherubic, silvery-eyed teen's face.

  You sing, in sirihish:

  "I can't play any song..."

  You are a little hungry.

  His voice accompanied by a dissonant rhythm from your spiral-glazed goblet drum, you sing, in sirihish:

  "Been a beginner too long..."

  You sing, in sirihish:

  "I never heard of tha war..."

  Flashing the cherubic, silvery-eyed teen a warm smile, you sing, in sirihish:

  "But the lass at mah side is a star..."

  The cherubic, silvery-eyed teen rolls her eyes with a smile.

  The lissome, kohl-eyelined man winces and quickly withdraws his hand from your spiral-glazed goblet drum, causing the simple melody to die down.

  At your table, you say in sirihish, pursing his lips poutfully:

  "Think I broke mah finger."

  At your table, the cherubic, silvery-eyed teen says in sirihish, smiling at you:

  "Ah, get off it. Ya did not. That weren't bad at all."

  At your table, the cherubic, silvery-eyed teen says in sirihish, sighing with mock arrogance:

  "You're certainly no 'Teafae', but... Good enough."

  The lissome, kohl-eyelined man chuckles and tosses your spiral-glazed goblet drum a short distance into the air before catching it with his other hand.

  At your table, you say in sirihish:

  "Ah, but I can juggle, neh?"

  Light filters in through the doorway as the crimson sun rises.

  At your table, the cherubic, silvery-eyed teen says in sirihish, with a grin:

  "Aye? I've got a torch. Maybe you got another. We could light'm and you could show."

  At your table, you say in sirihish:

  "Thank ya for tha kind words, miss."

  At your table, the cherubic, silvery-eyed teen says in sirihish, looking north for a moment:

  "Okay."

  At your table, you say in sirihish:

  "Mayhaps... another time."

  You are carrying:

  a spiral-glazed goblet drum

  The lissome, kohl-eyelined man turns on his stool to perform a deep bow towards the room, supporting the move with a wide sweep of one arm.

  You say, in sirihish:

  "Show is over."

  At your table, the cherubic, silvery-eyed teen says in sirihish, leaning forward some:

  "Are you gonna write a song 'bout the war, then? D'you do that for 'sid?"

  The lissome, kohl-eyelined man's eyes have a roguish sparkle to them as he glances sidelong to the cherubic, silvery-eyed...

  
  Continue Reading...
• 

  Thoroughly Soggy (Numus Gets Even) by Laurajlmars
  Added on Apr 19, 2010

  Speaker Numus of the Vivaduan Temple indulges in his favorite extreme sport - persecuting addlepated slave girls. (Thanks to Naox for providing one of the greatest, and most odious, npc animations I've ever witnessed.)

  ---

  The Temple of Vivadu [EW Quit]
  The sun-bronzed, teal-eyed man is standing here.
  The squat, hook-nosed man stands by the pool, plump hands clasped at his back.
  The black-haired, rip-scarred man has arrived from the east.
  
  You feel startled.
  
  A fine mist condenses near the sun-bronzed, teal-eyed man as he begins a spell.
  
  You think:
       "I hate that spider."
  
  The sun-bronzed, teal-eyed man utters an incantation.
  
  The sun-bronzed, teal-eyed man falls silent.
  
  Pleasantly, the sun-bronzed, teal-eyed man says, in sirihish:
       "Welcome."
  
  The black-haired, rip-scarred man takes a firmer hold of your arm as he looks around the temple.
  
  In near whisper, her slippers noiseless across the marble floor, you ask, in sirihish:
       "Is Speaker Numus available?"
  
  The sun-bronzed, teal-eyed man says to the squat, hook-nosed man, in sirihish:
       "Speaker? Sorry to interrupt your meditation, but you have a visitor."
  
  The squat, hook-nosed man closes his eyes, murmuring softly.
  
  The slim, darkly-tanned young woman has arrived from the east.
  
  Slapping moisture off his creamy hands, the squat, hook-nosed man looks down at you.
  
  The sun-bronzed, teal-eyed man says to you, in sirihish:
       "It may take him a little time. One moment, please."
  
  The slim, darkly-tanned young woman walks through the temple quietly, dipping a polite nod to the squat, hook-nosed man as she nears a shallow stone pool.
  
  Squinting at him, the squat, hook-nosed man looks down at the sun-bronzed, teal-eyed man.
  
  Curiously, the slim, darkly-tanned young woman looks up at the black-haired, rip-scarred man.
  
  Nervously twisting her fingers into the sleeve of her robe, you say, in sirihish:
       "I don't want to disturb him. If he's busy."
  
  The sun-bronzed, teal-eyed man nods respectfully.
  
  Jerking his thumb at you, the squat, hook-nosed man exclaims to the sun-bronzed, teal-eyed man, in sirihish:
       "Oh, she says she doesn't want to disturb me, then forces me to do this by appealing to the Great Lord!"
  
  The black-haired, rip-scarred man leads you a few steps closer to the squat, hook-nosed man.
  
  Looking him up and down, the squat, hook-nosed man says to the sun-bronzed, teal-eyed man, in sirihish:
       "Another one? Wonderful. Impress me by staying alive."
  
  The sun-bronzed, teal-eyed man glances toward you curiously.
  
  Her lips twisting in a faint smile as she kneels next to a shallow stone pool, pulling her leather waterskin up, the slim, darkly-tanned young woman asks the squat, hook-nosed man, in sirihish:
       "You're having a bad day, Speaker?"
  
  The slim, darkly-tanned young woman stops using her leather waterskin.
  
  Rolling his eyes, the squat, hook-nosed man says to the sun-bronzed, teal-eyed man, in sirihish:
       "And -not- getting yourself executed. Some of us have a habit of doing that. The name 'Kolt' comes to mind."
  
  The female wearing a night-black, sheer silk blindfold's lips twitch downward slightly at the squat, hook-nosed man's words.
  
  Smiling broadly as he looks to the slim, darkly-tanned young woman, the squat, hook-nosed man exclaims to the slim, darkly-tanned young woman, in sirihish:
       "Oh! No no, wonderful so far. Better that you're here. You should have -seen- the way the Kuraci did it. With what -resolve-. Hah!"
  
  Squinting at you, the squat, hook-nosed man looks down at you.
  
  Beckoning with a fat finger, the squat, hook-nosed man says to you, in sirihish:
       "Well, come over here."
  
  Uncomfortably, the sun-bronzed, teal-eyed man says, in sirihish:
       "Yes, well... I'm not much the sort to go breaking laws or running off on adventures."
  
  While she dips her waterskin into the pool, the slim, darkly-tanned young woman asks the squat, hook-nosed man, in sirihish:
       "What'd Kurac do?"
  
  Light glinting off the rubies dangling from her ears as she steps closer on velvet feet, you say to the squat, hook-nosed man, in sirihish:
       "Ok."
  
  The slim, darkly-tanned young woman fills up a leather waterskin from a shallow stone pool.
  
  You now follow the squat, hook-nosed man.
  
  Pushing the stopper back into her leather waterskin, the slim, darkly-tanned young woman looks at you.
  
  The slim, darkly-tanned young woman hangs her leather waterskin on her belt.
  
  With a fond smile, gesturing as though to saw into his arm, the squat, hook-nosed man says to the slim, darkly-tanned young woman, in sirihish:
       "Oh! Midge, the Salarr -- he put his stinger in her and now she's with child. I cut something out of her, but got to see the Kuraci squirm."
  
  Waving a hand, the squat, hook-nosed man says to the slim, darkly-tanned young woman, in sirihish:
       "Rance was the twerp's name."
  
  The female wearing a night-black, sheer silk blindfold pales slightly.
  
  Squinting at her, beckoning with both hands in front of him, the squat, hook-nosed man looks down at you, come.
  
  Beckoning wildly, the squat, hook-nosed man looks down at you, come.
  
  Huffing, the squat, hook-nosed man looks down at you, come.
  
  Letting out a quiet chuckle and nodding, the slim, darkly-tanned young woman asks the squat, hook-nosed man, in sirihish:
       "I see.  It wasn't a little egg thingy, was it?"
  
  The sun-bronzed, teal-eyed man looks between the slim, darkly-tanned young woman and the squat, hook-nosed man, momentarily confused.
  
  The squat, hook-nosed man says to you, in sirihish:
       "Well -come here-. Come closer. I can't see those repulsive sockets of yours unless you get them over here."
  
  Clearing his throat, the black-haired, rip-scarred man nudges you forward in front of the squat, hook-nosed man.
  
  The squat, hook-nosed man reaches out his pudgy palms and claps them to either side of your head, tugging back on the flesh of your temples.
  
  Stumbling off balance a bit, the female wearing a night-black, sheer silk blindfold straightens hastily, hooking a thumb beneath her blindfold.
  
  Clasping her hands loosely behind her back, the slim, darkly-tanned young woman says to the squat, hook-nosed man, in sirihish:
       "Oh, be nice.  I'll give you some candy later."
  
  Lips peeling back from her teeth, you stop using your night-black, sheer silk blindfold.
  
  The squat, hook-nosed man mutters under his breath as he gazes with wide, beady eyes, struggling to see close into your wounded sockets.
  
  The sun-bronzed, teal-eyed man looks at your intact, but scarred over, eyes carefully.
  
  The black-haired, rip-scarred man grunts, glaring over your head at the squat, hook-nosed man.
  
  The sun-bronzed, teal-eyed man looks down at you.
  
  You feel a bit horrified really.
  
  Scoldingly, gripping you by the head and speaking close enough for you to smell his sour breath, the squat, hook-nosed man asks you, in sirihish:
       "Well, what did you do to these things?! Don't you -know- they are delicate?"
  
  You feel very scrutinized and without the rugged, one-eyed man.
  
  The squat, hook-nosed man pries and pulls back at the flesh around your eyes.
  
  In a nervous whisper, licking her lips, growing even paler as she submits to his fleshy pokes, you say to the squat, hook-nosed man, in sirihish:
       "It's a long story."
  
  With a dismissive wave, the squat, hook-nosed man says to the slim, darkly-tanned young woman, in sirihish:
       "Come, while I examine her! I may need...ideas."
  
  Her eyebrows arching slightly before she walks over a little closer, the slim, darkly-tanned young woman says to the squat, hook-nosed man, in sirihish:
       "Well, alright."
  
  Little black shoes clicking on the tile, the squat, hook-nosed man walks west.
  You follow the squat, hook-nosed man, and walk west.
  
  Lobby of the Vivaduan Barracks [EU Save]
  The squat, hook-nosed man stands by the pool, plump hands clasped at his back.
  The black-haired, rip-scarred man has arrived from the east.
  
  The slim, darkly-tanned young woman has arrived from the east.
  
  The sun-bronzed, teal-eyed man has arrived from the east.
  
  The squat, hook-nosed man steps through the giant wall of thorns as they pull back, allowing passage.
  Pacing up the stairs, pushing off his knees with each step, the squat, hook-nosed man walks up.
  The slim, darkly-tanned young woman walks up.
  You follow the squat, hook-nosed man, and walk up.
  
  Hallway [NSWD Save]
  The squat, hook-nosed man stands by the pool, plump hands clasped at his back.
  The slim, darkly-tanned young woman is standing here.
  The black-haired, rip-scarred man has arrived from below.
  
  The sun-bronzed, teal-eyed man has arrived from below.
  
  You feel a flutter of panic behind her ribs.
  
  Patting his paunch, the squat, hook-nosed man walks south.
  The slim, darkly-tanned young woman walks south.
  You follow the squat, hook-nosed man, and walk south.
  
  A Trickling Balcony Garden [N Quit Save]
  A shadow falls over the area, driving off the uncomfortable heat.
  A white stone jug has been set here.
  A stream of water tumbles down an amethyst mound and circles the garden.
  A dull wooden cask with a cork stopper stands here.
  A cluster of spikey flowers grows among the low grass.
  A small, shaggy-headed tree bears handfuls of thick-shelled nuts.
  A leather waterskin hangs on a hook on the cistern's side.
  A wide-mouthed stone cistern is here sits in the shadow of a small tree.
  The squat, hook-nosed man stands by the pool, plump hands clasped at his back.
  The slim, darkly-tanned young woman is standing here.
  The black-haired, rip-scarred man has arrived from the north.
  
  The slim, darkly-tanned young woman follows along at the back of the group, poking her fingers into her belt.
  
  The sun-bronzed, teal-eyed man has arrived from the north.
  
  Motioning vaguely to an amethyst waterfall, the squat, hook-nosed man says to you, in sirihish:
       "Go in there and splash about a bit."
  
  Shuffling over to her, the squat, hook-nosed man asks the slim, darkly-tanned young woman, in sirihish:
       "How are things?"
  
  A slight frown forming as she searches the pouches, the slim, darkly-tanned young woman asks, in sirihish:
       "Huh, where'd my candy go?"
  
  The slim, darkly-tanned young woman closes a finely-crafted pouched belt.
  
  Obediantly, the blind, wine-haired female reaches for the black-haired, rip-scarred man's hand, who leads her over to an amethyst waterfall.
  
  Jowls drooping with a frown, the squat, hook-nosed man says to the slim, darkly-tanned young woman, in sirihish:
       "Your candy?"
  
  Tugging them off, you stop using your pair of black silk gloves.
  
  You think:
       "I don't like this."
  
  You think:
       "I don't like Numus."
  
  Heaving out a sigh before looking up, the slim, darkly-tanned young woman says to the squat, hook-nosed man, in sirihish:
       "Oh, well enough I guess.  Someone stole an entire chest out of my apartment, but I did finally manage to get that skull I've been looking for."
  
  Little black eyes lighting up, the squat, hook-nosed man says to the slim, darkly-tanned young woman, in sirihish:
       "Oh! Marvelous."
  
  Shouting over his shoulder without looking back, the squat, hook-nosed man says to you, in sirihish:
       "Right in. That's right, get -in-."
  
  Shrewdly, one eye running up and down, the squat, hook-nosed man looks down at the slim, darkly-tanned young woman.
  
  Uncomfortably, turning, you say to the squat, hook-nosed man, in sirihish:
       "My clothes will be wet."
  
  Soothingly, the sun-bronzed, teal-eyed man says to you, in sirihish:
       "It's completely safe."
  
  Curling a grin as he looks to her wrists, the squat, hook-nosed man says to the slim, darkly-tanned young woman, in sirihish:
       "You have such nice bracelets."
  
  Snapping back at you, the squat, hook-nosed man asks you, in sirihish:
       "Of course you're going to get wet. Do you know where -you are-?"
  
  Flopping his hand about, the squat, hook-nosed man says to you, in sirihish:
       "But if you'd rather not, I can see you out."
  
  Flashing him a quick smile, the garnets embedded in her bracelets briefly glowing brighter, the slim, darkly-tanned young woman asks the squat, hook-nosed man, in sirihish:
       "Why thank you.  And how've you been, Numus?"
  
  Smiling back at her, the squat, hook-nosed man says to the slim, darkly-tanned young woman, in sirihish:
       "Well, well, I feel wonderful."
  
  Nervously, stepping away from him and back towards the waterfall, you say to the squat, hook-nosed man, in sirihish:
       "No thank you.  I'll go in. And I won't tell Great Lord Samos you're so rude to me either."
  
  Feeling furious and embarrassed, you think:
       "I will just remove his dearest memories. Or make him see nothing but bug heads where people heads should be. Revolting little man."
  
  The squat, hook-nosed man mumbles resentfully as he glimpses back at you, but remains otherwise silent.
  
  The sun-bronzed, teal-eyed man says to you, in sirihish:
       "If you'd like to set aside some garments first, they'll be safe here."
  
  Filling his arms with girl clothes, you give your soft pair of black velvet slippers to the black-haired, rip-scarred man.
  
  You give your pair of black silk gloves to the black-haired, rip-scarred man.
  
  Ducking her head to escape it, you stop using your ornate black silk choker.
  
  You give your ornate black silk choker to the black-haired, rip-scarred man.
  
  Slipping her leather backpack off halfway and reaching inside, the slim, darkly-tanned young woman asks the squat, hook-nosed man, in sirihish:
       "Will a yam make you happier?"
  
  The slim, darkly-tanned young woman opens a leather backpack.
  
  Shrugging out of it, you stop using your sable and crimson over-robe.
  
  Gasping excitedly, the squat, hook-nosed man exclaims to the slim, darkly-tanned young woman, in sirihish:
       "It would!"
  
  Flinging it at him, you give your sable and crimson over-robe to the black-haired, rip-scarred man.
  
  The black-haired, rip-scarred man juggles clothing, appearing more and more put out by the situation.
  
  The slim, darkly-tanned young woman grins slightly and pulls out a tiny cloth bag, poking her fingers inside.
  
  Digging it out, the slim, darkly-tanned young woman gets her mushroom stuffed yam from her leather backpack.
  
  The squat, hook-nosed man rubs his hands in anticipation.
  
  You enter an amethyst waterfall.
  Inside an Amethyst Waterfall [Leave]
  A shadow falls over the area, driving off the uncomfortable heat.
  
  Stepping through the veil of water, the blind, wine-haired female gasps as she's completely drenched, dress plastered to her body, teeth starting to chatter.
  
  Pulling sodden silken ribbons away from her forearms, you shout in sirihish:
       "Speaker Numus, I know you don't like me at all, but is this supposed to do anything? Just asking."
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from outside in sirihish:
       "Come out when you are thoroughly soggy!"
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from outside in sirihish:
       "That is the result that you can expect from this -exotic- procedure of getting wet."
  
  You shout in sirihish:
       "I've taken baths before."
  
  You shout in sirihish:
       "Just they were warm, and I had no clothes on."
  
  You step out to...
  
  A Trickling Balcony Garden [N Quit Save]
  A shadow falls over the area, driving off the uncomfortable heat.
  A white stone jug has been set here.
  A stream of water tumbles down an amethyst mound and circles the garden.
  A dull wooden cask with a cork stopper stands here.
  A cluster of spikey flowers grows among the low grass.
  A small, shaggy-headed tree bears handfuls of thick-shelled nuts.
  A leather waterskin hangs on a hook on the cistern's side.
  A wide-mouthed stone cistern is here sits in the shadow of a small tree.
  The squat, hook-nosed man stands by the pool, plump hands clasped at his back.
  The slim, darkly-tanned young woman is standing here.
  The black-haired, rip-scarred man has arrived from the north.
  
  Shrugging and shooting a curious glance towards an amethyst waterfall, the slim, darkly-tanned young woman asks the squat, hook-nosed man, in sirihish:
       "Is that cold?"
  
  Nibbling at his mushroom stuffed yam, the squat, hook-nosed man says to you, in sirihish:
       "Is that supposed to impress me? Hah!"
  
  The blind, wine-haired female storms out through the veil of water, her silk dress plastered to her figure, waist-length hair dripping copiously.
  
  Nodding to an amethyst waterfall, the squat, hook-nosed man says to the slim, darkly-tanned young woman, in sirihish:
       "Hop in and see."
  
  As she drips, you say, in sirihish:
       "I didn't like this dress anyway."
  
  Squinting at you, the squat, hook-nosed man looks down at you.
  
  Picking at his mushroom stuffed yam, the squat, hook-nosed man says to you, in sirihish:
       "Now find an appropriate place on the grass and sit."
  
  The squat, hook-nosed man takes a bite of his mushroom stuffed yam.
  
  A slight shudder running through her, the slim, darkly-tanned young woman says to the squat, hook-nosed man, in sirihish:
       "I'll pass.  If it is, they'd be hearing my screams all the way across the city."
  
  The sun-bronzed, teal-eyed man says to you, in sirihish:
       "Here is a good spot."
  
  Astonished eyes searching over his mushroom stuffed yam, the squat, hook-nosed man says to the slim, darkly-tanned young woman, in sirihish:
       "This is wonderful! Spicy some, mmhmm."
  
  The squat, hook-nosed man licks at his tiny chops.
  
  The black-haired, rip-scarred man takes your elbow and steers you over to the spot indicated by the sun-bronzed, teal-eyed man.
  
  Offering another wide smile, the slim, darkly-tanned young woman says to the squat, hook-nosed man, in sirihish:
       "Of course, the cooks in Cenyr are the best."
  
  Sinking down onto a rock, skirts puddling around her, rather like the actual puddle that also forms, you sit down.
  
  Your new ldesc is:
  The blind, wine-haired female sits on a rock beneath a small tree.
  
  Breaking pieces off with her fingers, the slim, darkly-tanned young woman eats her small portion of a stuffed piece of bread.
  
  Eyeing the spot with a sigh, the squat, hook-nosed man says to the sun-bronzed, teal-eyed man, in sirihish:
       "I suppose -that- is why you are an amateur."
  
  With a confident wave, the squat, hook-nosed man says to the sun-bronzed, teal-eyed man, in sirihish:
       "You'll learn, don't you worry."
  
  You feel uneasy.
  
  You think:
       "Why is he so vile?"
  
  You think:
       "I don't understand."
  
  The sun-bronzed, teal-eyed man nods, stepping back.
  
  The squat, hook-nosed man strolls around you, wiggling his fingers in the air.
  
  Drearily, leaking all over the ground, her elbow braced against a knee, chin atop her fist, you say to the squat, hook-nosed man, in sirihish:
       "You are a truly inspired man, Speaker."
  
  You feel very unhappy and angry.
  
  You think:
       "He is so rude."
  
  Brushing her hands off against each other, then touching her right one to her forehead, the slim, darkly-tanned young woman says, in sirihish:
       "I wonder if we'll get to have an actual meeting this week."
  
  Shaking his head at her, the squat, hook-nosed man says to the slim, darkly-tanned young woman, in sirihish:
       "Ah, you see, you and Speaker Tar are miscommunicating. He expected my last week, I believe."
  
  Letting her hand drop, the slim, darkly-tanned young woman asks the squat, hook-nosed man, in sirihish:
       "Oh, I thought they'd been moved.  So Tar's not dead then?"
  
  Clasping his hands, the squat, hook-nosed man says to you, in sirihish:
       "Now! I -do- need to know what happened, to know the extent of your damage."
  
  You feel cornered.
  
  Her breath coming a little faster, as she starts to stammer, you say to the squat, hook-nosed man, in sirihish:
       "It was...it was..that is.."
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You contact the rugged, one-eyed man with the Way.
  
  You send a telepathic message to the rugged, one-eyed man:
       "Can you come now, please?"
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  The slim, darkly-tanned young woman tilts her head to the side, her attention moving back to you.
  
  The rugged, one-eyed man sends you a telepathic message:
       "I'll come real soon."
  
  The sun-bronzed, teal-eyed man watches the proceedings observantly.
  
  You send a telepathic message to the rugged, one-eyed man:
       "Please? I'm at the temple. Numus is being...rather vile."
  
  You think:
       "I know I said I wouldn't say."
  
  You think:
       "But I changed my mind."
  
  Snapping at the air, hands thrown up, the squat, hook-nosed man says to you, in sirihish:
       "You would gag at the wounds I've closed, the carcassess I've wrapped back in their floppy flesh, and each had -some- story to tell."
  
  Glaring down at you, the squat, hook-nosed man says to you, in sirihish:
       "I hear it all, all the sad stories, oh yes. See the tears, the mourning, the grief, the shame...I simply don't care."
  
  The rugged, one-eyed man sends you a telepathic message:
       "Numus? What's he doing?"
  
  Hands on his wide hips, the squat, hook-nosed man says to you, in sirihish:
       "But I -need- to know what damage occured."
  
  Pushing a lock of dripping hair over one ear, nervous fingers of her free hand twisting into her sopping skirts, you say to the squat, hook-nosed man, in sirihish:
       "It was a knife."
  
  You feel like throwing up.
  
  Crooning, the squat, hook-nosed man asks you, in sirihish:
       "Held by...?"
  
  Looking closely, the sun-bronzed, teal-eyed man says, in sirihish:
       "It appears to... possibly self-inflicted."
  
  Speaking up suddenly, the squat, hook-nosed man exclaims to the sun-bronzed, teal-eyed man, in sirihish:
       "I don't think we have enough evidence to suppose that!"
  
  You feel the air in her lungs close off.
  
  The sun-bronzed, teal-eyed man says, in sirihish:
       "A curious wound, if not."
  
  The rugged, one-eyed man sends you a telepathic message:
       "Saya? Are you..?"
  
  You send a telepathic message to the rugged, one-eyed man:
       "NO."
  
  You feel like kicking Numus off the balcony.
  
  With a nervous hiss, continuing to twist her skirts into knots, you ask, in sirihish:
       "Do all these people need to be here?"
  
  The squat, hook-nosed man sighs and wanders over to an amethyst waterfall, standing by the pool and wiggling his hands over the clear waters.
  
  The rugged, one-eyed templar descends on a gust of billowing wind.
  
  You dissolve the psychic link.
  
  The rugged, one-eyed templar looks down at you.
  
  The blind, wine-haired female's head turns towards the rugged, one-eyed templar's descent, though her sodden hair and skirts fail to flutter.
  
  Glimpsing first, then double-taking and nearly falling over, the squat, hook-nosed man looks down at the rugged, one-eyed templar.
  
  The slim, darkly-tanned young woman lifts her hand to steady her wide-brimmed, veiled black hat, the gust of wind stirring her clothing.
  
  The sun-bronzed, teal-eyed man blinks as the rugged, one-eyed man appears, startled.
  
  Scrambling into a bow, the squat, hook-nosed man exclaims to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "My Great Lord! Apologies, I didn't see you there!"
  
  You feel relieved.
  
  You think:
       "It isn't so bad now. He can ask me anything, now."
  
  Looking past him to the skies beyond the balcony before bending in a deep bow, the slim, darkly-tanned young woman says to the rugged, one-eyed templar, in sirihish:
       "Good... afternoon, Great Lord."
  
  Glaring, the rugged, one-eyed templar asks the squat, hook-nosed man, in sirihish:
       "I WASN' here until a moment ago. What's goin' on here?"
  
  Twisting water out of handfuls of her soaking hair, you ask, in sirihish:
       "Can I stand up yet?"

  The Temple of Vivadu [EW Quit]
  The sun-bronzed, teal-eyed man is standing here.
  The squat, hook-nosed man stands by the pool, plump hands clasped at his back.
  The black-haired, rip-scarred man has arrived from the east.
  
  You feel startled.
  
  A fine mist condenses near the sun-bronzed, teal-eyed man as...
  Continue Reading...

• 

  That Rascally Kishime by Arithon
  Added on Feb 14, 2010

  In this scene, Lord Templar Kishime Fale is having a conversation with a fellow Blue-Robe, Lord Templar Didrik Tor. Lord Didrik had recently found a magickal necklace on an expedition outside the city, and had claimed it as his prize. Today, Kishime asks him if he has fully deciphered its meaning yet. When Lord Didrik answers 'no', Kishime asks politely if he may see the necklace in order to inspect it. It's a trick.

  ---

  Lieutenant's Quarters [NE]
  The furnishings of this apartment style section of the barracks are
  quite sparse.  The red stone bricks of the city wall form the southern
  wall of this room, setting a backdrop for the simple wooden furniture
  which clutters it.
     A sturdy looking door to the north, and a flimsy one to the east
  appear to be the only exits.
  An elegantly curved, ivory scroll receptacle rests against the wall.
  A coatstand, made of bone and antler, sits here.
  A bone sided chest sits here.
  A bulging basket, woven of numut vines, sits here.
  A heavy baobab chest rests here upon its broad feet.
  The solid, asperous woman casts a watchful eye on her surroundings.
  The thickset, heavy-limbed templar is standing here.

  The thickset, heavy-limbed templar gives you a shimmering amulet of mountain stone.

  You think:
       "What a fool."

  You hold the amulet.

  The garish, turquoise-plaited templar closes his hand around the stone, lifting it to inspect the face closely.
   
  You think:
       "That was easy.  He has no claim to this."
   
  Speaking in a soft kind voice as he tucks the stone into his pocket, you say to the thickset, heavy-limbed templar, in tatlum:
       "Lord Didrik.  I deem you unfit to bare this relic.  You are endangered by it, and are wasting the true scope of its potential."
   
  Frowning darkly and massaging a scarred knuckle, the thickset, heavy-limbed templar asks 
  you, in tatlum:
       "What power do you have to make this decision, and what have you based it from?"
   
  Pushing from the wall to casually saunter towards the exit, you say to the thickset, heavy-limbed templar, in tatlum:
       "We are hardly peers.  You're much inferior to me.  I base it on the incompetance you've shown.  "

  You stop leading the thickset, heavy-limbed templar.

  <Kishime walks outside>

  Morning's Road [NES]
     This wide road marks the very southernmost edge of Allanak.  The dry
  red stones of the city wall rise up abruptly here, and over them stretches
  the eternal sky, filled with whirling sand and wind.  Buildings line the
  road, some actually built into it, while others are free-standing structures
  of their own.  The road itself is hard-packed dirt for the most part, with
  circular flagstones of dull reddish yellow sandstone placed at widely
  interspersed intervals. 
  A human soldier of Tektolnes stands watch, before a stone building.

  The thickset, heavy-limbed templar has arrived from the south.
  The solid, asperous woman has arrived from the south.

  The thickset, heavy-limbed templar falls in behind you.

  The garish, turquoise-plaited templar glances over his shoulder at the thickset, heavy-limbed templar with a sweet smile and innocent batting of his lashes.

  Raising his voice angrily, the thickset, heavy-limbed templar exclaims to you, in tatlum:
       "You are addled by spice, Kishime!  I have Lord Templar Marsellus' permission to do
  with that stone what I will!"

  The garish, turquoise-plaited templar giggles softly, tugging his robe closed around himself.

  Gently, you say to the thickset, heavy-limbed templar, in tatlum:
       "If he orders me to return it, I shall.  Otherwise, I plan to make full use of it. 
  It's wasted on you."

  Jabbing a meaty finger at you, the thickset, heavy-limbed templar exclaims to you, in tatlum:
       "You are unfit to wear that -robe-, and you endanger Allanak itself!"

  Softening his tone lovingly, you say to the thickset, heavy-limbed templar, in tatlum:
       "Hush, tiny Templar.  I will share the fruits of this with you, if you see reason."

  Extending his hand firmly, the thickset, heavy-limbed templar says to you, in tatlum:
       "Return the stone."

  Speaking even softer, you say to the thickset, heavy-limbed templar, in tatlum:
       "Don't make a scene."

  You stop leading the thickset, heavy-limbed templar.

  <Kishime walks into a building on the other side of the road>

  A human soldier unlocks the door with a sturdy steel key.
  A human soldier opens the door.
  A human soldier bows his head, placing a sturdy steel key about his neck.
  A human soldier exclaims, in sirihish:
       "All hail the Servants of the Highlord!"

  Stonework Building [SU]
     This small stonework building is simple in design and function.  Set
  into the stonework of the meticulously kept northern wall is a large jade
  cross on an obsidian field.  A large, oval rug sprawls out in the center of
  the floor.  A sturdy door in the south wall provides the only other entrance
  to this building.  A large, semi-circular desk rests beneath the jade cross
  on the northern wall.  A split staircase ascends up from this foyer on both
  the eastern and western walls, meeting at the center, high above the jade
  cross. 
  A diminutive, white-robed templar sits at a semi-circular desk.

  The thickset, heavy-limbed templar has arrived from the south.
  The solid, asperous woman has arrived from the south.

  <Kishime walks up the stairs>

  A Well-Lit Stairwell [EWUD]
     Fixed securely to the walls, small oil lamps keep this hallway well lit
  despite the fact that there are no windows.  The walls of this hallway are
  lined with doors, and where they are not, small ornaments hang, mostly
  sigils from one of the various noble houses of Allanak.  A set of stairs
  lead down towards the main entryway of this building, as well as lead
  further up into the building's interior. 

  The thickset, heavy-limbed templar has arrived from below.
  The solid, asperous woman has arrived from below.

  The garish, turquoise-plaited templar sways his hips as he skips up the stairs nimbly.

  Clutching his hand into a fist and planting it into the small of his back, the thickset,
  heavy-limbed templar says to you, in tatlum:
       "I will report this to Lord Templar Marsellus immediately."

  The thickset, heavy-limbed templar says to you, in tatlum:
       "I'm sure that he will also like to hear about the stench of your clothing."

  The garish, turquoise-plaited templar twirls his hand in front of himself daintily, dipping into a graceful half-bow/half-curtsy.

  Softly, you exclaim to the thickset, heavy-limbed templar, in tatlum:
       "So assertive!"

  Grinding his teeth, the thickset, heavy-limbed templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "Good day, Kishime."

  The garish, turquoise-plaited templar giggles femininely.

  The garish, turquoise-plaited templar wiggles his fingers in a wave.

  The thickset, heavy-limbed templar walks up.
  The solid, asperous woman walks up.
  

  Lieutenant's Quarters [NE]
  The furnishings of this apartment style section of the barracks are
  quite sparse.  The red stone bricks of the city wall form the southern
  wall of this room, setting a backdrop for the simple wooden furniture
  which clutters it.
     A sturdy looking door to the north, and a...

  
  Continue Reading...
• 

  Interrogation of a 'Rinth Rat by HaiWolfe
  Added on Feb 14, 2010

  A half-breed 'Rinthi, newly inducted into the Guild, suddenly finds himself in over his head when picked out of a southside crowd for interrogation by a templar.

  ---

  It is before dawn on Nekrete, the 214th day of the Ascending Sun,
  In the Year of Lirathu's Slumber, year 11 of the 21st Age.
  
  The Main Room of the Bard's Barrel [NSW]
     A myriad of grinning skulls, each painted with bright colors laid
  over the pallid bone, stare down from the broad wooden shelf that lines this
  spacious room at eye level.  Splashes of blue, green and red cover the clay
  brick walls in an enthusiastic but inexpert abstract mural, some spatters of
  the same paint dotted across the red tiled floor.  The room is filled with
  clamor: the clink and clatter of dishes and drinks, instruments being tuned,
  scraps of song, and a general constant roar of conversation.  A small wooden
  stage sits along the northern wall, two ragged velvet curtains framing it,
  looped back with blue-dyed ropes.  A wide archway leads out onto the dusty
  street, while a smaller one to the west provides a glimpse of a smaller,
  quieter chamber.  
  A wall here is designated as a message board.
  The trim, sorrel-haired man is sitting at a boxy wooden bar.
  The one-eyed, white-haired half-elf is sitting at a boxy wooden bar.
  The goateed, orange-eyed man is sitting at a wobbly baobab table.
  The misshapen, lucent-eyed man is sitting at a wobbly baobab table.
  The lithe, dark-haired man is sitting at a broad table of scarred agafari wood.
  The small, dark-haired man sits at a table in the back, staring into his drink.
  The bald, muscular woman slouches at a large table, drinking ale.
  The huge, sun-bronzed man surveys the room casually from a table here.
  The husky, weatherworn dwarf relaxes at a table here, clay mug in hand.
  A tall, amber-eyed woman polishes glasses behind the boxy wooden bar.
  A lean, spike-haired elf drums softly in the corner.
  A lean, grey-eyed bard leans against the stage.
  
  The trim, sorrel-haired man sits quietly at his stool, tugging on his beard with a
  distracted expression.
  
  Your new ldesc is:
  The scrawny, half-breed teen with a badly swollen wrist leans here on a crutch.
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar has arrived from the north.
  The sallow, top-knotted half-giant has arrived from the north.
  
  The one-eyed, white-haired half-elf stands to his feet quickly.
  
  The scrawny, half-breed teen turns to see the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar with wide
  eyes.
  
  The one-eyed, white-haired half-elf bows deeply to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar,
  his cloak dragging the ground.
  
  The scrawny, half-breed teen bows before the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, barely
  keeping his balance.
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar passes through the northern entrance, flanked by the
  imposing figure of the sallow, top-knotted half-giant.
  
  The trim, sorrel-haired man rises to his feet, and bows gracefully to the oddly-bent,
  yellow-skinned templar, his eyes lowered before retaking his barstool after a moment's
  pause.
  
  The one-eyed, white-haired half-elf sits down at a boxy wooden bar.
  
  The misshapen, lucent-eyed man glances up at the sounding sound of scraping bar stools
  before spotting the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar.
  
  Ignoring the majority those bowing him, the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar's gazes falls
  in harsh interrogation of a few faces.
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar looks down at you.
  
  The scrawny, half-breed teen shrinks back against a wall, keeping his gaze lowered.
  
  Rising halfway out of his seat, the misshapen, lucent-eyed man bends respectfully at the
  waist towards the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar before reseating himself.
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar looks down at the lithe, dark-haired man.
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned man sends you a telepathic message:
      "Tell me of the Statue."
  
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  Seeing the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar's attention upon him, the lithe, dark-haired man
  quickly stands and bows before retaking his seat.
  
  Passing through the parting crowds the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar's eyes lock onto
  you, his yellow-spotted lips curling lightly into odd smile.
  
  The scrawny, half-breed teen nearly falls to his knees, but catches himself and presses
  himself against the wall.
  
  The misshapen, lucent-eyed man looks up at you.
  
  You think:
       "Kade must've told him!"
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar curls his finger a few times in your direction,
  beckoning for you to follow.
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
       "Come along...Ish."
  
  Staring at the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar's feet, you say, in sirihish:
       "I-I... "
  
  You now follow the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar.
  
  The trim, sorrel-haired man looks up at you.
  
  The scrawny, half-breed teen reluctantly steps toward the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned
  templar.
  
  The lithe, dark-haired man sends you a telepathic message:
      "Be respectful and don't piss off Rezaul."
  
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You contact the lithe, dark-haired man with the Way.
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar glances once to the lithe, dark-haired man his eyes
  lingering there for a few moments before making his way west.
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar walks west.
  You follow the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, and walk west.
  
  An Antechamber of the Bard's Barrel [EU]
  The sallow, top-knotted half-giant has arrived from the east.
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar walks up.
  You follow the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, and walk up.
  
  A Wide, Spacious Room [ED]
  The sallow, top-knotted half-giant has arrived from below.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the lithe, dark-haired man:
      "He wants ta know about th' figurine!"
  
  You dissolve the psychic link.
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar walks east.
  You follow the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, and walk east.
  
  A Wide, Spacious Room [EW]
  The sallow, top-knotted half-giant has arrived from the west.
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar walks east.
  You follow the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, and walk east.
  
  A Wooden-Railed Balcony [W]
     This wide balcony overlooks the street below, providing ample view of
  the passersby, as well as a general vista of the sprawl of the Commoner's
  Quarter.  A railing of polished thuja wood surrounds it, carved with a
  pattern of tumbling coins in bas-relief.  Sounds of singing and raucous
  revelry float up from somewhere below.  An arched doorway to the west leads
  back inside the building, covered with a curtain of bright red canvas.  A
  heavy stone bench is firmly affixed to the wall, while along the top of the
  balcony, clay planters have been fastened, each one holding several small
  plants spilling over with dusty green leaves and tiny, fragrant white
  flowers.  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar is standing here.
  The sallow, top-knotted half-giant has arrived from the west.
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar closes the curtain.
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
       "Well then....explain."
  
  The scrawny, half-breed teen swallows hard.
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar takes a few steps toward a heavy stone bench, and
  slides onto it, watching you firmly.
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar sits down on a heavy stone bench.
  
  Shaking his head, his voice light, the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar asks you, in
  southern-accented sirihish:
       "You are aware of what I did to your friend Kade?"
  
  The scrawny, half-breed teen shakes his head mutely.
  
  With an idle shrug, the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar asks you, in southern-accented
  sirihish:
       "Seen him about of late?"
  
  Licking dry lips, you say to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in sirihish:
       "I.. I nicked a figurine, a small one.. Kade helped. It was a test."
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
       "A test? Given by whom. "
  
  Adding quickly, the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar asks you, in southern-accented
  sirihish:
       "Don't blame Kade for ratting on you...You'd have done the same if I had you fingers
  and tongue removed, hmmm?"
  
  The scrawny, half-breed teen twitches his head.
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
       "So, a test...a figurine. Continue."
  
  You say to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in sirihish:
       "A gang, westside... in the 'rinth. Called th' Third Eyes... they offer protection..."
  
  You say, in sirihish:
       "Fer a price."
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
       "Ah? And how did you meet Kade?"
  
  You think:
       "(is terrified, but a small part of him is frantically hoping that this is another test
  arranged between Vel and the templar)"
  
  The lithe, dark-haired man sends you a telepathic message:
      "Tell him what you will. The black figurine wouldn't be something for you to die over."
  
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  You say to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in sirihish:
       "I-in th' Gaj, Lord Templar."
  
  Out on the plaza, the lithe, dark-haired man has arrived from the south.
  
  Out on the plaza, the lithe, dark-haired man walks north.
  
  Shaking his head and gesturing to the sallow, top-knotted half-giant, the oddly-bent,
  yellow-skinned templar asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
       "Do you know how I found out about you?"
  
  You say to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in sirihish:
       "Kade..."
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
       "Yes of course. For every lie, Kade told me...Mgran pulled off one of his pinkies.
  Perhaps you require the same coaxing?"
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
       "You work for Vel."
  
  You exclaim to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in sirihish:
       "N-no, I ain't lyin'! I know what 'appens ta rats git caught an' don't tell th' truth!"
  
  Glancing to the sallow, top-knotted half-giant, the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar asks
  you, in southern-accented sirihish:
       "How were you injured?"
  
  You say to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in sirihish:
       "I was jumped inna alley, eastside."
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
       "By whom?"
  
  You think:
       "I told Kade! I told Kade Vel's name!"
  
  Shaking his head jerkily, you say to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in sirihish:
       "I dun' know... some hooded skinnies.."
  
  You think:
       "Ish ya dumbshit yer dead, dead!"
  
  Shaking his head lightly, the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you, in southern-
  accented sirihish:
       "You know something you're not telling me half-breed."
  
  Without much interest, the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to the sallow, top-
  knotted half-giant, in southern-accented sirihish:
       "Tear off his arms or something..."
  
  The scrawny, half-breed teen stands rooted to the spot, stone-still in fear.
  
  The sallow, top-knotted half-giant glances to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar with
  surprise for a moment and then with a shrug lumbers toward you.
  
  The scrawny, half-breed teen works his lips silently as he stares at the floor.
  
  The sallow, top-knotted half-giant reaches out at you with a large meaty hand.
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar gives the sallow, top-knotted half-giant an order.
  The sallow, top-knotted half-giant subdues you, despite your attempts to struggle away.
  
  Kicking and flailing, you exclaim, in sirihish:
       "Eyaaargh!"
  
  Frantically, you exclaim to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in sirihish:
       "I'll tell ya.. I! Whaddya wanna know!"
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
       "Who was the figurine stolen from and why."
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
       "Who ordered it."
  
  The red moon, Jihae, rises over the streets of Allanak.
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar sighs shaking his head with annoyance.
  
  You exclaim to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in sirihish:
       "D-dice! Fella named Dice!"
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
       "Dice? Tell me about Dice."
  
  With a sigh, the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to the sallow, top-knotted half-
  giant, in southern-accented sirihish:
       "Should he utter a word about not knowing something, just pull it off and toss it over
  the ledge."
  
  The sallow, top-knotted half-giant nods once affirmatively to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned
  templar, your arm head tightly in his closed fist.
  
  The words spilling from his mouth, you say to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in
  sirihish:
       "He's got th' tattoos, he an' Siltwind, they th' leaders of th' gang."
  
  You think:
       "I shoulda used th' mul! Too late too late!"
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
       "Gang?"
  
  You say to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in sirihish:
       "They, they.. call'emselves th' Third Eyes cause they put a tattoo of a eye on their
  forehead. Yeh, gang. Every'un in the 'rinth's talkin' bout'em, they're real strong."
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
       "Oh? And the black fist?"
  
  You say to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in sirihish:
       "Tha's another gang, I thought Kade knew some'un who was innit."
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
       "Vel. Where does he fit. I know you're lying about this Dice fellow..."
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to the sallow, top-knotted half-giant, in
  southern-accented sirihish:
       "Twist...."
  
  You exclaim to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in sirihish:
       "I can 'xplain!"
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
       "I know. Thats why we're here."
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar stands forcefully, his peaceful, placid demeanor
  bursting into a fiery anger.
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar pushes off of a heavy stone bench and rises to his
  feet.
  
  In a smooth motion, the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar slides a topaz-pommeled ivory
  dagger out of a leather and chitin strap-sheath.
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar brandishes a topaz-pommeled ivory dagger.
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar marches toward where the sallow, top-knotted half-
  giant holds you.
  
  You exclaim to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in sirihish:
       "I ain't lyin'! I seen Vel aroun' in the 'rinth a few times, he always kickin' me
  round. 'alf-breed do this, clean that up, ya worthless!"
  
  The scrawny, half-breed teen grows panicked as he squirms in the sallow, top-knotted half-
  giant's grip.
  
  His voice a harsh rasp, his eyes fills with hatred, placing the tip of his topaz-pommeled
  ivory dagger under your left eye, the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar whispers to you in
  sirihish:
       "Listen to me you filthy lying half-breed....Do you think I want to be in your presence
  any longer? Tell me *everything*."
  
  You exclaim to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in sirihish:
       "So I needed Kade ta help me do th' job... th' nickin'! An' Kade was askin' all these
  questions 'fore he would do it! But Dice tol' me ta not spill his name, so I tol' Kade Vel's
  name instead!"
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar straightens for a moment as if shocked, he seems to
  lose his concentration and takes a step away from the sallow, top-knotted half-giant.
  
  A ragged sob tears itself from the scrawny, half-breed teen's throat as he slumps forward.
  
  Hunched for a moment, the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar's eyes widen as he glances
  downward at his hands in awe.
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar straightens, still not looking at you or the sallow,
  top-knotted half-giant, he turns his eyes raging with some mad pleasure.
  
  As he approaches you again, his eyes awash with determination and he snatches your face, the
  oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you in southern-accented sirihish:
       "I am His Will."
  
  The scrawny, half-breed boy twitches involuntarily.
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar asks you in southern-accented sirihish:
       "What does Dice look like?"
  
  Screwing his eyes shut, you say to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar in sirihish:
       "He's a-a... a big fella, tall, strong."
  
  Voice calm and even as the tip of his topaz-pommeled ivory dagger is placed again under
  your eye, the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you in southern-accented sirihish:
       "More..."
  
  You say to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar in sirihish:
       "Got dice tattooed on'is hands, an' the eye on'is forehead."
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you in southern-accented sirihish:
       "What is it worth to you? For me to not tell Vel, or your arrangement with Dice?"
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you in southern-accented sirihish:
       "What have you to trade besides this eye?"
  
  You exclaim to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in sirihish:
       "I-I.. they'll kill me!"
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
       "Of course they will."
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
       "I'm the only one who can keep you alive now....treat me well...."
  
  You say to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in sirihish:
       "I got less'an fifty sid.. jus' what I'm wearin'."
  
  Presses the top of his topaz-pommeled ivory dagger just a touch into the flesh under your
  eye, the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
       "Do you think I require funding?"
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
       "What can you offer me aside from this eye?"
  
  Sweat rolling down his face, you exclaim to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in
  sirihish:
       "Whaddya want!"
  
  A final glimmer of light marks the white moon Lirathu's slow descent.
  
  Simply, the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
       "Information. "
  
  You exclaim to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in sirihish:
       "I ken get ya information!"
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar twists the tip of his topaz-pommeled ivory dagger
  lightly digging a small nich in your skin.
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
       "No....now."
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar lifts his chin to the sallow, top-knotted half-giant.
  
  The sallow, top-knotted half-giant begins pulling forcefully at your arm.
  
  Stifling a scream, you exclaim to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in sirihish:
       "Eyaa--- ask me a question!"
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
       "Armless, eyeless....a pitiful way to live."
  
  Laughing, the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
       "Was that an order? Simply talk...."
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
       "Just talk, talk, talk."
  
  His face soaked with sweat and tears, you say to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in
  sirihish:
       "Dice an' Siltwind, they been 'round the 'rinth a few months now, they started off
  small..."
  
  Looking bored the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar removes his topaz-pommeled ivory dagger
  slipping it back into his burned leather and chitin strap-sheath.
  
  You say to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in sirihish:
       "But they gitted a reputation th' way they din't take no shat from skinnies."
  
  You say to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in sirihish:
       "Whole eastside hates'em but they don't care 'cause they got th' west on their side."
  
  Lifting his chin, the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to the sallow, top-knotted
  half-giant, in southern-accented sirihish:
       "This is pointless....Let him go. I'm bored of Rinth politics,"
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar gives the sallow, top-knotted half-giant an order.
  The sallow, top-knotted half-giant releases you, and you immediately move away.
  
  The scrawny, half-breed teen falls to the ground in a heap.
  
  With a sigh gesturing to you idly, the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you, in
  southern-accented sirihish:
       "Your arm and eye are now owned by me. You've three months to bring me two pieces of
  information that will purchase them back. I'll see you soon."
  
  The scrawny, half-breed teen quickly scrambles up using your worn wooden crutch and nearly
  falls again as he bows deeply to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, then shuffles
  toward the curtain.
  
  You say to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in sirihish:
       "Yes Lord Templar, I do everythin' ya say, thank ya Lord Templar."
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar wets his yellow spotted lips turning to look out over
  the balcony.
  
  The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says, in southern-accented sirihish:
       "Off with you..."
  
  The scrawny, half-breed teen backs through the curtain, bent at the waist.

  It is before dawn on Nekrete, the 214th day of the Ascending Sun,
  In the Year of Lirathu's Slumber, year 11 of the 21st Age.
  
  The Main Room of the Bard's Barrel [NSW]
     A myriad of grinning skulls, each painted with bright colors laid
  over the pallid bone, stare down from the broad wooden shelf that...
  Continue Reading...
• 

  Fecked a Fruit by Taven
  Added on Dec 29, 2009

  This is the craziest party (with the possible exception of a certain Fale party) any of my PCs has ever attended. It's so crazy, you have to consent to read it. Just be glad you're not the fruit.

  ---

  It’s a long log, to get you into the mood of the scene. I apologize for the crappy formatting, but it’s the crazy Arm Original Submissions doing it, not me.

   

  -------

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man has arrived from the north.

   

  At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, glancing around:

       "Discard if ya've still got a card, mates, an' here we go."

   

  Calling over, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, in sirihish:

       "Cactus, grab a drink, but no getting drunk."

   

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals himself a Kruth card.

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card to the slender, obsidian-eyed man.

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card to the willowy, grey-streaked man.

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card to the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman.

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card to the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette.

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card to the rugged, dusk-toned man.

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card: the Sun of Life to you.

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card to the scarred, ebony-haired woman.

   

  Rolling his eyes, the willowy, grey-streaked man discards his Kruth card: the Water of Death.

   

  At your table, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says in sirihish, eyeing her card solemnly:

       "Damn."

   

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card to the willowy, grey-streaked man.

   

  At your table, the scarred, ebony-haired woman says in sirihish, tossing her Kruth card: the Wind of Deceit to the table:

       "New one, Farran."

   

  The rugged, dusk-toned man grins a large grin, glancing down to his card.

   

  The slender, hack-haired man smiles at your card.

   

  At your table, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says in sirihish, pointing at the willowy, grey-streaked man:

       "Makarim!"

   

  The scarred, ebony-haired woman discards her Kruth card: the Wind of Deceit.

   

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card to the scarred, ebony-haired woman.

   

  At your table, the furrowed, stubbled man says in sirihish, to the burn-scarred, curly-haired man:

       "Fergot me."

   

  Grunting, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man discards his Kruth card: the Water of Kings.

   

  At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, glancing to the furrowed, stubbled man:

       "Yeah.  Who th' fuck are ya, anyway/"

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man salutes the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette and nods obediently as he weaves his way over to a broad table of scarred agafari wood.

   

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals himself a Kruth card.

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man gets his small stone shotglass from a broad table of scarred agafari wood.

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man gets his small stone shotglass from a broad table of scarred agafari wood.

   

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card to the furrowed, stubbled man.

   

  At your table, the furrowed, stubbled man says in sirihish, with a shrug:

       "Jus' some fek. Names Yaroch."

   

  The scarred, ebony-haired woman frowns at her card.

   

  At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish:

       "I'll stay."

   

  Tilting his head back, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man downs his small stone shotglass.

   

  At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, shrugging:

       "Aye, very well.  Anyone else?"

   

  At your table, the furrowed, stubbled man says in sirihish:

       "Another."

   

  At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, dipping a nod:

       "Gotta discard it first mate."

   

  The furrowed, stubbled man discards his Kruth card: the Wind of Death.

   

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card to the furrowed, stubbled man.

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man smacks his lips a few times and eyes his small stone shotglass.

   

  At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, glancing around:

       "Going... goin'... gone.  Flip 'em."

   

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman flips over her Kruth card: the Sun of Fate.

  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette absently turns over her Kruth card: the Stone of Death.

  The furrowed, stubbled man turns over his Kruth card: the Stone of Truth.

  Flipping it over, the scarred, ebony-haired woman discards her Kruth card: the Sun of Deceit.

  Grunting, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man discards his Kruth card: the Wind of Truth.

  The willowy, grey-streaked man discards his Kruth card: the Sun of Truth.

  The slender, obsidian-eyed man discards his Kruth card: the Stone of Fate.

  The furrowed, stubbled man discards his Kruth card: the Stone of Truth.

   

  At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish:

       "Safely in tha middle... "

   

  Tossing it down with a large grin, the rugged, dusk-toned man discards his Kruth card: the Stone of Life.

   

  Swallowing hard, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man lifts the second glass and gulps it down unflinchingly.

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man drinks brandy from his small stone shotglass.

   

  At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, smirking:

       "So far, it's Horus winnin' and Laila loosin'."

   

  At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, shaking his head:

       "Jenneth's winnin' that is."

   

  Making a wry face as he eases it back onto the table, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man discards his small stone shotglass.

   

  At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish, to you, with a frown:

       "Well, fuck you."

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, to the rugged, dusk-toned man with a slight smirk:

       "Love to. You pick the place, or should I?"

   

  At your table, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says in sirihish:

       "Turnabout's fair play, Jenneth, what's it to be?"

   

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man shuffles a deck of Kruth cards.

   

  Stepping over, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man tosses his dark, hooded cloak into a crate half-packed with debris and trash.

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man walks south.

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish:

       "Anybody got a good idea?"

   

  At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish:

       "Table dance!"

   

  At your table, the willowy, grey-streaked man says in sirihish:

       "Regardin' Laila? I got -dozens- of good ideas fer Laila."

   

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man shuffles a deck of Kruth cards.

   

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman grins at the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette.

   

  At your table, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says in sirihish:

       "I'm hard to embarrass too, unless Cera's around."

   

  At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish, to the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman:

       "Tha's... yer idea -every- time."

   

  At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish, to the rugged, dusk-toned man:

       "An yer complainin why?"

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, to the willowy, grey-streaked man with a chuckle:

       "Well, spit 'em out. N' no, we don't want to watch more foreplay n' shet with you two."

   

  At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish, to you:

       "Make 'er beat th'piss out've Farran! I want t'watch that sibling rivalry shit."

   

  At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, pursing his lips:

       "I want a story."

   

  At your table, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says in sirihish, pointing her clay bottle at the willowy, grey-streaked man:

       "And I doubt the Sergeant's ideas are legal in public."

   

  At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish:

       "They are, and Fale pays double if they get ta watch."

   

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman grins at the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette.

   

  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette laughs at the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman.

   

  At your table, the furrowed, stubbled man says in sirihish:

       "Who's gonna arrest ya?"

   

  The scarred, ebony-haired woman chuckles, shaking her head.

   

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman nods to the furrowed, stubbled man.

   

  At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish:

       "Excellent point"

   

  At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish:

       "I won't."

   

  At your table, the willowy, grey-streaked man says in sirihish:

       "Like -you- fuckers get to see what I'm gonna do t'Laila later."

   

  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette leans over the edge of the table, still laughing.

   

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman fans herself, glancing sidelong at the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette.

   

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man wrinkles up his nose.

   

  At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish, jamming a thumb into his chest:

       "My idea is th'best."

   

  At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, sagely:

       "I don't -want- to."

   

  At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish:

       "Siblin' brawl."

   

  At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish, to the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette:

       "I know what yer birthday present is.. Yer gonna be walkin' bowlegged fer weeks."

   

  At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish, to the burn-scarred, curly-haired man:

       "Then don't fight back. Jus' let 'er beat th'fuck out've ya'."

   

  With a wink, the slender, obsidian-eyed man says to the willowy, grey-streaked man, in sirihish:

       "You never know who might be watching."

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, chuckling:

       "I agree with Farran. I -don't- want to see that."

   

  At your table, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says in sirihish, waggling her eyebrows at the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman:

       "Let's hope."

   

  At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, rolling his eyes at the rugged, dusk-toned man:

       "Wasn't talkin' about that."

   

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman grins at the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette.

   

  At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, peering at you:

       "Pick summat."

   

  Pursing his lips, you look at the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette.

   

  The confident carriage of an athletic physique, healthy glow of bronze

  skin, and clear gaze of this young woman combine to radiate an aura of

  vitality and energy.  Tall for a human, her body bears the sleek, taut

  musculature of one trained in physical arts, clearly seen in strong

  shoulders, sculpted arms, and long, shapely legs.  Modest but womanly curves

  are accentuated by a slim waist, and she has large, capable hands with

  slender fingers.  A single lock of brunette hair falling to the left side of

  her face has been ornamented with a lustrous strand of small, smoothly

  rounded jade beads ranging in hue from dusky to brilliant green; at the end

  of this length dangles two slightly larger beads painstakingly carved in the

  shapes of a lushly blooming rose and a wickedly barbed thorn.  Haphazardly

  woven into the remainder of the waving mane that frames her round face is a

  fringe of dozens more jade beads which clack gently with movement and gleam

  in ambient light.  The soft depth of warm brown eyes and sensuous sweep of

  wide lips are countered by emphatically dark eyebrows; a straight, firm

  nose; and a resolute set to her squared chin.  Etched at the corners of

  mouth and eyes, faint lines are beginning to give testimony to laughter and

  care. 

  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette is in excellent condition.

   

  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette is using:

  <worn in hair>           a jade hairclasp

  <face>                   branching fiery temple veins

  <worn in left ear>       an earring of glittering black glass

  <worn in right ear>      a small jade earring

  <worn around neck>       a jet-colored, chitin gorget

  <worn about throat>      a jade and ebony cross

  <slung across back>      an obsidian-headed, jade-emblazoned mace

  <worn across back>       a new jade-emblazoned, hoplite shield

  <right shoulder>         a black-inked tattoo of a sprawling city

  <left shoulder>          a wicked jade warrior tattoo

  <worn on arms>           a pair of black, cloth armbands

  <worn around wrist>      a tortoiseshell bracer

  <worn around wrist>      a dragon-carved spiked bracer

  <worn on hands>          a pair of fine, black suede gloves

  <worn on forearms>       a dragon-emblazoned armsheath

  <worn around body>       a black, hooded militia dustcloak

  <worn on legs>           a jade-trimmed reinforced leather skirt

  <right ankle>            a small, jade songbird tattoo

  <worn on left ankle>     an obsidian anklet set with jade studs

  <worn on feet>           a pair of polished, black leather boots

   

  She is carrying:

  nothing obvious

   

  At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish, nodding:

       "Oh. A'right, then."

   

  At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish, to you:

       "My idea's th'best, y'know."

   

  At your table, the willowy, grey-streaked man says in sirihish:

       "Let's have somethin' Jenneth."

   

  The dapper, pony-tailed woman has arrived from the south.

  The sinewy, emerald-eyed man has arrived from the south.

   

  At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish:

       "Jes don' make me think again.. that hurt"

   

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman grins.

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, waving a hand to the burn-scarred, curly-haired man:

       "'S goin' to be a table dance. I'd make it a table -strip- dance, but the feckin' Gith won't go for that, eh?"

   

  Tipping it back, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man drinks brandy from his small stone shotglass.

   

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman grins.

   

  At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, smirking:

       "I wouldn't go for a strip dance.  Since it's my sister an' all."

   

  You get your small portion of a small roasted erdlu breast from your pouched belt.

  It is very light.

   

  At your table, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says in sirihish, looking down at herself:

       "I could take off my cloak...weapons...shield...but yeah."

   

  At your table, the willowy, grey-streaked man says in sirihish, to you:

       "Think you was mistaken. Think you meant to say that there's no way you'd ask her to strip."

   

  Pacing through the crowd behind the sinewy, emerald-eyed man, the dapper, pony-tailed woman claims the chair him draws back for her at a round, blue-painted table and settles down, crossing her legs)

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman thumps a booted foot against the floor to set a steady beat for the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette.

   

  The dapper, pony-tailed woman sits at a round, blue-painted table.

   

  At your table, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says in sirihish, nodding to you:

       "Highly recommend that's what you meant to say."

   

  At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish:

       "No threatenin when we're playin!"

   

  The rugged, dusk-toned man snickers, shaking his head.

   

  Tilting his head back, the sinewy, weather-worn man drinks ale from his miniature barrel.

   

  At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, chuckling:

       "Jenneth's just fond of strip dance in general for some reason.  I doubt it has anythin' to do with Laila doin' it."

   

  At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish:

       "Jen made NADIM strip.. tha man's got no limits."

   

  Scraping her chair back, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette stands up from a broad table of scarred agafari wood.

   

  Pushing back in his chair, the sinewy, weather-worn man stands up from a wobbly baobab table.

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, chuckling:

       "Nadim -did- get to keep his pants on."

   

  As she straightens, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says to the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman, in sirihish:

       "Tell Cactus he can have my chair, I'll sit on the Sergeant's lap. When I'm done."

   

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman nods to the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette.

   

  At your table, the furrowed, stubbled man says in sirihish, nodding to you:

       "Ya got the right idea, Jenneth."

   

  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette steps up on her chair, placing a booted foot firmly, and then onto a broad table of scarred agafari wood.

   

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman keeps thumping out a rhythm, pounding a heel against the floor.

   

  Leaving it behind on a wobbly baobab table, the sinewy, weather-worn man discards his miniature barrel.

   

  With a glance from the northern archway, the gaunt, ivory-toned lad looks down at the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman.

   

  With a flick of a gloved hand, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette sweeps her black, hooded militia dustcloak over her shoulders and catches a fistful of it.

   

  The scarred, ebony-haired woman claps her hands, matching the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman's heel thumps.

   

  The willowy, grey-streaked man leans back in his chair and folds his arms over his chest, looking up at the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette with a grin.

   

  With a squint as a head breaks the usual swarm of patrons, the dapper, pony-tailed woman looks towards the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette with a curious eye expression.

   

  The sinewy, weather-worn man steps forward through the tavern, slowly making his way to a broad table of scarred agafari wood.

   

  Matching the rhythm, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette smiles down at the willowy, grey-streaked man as she clicks bootheels on a broad table of scarred agafari wood, keeping her gaze on him as she turns in a slow circle.

   

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman drinks brandy from her small stone shotglass.

   

  Tossing it back onto the table after slamming it down, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman discards her small stone shotglass.

   

  The sinewy, weather-worn man places a hand on the back of the rugged, dusk-toned man's chair and crouches down to his level.

   

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man pounds the table with the side of his fist, in rythym with the other encouragements.

   

  Twisting her hand, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette sweeps her black, hooded militia dustcloak out to brush toward the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman's face as she turns, heels pounding out the rhythm on the table.

   

  At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish, adding loud clapping to the steady thump of her heel:

       "OOOH! Tha's our Laila, if her blade won' kill ya, her sexiness .. or jealous mate.. will."

   

  Still watching the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette, the willowy, grey-streaked man gets his small stone shotglass from a broad table of scarred agafari wood.

   

  At your table, the willowy, grey-streaked man says in sirihish:

       "Probably th' last one."

   

  The willowy, grey-streaked man drinks brandy from his small stone shotglass.

   

  The furrowed, stubbled man pats his knee in time, his head bobbing up and down.

   

  At your table, the scarred, ebony-haired woman says in sirihish, calling out:

       "Work it, Laila!"

   

  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette laughs and slides a foot forward, tapping her heel and then continuing her turn with a sinuous swing of her hips.

   

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man covers his eyes.

   

  The slender, hack-haired man chuckles at the burn-scarred, curly-haired man.

   

  Arching her arms over her head and clapping along with the rhythm, gloved palms thudding quietly, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette asks the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman, in sirihish:

       "Am I done yet?"

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man has arrived from the north.

   

  The scarred, ebony-haired woman giggles and reaches out to pat the burn-scarred, curly-haired man shoulder.

   

  At your table, the willowy, grey-streaked man says in sirihish, to the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette:

       "I reckon you are. Git down here."

   

  At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish, with a grin up at the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette:

       "Jen made tha terms.. gotta ask him!"

   

  At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, from behind his hands:

       "Please be done!"

   

  Weaving through the crowds, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man moves over to a broad table of scarred agafari wood.

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman laughs at the burn-scarred, curly-haired man.

   

  Casting a glance to the archway, the dapper, pony-tailed woman looks up at the gaunt, grungy-bearded man.

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man sits at a broad table of scarred agafari wood.

   

  The slender, obsidian-eyed man's head wavers slightly, his eyes squeezing shut in pain.

   

  The furrowed, stubbled man chuckles.

   

  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette stomps her feet a last time, then hops down from a broad table of scarred agafari wood next to the willowy, grey-streaked man.

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, chuckling:

       "Alright, you're done, if only for Farran's sake."

   

  Sliding it back onto a round, blue-painted table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman discards her clay bottle.

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man glances thoughtfully down at the collection of shotglasses then shakes his head with a faint grunt.

   

  At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, with a happy sigh:

       "Thanks Jen.  Alright, next round?  All cards been discarded?"

   

  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette settles sideways on the willowy, grey-streaked man's lap and hooks an arm around his shoulders.

   

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man shuffles a deck of Kruth cards.

   

  At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, nodding firmly:

       "Next round.  Hup!"

   

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals himself a Kruth card.

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card to the slender, obsidian-eyed man.

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card to the willowy, grey-streaked man.

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card to the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman.

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card to the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette.

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card to the rugged, dusk-toned man.

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card: the Wind of Truth to you.

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card to the scarred, ebony-haired woman.

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card to the furrowed, stubbled man.

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man.

   

  The willowy, grey-streaked man wraps a long arm around the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette's waist, snagging a card with his free hand.

   

  At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish:

       "I'll stay"

   

  At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, rpusing his lips:

       "Keepin'."

   

  At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish:

       "Keepin'."

   

  Wordlessly, the slender, obsidian-eyed man rises to his feet, moving hurriedly into the plaza.

   

  At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish:

       "Actually.."

   

  The willowy, grey-streaked man discards his Kruth card: the Stone of Deceit.

   

  Tossing it away, the rugged, dusk-toned man discards his Kruth card: the Stone of Fate.

   

  At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish:

       "What th'hell? Another."

   

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card to the willowy, grey-streaked man.

   

  At your table, the scarred, ebony-haired woman says in sirihish:

       "New one, please"

   

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card to the rugged, dusk-toned man.

   

  The scarred, ebony-haired woman discards her Kruth card: the Water of Truth.

   

  At your table, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man says in sirihish, glancing down at his card:

       "I dunno how to play."

   

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card to the scarred, ebony-haired woman.

   

  At your table, the willowy, grey-streaked man says in sirihish:

       "Not bad. Not bad."

   

  At your table, the furrowed, stubbled man says in sirihish:

       "I'll stay. Don't have a clue which is fekin' which, but it looks alright."

   

  The scarred, ebony-haired woman frowns intently at her card.

   

  At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish, snickering:

       "MUCH better."

   

  At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, glancing to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man:

       "Ranks are Life, Truth, Fate, Kings, Deceit, and Death.  Suits are Wind, Sun, Stone, and Water.  Ranks before suits."

   

  At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, raising his finger:

       "You can discard once."

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, with an appreicatve nod to the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette:

       "You do a nice dance. You dance often? Not, of course, that I'm suggestin' -anythin'-, Sarge."

   

  [Background: Jenneth loves to dance, it's one of his passions, so he's actually not suggesting anything by it]

   

  The rugged, dusk-toned man discards his Kruth card: the Wind of Death.

   

  At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish:

       "I think I lose."

   

  At your table, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man says in sirihish, glancing at the burn-scarred, curly-haired man:

       "They any 'sid involved?"

   

  Flipping it onto the table, the willowy, grey-streaked man discards his Kruth card: the Sun of Truth.

   

  At your table, the willowy, grey-streaked man says in sirihish:

       "That's mine."

   

  At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, shaking his head:

       "Nah, just dares.  Flip!"

   

  Tossing it to the table, the scarred, ebony-haired woman discards her Kruth card: the Wind of Deceit.

   

  Pointing at the burn-scarred, curly-haired man, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says to you, in sirihish:

       "We used to see the Arabeti dance at Luir's. I learned a bit then."

   

  Flipping it, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man discards his Kruth card: the Water of Kings.

   

  The furrowed, stubbled man turns over his Kruth card: the Sun of Life.

   

  Flipping it, you discard your Kruth card: the Wind of Truth.

   

  The furrowed, stubbled man discards his Kruth card: the Sun of Life.

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man discards his Kruth card: the Water of Death.

   

  Turning it over, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette discards her Kruth card: the Water of Fate.

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man slides the card back to the burn-scarred, curly-haired man and makes a beckoning motion.

   

  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette laughs and points to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, shaking her head.

   

  At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish, to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man:

       "Fuck you. I want t'win, or lose, or SOMETHIN'."

   

  At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, chuckling:

       "Yaroch's on top, Cactus lost."

   

  At your table, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man says in sirihish:

       "We can't trade in a card?"

   

  At your table, the scarred, ebony-haired woman says in sirihish, laughing:

       "I'm with Horus. I want -something- to happen."

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man looks at the rugged, dusk-toned man.

   

  At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, wryly:

       "Ya missed th' deadline, mate."

   

  Uncrossing her legs to rise, the dapper, pony-tailed woman stands up from a round, blue-painted table.

   

  At your table, the furrowed, stubbled man says in sirihish:

       "Well I'll be. Who's cactus?"

   

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man points to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man.

   

  Lightly rubbing at her temple and giving a grunt, the dapper, pony-tailed woman moves towards the northern plaza, the sinewy, emerald-eyed man in tow.

   

  The dapper, pony-tailed woman walks north.

  The sinewy, emerald-eyed man walks north.

   

  At your table, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man says in sirihish, showing his nasty teeth with a half grin:

       "I can think of a few somethins for you t'do, sir Kurac."

   

  The caramel, alabaster-haired woman walks north.

   

  At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish, waggling his brows at the scarred, ebony-haired woman:

       "I make shit happen."

   

  At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, chuckling:

       "You should make 'im kiss Horus.  Since Horus almost lost.  An' he sucks at kissin'."

   

  At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, smirking:

       "With tongue, I might add."

   

  At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish, to the burn-scarred, curly-haired man:

       "I don't suck at kissin'. I suck at kissin' when I'm piss drunk, an' kissin' YOU."

   

  At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, rolling his eyes:

       "As far as I know, ya fuckin' suck at kissin' worse than anyone I've ever kissed in m' life, and ya haven't proven otherwise yet."

   

  The furrowed, stubbled man gets his fleshy blue fruit from his dusty bone-studded backpack.

   

  At your table, the furrowed, stubbled man says in sirihish:

       "I want Cactus here ta stand up, and in front'a the bar seduce this here fruit like it was the hottest fekin' woman he's ever seen."

   

  The slender, hack-haired man bursts into laughter.

   

  The furrowed, stubbled man tosses his fleshy blue fruit to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man.

   

  The rugged, dusk-toned man chortles, shaking his head.

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man looks at the furrowed, stubbled man.

   

  The willowy, grey-streaked man laughs loudly, putting a hand to his stomach.

   

  At your table, the scarred, ebony-haired woman says in sirihish, chuckling:

       "This should be interesting."

   

  At your table, the willowy, grey-streaked man says in sirihish:

       "Fuckin' -right-, lad."

   

  At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish:

       "It'll pro'lly be th'prettiest thing he's ever seduced."

   

  At your table, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man says in sirihish, eyeing the furrowed, stubbled man dubiously:

       "The most extent of seducin' I ever done, fella, is passin' twenty sid to a whore."

   

  At your table, the furrowed, stubbled man says in sirihish:

       "Then this should be good."

   

  At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish, to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, flatly:

       "Jus' stick yer dick in it, then."

   

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman chuckles.

   

  The scarred, ebony-haired woman snickers.

   

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man shuffles a deck of Kruth cards.

   

  At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish:

       "Fek it an cheat it of half tha sid afterwards then."

   

  The furrowed, stubbled man leans back, watching the gaunt, grungy-bearded man.

   

  Calling over, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette exclaims to the reedy, sorrel-skinned woman, in sirihish:

       "Cera! It's my birthday, have a drink, damnit!"

   

  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette waves to some glasses on a broad table of scarred agafari wood.

   

  At your table, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man says in sirihish, looking at the rugged, dusk-toned man, eyes slivering:

       "I ain't about to fuck no fuckin' fruit in front've the whole fuckin tavern, fella.  Have another drink."

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man stands up from a broad table of scarred agafari wood.

   

  Smiling, the reedy, sorrel-skinned woman asks the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "Wull no shit, yeh an adult yet ya pretta thin'?"

   

  The reedy, sorrel-skinned woman pushes away from a boxy wooden bar.

   

  As he holds up his fleshy blue fruit, clearing his voice, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man says, in sirihish:

       "Hey, scumbag."

   

  Waggling her eyebrows, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says to the reedy, sorrel-skinned woman, in sirihish:

       "I'm all woman, Cera."

   

  At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish, shrugging:

       "I've done worse."

   

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man bursts out laughing.

   

  With a dramatic sigh as she moves to the table, the reedy, sorrel-skinned woman says to the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "Don' ah wish ah knew."

   

  Addressing his fleshy blue fruit with a dour, coarse voice, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man says, in sirihish:

       "Fifty sid?  You gotta be smokin' some've that bad shit, y'nasty fuckin wench.  Twenty 'sid or I'm takin' this cock further on down the road."

   

  The scarred, ebony-haired woman watches the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, chuckling.

   

  At your table, the furrowed, stubbled man says in sirihish:

       "Cactus get all the ladies with that line I bet."

   

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman chuckles.

   

  The willowy, grey-streaked man laughs.

   

  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette bursts into a laugh at the gaunt, grungy-bearded man.

   

  At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish:

       "yeah.. he's a real ladies man"

   

  The slender, hack-haired man chuckles.

   

  Smiling and tipping her head, the reedy, sorrel-skinned woman says to the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "ah'll be back. Got an erran' ta run."

   

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man pounds his fist on a broad table of scarred agafari wood, laughing uproariously.

   

  The rugged, dusk-toned man suddenly bursts into a laugh, watching the gaunt, grungy-bearded man.

  Nodding, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says to the reedy, sorrel-skinned woman, in sirihish:

       "'s'fine."

   

  Lobbing his fleshy blue fruit over to the furrowed, stubbled man, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man grins nastily and retakes his seat.

   

  Tossing it at the head of a passing half-elf and missing, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette discards her clay bottle.

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man gives his fleshy blue fruit to the furrowed, stubbled man.

   

  At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish, to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man:

       "Shoulda' fucked it."

   

  At your table, the furrowed, stubbled man says in sirihish:

       "No he shouldn'a...I wanna still eat this."

   

  The willowy, grey-streaked man says to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, in sirihish:

       "Real good, Cactus. Real good."

   

  At your table, the scarred, ebony-haired woman says in sirihish, grinning at the rugged, dusk-toned man:

       "At least the fruit would've enjoyed -that-, I think."

   

  At your table, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man says in sirihish, eyeing the rugged, dusk-toned man:

       "Three small and I'll even fuck it in the ass."

   

  At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish, to the furrowed, stubbled man:

       "You woulda' ate it still."

   

  At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish, to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man:

       "Two small an' it's a deal."

   

  The rugged, dusk-toned man opens a dusty expansive, crimson-fist emblazoned backpack.

   

  At your table, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man says in sirihish:

       "Two and a half."

   

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman chuckles.

  The scarred, ebony-haired woman shakes her head.

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man eyes the rugged, dusk-toned man shrewdly.

   

  At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish, nodding:

       "A'right."

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man stands up from a broad table of scarred agafari wood.

   

  The rugged, dusk-toned man pulls a bag from his pack, grinning.

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man says to the furrowed, stubbled man, in sirihish:

       "Hey, I need that fruit."

   

   

  [Another game round has started, and he strives to get people's attention...]

   

  At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish, shaking his head:

       "WAIT! Cactus is gonna fuck th'fruit."

   

  Dubiously, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette asks the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, in sirihish:

       "How are you going to fuck a fruit in the ass?"

   

  At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish:

       "For two an' a half small."

   

  The scarred, ebony-haired woman blushes, then blinks.

   

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman nods to the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette.

   

  Extending his mangled hand, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man says to the rugged, dusk-toned man, in sirihish:

       "My mammy didn't raise no fool; I need that sid up front."

   

  At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish:

       "I have ta say.. was thinkin' tha same thing."

   

  The rugged, dusk-toned man asks the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, in sirihish:

       "How're y'gonna do it?"

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man says to the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette, in sirihish:

       "Like a savage fuckin beast, sir."

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man asks the rugged, dusk-toned man, in sirihish:

       "What, don't ya'll Kuraci ever fuck in the ass?"

   

  Bursting into a laugh, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette buries her face against the willowy, grey-streaked man's shoulder.

   

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man again bursts into uproarious laughter.

   

  At your table, the furrowed, stubbled man says in sirihish, looking down at the fruit:

       "Fek, yer a juicy one too. At least he'll enjoy it."

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man says, in sirihish:

       "All's you gotta do is turn it around and do it from behind."

   

  Smirking, the rugged, dusk-toned man says to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, in sirihish:

       "A'right. "

   

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman slaps a palm against the table, laughing hard enough to almost lose her seat.

   

  Tossing the sack over, the rugged, dusk-toned man gives some coins to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man.

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man shrugs his gangly shoulders helplessly, callous hand still extended toward the rugged, dusk-toned man.

   

  The rugged, dusk-toned man opens a dusty expansive, crimson-fist emblazoned backpack.

   

  The rugged, dusk-toned man puts his pile of allanaki coins into his dusty expansive, crimson-fist emblazoned backpack.

   

  The furrowed, stubbled man gives his fleshy blue fruit to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man.

   

  At your table, the willowy, grey-streaked man says in sirihish:

       "I ain't sure I want to see this."

   

  Amusedly, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says, in sirihish:

       "I thought the boot-licking was good, but -this- is -good-."

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man gets his small stone shotglass from a round, blue-painted table.

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man gets his small stone shotglass from a round, blue-painted table.

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man gets his small stone shotglass from a round, blue-painted table.

   

  At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish:

       "I think I'm about ta be scarred fer life."

   

  The rugged, dusk-toned man watches the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, leaning back.

   

  Patting her chest, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says to the willowy, grey-streaked man, in sirihish:

       "I'll hide your eyes for you. Sir."

  At your table, the scarred, ebony-haired woman says in sirihish, grinning at the gaunt, grungy-bearded man:

       "Be nice...this is the fruit's first time, ya know."

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man scowls and rummages around the table for a full glass.

   

  At your table, the willowy, grey-streaked man says in sirihish, to the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette:

       "Might be you'll have to."

   

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man stares at the gaunt, grungy-bearded man with full interest.

  At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish:

       "No wonder he's fekkin' tha fruit.. if he drank that many shotglasses."

   

  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says, in sirihish:

       "He better not have, I told him not to get drunk."

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man tilts his chin up and drains his small stone shotglass with a bit've a flinch.

   

  At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish:

       "Cactus.. leave some fer tha rest of us ya fekkin' greedy shit."

   

  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar has arrived from the north.

   

  The rugged, dusk-toned man exclaims to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, in sirihish:

       "Get to it!"

   

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman glances at the rugged, stubble-bearded templar and doubles over in laughter, trying to stand and salute but laughing so hard she misses her chest.

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man places his new stained spiky helmet on his head.

   

  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says, in sirihish:

       "I hope this isn't how long it usually takes him."

   

  At your table, the furrowed, stubbled man says in sirihish:

       "S'called foreplay"

   

  The willowy, grey-streaked man asks the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, in sirihish:

       "You havin' trouble gettin' it up, lad?"

   

  Unstrapping his stained leather swordbelt, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man drops his leggings to his knees.

   

  At your table, the furrowed, stubbled man says in sirihish:

       "You saw how he seduced it...what ya expect?"

   

  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette eases up off of the willowy, grey-streaked man's lap, bows and salutes to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, and then settles down again.

   

  At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish:

       "In front of tha Lord.. templar...."

   

  The scarred, ebony-haired woman exclaims to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, in sirihish:

       "Let's see some action!"

   

  The willowy, grey-streaked man says to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, in sirihish:

       "Try talkin' dirty to it."

   

  Staring fascinatedly at the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says, in sirihish:

       "He's really gonna do it."

   

  The slender, hack-haired man chuckles.

   

  At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish, idly to the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette:

       "Won' hurt the fruit that much from tha looks of it."

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man says, out of character:

       "Consent needed."

   

  The rugged, dusk-toned man says, out of character:

       "yes, rofl."

   

  The scarred, ebony-haired woman stands and gives a slightly off-balance bow to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar before retaking her seat.

   

  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar says, out of character:

       "Ooh, me me! What am I consenting to again?"

   

  The furrowed, stubbled man says, out of character:

       "Given"

   

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says, out of character:

       "go for it, that's my call."

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man says, out of character:

       "Uh, yeah."

   

  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says, out of character:

       "Go ahead."

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man says, out of character:

       "Fruit sex."

   

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says, out of character:

       "You'll see :)"

   

  Snickering, the rugged, dusk-toned man says to the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette, in sirihish:

       "I -did- pay for th'shit."

   

  The scarred, ebony-haired woman says, out of character:

       "Go for it!"

   

  You say, out of character:

       "Given."

   

  The reedy, sorrel-skinned woman says, out of character:

       "yay for consent"

   

  Tilting her head as she stares at the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette asks the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman, in sirihish:

       "Is that all of it?"

   

  At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish, tilting her head sideways:

       "I think so..."

   

  The willowy, grey-streaked man says, out of character:

       "I'm not sure the fruit is consenting... but go for it."

   

  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar pauses in the entryway, trying to make sense of the scene.

   

  After playing with himself for a moment, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man manages a rather feeble erection.

   

  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette tilts her head even farther, staring blatantly at the gaunt, grungy-bearded man and the hapless fruit.

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man grunts and shoves his thumb deeply into his fleshy blue fruit, pushing a hole out through the other side.

   

  The furrowed, stubbled man shakes his head silently watching the gaunt, grungy-bearded man.

   

  The scarred, ebony-haired woman snorts in laughter, watching the gaunt, grungy-bearded man with the fruit.

   

  At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish:

       "Shit.. the whores tha been chargin' him twenty sid been overchargin' tha man."

   

  The rugged, dusk-toned man watches the gaunt, grungy-bearded man quite closely, laughing the whole time.

   

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man stands from his chair, staring at the gaunt, grungy-bearded man with a can't-look-away-fascination written on his face.

   

  In an artifically high voice, the willowy, grey-streaked man exclaims, in sirihish:

       "No! Please! Aiee!"

   

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman falls out of her chair laughing at the willowy, grey-streaked man's comment.

   

  The slender, hack-haired man laughs loudly at the willowy, grey-streaked man's comment.

   

  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette begins laughing helplessly, batting at the willowy, grey-streaked man's shoulder.

   

  The scarred, ebony-haired woman bursts out laughing.

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man eases his fleshy blue fruit onto his dick and begins to slide it back and forth, face taut with concentration.

   

  The reedy, sorrel-skinned woman moves to the table seeming completely lost at what is going on, but breaks into a guffaw as she draws close enough to see.

   

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman crawls back into her seat, laughing so hard tears are rolling down her cheeks.

   

  Amongst her laughter, the scarred, ebony-haired woman says to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, in sirihish:

       "Say something to it...show it you love it."

   

  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar's jaw goes slack.

   

  The rugged, dusk-toned man leans back, still laughing.

   

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man clutches his stomach, laughing so hard he falls back into his seat.

   

  Between laughs, the rugged, dusk-toned man exclaims to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, in sirihish:

       "Talk dirty to it!"

   

  The furrowed, stubbled man coughs, holding his stomach.

   

  Grunting loudly, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man smacks the side of his fleshy blue fruit, his hips gyrating rhythmatically.

   

  The slender, hack-haired man glances over at the door way, sees the rugged, stubble-bearded templar's face and nearly falls off his chair laughing.

   

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman holds her side, wheezing for breath between laughs.

   

  The reedy, sorrel-skinned woman drops to her knees and clutches her stomach, laughing herself to tears.

   

  Laughing helplessly, the willowy, grey-streaked man says, in sirihish:

       "Oh... shit... he should've at least bought it dinner first..."

   

  Tears gleaming in her eyes and face flushing, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette just keeps laughing.

   

  The rugged, dusk-toned man holds his gut, shaking his head as he continues to laugh.

   

  The scarred, ebony-haired woman gasps for breath, laughing so hard that tears come to her eyes.

   

  Moaning down at his fleshy blue fruit, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man says, in sirihish:

       "Aw baby, mmm.... fuckin'.... yeahhhhhh.... you're almost as good as that kalan I had last week.. Ohhh.. ughh..."

   

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man rubs helplessly at one streaming eye at a time, his face crimson as he continues to laugh, almost choking.

   

  The willowy, grey-streaked man screams out his laughter, nearly dropping the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette from his lap as he rocks back and forth in his chair.

   

  Tears coming down his cheek, the furrowed, stubbled man says, in sirihish:

       "Oh krath."

   

  The slender, hack-haired man clucthes his sides, hanging onto his chair so he wont fall off in his mirth.

   

  Gasping, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says, in sirihish:

       "Hope she took mul mix, I do -not- want to see the product of this union."

   

  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar just stares on in disbelief, speechless.

   

  The scarred, ebony-haired woman slaps her thigh, laughing helplessly.

   

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman gives in, just resting her arms against the tabletop, laughing and crying as she watches in helpless fascination.

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man vigorously pumps himself a few more times into his fleshy blue fruit before finally exhaling and hunching over, his face flushed and slick with sweat.

   

  Barely able to get the words out, the furrowed, stubbled man asks, in sirihish:

       "Anyone hungry?"

   

  To the fruit with a low, slurred drawl, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man says, in sirihish:

       "Hope it was as good f'you as it was f'me.."

   

  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette bursts into a fresh gale of laughter at the furrowed, stubbled man's question.

   

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman bursts into more laughter, rubbing the back of a sleeve across her eyes.

   

  The willowy, grey-streaked man exclaims, in sirihish:

       "F...f....fruit salad!"

   

  The slender, hack-haired man gets another look at the rugged, stubble-bearded templar's face, looks back to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man and finally looses the battle, falling off his chair and hitting the floor with a thump.

   

  Finally managing to call out, the rugged, dusk-toned man exclaims, in sirihish:

       "One small to whoever eats it!"

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man says to the rugged, dusk-toned man, in sirihish:

       "Two."

   

  Silently, the tall, amber-eyed woman comes around the bar and drops her white linen towel upon the tabletop.

   

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man lowers his forehead to a broad table of scarred agafari wood, hiding his face in the crook of his arm, still choking on laughter.

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man suddenly turns, noticing the rugged, stubble-bearded templar and paling.

   

  The tall, amber-eyed woman puts her white linen towel onto a broad table of scarred agafari wood.

   

  Bowing swiftly, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man salutes the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, his pants still at his knees.

   

  Just as silently, the tall, amber-eyed woman walks back to her station behind the bar.

   

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman bursts into more laughter, slapping a hand against her knee and whimpering in helpless merriment.

   

  The scarred, ebony-haired woman laughs, tears streaming down her face.

   

  The reedy, sorrel-skinned woman wipes tears from her face, still shaking from laughter as she collects herself from the floor.

   

  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette stares at the tall, amber-eyed woman, laughing and wiping her eyes.

   

  Staring over in awe, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar asks the tall, amber-eyed woman, in sirihish:

       ".. 's anyone ever done anythin' more ridiculous 'n this in yer bar?"

   

  Still on the floor, the slender, hack-haired man clucthes your sides in mirth, rolling with laughter.

   

  The rugged, dusk-toned man bursts into renewed laughter, leaning into a boxy wooden bar.

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man looks down at the rugged, dusk-toned man.

   

  Gravely pouring herself a drink, the tall, amber-eyed woman says to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, in sirihish:

       "Not for a good many years, Lord Templar."

   

  At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish:

       "oh.. oh.... oh.. it hurts..... "

   

  The scarred, ebony-haired woman clutches at her stomach, her breath coming in short gasps.

   

  The willowy, grey-streaked man eventually catches his breath, burying his face in the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette's chest as he wheezes and gasps.

   

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man lifts his face from a broad table of scarred agafari wood, wiping at his streaming eyes and just shaking his head.

   

  Squinting over dubiously, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man asks the rugged, dusk-toned man, in sirihish:

       "So do I get two small for eatin' this shit, or what?"

   

  The rugged, dusk-toned man exclaims, in sirihish:

       "Best... 'sid... I -ever- spent!"

   

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman chuckles at the rugged, dusk-toned man.

   

  Yanking up his pants, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man cinches his stained leather swordbelt about his waist.

   

  At your table, the furrowed, stubbled man says in sirihish:

       "Best fruit I ever picked."

   

  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette pulls the willowy, grey-streaked man against her, her laughter quieting and shoulders shaking.

   

  Licking at his lips, and finally managing to stop laughing, the rugged, dusk-toned man says to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, in sirihish:

       "Hmm.. one small. I a'ready gave ya' two an' a half, y'greedy fuck."

   

  His voice muffled, the willowy, grey-streaked man says, in sirihish:

       "I ain't sure there's any point in playin' anymore. Ain't nothin' gonna top that."

   

  The scarred, ebony-haired woman shakes her head, and wipes her eyes.

   

  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar looks down at the furrowed, stubbled man.

   

  At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish, between giggles:

       "Have.. ta... agree.. with that."

   

  The reedy, sorrel-skinned woman pants for breath, a hand still clutching her stomach as she stares at the table in disbelief.

   

  The slender, hack-haired man's laughter slows, and he is able to climb back up on your chair.

   

  Indignantly as he tilts up his bearded chin, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man says to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, in sirihish:

       "One and a half."

   

  Shaking her head slowly and wiping her eyes, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says, in sirihish:

       "I think we're done with Whira's Luck for the night. That was the best ever."

   

  Shaking his head, the rugged, dusk-toned man says to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, in sirihish:

       "Fuckin' deal."

   

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man puts his deck of Kruth cards onto a broad table of scarred agafari wood.

   

  The furrowed, stubbled man continues coughing as he wipes the tears from his cheek.

   

  Frowning with disappointment, the caramel, alabaster-haired woman asks, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "Wha'I miss?"

   

  Tossing it over, the rugged, dusk-toned man gives some coins to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man.

   

  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar turns away, holding a hand to his face.

   

  The rugged, dusk-toned man exclaims to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, in sirihish:

       "EAT IT!"

   

  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette exclaims to the caramel, alabaster-haired woman, in sirihish:

       "Cactus fucked a fruit!"

   

  Teras of laughter drying on her cheeks, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says to the caramel, alabaster-haired woman, in sirihish:

       "Righ.. here."

   

  Slapping her forehead, the caramel, alabaster-haired woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "Oh krath..."

   

  Just as soon as he takes the coins, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man takes a big bite from his fleshy blue fruit and gnashes away at it unflinchingly.

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man eats a portion of his fleshy blue fruit.

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man eats a portion of his partially eaten fleshy blue fruit.

   

  Adding, with renewed laughter, the rugged, dusk-toned man says to the caramel, alabaster-haired woman, in sirihish:

       "Now he's gonna ea-"

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man eats a portion of his half eaten fleshy blue fruit.

   

  The rugged, dusk-toned man stops talking, and just laughs.

   

  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar turns back and looks toward a broad table of scarred agafari wood, his face red.

   

  Shaking her head with a somber tone, the caramel, alabaster-haired woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "Y'jus' ruined y'chances, Cactus. Y'dumbass."

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man eats a portion of his small portion of a fleshy blue fruit.

   

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man snickers helplessly into his hand.

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man says to the caramel, alabaster-haired woman, in sirihish:

       "I'd take a ginka over you any day, baby."

   

  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette stares at the gaunt, grungy-bearded man.

   

  The reedy, sorrel-skinned woman breaks into a fresh round of uncontrollable laughter, hand grasping at the nearest chair back to steady herself.

   

  The scarred, ebony-haired woman laughs.

   

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman leans against your side, snickering now and then as she watches the gaunt, grungy-bearded man.

   

  The furrowed, stubbled man groans, shaking his head slowly.

   

  Bellowing out, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar shouts, in sirihish:

       "FIRST UNIT, AT ATTENTION."

   

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman stands up from a broad table of scarred agafari wood.

   

  The caramel, alabaster-haired woman snorts softly, giving cactus a disbelieving stare.

   

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man stands up from a broad table of scarred agafari wood.

   

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman stands up, snapping to attention.

   

  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette hops from the willowy, grey-streaked man's lap.

   

  Abruptly, you stand up from a broad table of scarred agafari wood.

   

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man snaps to attention.

  The caramel, alabaster-haired woman snaps to attention.

   

  The scarred, ebony-haired woman remains seated, her laughter fading away.

   

  The reedy, sorrel-skinned woman scurries out of the way, still laughing hysterically.

   

  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette straightens to attention, gaze going to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar.

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man suddenly stiffens to attention, facing the rugged, stubble-bearded templar.

   

  The rugged, dusk-toned man looks up, his laughter suddenly stopping.

   

  Straightening his squaring his shoulders, the willowy, grey-streaked man stands up from a broad table of scarred agafari wood.

   

  The slender, hack-haired man stands at attention, gaze on the rugged, stubble-bearded templar.

   

  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar looks at the gaunt, grungy-bearded man.

   

  Barking out, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar says to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, in sirihish:

       "You a soldier or a prostitute, son? GET YER FUCKIN' PANTS BACK ON."

   

  You think:

       "Hey, it's not me for once."

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man makes sure his belt is tightly secured.

   

  Flicking a glnce over, you look at the gaunt, grungy-bearded man.

  A pair of broad, black obsidian eyes squint forth from slanted sockets

  set widely across this tall man's face.  Nicks and scrapes adorn his head

  from it having been crudely shaven, and aside his from a small rat-tail

  dangling down his scrawny neck, his only mane is a gritty sheen of black

  stubble.  All of his hair has been dispersed around his thick, scabby lips.

  A full, stiffly bristled beard puffs out; it is matted with grease, bits of

  debris, and is rigid with dried sweat.  He is young and mostly free of

  scars, although his hands and forearms have numerous lacerations, some more

  severe than others.  A wound has claimed the tips of the forefinger and

  middle finger on his left hand, leaving callous stubs.  A crudely-inked

  tattoo of a woman, eyes wide with shock, taking it in the rear from a cactus

  has been scrawled amongst the scars on his forearm. 

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man is in excellent condition.

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man is using:

  <worn on head>           a new stained spiky helmet

  <worn around neck>       a stained inky-black leather collar

  <slung across back>      a double-edged bone shortsword

  <worn across back>       a round black shield

  <worn on left shoulder>  a black leather patch with a jade cross

  <worn on arms>           a pair of leather-reinforced sandcloth sleeves

  <worn around wrist>      a studded bone bracer

  <worn around wrist>      a spiked leather bracer

  <worn on hands>          a set of mesh-covered, tembo-hide gloves

  <forearms>               a pair of pitted, deep looking scars

  <worn around body>       a long, hooded aba of black sandcloth

  <worn on legs>           a pair of leather-reinforced sandcloth leggings

  <worn on feet>           a pair of knee-high dark leather boots

   

  He is carrying:

  nothing obvious

   

  Pointing northwards, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar shouts, in sirihish:

       "I'm out there workin' t' get gith killed and yer all in here -- laughin' about some dumbshit havin' sex with FRUIT? You men soldiers or Bynners? For FUCK SAKE!"

   

  Stammering out the words, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man says to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, in sirihish:

       "Th-th-th-they're o-o-on, M-m-M'lord Templar"

   

  The slender, hack-haired man lips twitch.

   

  Flatly, the willowy, grey-streaked man says to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, in sirihish:

       "Shut up."

   

  Staring, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar says to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, in sirihish:

       "Did YOU just talk out 'f order? Yer th' LAST one I wanna hear shit from."

   

  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar asks the willowy, grey-streaked man, in sirihish:

       "Sergeant! Yer men are t' run three laps between here and th' Gaj, then report to barracks fer inspection. That clear?"

   

  The caramel, alabaster-haired woman glances between cactus and templar with her eyes.

   

  Pursing his thick, busted lips, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man bows his head low and locks his eyes on the ale-stained floor.

   

  Jerking his hand out towards the plaza, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar exclaims to the willowy, grey-streaked man, in sirihish:

       "ON THE FUCKIN' DOUBLE!"

   

  Simply, the willowy, grey-streaked man says, in sirihish:

       "Fall in, y'all."

   

  The willowy, grey-streaked man bows to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar's in passing, his expression neutral.

   

  The willowy, grey-streaked man nods at the caramel, alabaster-haired woman.

  The willowy, grey-streaked man walks north.

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man nods at the caramel, alabaster-haired woman.

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man walks north.

  The caramel, alabaster-haired woman walks north.

  You follow the willowy, grey-streaked man, and walk north.

   

  [they do some laps]

   

   

  His expression still blank, the willowy, grey-streaked man says, in sirihish:

       "Think I'm gonna call you Fruits from now on, lad."

   

   

  The caramel, alabaster-haired woman snickers loudly before covering her mouth with her hand.

   

  Hoarsely, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man says to the caramel, alabaster-haired woman, in sirihish:

       "That shit'll sober a fella up quick, m'dear."

   

  As she jogs, breathing evenly, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette sings, in sirihish:

       "And ooh, Jade Saber lasses, now they're the real thing,

        The fiercest, finest, toughest girls that e'er a sword did swing."

   

  Pointing back at the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette sings, in sirihish:

       "Untold pleasures you'll achieve if you get one into bed,

        Though I'd advise you satisfy, or you'll quickly end up dead!"

   

  Flatly, the willowy, grey-streaked man says, in sirihish:

       "One."

   

   

  In a lowered voice as he jogs along, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man says to the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette, in sirihish:

       "I got a cadence, sir."

   

   

   

  The willowy, grey-streaked man says, in sirihish:

       "Two."

   

  The willowy, grey-streaked man loops yet again.

   

  The willowy, grey-streaked man says, in sirihish:

       "Double-time."

   

  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette sings, in sirihish:

       "He's a veteran of many years, as you will quickly tell,

        When he kicks the enemy's ass up one side, then back down into hell!"

   

  The willowy, grey-streaked man runs north.

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man runs north.

  The caramel, alabaster-haired woman runs north.

  You follow the willowy, grey-streaked man, and run north.

   

   

  [eventually they enter the Barrel again]

   

  The veins buldging from his neck, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man shouts, in sirihish:

       "Left, right, left, right, left, right... KILL!!"

   

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman chuckles.

   

  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette laughs and stumbles a step.

   

  The reedy, sorrel-skinned woman collapses into laughter at the shouts.

   

  As he lopes along, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man shouts, in sirihish:

       "Left, right, left, right, you know I WILL!"

   

  The scarred, ebony-haired woman giggles again.

   

  The willowy, grey-streaked man jogs right through the tavern, leading a large group of giggling soldiers.

   

  The rugged, dusk-toned man begins to laugh again as the group steps in, despite himself.

   

  The willowy, grey-streaked man runs south.

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man runs south.

  The caramel, alabaster-haired woman runs south.

  You follow the willowy, grey-streaked man, and run south.

   

  The willowy, grey-streaked man opens his right hand, revealing his small stone shotglass.

   

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman grins at the willowy, grey-streaked man.

   

  Tossing his head back, the willowy, grey-streaked man drinks brandy from his small stone shotglass.

   

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man shouts, in sirihish:

       "Oh me, we're the infantry -- Oh me, we're the infantry!"

   

  Tossing it over a shoulder as she jogs, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman discards her small stone shotglass.

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man shouts, in sirihish:

       "Gunna show the gith!"

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man shouts, in sirihish:

       "What we're trained to be!"

   

  The willowy, grey-streaked man exclaims, in sirihish:

       "Hup, two, three four! I'm th' fuckin' hero of th' Copper War!"

   

  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette cheers and whoops.

   

  Singing out as she paces along, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman shouts, in sirihish:

       "An' if they ain' scared of us like they should be;We'll paint like a belshun an set Cactus free."

   

  The willowy, grey-streaked man exclaims, in sirihish:

       "Five, six, eight, ten! I killed me a dozen Tuluki men!"

   

  Singing out as she paces along, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman shouts, in sirihish:

       "An' if they ain' scared of us like they should be/We'll paint em like a belshun an set Cactus free."

  The slender, hack-haired man chuckles, as he jogs along.

   

  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette presses a hand to her side, laughing and wincing.

   

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man chortles breathlessly.

   

  The willowy, grey-streaked man exclaims, in sirihish:

       "Seven, nine, three, two! I killed me one'a them templars too!"

   

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man's narrow chest rattles with a ragged bout of snickering at the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman's words.

   

  The willowy, grey-streaked man slows as he approaches the dusty, brown-haired soldier.

   

  The willowy, grey-streaked man says, in sirihish:

       "Right. Even out, children. Take a minute to catch yerselves."

   

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman moves over to the side of the road, brushing herself off.

   

  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette nods to the willowy, grey-streaked man and bends over, catching her breath.

   

  The dusty, brown-haired soldier stops using her carru-horn key.

  The dusty, brown-haired soldier unlocks the gateway with a carru-horn key.

  The dusty, brown-haired soldier opens the gateway.

  The dusty, brown-haired soldier steps aside, allowing the willowy, grey-streaked man to pass.

  The willowy, grey-streaked man walks north.

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man walks north.

  You follow the willowy, grey-streaked man, and walk north.

   

  Sparse sands blow across your path.

  A Stonepaved Courtyard [NES]

     The stones paving this courtyard are newly cut, rough edges waiting

  for the wear that will smooth their grey and black surface.  To the east

  sits a large barracks, the arms of House Tor carved above them and gleaming

  with fresh paint.  Along its side is an animal pen, made of wood, which

  leans into the shelter of the larger building.  Stone walls surround the

  courtyard, topped with broken glass to keep away the worst of Allanak's

  notorious thieves.  A large mural, depicting the siege of the city by

  rebel dwarves, their short, squat forms fleeing in terror from Tektolnes'

  might in the final stages, has been painted onto the blank stone of one

  wall, apparently to serve as inspiration for the troops training here.

  The willowy, grey-streaked man is standing here, looking a bit winded.

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man is standing here, looking a bit winded.

  - he is carrying a jozhal-hide backpack.

  The bushy-browed, gangly half-giant slouches here.

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman has arrived from the south.

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man has arrived from the south.

  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette has arrived from the south.

  The dusty, brown-haired soldier closes the gateway from the other side.

   

  Panting raggedly, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man lopes slowly around in a circle for a while, cooling down.

  Passing a few, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette gives some coins to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man.

   

   

  Sparse sands blow across your path.

  A Roomy Barracks [NEW Quit Save]

     The thickness of the dull red mud bricks of which this barracks has

  been built provides it with a coolness which resists the worst of the

  Zalanthan sun.  The furnishings are simple: neatly ordered cots sit in rows,

  a few with footlockers built into one end, while a large weapons rack hangs

  on the wall underneath a wooden frieze depicting the desert, gith, jozhals

  and scrabs moving through the dunes.  Below the frieze, extending down the

  walls and covering the floor, are ceramic tiles composed of all the hues of

  the desert: vermilion, bronze, amber, rust, tawny yellow, and ochre.  The

  tiles are laid in an abstract, undulating pattern reminiscent of rolling

  dunes. 

  Under the weapons rack, a cracked stone storage bin is filled with mismatched armor pieces.

  Pushed against a wall, a bone sided chest is filled with desert survival equipment.

  Pushed against a wall, a simple wooden chest is filled with raw materials.

  The willowy, grey-streaked man is standing here, looking a bit winded.

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man is standing here, looking a bit winded.

  - he is carrying a jozhal-hide backpack.

  A human soldier of Tektolnes walks along here.

  A human soldier of Tektolnes walks along here.

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman has arrived from the west.

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man has arrived from the west.

  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette has arrived from the west.

   

   

  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, in sirihish:

       "Happy birthday to me."

   

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman grins at the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette.

   

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says to the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette, in sirihish:

       "Yer birthdays gonna be tha talk of the town fer a long long time."

   

  The willowy, grey-streaked man says, in sirihish:

       "Shaddup, y'all."

   

  The willowy, grey-streaked man says to the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette, in sirihish:

       "Tell th' Lord Templar we're here."

   

  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette grins at the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman and then looks back to the willowy, grey-streaked man.

   

   

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman moves over to formation, snapping to attention and clasping her hands behind her back.

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man opens his mouth toward the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette then clamps it shut, dark eyes shiting to the willowy, grey-streaked man.

   

  The caramel, alabaster-haired woman sighs, lowering her eyes with a dreading expression.

   

  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette nods to the willowy, grey-streaked man, her gaze growing distant.

   

  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says to the willowy, grey-streaked man, in sirihish:

       "Message relayed, sir."

   

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man steps into line, motioning to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man and the caramel, alabaster-haired woman.

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man swallows hard and stands at parade rest, hands clasped behind his back.

   

  The caramel, alabaster-haired woman steps beside the burn-scarred, curly-haired man, sighing as she places her body into its appropriate position.

   

  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar has arrived from the west.

  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar walks north.

  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar closes the door from the other side.

   

  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette's gaze follows the templar's path before snapping straight ahead again.

   

  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar opens the door from the other side.

   

  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar has arrived from the north, stalking out with a steel-edged glare.

   

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman keeps her eyes dead ahead, not even twitching.

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man stares forward with glazed, reddened eyes.

   

  The willowy, grey-streaked man folds his hands at the small of his back.

   

  Looking back and forth, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar asks, in sirihish:

       "I'm in the militia barracks, right? This ain't the Byn?"

   

  Looking at the rugged, stubble-bearded templar for just a moment, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette nods.

   

  Looking up and down the line, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar asks, in sirihish:

       "You men ARE soldiers? YES 'R NO?"

   

  Firmly, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman exclaims, in sirihish:

       "Yes sir!"

   

  Firmly, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says, in sirihish:

       "Yes my Lord."

   

  Emphatically, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, in sirihish:

       "Yes, my Lord."

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man shouts, in sirihish:

       "Yes Lord Templar!"

   

  The willowy, grey-streaked man says, in sirihish:

       "Ayuh."

   

  Snapping up even straighter, you exclaim, in sirihish:

       "Yes, Lord Templar!"

   

  The caramel, alabaster-haired woman exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "Yes Lord Templar!"

   

  Glaring up and down the line, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar says, in sirihish:

       "That's YES LORD TEMPLAR. Least -some- 'f you got 't right."

   

  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar shoots the willowy, grey-streaked man a look, stalking up and down the line, his hands clenched into fists.

   

  After a moment, the willowy, grey-streaked man says, in sirihish:

       "Yes, Lord Templar."

   

  The caramel, alabaster-haired woman purses her lips for a moment, before wiping away expression from her features.

   

  With a clenched jaw, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man stands rigidly and stares at a wall with a hard, near unblinking gaze.

   

  Pausing in front of her, barking into her face, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar asks the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman, in sirihish:

       "This funny, Nae? You havin' a good ol' time?"

   

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman exclaims, in sirihish:

       "No Lord Templar.. not anymore Lord Templar!"

   

  The slender, hack-haired man eyes slide over to view the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman and the rugged, stubble-bearded templar.

   

  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar grunts and walks on down the line, stopping again in front of the caramel, alabaster-haired woman.

   

  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar asks the caramel, alabaster-haired woman, in sirihish:

       "Do you even know how t' talk proper yet?"

   

  With a steady tone, the caramel, alabaster-haired woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "Yes Lord Templar, I speak proper."

   

  With a roll of his eyes, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar says to the caramel, alabaster-haired woman, in sirihish:

       "Proper if yer some kinda Arabet, mebbe."

   

  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette clears her throat very quietly, obviously suppressing a smile.

   

  The caramel, alabaster-haired woman says, in sirihish:

       "I do not think so, Lord Templar."

   

  Pointing over at him, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar says to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, in sirihish:

       "And YOU. You are the craziest fuckin' person in this barracks, and that's sayin' a LOT."

   

  Wheeling back, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar exclaims to the caramel, alabaster-haired woman, in sirihish:

       "I say anything to you, soldier?!"

   

  The slender, hack-haired man mouth twitches a moment, then moves back straight.

   

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman's eyes shift to the caramel, alabaster-haired woman briefly before snapping back ahead.

   

  Staring forward unblinkingly, voice crisp, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man shouts, in sirihish:

       "Yes, Lord Templar!"

   

  Staring ahead with a swallow, the caramel, alabaster-haired woman says, in sirihish:

       "No, Lord Templar, you did not."

   

  Gruffly, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar says, in sirihish:

       "On yer knees! Both 'f you! Take them patches off and toss 'em down in front of ya."

   

  Kneeling down and unstrapping his patch, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man sits down.

   

  Dropping to her knees and reaching for her black leather patch with a jade cross, the caramel, alabaster-haired woman sits down to rest.

   

  Putting it on the ground before him, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man gives his black leather patch with a jade cross to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar.

   

  Quivering, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man kneels, head hung low.

   

  Dropping it promptly, the caramel, alabaster-haired woman gives her black leather patch with a jade cross to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar.

   

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man continues to stare forward expressionlessly.

   

  Looking back up the line, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar says, in sirihish:

       "And the rest of you, you all ought t' KNOW better. I really thought y'would. Fuck sake, I want ALL 'f you down."

   

  Kneeling at the rugged, stubble-bearded templar's command, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette sits down.

   

  Dropping to his knees, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man sits down.

   

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman drops to her knees, eyes closing briefly.

   

  Kneeling expressionlessly, you sit down.

   

  Dropping to a knee, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman sits down.

   

  Staring at a point just over the rugged, stubble-bearded templar's shoulder, the willowy, grey-streaked man sits down.

   

  Letting out a grunt (or maybe a snicker?), the rugged, stubble-bearded templar looks up and down the kneeling line, wordlessly.

   

  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar asks, in sirihish:

       "Y'all remind me of my old unit, them farmboys out 'n MENOS. Y'know what th' only difference I can see right now is?"

   

  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette shakes her head very slightly.

   

  Tonelessly, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says, in sirihish:

       "No Lord Templar."

   

  Finally busting out into laughter, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar says, in sirihish:

       "Those fuckers woulda TOLD me afore they got their 'cruits t' do shit that funny."

   

  Quietly, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says, in sirihish:

       "No Lord Templar.."

   

  The slender, hack-haired man blinks at the rugged, stubble-bearded templar.

   

   

  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette bursts into a quiet laugh, dropping her head.

   

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman glances up briefly, a startled expression on her face.

   

  The caramel, alabaster-haired woman furrows her brow, glancing to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar.

   

  The burn-scarred, curly-haired man smiles broadly, dipping his chin.

   

  The willowy, grey-streaked man tilts his head back, exhaling with a huff.

   

  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar laughs and shakes his head for several moments before dropping a hand down into his burned oversized black backpack.

   

  Clearing her throat and looking up to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, the caramel, alabaster-haired woman asks, in sirihish:

       "Ah... Lord Templar...?"

   

  Amusedly, the willowy, grey-streaked man says, in sirihish:

       "Didn't nobody think he was actually gonna -do- it 'till he went and dropped his drawers, Lord Templar."

   

  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar pulls a dustcloak out of a burned blue, hooded templar's robe.

   

  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar pulls a dustcloak out of a burned blue, hooded templar's robe.

   

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman nods in silent agreement with the willowy, grey-streaked man's words.

   

  The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says, in sirihish:

       "Then we was laughin' too hard ta really think, Lord Templar."

   

  The caramel, alabaster-haired woman lowers her eyes, her lips twisting.

   

  Kneeling but straight-postured, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette watches the rugged, stubble-bearded templar with a wide smile.

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man keeps his eyes locked on the floor and continues to kneel tensely.

   

  His angry expression from a few moments ago gone completely, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar says, in sirihish:

       "You men 'r a unit now, I can see that much. That's good, that's what we need against them gith. You fight together 'n fuck around together, you'll all live."

   

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

   

  Everyone gets promoted, and gets badges for service. It's only later that Jenneth finds out after they left the Barrel, the Lord Templar Samos was cracking up so hard, he was literally rolling around on the floor. But shhh, he made everyone swear not to tell. ;)

   

  It’s a long log, to get you into the mood of the scene. I apologize for the crappy formatting, but it’s the crazy Arm Original Submissions doing it, not me.

   

  -------

   

  The gaunt, grungy-bearded man has arrived from the north.

   

  At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man...

  
  Continue Reading...
• 

  Memoir #16 - The Faithful Lord (Elithan) by Rairen
  Added on Dec 29, 2009

  A Jihaen High Templar investigates a brutal murder.

  ---

  The Road of Poets [EW]

   

     Blue-tinged stones, each speckled with a variety of multi-hued flecks, have been cut into even and symmetrical squares before being cobbled into the path that forms this road.  Numerous buildings can be seen dotting the landscape on either side of the road, workers and various artisans scurrying to and fro between the structures.  To the south lies the old city wall, its scars a reminder of the city's history. 

   

   

   

  Sprawled in the middle of the road, the headless body of a sleek, jakhal-eyed prostitute lies here.

   

  A well-built, golden-haired man walks briskly along the street.

   

  A scrawny onyx-haired boy stands eyeing passersby.

   

  Slowing, the ethereal, fair-haired woman stares down at the headless body of a sleek, jakhal-eyed prostitute, features expressionless.

   

  Features impassive, blank, the ethereal, fair-haired woman kneels down distant from the headless body of a sleek, jakhal-eyed prostitute.

   

  You think:

   

       "... What... the..."

   

  You feel disgusted.

   

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman takes in a calming breath through her nose.

   

  You contact the ancient, brutally-scarred man with the Way.

   

  You send a telepathic message to the ancient, brutally-scarred man:

   

       "*with a wave of nausea* Elithan, someone... beheaded a... woman in the middle of the street..."

   

  The tall figure in a hooded, sandy-brown reinforced sandcloth duster has arrived from the west, riding a war beetle.

   

  A war beetle walks east, carrying the tall figure in a hooded, sandy-brown reinforced sandcloth duster on its back.

   

  A foreign presence contacts your mind.

   

  The ancient, brutally-scarred man sends you a telepathic message:

   

       "Where did this occur?"

   

  You send a telepathic message to the ancient, brutally-scarred man:

   

       "Poets' Road.  Just near the market."

   

  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.

   

  (Much uncomfortable scanning and looking ensues.)

   

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman folds her arms across her waist, attention travelling most anywhere but on the headless body of a sleek, jakhal-eyed prostitute.

   

  The browned, jallal-curled man has arrived from the east.

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman stands motionless in the street, arms folded across her waist.

   

  The browned, jallal-curled man's form grows rigid and his eyes wide as he joins the small crowd of people around the headless body of a sleek, jakhal-eyed prostitute.

   

  Blinking a few times, the browned, jallal-curled man asks you, in sirihish:

   

       "What happened?"

   

  Jaw tensing when she touches a hand to a golden-haired boy's shoulder, you say, in sirihish:

   

       "... Back.  Go on with you."

   

  With something like resignation, you look at the browned, jallal-curled man.

   

   

   

  This man's face is prematurely tanned by Suk-Krath, browned lightly into the color of the desert near dawn; slightly cracked and wrinkled by the erosion of not a few sandstorm winds.  His eyes are a dark, cunyati brown, their sparkle betraying his relative youth.  His eyebrows are thin, dark and defined, and sit above his eyes in a dignified manner.  A short, kinky brown beard falls from his chin about an inch, tied at the end with a thin, golden thread.  A small cascade of loose, jalall toned curls fall from his head in a large, roughly spherical halo.  Grit and sand are intermingled with hair, contributing to a desert-hardy appearance.  His lips are thin and well shaped, and they curl up in one corner; perpetually giving him the appearance of a wry, knowing smile.  His body is thin and wiry, and though he is not exceptionally strong, he has some decent musculature.  His hands are rough and calloused, his fingers long and thin.  A tattoo of a setting Jihae sits on his left shoulder. 

  The browned, jallal-curled man is using:

   

  <worn on head>           a loose white linen surmud

  <worn around neck>       a carved ivory pipe

  <worn across back>       a raptor-leather, darkly-stained satchel

  <worn around wrist>      a thin obsidian cuff

  <worn around wrist>      a thin obsidian cuff

  <worn on right finger>   a turquoise-set horn ring

  <worn on left finger>    a dune-carved, black onyx ring

  <worn around body>       a hooded, coal-black sandcloth dustcloak

  <worn on legs>           a pair of sleek-cut, ivory silk pants

  <worn on feet>           a pair of shaggy quirri-hide boots

   

   

   

   

  With a light shake of her head, you say to the browned, jallal-curled man, in sirihish:

   

       "I don't know, beyond the obvious.  His Legions are coming presently."

   

  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar has arrived from the west.

   

  The one-eyed half-giant Tuluki soldier has arrived from the west.

   

  The browned, jallal-curled man stares down at the headless body of a sleek, jakhal-eyed prostitute, pursing his lips and shaking his head before noticing the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar and dipping him a deep nod.

   

  The golden-haired boy looks to the ethereal, fair-haired woman's hand, squirming a bit before moving away from the slowly gathering crowd around the headless body of a sleek, jakhal-eyed prostitute.

   

  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar approaches the scene with a staunch expression, his gaze panning towards the headless body of a sleek, jakhal-eyed prostitute.

   

  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar looks at the browned, jallal-curled man.

   

  When the crowds start to step aside for him, you look at the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar.

   

  With a polite, crisp tilt of her chin, you say to the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar, in sirihish:

   

       "I found her such, High Templar..."

   

  You think:

   

       "... Disgusting..."

   

  Your mood is now revolted.

   

  With a dip of his head, the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar asks you, in sirihish:

   

       "Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Seeker.  How long has she been like this?"

   

  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar turns his attention back to the headless body of a sleek, jakhal-eyed prostitute.

   

  The browned, jallal-curled man steps towards the back of the small crowd, conversing in hushed tones with a few in it he seems to recognize and shrugging at their questions.

   

  Pale eyes sweeping over the crowd, you say to the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar, in sirihish:

   

       "There were already people here when I came.  I... couldn't say, but I... it wasn't a few hours ago that I came this way last.   I would have seen."

   

  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar crouches down and looks for tracks.

   

  Case sitting on the street at her side, the ethereal, fair-haired woman watches over the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar, arms wrapped across her waist.

   

  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar walks slowly around the headless body of a sleek, jakhal-eyed prostitute silently.

   

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman watches the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar, not the headless body.

   

  You feel gravity washing over you.

   

  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar shakes his head as he looks to the one-eyed half-giant Tuluki soldier.

   

  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar gives the one-eyed half-giant Tuluki soldier an order.

   

  The one-eyed half-giant Tuluki soldier picks up the headless body of a sleek, jakhal-eyed prostitute.

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman flicks a glance up to the one-eyed half-giant Tuluki soldier before letting her attention watch over the crowd, which no longer tries to encroach on the scene.

   

  Along with a few others, the browned, jallal-curled man begins to start off on his way again, heading west.

   

  The browned, jallal-curled man walks west.

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman leans down, picking up your creamy white, leather instrument case.

   

  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar says to the one-eyed half-giant Tuluki soldier, in sirihish:

   

       "Come Private, let's take her out of here."

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman offers the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar and the one-eyed half-giant Tuluki soldier a respectful, grave nod in thanks, stepping back from the blood-stained stones.

   

  With a shake of his head, the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar says, in sirihish:

   

       "No one deserves to die like this."

   

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's jaw tenses.

   

  You think:

   

       "Who could... stomach such an act?"

   

  The gray-stubbled, wiry man has arrived from the west.

   

  Looking over those assembled, the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar asks, in sirihish:

   

       "Will any witnesses come forward?"

   

  The gray-stubbled, wiry man looks around, his eyes falling on the headless corpse.

   

  Watching the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar, features impassive and serene, the ethereal, fair-haired woman glances briefly to the few people who glance back to her and to the others around her.

   

  The crowded street grows oddly quiet around the ethereal, fair-haired woman and the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar.

   

  The gray-stubbled, wiry man walks west.

   

  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar pauses as his gaze sweeps over the quieted crowd.

   

  To the ethereal, fair-haired woman's side, a golden-haired boy keeps just away from her skirt, peering up at the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar.

   

  The one-eyed half-giant Tuluki soldier cradles his headless body of a sleek, jakhal-eyed prostitute in his arm covering her mutilated and naked form in an attempt at modesty.

   

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's jaw works to one side, posture stiff with tension.

   

  Flicking a glance skyward, the ethereal, fair-haired woman pushes a gloved hand back, finding the golden-haired boy's face and pushing him further behind her back.

   

  The golden-haired boy raises a muffled complaint into the ethereal, fair-haired woman's gloved hand.

   

  A lanky, hazel-eyed man grips the golden-haired boy's shoulder, pulling him back from the ethereal, fair-haired woman's hand.

   

  Frowning, the ethereal, fair-haired woman snaps her head back to look to the lanky, hazel-eyed man, brow creasing.

   

  Motioning back to the woman held in the one-eyed half-giant Tuluki soldier's arms, the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar says, in sirihish:

   

       "This is the work of an animal, any information leading to its capture will be rewarded."

   

  The golden-haired boy squirms and fights being taken back from the ethereal, fair-haired woman - before scrambling up the lanky, hazel-eyed man's thigh, finding purchase there.

   

  With the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar's words, the lanky, hazel-eyed man stops glowering at the ethereal, fair-haired woman to cast him a somber - and pensive - look.

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman gives a curt nod to the lanky, hazel-eyed man and to the golden-haired boy, attention travelling over the serious, hushed crowd.

   

   

  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar draws in a slow breath as he turns sharply to walk down the road, the crowd parting to give him a pathway.

   

  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar walks east.

   

  The one-eyed half-giant Tuluki soldier walks east.

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman shakes her head, letting out a quiet breath.

   

  You think:

   

       "I could well use a drink."

   

   

  The Road of Poets [EW]

   

     Blue-tinged stones, each speckled with a variety of multi-hued flecks, have been cut into even and symmetrical squares before being cobbled into the path that forms this road.  Numerous buildings can be seen dotting the landscape on either side of the...

  
  Continue Reading...
• 

  Memoir #15 - The Tan Muarki (Zharal) by Rairen
  Added on Dec 29, 2009

  An escaped slave and the gypsy who escorted her home speculate on the best way to spend one's free time.

  ---

  It is late afternoon on Nekrete, the 214th day of the Low Sun,

  In the Year of Whira's Vengeance, year 38 of the 21st Age.

   

   

   

   

   

  Atop Lucky Ghaati, Overlooking Poet's Circle [D]

     The adobe roof of the teahouse furnishes a surface here for several small tables and benches in a rooftop garden that overlooks the main sweep of Poet's Circle to the north.  Halved wine barrels have been planted with crimson-flowering cacti.  The edge of the roof is surrounded by white tiled, raised half-walls.  On the street below, crowds swirl and eddy, making their way along the Circle's concourse. 

   

   

   

   

   

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, in her bemused, crystal-like voice:

   

       "And I've rarely had so pleasant a trip.  I'm also pleased to see that I have at least one type of tea left for you to try before you weary of my company."

   

  At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, chuckling shortly:

   

       "Try me."

   

  At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, to you:

   

       "There's plenty I'm curious about, and plenty I could ask of you."

   

  You notice: The short, dusky woman's eyes narrow in a brief wince.

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, mock-sobriety falling over her features:

   

       "I've charmed you for... hm, three meetings now, but you'll soon see through my idle chattering.  We've talked of mutual interests, of tea... Will there be enough to last through another serving, though?"

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, levity warming her tone:

   

       " I'm uncertain... and therefore must insist to share your next with you, at your leisure, to discern the truth."

   

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's eyes study the short, dusky woman's features with accustomed calm and a brief flicker of curiosity.

   

  You notice: The short, dusky woman's expression remains distantly distracted, though she glances from time to time at you.

   

  Features serene, you sip from your small wooden cup.

   

  This tea smells and tastes strongly of fragrant mint.

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman looks down over the Circle as she drinks from your small wooden cup, contentment settling into her posture as she rests and elbow on the back of her chair.

   

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's pale eyes kindly occupy themselves away from the short, dusky woman, untroubled.

   

  At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, re-focusing on you:

   

       "Well, I'm a dull girl. Not much to me. So I rely on others to provide me witty banter and stories to tell."

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, with a relaxed half-smile as she pulls her attention back to the short, dusky woman:

   

       "Oh?  Mm, then we have a problem.  I'm a better listener than conversationalist, by half, I think, and witless to be sure, unless I can steal it from another."

   

  At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, with a thoughtful expression:

   

       "Then I'm forced to wonder where all these words are coming from."

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, with a slight gesture of your small wooden cup in the short, dusky woman's direction:

   

       "It is a mystery, to be sure.  I'd blamed a gypsy's talents, but it seems she denies them."

   

  At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, to you:

   

       "Perhaps we've caught each other stealing wit and fencing it off?"

   

  At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, waggling a finger, then plucking up a wooden cup to take a measured sip:

   

       "I knew there was something about you I hadn't quite uncovered."

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, the corner of her mouth lifting:

   

       "If so, I swear not to tell your secret.  What a peculiar circumstance it is, then, when two dull, spiritless sort meet for tea and cause such... amusement."

   

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's pale eyes sparkle with mirth as she drinks her tea.

   

  At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, taking in a long breath and letting it out in a sober sigh:

   

       "A mystery. Mmm, now that's something else I enjoy."

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, with a soft, reluctant sigh of her own:

   

       "... I have so few secrets, and you'd seek to tear them all from me.  Cruel, cruel woman."

   

  At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, glancing out toward the circle:

   

       "Cruel? I prefer 'curious'. As I've so recently stated, a mystery is irresistible to a dull girl like me. It fills my empty head with intrigue."

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, head canting to one side as she studies the short, dusky woman:

   

       "Hm.  And if a secret enthralls you so, it could only mean a greater presence in the Ivory if we can provide them - which means I may have to devise some, true or otherwise."

   

  Out in the Circle, the sinewy, bald-headed man walks east.

   

   

   

  You think:

   

       "... The sun about shines off his head, doesn't it?"

   

  At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish:

   

       "I was always good at putting puzzles together. Finding the pieces that fit, watching the picture slowly take shape... an enjoyable diversion."

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, with a soft murmur as she savors her tea:

   

       "Mm.  Puzzles.  I think we share a common interest there.  I find with most others that they lack the... hm, patience for such a pursuit.  Does it trouble you?"

   

  At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, her attention lingering, still, on the busy circle:

   

       "Sometimes I lose patience, or find that the picture isn't to my liking."

   

  (hemote) Brief and, oh, so sardonic amusement flits across the ethereal, fair-haired woman's eyes as she speaks, gaze distant a moment.

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, crystalline voice serene as she takes up studying the Circle as well:

   

       "That happens to the best of us.  We can't be faulted for the picture's deficiencies.  What do you find makes for the most entertaining puzzle?"

   

  At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, pensively:

   

       "I've always enjoyed portraits. What about you?"

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, with a thoughtful frown:

   

       "As have I, to be honest, though broader landscapes have their appeal, too."

   

  At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, wavering a hand side to side:

   

       "Those are usually the most complicated and frustrating. I often find that many pieces have gone missing."

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, gaze falling to the short, dusky woman's hand:

   

       "I enjoy the game of finding the missing ones, I think.  It becomes a puzzle within a puzzle."

   

  At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish:

   

       "That said; the harder the challenge, the sweeter the taste of success."

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, with an approving smile as she dips her cup in the short, dusky woman's direction:

   

       "Precisely."

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman sips from your small wooden cup.

   

  At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, at length, staring off at the horizon:

   

       "Sometimes a simple, dull-witted girl tires of puzzles."

   

  Glancing into it before laying it to the side, you discard your small wooden cup.

   

  You think:

   

       "But where is one of those here?"

   

  At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, to you, during a pause between two gulps from her teacup:

   

       "Too much of a good thing."

   

  The short, dusky woman drinks fruit tea from her small wooden cup.

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, in her soft, crystal-like voice:

   

       "As a fellow simple, dull-witted girl, I can agree.  I've missed them, though, when I haven't... had access to them."

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, lifting an assuring hand:

   

       "That said, I often find that I have too many puzzles to sort through, or too few.  A... pleasant balance would be more desirable."

   

  At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, with a brief, leisurely grin:

   

       "There's the trick of it, isn't it? I admire those who have a neatly organized puzzle collection. I suspect it's a rare circumstance."

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, with an equally relaxed smile:

   

       "Impostors, all of them.  I can't see it as possible."

   

  At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, a lazy jadedness in her voice:

   

       "Sometimes, I get the urge to just throw them all away and find some other past-time, like.. oh, needle-work."

   

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's pale eyes flash with cautious irony as she looks at the short, dusky woman.

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, mouth quirking:

   

       "Mm, an honored pasttime.  I've never had the skill for it.  My sister was better gifted."

   

  You notice: Weary cynicism mixes with amusement while the short, dusky woman regards you.

   

  The last rays of the red sun fade over the Grey Forest.

   

  (hemtoe) The ethereal, fair-haired woman meets the short, dusky woman's eyes with a slight nod before looking over to the sunset.

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman glances to the sunset, her smile easing with quiet contentment.

   

  At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, agreeably, relaxed in her chair while she takes in the fading sky:

   

       "It takes dedication and a deft hand."

   

  At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, sitting up, straighter:

   

       "On that note, we've seen a sunrise, and we've seen a sunset. Nearly full-circle, and I'd better see my bedroll between now and the complete turn."

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, with a quiet smile as she looks back to the short, dusky woman:

   

       "You took the words from my mouth, as sad as they are to me."

   

  To you, tilting her chin up, the short, dusky woman asks, in sirihish:

   

       "We wouldn't want the quality of our company to suffer. 'Til next?"

   

  With a respectful nod to her, you say to the short, dusky woman, in sirihish:

   

       "Until next.  I'll pass on your gifts and send you word of them, if we don't meet before then."

   

  Unhurriedly, the short, dusky woman stands up from a small wooden table.

   

  Flashing a smile as she walks for the stairs, you say to the short, dusky woman, in sirihish:

   

       "His Light guard you, gypsy."

   

  Following, the short, dusky woman says to you, in sirihish:

   

       "Good fortunes to you and yours."

   

   

   

   

  It is late afternoon on Nekrete, the 214th day of the Low Sun,

  In the Year of Whira's Vengeance, year 38 of the 21st Age.

   

   

   

   

   

  Atop Lucky Ghaati, Overlooking Poet's Circle [D]

     The adobe roof of the teahouse furnishes a surface here for several small tables...

  
  Continue Reading...
• 

  Memoir #14 - The Tuluki Soldier (Sid) by Rairen
  Added on Dec 29, 2009

  While in a lesson, a blunt tool of the northern Legions teaches a too self-assured Circle bard a lesson in humility.

  ---

  "The Tembo's Tooth" - Tavern [EWD Quit]

   

     Smooth, sanded cylini planks have been laid across the floor of this

   

  cramped room, their polished surface flickering in the lights of the candles.  Dark stains splatter the wooden floor at odd intervals, disrupting the otherwise smooth contour of the wood with slight warps and bends.  A curved bar, formed from what appears to have once been highly polished agafari wood extends from the northern wall.  Spaced around it are several bare, ascetic wooden barstools.  A sturdy trapdoor has been set in the floor behind the bar.  Several rows of shelves have been inset into the wall behind the bar and contain a variety of local ales and liquor.  Willowy, vine-like plants drape from rounded clay bowls, the gloss of their leaves reflecting the dim light of the candles spaced around the room.  Rows of booths line the northern and southern walls while the center of the room is occupied by two rounded tables.

   

   

   

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman dips a nod to the robust, head-shaven man after finding a path to the bar.

   

  The figure in a long, hooded red and white tabard has arrived from the west.

   

  The figure in a long, hooded red and white tabard tugs back her hood.

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman leans back against the bar - and then catches sight of the figure in a long, hooded red and white tabard with narrowed eyes and a smile.

   

  The spangled-blond, muscular woman lowers the hood of a long, hooded red and white tabard.

   

  Pushing in her direction, you say to the spangled-blond, muscular woman, in sirihish:

   

       "Sid, good to see you well."

   

  The spangled-blond, muscular woman beats dust from her tabard as she walks.

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman pauses at the spangled-blond, muscular woman's side, touching a hand to her elbow.

   

  The spangled-blond, muscular woman says to you, in sirihish:

   

       "And you."

   

  Tilting her head in the direction of the other room, you say to the spangled-blond, muscular woman, in sirihish:

   

       "Perhaps you'd care for a quieter booth?  I'll confess to my own foolishness, as I left home without a ‘sid to my name."

   

  The spangled-blond, muscular woman dips her head to you before peering around her, eyes the rougher looking patrons suspiciously.

   

  (hemote) The crisp aroma of mint lingers in the air around the ethereal, fair-haired woman.

   

  The spangled-blond, muscular woman says to you, in sirihish:

   

       "Lemme see if I'm fixed any better"

   

  The spangled-blond, muscular woman gets her pile of coins from her sunburst-buckled, hardened leather sword belt.

   

  With a rueful twist to her smile, you say to the spangled-blond, muscular woman, in sirihish:

   

       "I'll owe you, hm?  It's a terrible oversight, I know."

   

  The spangled-blond, muscular woman asks, in sirihish:

   

       "We can't even afford an ale. How bout we sit and talk, dry?"

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman gives a soft, incredulous laugh as she bows her head in the spangled-blond, muscular woman's direction.

   

  The spangled-blond, muscular woman says to you, in sirihish:

   

       "Unless you think you can charm him into giving us one for eight sid? You've got a more winning way than me."

   

   

   

   

  the robust, head-shaven man has the following goods to trade:

   

  09) a rough clay mug of ale for 10 obsidian coins.

   

   

   

   

  The spangled-blond, muscular woman tilts her head toward the bar, indicating the robust, head-shaven man.

   

  Glancing over to the robust, head-shaven man, jaw working to one side, you say to the spangled-blond, muscular woman, in sirihish:

   

       "Hm... I wonder if I could.  It seems we travel to match - I'm carrying eight on me, too."

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman lifts up a finger to the spangled-blond, muscular woman, pale eyes narrowed with mirth as she pushes back toward a curved, agafari bar.

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman pushes herself up on a curved, agafari bar, leaning forward to share hushed words with the robust, head-shaven man.

   

  The spangled-blond, muscular woman crosses her arms, relaxing into a slump.

   

  The robust, head-shaven man angrily insists on keeping the price the same for a rough clay mug.

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman pushes a few coins in one hand as she offers the robust, head-shaven man a rueful, wry smile.

   

  Amused, you whisper to the robust, head-shaven man in sirihish:

   

       "Next time, next time.  I'll not forget this, friend."

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman slings your leather-strapped, rich purple satchel over her shoulder again as she rejoins the spangled-blond, muscular woman with a helpless shrug.

   

  You notice: Standing in a lazy slouch, the spangled-blond, muscular woman seems amused, the slight twitch of a smile giving her away.

   

  The spangled-blond, muscular woman says to you, in sirihish:

   

       "You can pretend you're a soldier. Eat some rations. Drink some water been in the skin long enough to get that taste."

   

  The spangled-blond, muscular woman falls in behind you.

   

  Mirth to her tone, still, you whisper to the spangled-blond, muscular woman in sirihish:

   

       "To think he couldn't do a bard a favor.  I'll find a way to get even with him, I promise."

   

  The spangled-blond, muscular woman asks you, in sirihish:

   

       "Where'd you want to sit?"

   

  As she finds a 'clear' path toward the next room, you say to the spangled-blond, muscular woman, in sirihish:

   

       "... Oh?  I doubt even rations and water could make me a soldier.  Remind me to tell you of southern foods, by the by, sometime.  It makes rations seem a feast."

   

   

   

   

  A Secluded Alcove [S]

   

     Separated from the main room by a curtain of beaded fringe, this booth

   

  provides a small measure of privacy.  The haze of sweet spice smoke mixed

   

  with the exotic seasonings of the food combine in an aroma that is almost

   

  intoxicating by itself.  Benches made of thickly stuffed, dun-colored tandu leather line each side of this booth and a sturdy table made of thick cylini planks stands between them.  The walls behind the benches are covered with a worn sandcloth tapestry depicting a raging sandstorm on one side and a wagon caravan on the other.  Hanging from the wall in between is the bleached skull of some large grasslands creature. 

   

   

   

  With a glance over her shoulder, shrill voice pitched to carry, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says to you, in sirihish:

   

       "That's fine. When you're flush he won't be the one you tip."

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman laughs, gesturing to one bench for the spangled-blond, muscular woman as she reaches for the curtain.

   

  The spangled-blond, muscular woman seems unable to completely repress a grin, as she slides her bulk onto a bench.

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, a knowing smile dancing at the corner of her mouth:

   

       "You already seem an expert on politics, Sid.  What by all that is good do you need me for?"

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "Seriously, don't tip the fucker. Why? Cause I'm always curious about shit there ain't no one to ask."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "Ain't like I can question the chosen or the Faithful, and no one explains nothing to me, cause it ain't gonna help me catch thieves or break up fights."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a soft breath, very nearly a laugh:

   

       "Point very truly taken.  I'll do what I can then, to be that... resource for you - and if I can't answer the question, I can assuredly attempt to do so through my own means."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, glancing to the ceiling for a moment, smiling still:

   

       "As for the tipping, I don't intend on it, until it becomes more pertinent to do so.  As it is, I could likely get us six drinks from a penitent Kuraci, no? "

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "Likely so. In the end, might have been a favor he done you, poor fuck."

   

  (hemote) No small amount of ironic amusement lingers in the ethereal, fair-haired woman's pale eyes.

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a quiet nod to the spangled-blond, muscular woman:

   

       "Is there something on your mind, then, in particular?  Politics is a... vast topic, if interesting one."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "Lots of things. Lots of questions. Like, what's the tax on the grasslands about?"

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a mild lift of her brow:

   

       "A very, very good question.  It's a question I'm... researching, although I haven't learned the answer yet.  My understanding is overhunting."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "I know Uaptal, put it out, and it's aimed at the merchant houses, just the four big ones or all of them? They all piss off Uaptal or just a couple? And how do the other chosen feel bout it?"

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a slight lift of one hand:

   

       "Fewer animals bring more dangerous ones closer to the city and so on."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "Oh. Well, that seems more practical than political."

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman pauses glancing from the spangled-blond, muscular woman to one gloved hand before she cracks a smile.

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, in a softer tone, her nod careful:

   

       "It does seem that, but as with many things... political, they often have more than one motive."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "So, if tomorrow you decided that you just had to chase down a tregil, you have to hand over a leg?"

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, her tone assuring, unconcerned:

   

       "I'm not certain the full terms of it, but yes, it seems that in most cases there will be taxes paid for it - to House Uaptal, as you said."

   

  You think:

   

       "... Just be careful, little Aja."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "When a hunter asks me if they got to pay a tax, what do I tell them? Go find Chosen Lady Shara?"

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, taking a breath than sighing:

   

       "Sorry, I ain't hardly giving you time to answer. I hope I ain't gonna leave you feeling interrogated."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a hint of a smile, still:

   

       "That would be my advice.  I would also inquire of His Faithful if you are responsible for enforcing the taxes of the Chosen Governors."

   

  The spangled-blond, muscular woman nods a few times.

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, tone assuring, again, as she lifts a mild hand:

   

       "Please, it is good practice for me, I promise you that.  My Masters are even quicker tongued than you, friend."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a slight shrug of her slender shoulders:

   

       "As a point of fact, I'd be curious as to their answer on that, as well.  Given how many questions are arising about this tax, it might help... spread word more effectively."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "If I asked you for your -opinion- of what the tax is about, could you give me a less polite answer with a bit more meat to it? Or would that just make you uncomfortable, and get me more of the same?"

   

  Pale eyes trailing over her as she offers her a languid smile, you look at the spangled-blond, muscular woman.

   

   

   

  White and silver threads, interspersed through the shades of gold and

   

  yellow, create the illusion of sparkle in a blunt, shoulder-length,

   

  perfectly straight growth of thick hair.  Her brows and lashes are just

   

  plain white.  The darkness of her nut brown skin is marred by lighter

   

  scarred flesh.  An odd shade of greenish blue, her eyes look like a marriage of jade and moonstone trapped in slanted almond crescents.  This woman's face is completed by a low bridged nose, and narrow mouth.  The hollow of her neck is deep, while the muscles stand out, like a foreshadowing of the bulging sinewy brawn that covers long limbs.  The softness of her breasts and hips in no way detract from air of strength that emanates from this woman.  

   

   

   

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a softer tone as she adjusts the clasp to your hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak:

   

       "I can, if you like, though I would not have my supposition taken - or spread throughout the city - for fact.  If that is not unacceptable, then I can give my... conjecture."

   

  The spangled-blond, muscular woman looks back, levelly, expression disclosing nothing but curiosity.

   

  (hemote) he ethereal, fair-haired woman studies the spangled-blond, muscular woman, pale eyes pensive.

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, lips moving finally into a slow smile:

   

       "I keep my mouth shut."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "I ain't quite as foolish as the bartender. I can think ahead to next time I want a question answered."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, returning the spangled-blond, muscular woman's smile:

   

       "And I am a servant to His Faithful and an instructor to His Legions.  My largest question about the tax is what will be done with the coin it collects."

   

  The spangled-blond, muscular woman's eyebrows slowly climb as the seconds beat off in the aftermath of your statement.

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, her voice taking on a tutorial, patient cadence:

   

       "While taxes can be prohibitive, I find it unlikely that the value of additional coin has gone unnoticed."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "Yeh, well, there's an interesting question I'd have never thought of."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, glancing to the curtain which blocks sight of the noisier room beyond:

   

       "I know House Uaptal and House Lyksae enjoy a rivalry between those Houses, and I know House Lyksae has shown prominence of late in service with the Alliance."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, smile relaxed:

   

       "To what ends House Uaptal will use it, I don't know.  Perhaps simply to have the ability to do so."

   

  The spangled-blond, muscular woman glances too at the table and turns back to you head moving in a slow nod.

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a tilt of her head to the spangled-blond, muscular woman:

   

       "But if I were to start... looking further into this, I would question current development projects sponsored by House Uaptal as well as the rivalry with House Lyksae."

   

  You think:

   

       "But why not Dasari?  Why, why..."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "So, listen..."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, after a pause, glancing back to the spangled-blond, muscular woman:

   

       "... Always.  Go on."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "Sometimes, if I wanted to know what someone's up to, maybe I don't ask them nothing."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "Maybe I let them ask me, and what they're asking, it shows something you know?"

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, a smile warming her tone:

   

       "Yes, I know.  You do this often, Sid?"

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "But sometimes it don't. And I got a lot of time to think, sometimes I'm patrolling the old quarter, and I'm just thinking."

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman crosses her legs beneath your flowing white linen skirt, pale eyes watching the spangled-blond, muscular woman with quiet interest.

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "So, you think, Who pissed of Uaptal and from there, next thing you know, you're wondering if it means the Kadian's are going to be cutting back on blue. Or..."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "So, I thought I'd ask stuff, and then I thought if I ask, maybe it sounds like I know shit I don't."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "Or I'm implying shit I ain't."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "And what would be made of that?"

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, giving a soft breath as she tilts her head from one side to the other:

   

       "Valid concerns, particularly in your position, where justness is so important."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, trailing off and then shaking her head:

   

       "I ain't overburdened with no one asking me to do much more than make sure there ain't no one robbing the stores or getting drunk and throwing up on the Chosen's shoes."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, after a longer pause as she touches a hand to her chest to still the glass bells chiming there:

   

       "... And that does leave a great amount of time to think, doesn't it?"

   

  contact shara

   

  You contact the svelte, top-knotted woman with the Way.

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "So, no, I don't question too many people. But before I was a Legionnaire, I been on my own, and you learn to take what advantages you can, when you got to."

   

  You send a telepathic message to the svelte, top-knotted woman:

   

       "My pardon for intruding on your mind, Chosen Lady.  I've been receiving numerous questions regarding the recent tax on the grasslands, and I'm not certain how to answer them or who to direct them to."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "Yeh, so I guess I'm just curious about what ifs."

   

  A foreign presence contacts your mind.

   

  You send a telepathic message to the svelte, top-knotted woman:

   

       "If you or House Uaptal have a preference, I would be more than happy to direct people in the appropriate ways."

   

  The svelte, top-knotted woman sends you a telepathic message:

   

       "Good Morning Aja?  Tax on the grasslands?  Who has been asking about this particularly?"

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a hint of a smile still as she studies the spangled-blond, muscular woman:

   

       "Hm.  Well.  I suppose it sounds as though you wish you had more answers and less... intangible things to think on.  I can suggest strategies, of course, though none will be... perfect."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "Like if them two houses ain't getting on, does it mean they smile or snub? Did it all break out before or after the ball to honor the new Chosen Lord and Consort? And if it happened after would Chosen Lord Thrend still have gone?"

   

  You send a telepathic message to the svelte, top-knotted woman:

   

       "Hunters in the Sanctuary, Chosen Lady, among others."

   

  You think:

   

       "... And we are all curious, I know."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, leaning toward you, expression intent:

   

       "Could you? And I wouldn't get in trouble with em?"

   

  The svelte, top-knotted woman sends you a telepathic message:

   

       "Well, hmm, the only entity I have spoken with about a hunting -license- is House Kadius thus far."

   

  The svelte, top-knotted woman sends you a telepathic message:

   

       "And Kelsin - actually, so I'm not entirely sure where all of this is springing up, but while a future license is being discussed to prevent over hunting.... nothing has been finalized yet."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a curious smile:

   

       "I could, of course - though if I might ask, when you said would Chosen Lord Thrend still have gone... Has he gone?"

   

  You send a telepathic message to the svelte, top-knotted woman:

   

       "Intriguing.  I fear I am as at a loss as you, Chosen Lady.  Thank you for the clarification, and I apologize then for troubling you over such a minor matter."

   

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's brow creases, ever so slightly.

   

  The svelte, top-knotted woman sends you a telepathic message:

   

       "Oh no, thank you for enlightening me Aja - you're very helpful as always.  I'm still hoping you can give a group etiquette lesson soon.  I shall meet you for payment soon as well."

   

  The svelte, top-knotted woman sends you a telepathic message:

   

       "What was our total again?"

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, shaking her head:

   

       "Meant Chosen Governer Shara gave the ball, and Chosen Governor Thrend attended."

   

  You send a telepathic message to the svelte, top-knotted woman:

   

       "We're just a small, Chosen Lady, and I'll look forward to working more closely with your House in the future."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "Did he attend even though they ain't getting on? Or were they in a better cheer with each other at the time?"

   

  The svelte, top-knotted woman sends you a telepathic message:

   

       "Wonderful!  High Templar Elithan wise as usual, was quiet keen to snatch you up so quickly as a partisan Aja."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a slight nod:

   

       "Yes, of course.  My pardon for that - and I don't know when the rivalry began to truly intensify.  I've only noticed it recently in discussions with His Chosen."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "And what's it mean to be a governor?"

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, sighing:

   

       "See? One question gives rise to the next, and there ain't no end to it."

   

  You send a telepathic message to the svelte, top-knotted woman:

   

       "Thank you for your kind words, Chosen Lady.  I hope I might always work to deserve them."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "And this is just in the time we're sitting here."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a hint of a smile:

   

       "... I enjoy it, although not everyone does.  It's a bit of a puzzle, trying to put all of the pieces, all of the questions in place."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "But, see, you're a bard. You're supposed to be curious."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "I'm meant to shut up, and do what I'm told, quick and quiet. I ain't supposed to think too much."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, laughter in her tone:

   

       "... Am I, now?  You speak of us like you would that tregil you were going to hunt down in the grasslands.  It does happen, though, that I enjoy puzzles."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a softer, fonder tone:

   

       "And no, His Faithful would never want you mindless, thoughtless, Sid.  That's how the southerners work."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, another grin coming reluctantly at first:

   

       "I ain't thought of it that way. I meant no offense, you know."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, wryly:

   

       "And you can see what good it's brought them.  His Faithful want you to think, Sid, they want you to know and to be able to help.  And you're very smart, which would make it a shame to waste a gift."

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman offers the spangled-blond, muscular woman a smile and shake of her head.

   

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman studies the spangled-blond, muscular woman with pale, thoughtful eyes, most of her easy levity never reaching them.

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "I'm flattered you think so, I don't think it's an opinion much shared. It might be it renders you unique."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, smile quirking:

   

       "May I always be unique, and perhaps I am a bit overindulgent where my students are concerned, but I enjoy a person who asks good questions.  Who ask questions at all, truly, as too many never do."

   

  The spangled-blond, muscular woman grunts softly with another quick nod.

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "And then I wondered too, bout the merchants, who're on the receiving end, of the tax."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "I wondered what it means to have the power of trade, and how much liberty it gives em."

   

   

   

  (hemote) The sleeve to your loose-cut white linen blouse slips down the ethereal, fair-haired woman's shoulder.

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "What if... say Kurac did something that wasn't against the law, not that I think they did or anything like that, but say they did."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "And it was something that wasn't exactly illegal, but unpopular, what would happen?"

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "What if... say Kurac did something that wasn't against the law, not that I think they did or anything like that, but say they did."

   

   

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "And it was something that wasn't exactly illegal, but unpopular, what would happen?"

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, linking her gloved hands in front of her face as she nods:

   

       "I suppose it would depend on how it impacted the rest of the city.  No longer supplying theodeliv would be unpopular in the extreme... but not punishable."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, smiling behind clasped hands as she touches them to her lips:

   

       "Though, perhaps then House Tenneshi would stop having them cater parties... and so on, and so on."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "Let's say one of the chosen had a pet ratlon that got lost. And they were out on the road near the post and decided to spit it and roast?"

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a slight shrug of her shoulders:

   

       "If it was Kuraci outriders, I would say that they may get slapped on the wrist, at worst, but only if an Agent is brought in and the Chosen's House decided to leverage this against them for relative gains."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "Let's say it was Brethel. He's got an appetite. I bet he could eat the better part of a ratlon, no matter how tough it might be."

   

  The spangled-blond, muscular woman grins.

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a sudden, genuine smile:

   

       "... Your point is noted.  Assuming it to be an Agent of Kurac and assuming they knew and ignored that it was a pet of His Chosen and assuming His Chosen learned of it accurately - all significant assumptions, by..."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, pale eyes narrowed, thoughtful:

   

       "By the by.  I would imagine that he would claim it an accident or that the animal was lame or that it was done for desperate need.  And likely repay the loss in ale and Kuraci spice."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, brow creasing:

   

       "Would the Chosen House actively seek reimbursement?  I doubt House Kurac would give them time to."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "Let's say for the sake of argument that all the things you said as ifs were so, except that last. Let's say it was clear that it was done with some malice."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "And would it matter which Chosen's pet it was?"

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a hint of reproach to her smile:

   

       "Sid, for what reason would an Agent of Kurac maliciously harm a pet of a Chosen House?  If that be the case, then yes, the actions would be more severe, on His Chosen's part and on House Kurac's."

   

   At your seat, you say in sirihish, tapping a thumb to the table as she nods to the spangled-blond, muscular woman:

   

       "And yes, it would.  Very much so.

   

   

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "Well, they wouldn't."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "Here, this question, I ain't asking you what I really want to know."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "I ain't asking cause ..."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "What I want to know's been all settled.... and what I wondered about wasn't so, when I was thinking about it."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, sighing:

   

       "That make sense to you?"

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a soft murmur:

   

       "... I think so.  Are you worried about wanting to know the possibilities for outcomes as well as the truth of them?  In case it ever arises again?"

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "Got nothing to do with Kurac or ratlons. Just something went missing and before we knew where it went I wondered if we might piece it together."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "And if it had turned up, in a place that seemed possible, how much trouble would it have caused."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "But it didn't. It's all just wondering."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, fondness creeping into her tone:

   

       "You are part poet and part tactician, Sid, I swear it.  If -I- might ask a question, why?  Why do you ask the questions?  To prepare yourself?  For simply the sake of... imagination?"

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "Cause when it happened I wondered. And there was no one to ask. And then it turned out not to be the case, so there was no way to ever know the answer."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "And it plagues me like an itch I can't reach."

   

   

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, tapping her four-fingered hand against the table, mouth quirking:

   

       "I understand that well enough.  In the future if these... suppositions occur, I'd be more than glad to listen, even if I can't offer anything but an open mind to you."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "I'd appreciate that."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, eyes narrowing:

   

       "You know what I'm talking about?"

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a soft breath of laughter:

   

       "... And by all that's good, yes.  We have... similarities.  I like to listen to people, and I like to ask them questions, to learn.  And, in the process, they tell me things - for better or worse."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, wryly, touching a hand to the back of her neck:

   

       "And it becomes an itch, wanting to know the entire story, because there is always... a bigger piece."

   

   

   

  It is late at night on Terrin, the 90th day of the Low Sun,

   

  In the Year of Vivadu's Defiance, year 40 of the 21st Age.

   

   

   

  You think:

   

       "Eight years.  Eight -years-, Aja."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "Right."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "It ain't cause I have any business knowing."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "Or cause knowing would do me any good."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "It's just that not knowing is so fucking uncomfortable."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "Like the whole story with the taxes? What is that?"

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, working her jaw to one side as she lowers her hand:

   

       "Sid, I can only say again that I know exactly what you mean.  You are a soldier.  Unknowns do not... suit you."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, after a pause, before she laughs, soft and low:

   

       "I thought we might circle back that way.  I had a brief chat with the Chosen Lady while we were speaking."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, inclining her head to the spangled-blond, muscular woman:

   

       "While I don't know if I can add further enlightenment, the Chosen Lady Shara was most surprised that I was inquiring about the tax on the grasslands."

   

  The spangled-blond, muscular woman laughs, the sound a soft warbling screech, that dies away quickly.

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "But, why?"

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a soft murmur, assuring:

   

       "I did not mention you, Sid.  Thankfully, there was a second person asking me of it, a hunter that I'd never known."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "I mean, if you start taxing people, it ain't like a secret. It's a tax. It's levied."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish:

   

       "As to her surprise, she said that the only people she'd mentioned this to were House Kadius and Kelsin, the partisan to Faithful Lord Vraj."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "Well, they ain't the only ones who know."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "Some big old hunter was asking me."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "Up from Nak, she was, I think."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a soft breath, nearly a laugh:

   

       "Yes, I know, and I'm surprised that the Chosen Lady did not know that, which makes me think that she does not wish me to publicize this."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish:

   

       "This tax, that is."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "So, once Naki hunters know about your tax, it can't be called a secret, can it?"

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, mouth quirking:

   

       "No, I suppose not.  Her assurance, however, was that she had only mentioned a hunting license - not a tax, if I caught her terminology correctly - with House Kadius."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, shaking her head:

   

       "Aja, this is a fucking disappointment. Not you. Not you at all."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "This whole the more you know the no fewer questions you have."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "Like reaching back to scratch and the itch moves."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a curious tilt of her head, laughter in her pale eyes:

   

       "... It is a disappointment.  Try to find pleasure in the answers when you can, or in using them well.  Spice can't take away an itch, but it can... distract you by making other parts feel good, that is."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "But it does answer some questions. Like they ain't all pissed off the Chosen Governor in unison. It's just the one house that's got her angry. And that's easier to fathom."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "Or maybe not her. Maybe House Uaptal."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a hint of a nod:

   

       "It does answer some questions.  She also said that nothing had been finalized."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "But one house makes more sense than all of them."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a slight lift of one hand:

   

       "To return to one of your other earlier questions, the Chosen Governors are selected from their House to oversee parts of the Ivory and the surrounding lands."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a tilt of her head:

   

       "Such as House Uaptal with the grasslands, or House Lyksae with the Red Sun Commons."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "The Faithful have no hand in the selection?"

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, pale eyes narrowed with thought:

   

       "The first were chosen by His Faithful, and I've assumed that it has continued to be done in that fashion - but I can look more into that for you."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "Well, it ain't worth upsetting anyone over. Just interesting. "

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a second, slight nod:

   

       "It is, and I should be more... current in such affairs, as you aren't the only one who asks me of it.  Foreigners, in particular, are always interest in learning the intricacies of Tuluki politics."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "I hope I ain't asked or said nothing I shouldn't have. Nothing that'd upset none of the Faithful or Chosen."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a slight shrug of her slender shoulders:

   

       "You haven't, and I'd likely inform you - again, as your instructor - if I saw anything remiss in your behavior."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "That's appreciated."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, smile lingering as she glances to the spangled-blond, muscular woman:

   

       "It is a... benefit to being a teacher, being able to be so frank with those you are close to."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, tone thoughtful:

   

       "Are we?"

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, with a shrug:

   

       "I ain't close to many people, so... I ain't always sure how close works."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, taking in a slight breath, tone thoughtful:

   

       "It is not a truth universally held, but in my family, in my Circle, such honesty is crucial to being able to help another learn and improve."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, after pausing, her murmur non-committal:

   

       "Hm.  Let's see... I still don't think of myself as knowing you well, Sid, although I surely would enjoy doing so.  Regardless, however, because I am hired on as your teacher, you must be close to me."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, in a softer voice:

   

       "Honesty is a... deep sign of trust, both in your ability to hear it and in mine to... lower some guards that might otherwise exist."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "Well, alright. I guess yeh, I'm putting down some guards. And hoping I don't end up hurt for having done it."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, suddenly grinning:

   

       "Curiosity is a dangerous vice."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "Both cheaper and dearer than spice."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, exhaling softly, a few strands of hair flying up from her face as she does so:

   

       "Yes, I... feel the same, be assured in that.  And yes, curiosity is a delightful vice - although apathy is a vice, as well, and less delightful, hm?"

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "Do you suffer from apathy?"

   

   

   

  You feel as though you hate her for asking that question.

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a soft breath of laughter:

   

       "Me?  No, I enjoy puzzles too much, as I said.  Although my... curiosity is not evenly distributed.  I have some interests greater than others."

   

   

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "So..."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "We close enough I can be rude and ask something with no thought of tact?"

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, trailing off before she offers the spangled-blond, muscular woman a serene smile:

   

       "Of course, Sid.  Feel free."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "How come you're more talented than lots of them seekers and you ain't one?"

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman looks across to the spangled-blond, muscular woman and then laughs, soft and serene, the bells at her neck chiming.

   

  You feel as though you didn't need to be asked that today.

   

  The spangled-blond, muscular woman watches you, gaze level, until finally she shrugs sheepishly.

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a wry shake of her head:

   

       "Thank you for prefacing that with a question.  Most do not.  First, I must also thank you for the compliment for it is deeply appreciated."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "Well, cause I wonder."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a hint of nod:

   

       "The reasons are... two-fold, I think.  The first is that I was gone for several years, Sid.  Even I cannot deny that I did not... improve in many areas during that time."

   

  You think:

   

       "Eight year anniversary."

   

  As she listens, the spangled-blond, muscular woman looks at you.

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, smile quirking, a hint of ironic amusement flashing across it:

   

       "The other is that not all... Circles advance at the same rate.  The Driamusek Circle has very high standards.  As such, it is the greater honor to be a Seeker for us."

   

  (hemote) Two of the ethereal, fair-haired woman's fingers - one on each hand - are missing; the fabric of her gloves hangs empty where they should be.

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "Does it bother you? If not you're a finer person than me. It'd bother me, I think."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, taking in a soft breath, jaw working to one side:

   

       "It does in some senses.  Not... everyone understands our ways, and so it seems odd to them, a partisan to a High Templar being but a poor, troubled Apprentice."

   

  You feel as though it seems odd to you at times, too.

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a hint of a smile to the spangled-blond, muscular woman:

   

       "It helps when they ask, as you have, to allow me opportunity to explain."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "Who you're partisan to, aside, you give a performance audience feels like they seen a performance."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "Ain't that the whole point of being a bard?"

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, pale eyes narrowed with amusement:

   

       "One of the greatest points, without doubt.  I enjoy the performances that no one notices, but that is an entirely different topic of conversation."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with practiced patience:

   

       "However, we are all... skilled differently.  A performance from a Master is unlike anything a novice could create.  It is part of our... auditions, our advancement, just as you must learn a better dance with swords."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "No, I don't."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, shaking her head:

   

       "If a criminal is running away, I got to stop them."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "I don't got to impress them with how I stop them."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a curious smile as she pulls tangled hair back from her face:

   

       "True.  My pardon."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "I just got to get them into a cell."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "If I go into battle, I got to kill more enemy than kills me."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "I ain't got to impress them either."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a quiet nod:

   

       "And your ability to... continue killing enemies, to capture thieves is dependent on... what, experience, I'd say?"

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "Well, if I was talented with a blade it would depend on outfighting em."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "If I was smart, it'd depend on outsmarting them."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a slight nod, a smile teasing the corner of her mouth:

   

       "... And...?"

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "And some days it just comes down to throwing a rock at them, before they run too fast and get away."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "End of the day, I don't have to be good. I just have to get the job done."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "If I can make it pretty, that's nice."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "If I can't..."

   

  The spangled-blond, muscular woman shrugs.

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a touch of incredulity to her tone:

   

       "But isn't getting the job done -being- good?"

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, fond levity in her tone:

   

       "My dear friend, there are many sorts of... proficiency.  Beauty is only one of them."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, shaking her head:

   

       "I don't know. I don't know the answers."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, tone softening as well as her smile:

   

       "Then I believe it is.  Being able to survive and succeed - those are marks of His Legions.  It is the same with us.  Time and experience teaches us how to survive and succeed."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish:

   

       "But my criminals are instead sharing drinks with His Chosen.  My wars are dances on a stage."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a thoughtful frown:

   

       "And I don't suppose you have any rations on you that you might be willing to spare?  I left home without food as well as 'sid."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, digging through the bag:

   

       "I do, but I doubt you'll thank me. They're..."

   

  The spangled-blond, muscular woman gets her bundle of leaf-wrapped rations from her leather tool bag.

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, interjecting smoothly:

   

       "... better than roasted scrab head and crusty cheese.  My thanks to House Tor of Allanak for those experiences."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, producing a bundle:

   

       "Well, they're filling at least"

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "I'd trade the rations for crusty cheese and heads. I hate rations."

   

  The spangled-blond, muscular woman gives you her bundle of leaf-wrapped rations.

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a soft breath of laughter:

   

       "I'm spoiled to a core, then.  A few weeks of... stew, I think they called it, although I'd hardly be so generous with the name, and I was missing dry bread."

   

  After lifting it to the spangled-blond, muscular woman in thanks, you eat part of your bundle of leaf-wrapped rations.

   

  You think:

   

       "... Admittedly, these -are- quite foul."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "I'd kiss the cook if he made stew. I explained stew to him...nothing."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "I think it's an insult to all cooks to call him one. I never actually seen him -cook- anything."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a dry glance to the spangled-blond, muscular woman:

   

       "I wish I'd've known your recipe for it.  I've assisted cooks, but my own... talent for it is less than satisfactory, and there are few tyrants in this world like a cook in a kitchen."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "Take the meat he's throwing in the rations and put it in a pot with some water and some ocotillo, the fruit from the rations some water from the barrel and put the pot on the hearth."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "It doesn't have to be good. It just has to be ... something but this."

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman laughs, lifting both gloved hands up in a helpless gesture.

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish:

   

       "I submit, my friend.  I submit.  If I were your cook, I would do as you commanded in all things."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "Have a talk with him, Aja. Have a talk with the man."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a wry tone:

   

       "I couldn't seduce two tankards of ale from a friendly bartender.  I doubt a hardened cook to His Legions will be any softer swayed."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "Well, threats and taunts ain't moved him, maybe a bit of sweet would do it."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a dip of her head in thanks:

   

       "I will do what I can, but I'll not make promises, sadly.  Perhaps I could at least get him to use spices on the rations?"

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "He could piss on them, and they could only be improved."

   

   

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, touching a hand to her mouth, her smile amused:

   

       "Where I used to live, every Detal we would receive a fresh shipment of kalan fruit.  There were few pleasures in this world such as a week of... mush followed by a few hours of fresh kalan."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, inclining her head to the spangled-blond, muscular woman:

   

       "If nothing else, perhaps... perhaps... we could get something special to liven your days."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "That'd be a fine addition."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, cracking a smile:

   

       "... And then I shall see to it, if you would be so kind as to permit me to take my leave.  I fear I have other duties less pleasant to see to than this."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "Your time is appreciated."

   

  At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:

   

       "I hope I wasn't too much of a trial to you."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, smile lingering:

   

       "Your questions are always appreciated and... please.  Please.  Believe me when I say that my time with you is no trial.  If nothing else, believe that I've taught too many southerners through their ignorance."

   

  Sliding free of the booth, you stand up from a baobab booth.

   

  The spangled-blond, muscular woman says to you, in sirihish:

   

       "His Radiance upon you, Aja."

   

  The spangled-blond, muscular woman stands up from a baobab booth.

   

  With a respectful nod, you say to the spangled-blond, muscular woman, in sirihish:

   

       "And His Light grace you, as ever, Sid.  I'll look forward to hearing from you, and will check in after a month or so, if no new questions arise on your end."

   

  (hemote) Mirth flashes across the ethereal, fair-haired woman's eyes.

   

   

  "The Tembo's Tooth" - Tavern [EWD Quit]

   

     Smooth, sanded cylini planks have been laid across the floor of this

   

  cramped room, their polished surface flickering in the lights of the candles.  Dark stains splatter the wooden floor at odd intervals, disrupting the otherwise...

  
  Continue Reading...
• 

  Memoir #13 - The Lirathan Santa Claus (Serilla) by Rairen
  Added on Dec 29, 2009

  Whatever happened to the gift that Raven promised?

  ---

  The Bahamet's Maw Tavern - Main Room [ESU]

   

     Half a dozen tables are scattered throughout this diminutive tavern.

   

  Despite the lack of lavish decor, the bar exudes a feeling of being anything but paltry.  The walls are coated in a layer of vivid tan paint, and occasionally a framed painting hangs from their glossy surfaces.  The floorstones below are simple squares of red sandstone, haphazardly inlayed into the level ground.  Just above the elongated bar on the northern wall hangs a luxurious tapestry, the tedious embroidery of a fiery sunburst stitched onto a white background. 

   

     The cramped entrance to the east leads out to a road, while the room snakes away to the south.  A polished baobab staircase is affixed to one end of the bar to carry patrons to an upper level dormitory. 

   

  The gurth-bellied half-giant soldier looms here, gazing intently about.

   

  The earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar is sitting on a long, darkly-stained cynipri bar.

   

  The bristling red-streaked kurtok paces here, growling for no reason.

   

   

   

   

  You lower the hood of a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak.

   

  Lifting a warm smile, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar looks up at you.

   

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman takes in a calming breath.

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman looks over to the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar with a smile in greeting as she crosses the tavern.

   

  Beckoning, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar says to you, in sirihish:

   

       "Aja, do join me."

   

  With a respectful nod to the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar, you sit on a long, darkly-stained cynipri bar.

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, as she sits:

   

       "Of course, Faithful... Lady.  I hope the day finds you well?"

   

  You feel your heart racing - and like you need a home closer to the Heart.

   

  At your seat, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar says in sirihish, nodding deeply:

   

       "It does, indeed.  It has been a provident day in His Light."

   

  At your seat, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar says in sirihish, giving her wide-mouthed purple glass candy dish a pat:

   

       "It seems I've a gift for you that is long overdue, my dear."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, her smile lingering as she looks to the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar:

   

       "... A gift."

   

  You think:

   

       "... Raven?"

   

  At your seat, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar says in sirihish, settling her wide-mouthed purple glass candy dish onto the table:

   

       "Indeed.  Tell me what you know of the one called Raven who you mentioned to me once before."

   

  The earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar gives you her wide-mouthed purple glass candy dish.

   

  At your seat, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar says in sirihish:

   

       "It is from her."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, reaching for your wide-mouthed purple glass candy dish, a gloved finger tracing over it:

   

       "... I know little, Faithful Lady.  She is a slave to the Lord Templar Samos of Allanak, but I do not know her through... that city."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, looking back to the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar with a shake of her head:

   

       "She says she knew of me, when I... served the Tor Warlord, but I do not recall such a woman."

   

  You think:

   

       "How, by all that is good, did she get this to you?"

   

  At your seat, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar says in sirihish:

   

       "What sort of questions has she asked you?  She seems to have takena great liking to you."

   

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's thumb traces over your wide-mouthed purple glass candy dish.

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, tone rueful as well as wry:

   

       "I... wish I knew, Faithful Lady.  She was lonely and found my mind.  Her own is... troubled.  Mad, you might say, although I've seen no harm in her."

   

  The earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar chews at her lower lip, studying your face.

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, pausing before she gives a slow shake of her head:

   

       "She asks how I am, if I'll tell her a story.  She asks advice on getting to know others... and mostly talks on nothing at all."

   

  You think:

   

       "I... don't know.  I'm sorry."

   

  At your seat, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar says in sirihish:

   

       "Do me a great favor, Aja.  Find her mind and let her know I've finally gotten your gift to you.  And inquire as to why she has kept up with you.  I am quite keen to find out."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a soft clearing of her throat after she nods:

   

       "Of course, Faithful Lady.  I... thought this gift was a figment of her imagination.  She said she'd given one to you, was... angry that I hadn't received it.  "

   

  At your seat, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar says in sirihish:

   

       "A slave of Samos the Red sending gifts to a Driamusek family member?  It is a bit odd... ah, yes.  Funny story, that."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, jaw working to one side:

   

       "Mm.  It is how I had the pleasure of an introduction to that man.  I do not know... if I'll be able to find the answers you seek, Faithful Lady."

   

  At your seat, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar says in sirihish:

   

       "Someone thrust that dish into my hands some months ago and said nothing of who it was for.  I thought it was some sort of present for me until this woman Raven found my mind."

   

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's brow creases.  Deeply.

   

  You think:

   

       "Incredible..."

   

  You feel at a loss.

   

  At your seat, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar says in sirihish, nodding to you:

   

       "Let me know when you've reached her again.  I trust I need not stress the importance of giving nothing about His Ivory away."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a quiet inclination of her head:

   

       "Of course, Faithful Lady.  I'd dislike being a puppet to a southerner - even an ally."

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman adds the last three words with just the barest of pauses.

   

  You think:

   

       "... I'll have to seek her out."

   

  You feel incredulous.  And concerned.

   

  At your seat, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar says in sirihish, nodding her head firmy:

   

       "Quite so, quite so.  All the more reason to find out what her motives are.  Mere slaves do not usually act in such a matter."

   

  You think:

   

       "If she could reach the Faithful Lady so easily..."

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a soft murmur:

   

       "She is more than just a slave.  He think highly of her, I believe."

   

  At your seat, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar says in sirihish, with a quiet smile:

   

       "Have we anything else to go over?  I am afraid I am needed in the Heart.  Ah.. yes."

   

  The earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar's lips curls distastefully.

   

  At your seat, you say in sirihish, returning the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar's smile:

   

       "No, Faithful Lady, I do not think so.  I appreciate you taking the time to provide this to me."

   

  At your seat, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar says in sirihish, chuckling ruefully:

   

       "I am only sorry it took me so long.  His Light, Aja."

   

  The earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar stands at a long, darkly-stained cynipri bar.

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman dips a slight nod down to your wide-mouthed purple glass candy dish.

   

  In a smooth motion, you stand at a long, darkly-stained cynipri bar.

   

  The bristling, red-streaked kurtok sniffs at you with a single wag of his bushy tail.

   

  With a respectful nod, you say to the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar, in sirihish:

   

       "His Light grace you."

   

  l in dish

   

  In a wide-mouthed purple glass candy dish (carried) :

   

  a lavender blossom

  a silky blossom

  a bright red fruit

  a piece of wrapped candy

  a spun-sugar spider

  a piece of wrapped mint

  a dark-red, oval lozenge

  a huge crimson blossom

  a stuffed ginka fruit

  a tiny bark lantern

  a piece of honied candy

  a few brandy-filled candies

  a necklace of glass bells

  a gem-adorned chain belt

   

  You feel overwhelmed.

   

  You think:

   

       "... I'll... have to find her."

  The Bahamet's Maw Tavern - Main Room [ESU]

   

     Half a dozen tables are scattered throughout this diminutive tavern.

   

  Despite the lack of lavish decor, the bar exudes a feeling of being anything but paltry.  The walls are coated in a layer of vivid tan paint, and occasionally a...

  
  Continue Reading...