A syndicated story imported from Lantan finds its way into the Amian Recorder for the morning's edition.



HELMSPORT, Maztica (LP) The Church of Helm's Mission to Maztica, after thirty years of conquest and setbacks since its 1361 settlement by Captain-general Cordell and the Golden Legion, faces a new tragedy. Captain-general Cordell's native-born daughter, Sara, has reportedly been kidnapped by Payit rebels.

On the morning of 3 Alturiak, what had been months of small skirmishes with Payit rebels on the borders of Amnian-controlled territory culminated in a dawn raid by natives on Captain-general Cordell's seaside manor in Helmsport, formerly Ulatos. Stricken with a blood-born illness, a bedridden Cordell was unable to rally his forces in time. Several house guards and responding Legionnaires were slain by the rebels. Sara Cordell went missing during the raid and was assumed to have been kidnapped.

Bishop Neeru, appointed to his position after the Dominicus debacle of 1362, has not seen the Payit this savage since former Bishop Dominicus' daughter was kidnapped by Payit tribesmen and sacrificed to their heretical god, Zaltec. "We were certain this bloodshed born of ignorance would end when we demolished the pyramid temples to their evil gods and introduced the peace and holy vigilance of the greater pantheon and Lord Helm Himself. It has been a long road, and it appears a ways yet to travel."

In a conference with several Payit chieftans in the surrounding occupied lands of northeastern Maztica, Bishop Neeru has learned that not all of the Payit people are in rebellion. "They claim that those responsible for the attacks are from the jungles of the Far Payit to the south, territory we have never been able to safely venture into, let alone pacify."

The Payit chieftains refused to get involved in the conflict between the Amnian lands and the Far Payit rebels, but tensions are mounting after a statement made by Captain-general Cordell. "Sara will not be another Martine," he said, in reference to Dominicus' daughter. "The Payit will unite with the Golden Legion against these heathens in the black jungles, willing or not."

As of press date, Captain-general Cordell has assembled the slim ranks of the Golden Legion with the intent to rally the loyal Payit people, known for their peaceful nature, scientific acumen, and military strategy, against the savage and untamed Far Payit tribes.

Other groups being drawn to the area by an unusual meteorological phenomenon have met resistance from the Amnian authorities, who discourage overland travel by non-military personnel due to the danger of roving bands of bloodthirsty Far Payit. Seychelle, a professor-in-residence in Helmsport who has been cataloging flora, fauna, and climate for a Maztican Almanac, cautions researchers from journeying to Maztica at this time to view the unusual and persistent aurora borealis that began over the Narabutan jungle and continues to move northeastwards across the Trackless Sea. At least, not without a sense of the danger and how to survive Maztica's current political problems.

"Hereabouts, a rare problem expects rarer solutions," he said, adding that no one should come with an unrealistic expectation of safety or without an intent to get embroiled in what he expects will be much worse before it is much better. "The natives have never been this restless. If things get bad here, I may take that opportunity to go fishing in Coxi Bay."

The aurora borealis moves day by day in a northeast direction and has become an attraction for many trade and passenger vessels crossing the Trackless Sea from Faerun to Helmsport. Only one other such instance has been reported in the last couple of years, and that's over a small tract of the Trackless Sea between the islands of Amia and Ruathym.

In addition, some intrepid explorers accompanied by adventurers who returned from an excursion in the jungles of the Far Payit by way of Helmsport report that a wide swath of the jungle is exhibiting features of a dead magic zone. Such zones are known to manifest, often without warning or explanation, but it is rare for them to appear in rich, verdant areas.

Since 1361, the Church of Helm has been occupying the Payit region on behalf of the nation of Amn in a mission to save the natives from the dominion of evil gods. In the first three years of settlement, Captain-general Cordell successfully established Helmsport, demolished a major temple to an abusive foreign god, rallied some 200,000 natives to rebel against their shamans and their wicked traditions, conquered the kingdoms of Kultaka and Nexal before Mt. Zatal erupted and destroyed much of the Nexal empire. He survived an attempt on his life years later by the remnants of the Nexalan empire, but ever since then the Amnian borders have been gradually shrinking back towards Helmsport as native Mazticans, some peaceably through tribute of gold and others through conflict, take back what they call their homelands. Captain-general Cordell has faced significant criticism outside the Church of Helm for allegedly "butchering the natives for glory and gold" but remains insistent that his only goal is to glorify the virtues of Helm and to guard the ignorant savages from the insidious evil of their ancient gods.

// Tuesday afternoon, March 13th, 4pm EST, 3pm CST, ∞ Liminal Time. Bmia. Those who are involved know who they are. May slide as much as two hours later if necessary to accommodate schedules, but prefer an earlier start.

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Playing:
Marcus Valis

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Davion Telemos - Monk of the Four Winds
Korthan Isharnos - Dragon Shaman of Thunder Spirit Zamasham

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"The world takes and takes, even things that aren't offered. Finally, it gave us something back; I wish he was here to share it with me."

Tuomas quietly sat down in the office of the Magister of Kohlingen Keep, kneeling in the central of the ritualistic designs upon the floor. Where some might see him to be praying, given his hand was rubbing his holy symbol of Gond and Mystra while he contemplated formulae quite advanced, and extended further then traditional rote formulaic notations would be.

".... The Ultimate Refusal of the Dark, lighting the path of the righteous home."

A bowl of water sat before him, and a cloth stained blue. He turned to the youth next to him and handed him the cloth.

Return home, they will know what this means.

As the youth left, he turned back to his contemplation of the bowl before him.

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I play: Gage le Gris
Socially and recently politically Inept Knight of Xymor

*A top the Skullcrags, a small figure looked out to the vast expanse of the sea that separates Amia and Rauthym, trying to pin point a spot beyond sight.*
Ulrik says it is time for that fancy "fishing trip"... I'll be sure to catch a big one for you all.

*A grin hidden behind a ceramic mask, his gaze shifts westward and he draws his portal wand...*

_________________
Eli Hodgewall <{/,~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~X
Sven <=={o===========>
Qeelak \ | / ,

In a remote, cold tower in Forstakkr, Lady Emma finally receives word from her friends when they visit her.

Her eyes stay downcast upon the folded hands in her lap and she takes a few long, slow breaths.

"We knew it was coming; it is coming..." her voice fades and she looks back up again after a few more breaths.

"I have to risk going to Kohlingen. I want to-- I must-- see them off. To the hells with all this marriage nonsense. I--" she looks at her friends as if daring them to tell her to stay. "I must see them off or I could not live with myself-- what if?--" And she does not finish her statement.

Instead, she smiles at them, a smile of forced resolve. "Whatever comes, I will see them off."

She stood immediately and began to pack her things.

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Tears were held in, and a single nod given.

"We knew it was coming. You'd better come home to me. I love you." And then the tears escaped. It was a somber night in the home.

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The greatest hope for some rested in a place that brought little more than despair to another. She had known that this day would come. She had known longer than perhaps he had. Like stars winking out behind a layer of unseen clouds on the darkest night, what little hope she had for the future of a small family with a history of pain and loneliness dissipated.

He was so set, so determined in his path. He would sacrifice all to see to this "final" duty. Though she did not say it, though she did everything she could to conceal from him her feelings, there was a part of her, deep down, that did not expect him to return. That seed of doubt, unmoving despite her many efforts, made these last few days and hours before his departure that much more unbearable. When he returned to his study to continue his preparations, she breathed in sharply and turned to the door. Marcus stood nearby, holding a sleepy Gabria.

"Mommy? Is everything okay?" The little boy knew something was wrong. He had long begun to pick up on the tongue they used to protect him from painful truths and some of the things they said frightened him.

Escine found that she could not answer that question truthfully. Smiling through her tears, she asked him to take Gabria to bed. The kind and concerned boy hesitated, watching his distraught mother for a time longer before he finally turned to carry his sister to bed. Escine took the opportunity to slip out of the room belonging to the Valis family and hurried to the nearest flight of stairs that would take her outside the Keep - to the roof, as it turned out.

As she reached the open air of the roof she stumbled across to the battlements and leaned heavily on it. Her heart ached as she clutched the stone before her and wept openly. Was it selfish of her to feel so bitter? Was it selfish to wish that her husband could let go and let someone else step in to do what he felt he must do - perhaps someone who didn't have a family to tend? Her muscles trembled weakly and she sank to her knees, leaning her head against the ramparts as her wings curled around her.

Her heart was cleaved in two over this very delicate matter. One half resonated deep anguish and spite directed toward all involved, for they were all pawns in this game, urging the piece that was her husband to take the fore and put himself on the line at the expense of his family. They didn't care about her or the children. They only cared about their agenda, about doing things the way they felt was the right way to do it. No one had asked her opinion. Her opinion didn't matter anyway. Why should they care about the insignificant pieces that weren't even on the board? Those pieces didn't matter as long as the pieces in play remained so. She understood the significance of the situation. As a servant of Mystra, she knew all too well how important it was. But why did it have to be Ulrik? Why did it have to become more than just a game of life and survival. It had taken a dark turn, even in her husband's mind and it was a truth that left this half of her heart nearly empty after being so angry and forlorn for so long...

But the other half of her heart was riddled with faith in her husband. While she did not like what he had chosen, she was devoted to the same goddess that at least partially guided his hand. She had faith in his abilities. The problem would be dealt with. The danger avoided. History would remain where it was supposed to be. Of that she was certain.

But it was such a cold, empty reassurance. She had faith in him and his abilities as a wizard. She did not have faith in all the other factors that would determine whether he would return to his family. There were so many things that could go wrong and no matter what he said she knew that any promise he made to return was nothing more than words spoken to someone who wanted so desperately for them to be true.

All she wanted was to be able to live with her husband, to raise the children with whom he had already lost too much time. He was human. She was elven. Their time was already so limited. It would all be over in the blink of an eye. And he spent so much of that time dealing with this that there was little room for anything else. Obsession was the bane of their existence and it only caused her heart to plummet further whenever that obsession showed itself in her husband's actions. He would never call it an obsession, but he did not see what she did. Perhaps he did not understand her perspective.

She loved him with every fiber of her being. She had given so much of herself, and continued to give all of herself to him. When he was gone from this world, she knew that her existence would be cut short. Their bond was strong. It would be impossible to continue without him.

If he failed to return from this, she didn't know what would become of her...

She remained curled on the roof floor for well into an hour, simply crying into her arms. Her entire body trembled under the force of her emotions, her fear, devastation, and helplessness. It clashed vehemently with the love and faith that so vied for dominance in her heart. Try as she might, she simply could not shake her despair. She did not want him to go. Even knowing what could happen if he didn't, she did not want him to go. She wanted him to be with his family, to spend his time loving them, not chasing evil and fighting the righteous causes that had driven their adventuring days.

She had given up a life of excitement and battle, of fighting for the cause of good. She simply could not see how he could waste their precious little time together with such obsessions... Obsessions that could lead to their time disappearing without a moment's notice. It was an immensely painful confusion that made breathing difficult. It was one she lingered on for years, trying desperately to understand as the mind of an ambitious human wizard might.

But she could not. As close as she was to her dear husband, they were two entirely different beings. Sitting there atop the Kohlingen Keep, she prayed to her goddess. Tears streaming down her cheeks, she curled her legs up and bowed her head.

Whatever the outcome, she knew that it was for the best. Even if it meant the death of them both. And that caused her heart more pain than she cared to admit even to herself...

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"Butchering, yes..."
A tall woman with long grey hair can be seen, in tears, going through the remains of a copy of the Amian Recorder.
She suddenly screams and tears the paper apart.
...
Moments later she would be carefully assembling the page again, directly on the ground.
She pauses, reads the article over and over again, and cries...

"Home...."

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Nana Anvilmar - Slower Talking, Faster Running
Lester, Jester, Chandler, Alchemister !
Pauris Sennemen de Laelith - Merchant (currently in Suzail, Cormyr)
Metzlitemoctzin - Payit slave, now freed from Silent's sadostyle of plotting !

Inside a Magician's study within Kohlingen Keep, Tuomas continues his quiet re-reference to old notes studied prior and committed well to mind and comprehension, seemingly readying himself for a potential need.

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Crimson stained the grass, shining under the light of the full moon. The other woodland creatures had scattered as the predator had descended on its prey. The bird creature drove into the unsuspecting deer, burying its talons into the hide. The deer squealed and bolted ahead into the night. The bird's wings folded as it drove its front talons into the deer's legs, tearing through muscle and sinew. It gripped on for life as the dumb animal tried to flee. It let loose a pained groan as it stumbled and collapsed under the attack. The bird crawled quickly over the injured beast, and tore into its throat with its razor beak. The deer squirmed in futility until the bird finally ripped the throat out and swallowed it whole. The deer lay motionless. The bird feasted, covered in blood, wings draped protectively over its prize.

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Andrew Fryar: Cordor's Folk Hero
Bobrin: Eccentric Avenging Executioner
Lyle Torrowfire: Retired badass
Marigold Cobcruncher: Perceptive Priestess

The seventh hour tolled in the city of Kohlingen. Like clockwork, and like every other morning, Ulrik entered his small private study. This morning, however, was not a normal morning. It was a grim resolve that possessed him this day. He sat before the small, circular altar that doubled as his desk. The only light in the room was that cast by seven candles, magically illuminated, that were arrayed about this circular altar. The result was a pattern reminiscent of the holy symbol of Mystra. Upon this altar, besides the seven candles, were a crystal ball and an hourglass. From within a drawer of the altar, a large tome was retrieved, a spellbook. Followed by a slightly smaller tome. The latter was a collection of ancient vellum, the corner of which was stained with blood.

The two tomes were opened and set on the altar, and, the hourglass was upturned. As the first grains of sand began to fall, Ulrik turned his attention to the works before him. Within the former, larger tome, were the sigils and runes for spells. Esoteric formula was committed to memory. Very specific, very precise spells. By the time a quarter of the sand within the hourglass had fallen, the larger spellbook was shut. A soft exhale from Ulrik followed, and his eyes closed. The formula was firmly cemented in the magician's mind. The spell that would bend space upon itself. Though their ultimate destination was in a place where Mystra's Gift did not extend, these spells would be necessary to get there. Evocations to blast any enemies, divinations and abjurations to ward from danger. He was a magician. Spells were as life-blood, and, he felt a slight sensation of euphoria as the spell formula was cemented in his mind. The feeling that accompanied spells being committed to memory, and the paradoxical concepts being both understood and accepted by the magician's mind.

His studies completed, his attention turned to the other tome. The pages were ancient, and, the words written in Loross, the high language of the Netherese. A language Ulrik had come to understand completely. As this collection was opened, a palpable chill went down the magician's spine. The pages were steeped in violence, literally stained with blood, and recapitulated a sordid history. Wizard upon wizard. Brother upon brother. All for one end. To shape the future of magic. A cold chill resonated within these pages, one that resonated within Ulrik as he reviewed their contents. One that embraced cold, unfaltering logic and a grim determination. A willingness to inflict pain and torture, without mercy, and without compassion, to administer one of the cruelest of fates upon another mortal. Upon a fellow wizard.

...the angle of the sword, piercing the liver. The inverted crown, piercing the skull. All flawlessly rendered upon ancient vellum...

There was a time Ulrik doubted his resolve. His ability to conduct this rite, which had long been mastered. That was before the Monolith had been lost. Before so many young magicians had been claimed by the Arcanum's seductive lies. Before Sallino's treachery. Before dear Merram had her skull bashed in, repeatedly, upon her very crystal ball. Before Mentaki's sacrifice, that had saved them all. That saved the people of Cordor. People who would never know. People who would never care. People who would never believe.

No, Ulrik had no doubt of his resolve now. Nor was it pure ideology that guided him, anymore. No, there was something else. Something he was keenly aware of, in this moment of pure unfaltering and cold logic. Something darker than he would care to admit.

Revenge.

He could not deny it. The task at hand was intensely personal. He would make that magician pay for his bloody sins, his countless atrocities. In the name of Mystra, by the very will of Azuth, and in the memory of brothers and sisters in faith and creed already lost but never forgotten. Their sacrifices would not be in vain. In this, the magician found his resolve cemented. Before the altar steeped in the symbolism of Mystra he turned his prayers to another. The sordid history of the ritual he now studied, his hand resting on this collection of ancient vellum as he prayed. This rite, written by one of the greatest and most ambitious magicians of all time who had once courted the goddess herself. A rite that was steeped in a history that was a conflict of wizards. Stained with the blood of a particular, eccentric and now one-armed elven wizard. It was a simple prayer, spoken as an oath.

"'The world will not survive another Karsus... to suffer another folly of Karsus' magnitude will put an end to magic, and to life, as we know it.' This creed was sworn, long ago. The oath of the Wærintu. Their creed I now affirm, their task I now complete. You have my oath, Azuth. Hear my words, Lord of Spells, this I pray."

The ritual book was closed as the sands of the hourglass ceased to fall. Resolve had been found in cold, hard logic, cemented in righteous anger. The belief he could succeed, let alone survive the coming days, was the height of pride. Of wizardly hubris. Yet, wizards live in a world of ideas, at the very intersection of will and reality. This belief, this pride, this self-confidence that was so carefully cultivated. It was necessary for victory. It was necessary to survive. And, he would not fail.

His bags were already packed. His spells were now prepared. His contingencies were in place, his last pieces placed upon the board. He could only hope he had made the best moves possible in the time he had left. However, the time for doubt was behind him. The appointed hour was approaching unerringly, and would require all doubt, and all reservation, to be cast aside. In this task, he could hold nothing back. Everything had to be risked. Everything. With a quiet sigh, Ulrik opened the door of his study. What met him surprised the wizard.

"I'm ready, daddy." It was Marcus, who had a bag slung over his shoulder. It was enough to crack that resolve of cold, unfaltering logic, and Ulrik went to his knees to embrace his son.

"You can't come with me, Marcus. You know that." He spoke, softly, as the boy embraced his father.

"But, its going to be dangerous. I heard you and mommy talking." Was his simple, innocent reply. "Maybe I can help you?"

It was too much. The Mystran magician fought as hard as he ever had to keep back the tears. He could not break. Not now.

"You need to stay here, and take care of your mother. I'll be back." Ulrik mussed the boy's hair, and attempted to find that cool resolve once more, coming to stand. His son looked dejected.

"You promise?" He looked up at his father, his young voice broken and practically demanding.

"I promise."

They were words that only a son could believe.

His gaze went from Marcus, to his wife, who had been watching the entire time with their baby girl, Gabria, in her arms. The look in Escine's eyes, nothing had to be said. He knew she was torn and near broken. She had tried to hide it, of course. But he had seen the tears shed in quiet moments she thought he was not watching. There are some things one can not hide. As she knew the dark determination that had come to possess him, he had sensed the bitterness her heart harbored. He could not blame her. He quietly feared what his death would mean for her, and, his family. He could never fathom what the elven priestess had given up, for the sake of their small family. She never wanted anything more than his love, and, in every one of his endeavors, and in all of his ambitions, she had always supported him. Promises spoken and unspoken, and years filled with painful partings and joyful reunions stood between them.

The coming days, and the task ahead, had loomed over them for a long time. Yet, what else could he do, but resolve against failure in his heart and in his mind. Too much was at stake. He could not fail, and thus, he would not fail. It was a simple, grim, and bull-headed determination, and an unerring faith in his cause. There was only one thing he could say, sealed with a kiss to his beloved and a hug to his little girl, too young to understand the weight of this moment in time.

"I love you."

The time for him to depart would soon be upon him. As he embraced his family, he could only hope this would be the last time he had to leave them.

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Playing:
Marcus Valis

_________________
Eli Hodgewall <{/,~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~X
Sven <=={o===========>
Qeelak \ | / ,

For his part the little known Paladin, had sat himself in a corner at Mayfields. All his preparations had been made he could do naught else. He sighed somewhat as he looked down to the end of his left arm, the stump, now covered in a steel sheathe and buckled multiple times to his elbow and to his pauldron, more buckles and settings and catches and hooks then one would see upon a team of horses. He hoped that the mountings would allow him somewhat limited use of his shield, at least allowing him to deflect a few meagre blows before his shoulder inevitably became dislocated.

It wasn't pain that he feared, it was the annoyance that this was a limitation he had not succesfully overcome in time. Limitations and time.

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I play: Gage le Gris
Socially and recently politically Inept Knight of Xymor

Dark blue silks rustled as Lady Emma hurried her preparations to move some of her belongings into the Keep, at least for now.

"Mister Dunbar, please assist me," she said as she bustled into her sheet-covered home in Kohlingen, surprising the servant and causing him to jump to his feet.

"Yes, my lady-- of course, my lady--"

Emma moved past him, regal in her determination to be quick about it. She went upstairs and packed some of her things, some clothes, some odds and ends, then called down for his aid. "Bring this to the Keep, please, I need to relocate there for a time."

Servant in tow, the young noblewoman swept into her rooms at the Keep. "Here, please. Is all well in the household?"

"Yes, ma'am, it is, just--" and he paused.

"Yes?" She turned, looking at him, and she bade him continue.

"Your Uncle has asked me to-- he wishes to speak to you, my lady."

"Yes, I am certain he does."

"He's asked me to let him know when you return to Kohlingen."

She stopped cold, as she placed her folded up cloak on the bed. The tension in the room grew thickly about them like a hedge, and she turned her head, fixing him with her eyes as they flashed green. She stood up straight as she turned her whole body to face the servant, drawing up to a height that seemed taller than her actual 5'3", and pinned him with those eyes. "And do you work for my Uncle, or do you work for me?"

There was a tense silence for a few moments. "I work-- I work for you, my lady."

"Then see that you do just that." Her brow was raised in a dangerous arc.

"Of course, my lady. I just wished to-- warn you of his machinations."

"Thank you, Mister Dunbar. Your loyalty is of the utmost importance to me. I am certain my Uncle has discerned I am back in Kohlingen now. But that is secondary to my current concerns. Do you understand this?"

"I do, my lady."

"Excellent then," and here, she placed something in his hand, supplementing his usual salary with a gold-filled bag that spoke more loudly. "Thank you; that is all I require this evening."

"Yes, my lady," and Dunbar left the room and the Keep.

She closed the door behind him and breathed out slowly, resting against the door's heavy oak before locking herself inside, and moving about to unpack.

* * *

That night, before bed, she spent her time in prayers, a figure in white upon her knees, gripping a symbol of Mystra in her hands.

"You know and see their paths-- my Lady Mystra-- you must grant them victory. You must enlist all aid that you are able; what they do-- what they go against. You know. You already know," her voice had a tremor, and a pleading. "You must help them," the shaky voice faded.

Finally, in the early watches of the morning, she rose to go to her bed, the symbol still in her hands, its chain tucked around her wrist.

* * *

The dreams began almost as quickly as her eyes had closed. She felt transported; she felt pulled. It was across time and space-- time and distance. She felt she was carried there-- there to where her friends were going-- there, to Maztica. To face-- to face him.

She saw her spirit in the form of a white bird as it flew to meet them there. As a white-- bird? It flew, it flew quickly. "My spirit and heart go with you," she felt herself whisper. "Success-- please, for the love of all that is good in this world-- we must have success."

In such dizziness, such movement, such prayer, she slipped into further dream:

It seemed a temple; hard wood and stone, tans, lined with black, and red. Red. An overpowering red, as if the very halls were lined with it. As if-- veins. As if the place were alive, and pulsing, with the power of blood.

So peripheral-- a bird in the rafters-- what could she see? Not much-- not much if she wished to not be caught, and not being caught was the key. He could feel her, she thought, beating about, quick wings in a quick gust of air. Movement was critical to not being caught.

He stood, and so did her friends-- opposite to opposite, face to terrible face-- the power was growing, it was in undercurrents and tension; it was pulsing and building and surrounding. Soon, soon-- it would encapsulate them all.

"See or flee, little bird? Know or have your escape, it cannot be both."

"How can I leave? How can I leave them to their fates?"

A terrible sound then, a consequence, a thudding, a closing. A darkness that filtered out all other light. The windows-- the light-- breath--

"We are closed inside his body," she thought, madly, and she looked around, trying to see, trying to see beyond into the darkness that was madness. Into the darkness that was impossible. Into the darkness that was everything, that was all.

Her heart beat like the frightened bird she was-- and she was struggling-- struggling to get outside the (rib) cage-- enclosed inside his body. "We must get out-- Ulrik--" she looked about, desperately in the darkness to try and see her friends.

She paused, standing upon a rafter, heart thumping loudly like drums, and stared, trying to will herself to see. But it was a hair-breadths too long, and she was caught. Captured. Held. Fingers clasped around her feathery form, and her struggle was for nothing. The beating of her wings was to no avail, and she was brought-- inexorably-- slowly-- brought up to the face of a master, who said in the voice of a god:

"And what have we here?"

She woke in a terror, in a sweat-- in tears. For the face was familiar indeed, and not at all the one she expected. "No--" she whispered to the night, rolling over in her bed and crying damp tears upon her pillow. "Goddess, no, never, please--"

No further sleep came that night, and the cold, pale Kohlingen dawn found Emmaline Vaughn clasping her Mystran symbol, praying, pale-faced, and drawn.

* * *
A sending goes out to an old friend.

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Tuomas spends much of the morning after rest in one of three places within the keep.

The first, with Lady Emma, staying with her close to Ulrik's family but giving them their respectful space. He would ensure she was faring well and would give her a pat on the shoulder or a hug, before trundling off to the second of the places he would be during the course of the day within the keep.

The small Mage's study where Ulrik had taught him, communed unto him a particular rite which he needed to be ready to cast should the worst befall. Here, Tuomas went in his mind over the varying lessons taught to prepare himself, and ready himself for if his time should come to be called to task.

~If I'm needed though... I will be put to my utmost test.. but, the price of failure is all the worse.~

The third of the places Tuomas would linger was divided between two points. The first, the Justicar's throne room where the Justicar, the Imperator and the Court of Kohlingen would sit. He would remain out of the way and if asked to move on would apologize but do so respectfully. He would also trundle about the keep slowly, a deliberate yet slowed pace as he made liberal use of his Staff.

~If it is going to be nescessary.. where within the keep proper would be the most optimal place . . . ~

Lady Emma would receive Tuomas gratefully, spending some time with him before he moves onward. She looks tired, and pale, though, her eyes showing worry. Before he leaves her rooms, though, she would smile and tell him:

"I think I have some good news though." She smiles, encouragingly. "I think-- Shala is going with them." And she squeezes the gnome's hand.

* * *
Earlier:

With one more reply left from Emma's sending, Shala deigns to utilize it: "I expect you are remaining behind, Vaughn. If you were not, I am taking your place. No arguments."

A smile broadens across Emma's face; she breathes out and follows up with a final sending. "I am remaining behind. And hope to see you when you bring them all back."

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"That is blessed news, Miss Lady Emma. I imagine that she will rather aptly do well fighting the enemy." Tuomas replied, sighing a bit and bowing his head.

~ There isn't any way around it that would be agreeable to my philosophy. Capitulation isn't an option. ~

*A Hin sits in Cordor and watch the incoming boats as wella s the sky*

_________________
Eli Hodgewall <{/,~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~X
Sven <=={o===========>
Qeelak \ | / ,

In the Kohlingen Keep, a celestial priestess wearing a simple blue robe sits before an open window until late into the evening. Her colorful wings droop low behind her, absent of strength enough to hold themselves off the ground. Escine sits in silence. An endless dance of emotions sends shadows across her face. She doesn't emerge from her quarters during that first day, but she doesn't turn visitors away. She grows more saddened by the moment, though, as if her heart can only burrow deeper, sinking further into despair.

Come nightfall, she finally leaves the open window to tend to her children and ready them for bed. Her gaze linger on their young faces as they lie down. When she finally retires for the night, tears find her eyes and she finds she cannot reach reverie...

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Additioanlly to Escine, Tuomas cannot find sleep either much as he tries. He continues intermixing his three varying activities and contemplates as he does so, keeping an eye to Escine , Lady Emma, Escine and Ulrik's children, and to Claire when she is about.

He also is seen pondering, recalling, contemplating in various portions of the castle, and lastly checking in with the Court of the Justicar, keeping out of the way but visiting with them to se how things fare.

Aside from this, one thing is certain: While he is waiting, he is standing ready. For anything at this juncture.

Claire stayed at the highest point in the keep, and oddly enough, watched the skies over Cordor. . . .

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With Claire, Tuomas still awaits word and continues, as best he can to make ready. He does spend some time eventually going to rest and get sleep before his narcolepsy makes him miss something, but he does ensure to keep his mind ready to potentially recieve a Sending.

Going days without sleep, Claire finally passes out at her watch point.

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"It is done..."

He was exhausted, and his words were heavy. The time for explanation would come. The time for rationalizations would come. Time. For once, there would be time enough for these things. Later. For now, there was simply one thing. Rest.

Yet, as the magician had promised, he had come home.

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Playing:
Marcus Valis

What was once gaunt on a leaving was now haggard on its return. Bloodied and riddled with injury the form slowly made its way from the Keep to Mayfields. The lightest of limps denoted the phantom pain of an entirely healed leg injury. Bloodstained linen was wrapped around the figures right hand whilst armor, cracked and rent, gave immutable evidence of the man having been hard pressed. There was no sense of victory about him, indeed his chatreuse eyes were haunted, his tanned skinned tinged with white.

"A victory of sorts, despite limitations. . ."

His only utterings before he fell onto his sleeping roll within his room at Mayfields. . .

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I play: Gage le Gris
Socially and recently politically Inept Knight of Xymor

It was late when she felt the sensations, distant and weak but never hidden from her. So attuned to her husband in this instant, she knew the moment the deed was done. The relief that flowed from her husband and passed the great distance between them to wrap around her through their bond brought to her a light that she had not felt in years. No longer would this loom before them. No longer would tension and fear rule their lives. No longer would she and the children need to say goodbye...

Her eyes filled with tears. It was like a heavy weight that fell off her shoulders once and for all. All the doubt and fear simply slipped away. For almost an hour, she paced. In her eagerness, she nearly exhausted herself and had to sit down again on her cushions by the window. How long would it take for him to come back? How long would they have to linger there? Excitement grew in her chest with every moment that passed. She could feel other sensations. She knew it would not be a simple story to tell, but she would not ask him to tell it immediately. No, the most important thing was that he would be home, and she would make sure he knew that he was welcome, and that she was happy to see him, happy that he had succeeded, happy for everything.

She heard the door.

On her feet in a moment, the celestial priestess ran to her husband. She took him into her waiting arms and held him close, wishing that she never had to let go.

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It was a feeling that was not one her breast was accustomed to housing, but it roiled there tumultuously, writhing between pleasure and contempt; it was satisfaction, still bristling and lively with teeth freshly wet on the blood of prey that had long evaded her. Her blades, scratched with scathing promises of retribution along their sides, were curiously content and their appetite slaked as they lounged like lions with full bellies within their sheaths.

The truth was that Shala had not expected to survive the encounter, nor for any of the others to, and she had consigned herself entirely to the goal of assuring that if only one lived to confront the Blood Magus, it would be Ulrik - all other lives were expendable. They did not prevail unscathed, and she had been the first to fall under an onslaught of vitae given malicious intent and the power to conduct it, pincered between three of the sanguine spirits and the focus of their hostility. Had they sensed the years of blood staining her hands, her ravenous blades? Had there been some sympathy between them, some idealized moment when they met in that intimate embrace; one monster seeking his perfect world, drowning the monster that sought to cull her way to her own in her own blood, ripped from her veins and torn from her flesh.

The memory of it still lurked in the shadows, unwilling to be caged in any definite frame or detail. She recalled waking, however, and the sight of blood on Ulrik's hands.

Shala's path veered along the thoroughfare, continuing away from the Kohlingen's sentinel keep and through its core. The trappings of battle and death still coated her, sank into the all of the crevices and corners and casting her in blood. She had one more place to go before she left the island again, but she could spare the time to sanitize and make herself presentable. Her feet knowing the way, her mind was free to continue retracing and rehearsing the past days, and invariably her thoughts latched onto one hateful spot.

Mentaki.

A spark of loathing was washed with a pleasure usually reserved for that of a starving stomach finally provided with meal that had previously escaped it. The visceral scene played out again, so potent that she let her hand clench as it was when it held her weapon to his skin. Shala could feel again the pulse of his artery through the metal, smell the same scent of him that had wafted by whenever he had passed her in the halls. She had been nearly as close as a lover in his last moments, wanting to savor him in all of her senses to draw a sharp line between his life and his death and feel every inch, every second of that transition. It had not been a question of if she was going to slay the Halruaan; it was not Ulrik's permission she had waited for. It had merely been a question of when, when they needed his words no longer.

"Everything." She had said to him in that moment. Everything I hate in those who wield magic, in the descendants of Netheril. Everything I fear from those with the power to irreparably change the world.

When the signal came, there had been no delay, no hesitation. It was her ecstasy, releasing his blood over the etchings on her blade and filling every scratch as if sealing the covenant. She did it for the Weave. Not for Mystra, not for Azuth or Tyr, not even for Hoar, though the execution was as if the final word of a wrathful prayer once begun, seasons ago. She had no care for the divinities that turned their eye upon this place or these people now, and sought no vindication or tearful acceptance back into what constituted their grace. The moment that held her and the mage was holy just between them, as mortals, and hunter and prey.

It was over in a mere instant, and though she may have desired it differently in another circumstance, the mage had only a sliver of time to feel pain, so quick, precise and knowing the killing stroke. It was over, and Ulrik's mistake with him - though not forgotten or forgiven, nor would Mentaki be, even in his death.

She had relished that death more than even the reason she had come, more than the culmination of their efforts in that butchered land that sweated blood, fatigue and disease. She had done what she had come to do, neutralized who she had sought to, and the blood of magi had drenched her again. Even as she washed, the feel of it reminisced on her skin, and the satisfaction lingered well after she dried. She felt good, her hands and her conscience clean.

It was time to see the Lady Vaughn.