Heirs of the New World: Conquerors

[Reogan]

Rhenis! City of Opportunity, City of Hope. Malvis saw to it that this motto made itself true. Of the four Great Cities of Novis, here alone has there never been true famine. Here, there has never been true plague. Here, squabbles with the Natives always end up resolved with little bloodshed. Most of the generous shipments from the old Continent went straight to social programs made to support an ever-growing population and to foster and inspire new ways to expand the influence and beneficence of the Law.

The arrival of the Martyr's Blood and its fleet changed things in an instant. Apparently coordinated by magic, the change in leadership was instant. The moment Benus stepped from the ship, a legion of clerics behind him, new flags appeared on each government building. Law. The flags of Rhenis and Novis found themselves below the Church on every pole. Conscripted paupers ran from place to place announcing that the new Lord Judge would see applicants for Peacekeepers immediately.

The city changed. Rhenis was now the City of Order and the City of Law. The shipments from the Continent go to financing the Peacekeepers and towards projects which have not yet seen public disclosure. The only part of Malvis' legacy preserved is the verbatim quote which forms Benus' mission statement: "To Foster and Inspire new Ways to Expand the Influence and the Beneficence of the Law."

It has been a month, and now people from all over have had a chance to prepare for Benus' long-since announced second mission: Exploration and Intelligence Gathering. The Church would finance missions into the wilderness, sowing constant support in return for constant results. The wilds are untamed and chaotic. That, we know, will not stand.

Your group has been through the Citadel--so quickly built from the old Office of the Lord Judge which Malvis kept so small--and up the eight obsidian steps to the Court of the Lord Judge. Here, dozens of criminals have been given sentences harsh enough to fit their crimes. Here, the Peacekeepers who keep the streets clear of litter by force and enforce curfew have all been commissioned. And here behind his desk, now, is Benus.

Despite the muggy summer heat, he wears the full Vestment of the Lord Judge without a sign of exhaustion. The heavy woolen cloak stitched with gold symbolizes virtue within humility. On Benus, it seems to be a tangible aura of authority. Black as night, it contrasts sharply with his white hair and beard, his violently green eyes, and the blood red ruby amulet which hangs on a silver chain from his neck. Old, as far as humans go, Benus nevertheless seems to hold a barely restrained power. His dignity is a threat and his disinterest a blessing. This man is not known for his mercy.

"Expedition Group 15," he says in a voice much too thin for his grandeur. He marks a piece of paper. Only now does he look up at you, glancing at each of you almost mechanically, evaluating and calculating.

"I declare you fit. You will be venturing northwards. Our tasks in this land are manifold, and mine is the burden of parceling them out to you. What manner of quest is most fitting? Exploration and claim? Contact and taming? How can you best benefit the Church by your powers?"

His short, clipped words and lack of any niceties seem to indicate that the Lord Judge does not suffer procrastinators gladly.

[Entaris]

Looking for all the world like a constellation in his purple-black silks and silver jewelry, Phyx'al Xaranth of Second house Xaranth shown onl the barest of the ivory crescent of his smile. Let this huamn believe he was under the man's thumb and this paltry Church establishment.

"Exploration and claim. As a prospector by trade, I would request a team and equipment befitting the location and assessment of mineral deposits and natural cave systems for underground deposits of the same." He lilted in his lilting, strangely deep, dialect of Common, his hands folded neatly in front of him and his deep purple eyes, unblinking, making a subtle declaration that this was a very strong suggestion, just shy of the demand he'd have made nearer his home territories.

The Crystal Spider allowed a few seconds to slide by before producing a paper he and his...collegues in this venture had compiled of needs and wants, pushing it forward with one slender ebony hand becked in finery.

"To be more precise. We will ATTEMPT them both. Exploration and Claim will happen first. Any natives on the land will be given the opportunity to join in the Wave of Progress...and the Church, which we herald...the rest..." The corner of his mouth ticks up slightly in this mment, giving the briefest bent grin, "Well, to stay with the metaphor, the rest will be swept away by the tide." He finished, hand sliding back into place in front of him. He allowed himself an inward moment of self-agrandizement for thinking far enough forward to leave his ransuer with his retainer in his accomadations. No need for this man to have even the smallest chance of knowing his alleigences. Round-ears never understand anything. However, the years of pretend subservience to his Sisters would always serve him when manipulating these types.

After a few more moments painfully waiting for the Quick at the table to finish reading, he gestured lightly toward the parchment, Chief among these requests, at least on my quiet opinion, would be investors to supply material assets. Churches will need to be built in order to sermon to homesteaders as well as house and educate the converts. Also excavation equipment to reap mineral assets as well as provide stone for places of worship...and fortifications, in case the natives take leave of their senses and attempt to procure our supplies by aggressive means. He offered at last. Of course, HIS people simply fortify the underground, as he would be doing while the LEssers toil to bring out the earth's riches. Which he will then find a reason to tithe from. But that will be later. For now, he had delivered his piece as agreed upon by The Associates. It was time to weigh this Man's response.

[Hattish Thing]

Judge Samuel Wardwell, Sr. kneels down slowly within his small and somewhat empty quarters, facing a small table with the holy symbol of St. Cuthbert, his god, resting upon it. The door is fastened shut behind him, locked, and the room is lit only by several candles, giving the quarters a somewhat bleak appearance. A pair of incense burners that rested upon the table, filling the room with their aroma. Wardwell is clad only in a pair of dirty brown trousers, his regular dark shirt and uniform resting upon a chair that faces the corner of the small room. He breathes heavily, and stares into a small bit of mirrored glass that sits upon the table, just beneath the holy symbol. The older man is sweating, his gray hair looking wild and frayed, his eyes gazing forward with a crazed look about them. A pitcher of cold water remains on the floor beside him, a thick white washcloth beside it. In his right hand, a strange device is held tightly, his knuckles white from clutching it so passionately. The tool seems to be a thick bit of black rope, crafted to take the shape of several knotted cords. A cat-tail whip, so named for the relatively thin bit of rope used to create them, rope almost the same width as a cat's tail. As Wardwell holds it, he breathes in deeply before speaking a holy chant, his deep voice forced, clearly in some bit of pain. "Dies iræ, dies illa, Solvet sæclum in favilla. Teste David cume Sibylla..." As he speaks, he brings his hand forward, before flinging the whip over his shoulders and groaning out in pain, flagellating himself.

He speaks afterwards, gritting out a small sentence. "I atone for my sin of flesh, may the gods forgive me." Wardwell spends a few seconds gritting his teeth and staring into the mirror once more, before his cold blue eyes drift upwards to gaze upon the weathered holy symbol that rested above him. He would be strong, he was used to the pain by now. On the morning of every third day of the week, for the past twenty years, Samuel would submit himself to the purification, the ritual known as the "Mortification of the Flesh." It was his way of paying penance for sins long past, his own personal method of atonement. The Inquisitor speaks once more, grimacing as he brings the whip over his shoulder once more. "Quantus tremor est futurus, Quando Judex est venturus, Cuncta stricte discussurus..." With a gasp and a crack of the tool, he coughs loudly, before looking up to the holy symbol once more. In it, he found strength. Wardwell continues to whisper out his second plead of atonement. "I atone for my sins of covetousness, may the gods forgive me." By now, his back was aching, and the marks of his self-flagellation are evident. It did not matter to Wardwell however, there was only the ritual now. Just another few marks to rake at his flesh, flesh that did not matter to the Inquisitor. As he prepares for the final stroke of the whip, he continues his chant. "Tuba mirum spargens sonum, Per sepulchra regionum,
Coget omnes ante thronum."

He finishes his ritual with a quivering voice, his weakest whisper yet. "I atone... for my... my sins of enviousness. May... May the gods forgive me." After Wardwell finishes speaking, he slowly dips the cloth into the pitcher of water, and begins to tend to his wounds. The man is quick about it as well, his hands well-practiced, quite used to the ritual after so many years of performing it. As he finishes cleaning the wound, he stands, leaning upon the table to reach his full height, requiring something to balance upon to his leg injury. As Wardwell stands now, he reaches for the bandages that rest nearby, and quickly wraps them around his chest and back, making sure that the sores are both cleaned and protected from disease. It was his Master, Bragadar that taught him the ritual, so many ages ago. It was Bragadar that taught him to treat the wound as well. Though the pain still throbs through his body, Wardwell is temporarily distracted with thoughts of Bragadar, memories both fond and... unpleasant. With a dexterous slide of his hand, the final bandage is in place, and the Inquisitor breathes in deeply, before going about the process of getting dressed. The clothing is all quite heavy, and black, a clear marker that this was a man of the cloth. After he's completely dressed, Wardwell stares at himself in the small mirror once more, looking over each detail meticulously.

It would not due to appear unclean, or ill-prepared for his meeting with Lord Benus, after all.

The man reaches for his gnarled walking stick, the weathered staff's surface covered in gnarled visages of St. Cuthbert, and of other holy figures. Wardwell holds it close with a gloved hand, prepared to walk with it's aid. He opens wide the small door, and steps outside, his great black cloak dragging on the ground behind him. He walks forward now, his great black capotain hat covering his face in shadow, his heavy black clothing billowing in the wind behind him, giving him the appearance of the Grim Reaper himself. As he walks, the older man looks around with a look of pride on his face. Rhenis. Once the City of Opportunity, the City of "Hope". Once foolish titles for a city once full of foolish people, thought Wardwell to himself as he navigated through the cobblestone streets on the way to The Citadel. Useful titles they had been, perhaps, for the purpose of attracting passengers to the city from the Old Continent. Still, the Inquisitor hadn't approved of the name for the city, for in his opinion, the name had given hope to the many vagrants, and sinners, and convicts that'd be thrilled at the idea of escaping the rules and laws of the Old World. Before the Church of the Law had planted it's boot firmly on the face of the New World, the city had been a horrid place, a festering whirlpool of vice and corruption, most definitely. Now, however, things had changed, and for the better. City of Order, City of Law. Now that got the point across, a fitting name for the city now that the Church of the Law had shaped the city into something acceptable.

He walks past a woman in the streets, calling after her daughter. The child rushes out through an alleyway, smiling wildly as she chases after a neighbor boy. As she stumbles out of the area, she follows the boy into the middle of the street, ending up standing right before Wardwell. She looks up at the man all in black and her eyes go wide. The Inquisitor gazes down at her, his cold eyes devoid of feeling and emotion, a perpetual scowl upon his weathered and scarred face. She continues to stare up at him, somewhat perplexed by the man's rather large holy symbol, it seemed to shine so beautifully in the light! She comments upon it, attempting to great the stranger. "I like your necklace! I don't think I've seen you before... I'm Nel-!" Before she even finishes her sentence, Wardwell interrupts her, speaking slowly, enunciating each syllable with impeccable diction, his deep voice dripping with malice. "Out of the way, girl." Without even pausing for a response, Wardwell steps forward, his prosthetic limb clunking upon the ground loudly, his cloak dragging through the leafy cobblestone streets once more. After some time of travel, the man in black finds the location he's looking for, the great Citadel. From the bottom of the great obsidian steps, Wardwell gazes upwards, a small smile of pride forming on his face, his cracked lips forming a rather peculiar grin indeed. It's an uncomfortable smile, neither welcoming nor warm like a smile ought to be.

Wardwell makes his way up the steps, opening the door into Benus' office quietly, an air of both sophistication and intimidation about him, his heavy black clothing covering nearly every inch of the man. He'll move forward directly in front of Benus, gripping his ebon quarterstaff tightly, and although he leans upon it somewhat, he stands in such a way that suggests he was once military, his blue eyes looking over everything hungrily, mindlessly assessing and calculating all that he could see. He was quite unattractive, all things considered. Still, there was a great charisma about him, a sense of authority much like the air of power that Benus himself sported. Anyone around him will be able to take a good long look at the strange man. His posture happens to be as upright as could possibly be despite the man's crippled status. Upon gazing down his weak-looking but solid elderly frame, the reason as to why he leans so heavily is revealed. From his calf to his foot, the man lacks flesh, the foot missing. Instead, a wood and steel prosthetic appears to be capped and strapped onto his leg, allowing him to walk normally. However, one would imagine putting too much bodyweight upon the prosthetic would eventually become uncomfortable, hence the walking staff. However, despite the man's injury and physically weak appearance, there's an aura around him, a presence, a great inner strength, domineering and powerful. From under the shade of the man's black and buckled wide-brimmed capotain, not much can be seen of his face, other than that he appears to have gray mutton chops, very well-groomed for such a weathered looking man. His skin is leathery and splotchy, as if he'd spent many years under the sun. However, his most distinguished facial feature would be his rather large nose, hooked and bent in several places suggesting that it'd been broken many times in the past. At his waist, many pouches can be seen built into his thick belt, his tools of the trade sealed within. There's powders of all kinds here, silver dust, salt, and holy ash all sorted and labelled. This was not a man to anger, clearly, and the man made it clear with his body language. This was not a man that took kindly to foolishness.

He speaks towards Benus now, his deep bass voice cold and empty of regular human emotion. "My lord, Benus. I have heard much about you through the Church. It is both a humbling and an honor to finally put a face to the name." Wardwell nods courteously, clearly no stranger to speaking with figures of authority. It's quite evident that he takes Benus' title quite seriously, and already feels a great deal of respect to the old man. "I am Samuel Wardwell, Sr. As for the proposed mission, my lord, exploration, it may be called. However, tis moreso the acquisition of land than it is simply charting it on a map." There's a small pause before he continues. "I seek land to claim for the Church of the Law, Lord Benus. This "New World" is ripe for the picking, and I believe that the Church would greatly benefit by having a man such as I in control of something as important as the taking and keeping of land. A man with clear ties to the church, and a history of devotion. I seek only able-bodied men to follow me where you decree I go."

"We shall break the back of this virgin land, for the gods above."

[Hexalan]

A memory. Dry dusty skulls in a desert valley with the tops sawn off. A whisper in the sand and a wiggle of the fingers, and two hundred men draw steel. The zephyrs pick up, and the howl of the wind masks rasp of metal on leather. Then, the howl of men in the white noise. The shriek of arrows innumerable plummeting from the sky. Hordes of the enemy pouring from the walls.

A memory. Two men standing on a ship, bow breaking the water as it glides into port. "Should've gone into clean business, like me."

"I was never much one for the sea."

"Doesn't seem like running when there's no one chasing you."

"I don't think they'll be following me this far."

"Well, they didn't think we'd follow them into the Darcsen Rift, did they?"

Rawne smiles softly. "In any case, this is where I'm supposed to be, according to them. Can't blame me for doing my job. They even went through the trouble of getting me this nice instruction letter." Rawne fingers the still sealed, pristine envelope.

A jar, as the ship stops, and sailors throw ropes and boards. "See you around sometime."

"I hope. Un pour tous..." Rawne puts a hand out.

The captain takes it. "...et tous pour un. As they say back home."

Now. Up the grand, obsidian steps, black as baked blood. Into the hall of the esteemed Lord Judge. And waiting, and finally..."Lord Judge. Major Rawne, formerly of the 3rd Trévillean Desert Light." Rawne takes a moment to salute, then steps forward, one hand reaching within his jacket, retrieving an envelope, untouched wax seal gleaming. "An epistle, from the Lord Mayor of my land," he says, and reaches forward to place it on Benus's desk. "As they say. We aim not merely to find territory, but to civilize it, and bring it fully under the control of enlightened men."

[trysted]

Shimon defers to his more eloquent companions, and decides to let them bestow the praises, as he is unimpressed by the Lord Judge, but he doesn't show it.

[Reogan]

"An unusually unified group," Benus remarks. He is stating a fact, not giving praise.

With an extremely practiced hand, he breaks the wax seal neatly in two, ensuring both that it cannot be set right again for forgery and preserving it for sake of future identification. He reads the letter, taking the necessary time to be sure of its contents. After a moment, he looks up at Rawne.

"Well, Major, I understand that some of my colleagues have historically been lax in their duty to enforce the Law. Enforcement includes investigation, and investigation until truth is found. Such are the reasons that the numbers of the Elect are... it is no matter. What is, is that your past is beyond my jurisdiction. That stated, upon Novis, my jurisdiction is without end, and to that end I will not have trouble caused by those I commission. Understand that."

His gaze turns to Wardwell.

"Your enthusiasm, despite your apparent age and unfortunate circumstance, are heartening. Your willingness to follow orders well befits one of your station. Have heart; here one such as you may well make a name for himself. If fame is not your goal, I am certain you shall earn it. Or, among the unrighteous of this land, infamy. You will make a name for yourself if you remain industrious, and that name will be part of the fabric of the Church. Inspire with piety and chastise without mercy."

He next addresses the Drow.

"You ask much. Exceedingly much. You are both untested and untried. I assure you, that should there be need, we will fulfill every one of your requests. For now, though, you must both demonstrate your competence, and demonstrate the need for the great demands you have made. Your first task will be one of exploration, I believe. There exist tribes which impede our progress and do not seem...inclined to make peaceful contact. While peace is always preferred, I would prefer we meet them with groups capable of their own defense. What lies past their lands is a mystery worth exploring. And then, perhaps, claiming. And then, should all be done to satisfaction, your demands may be met. What is immediately pertinent from this list? Or from beyond it, should you be so disorganized."

Taking up his pen once more, he begins to write something down. He speaks without glancing up.

"I take your silence to mean you are in agreement. Give word if I am mistaken."

He continues writing, but gives a glance which invites further comment should any exist.

[Hattish Thing]

"An unusually unified group," Benus remarks. He is stating a fact, not giving praise.

With an extremely practiced hand, he breaks the wax seal neatly in two, ensuring both that it cannot be set right again for forgery and preserving it for sake of future identification. He reads the letter, taking the necessary time to be sure of its contents. His gaze turns to Wardwell.

"Your enthusiasm, despite your apparent age and unfortunate circumstance, are heartening. Your willingness to follow orders well befits one of your station. Have heart; here one such as you may well make a name for himself. If fame is not your goal, I am certain you shall earn it. Or, among the unrighteous of this land, infamy. You will make a name for yourself if you remain industrious, and that name will be part of the fabric of the Church. Inspire with piety and chastise without mercy."
t
Taking up his pen once more, he begins to write something down. He speaks without glancing up.

"I take your silence to mean you are in agreement. Give word if I am mistaken."

He continues writing, but gives a glance which invites further comment should any exist.

Wardwell shifts his gaze towards the other in the room, his cold little eyes beginning to scrutinize and assess every detail upon each of the others with relative ease, his eyes flashing from beneath his dark hat. Although the shadows hide his gaze, the others may feel somewhat bothered by a strange feeling, like someone was looking right through them. Everything about this strange old cripple of a man was unsettling. First, his eyes move to stare towards the "Major", looking him up and down like a hawk mindlessly assessing a field mouse before the kill. Wardwell slowly goes over what he sees in his mind, making sure his mental assessment of each of his new companions was quite thorough. "Rapier, finely made but far too pretty looking. Short sword on the other hip, perhaps he wields them both, the style is not so unusual in certain parts of the world. Not particularly muscular, but there's a liveliness to him there. His title seems to suggest he was once military, but he does not bear himself like a military man ought, his posture is all wrong. I do not trust him. What sort of soldier was this... Rawne? Yes, that was his name. Where have I heard that name before, it sounds... familiar. Almost like... Hm." The question rattles through his head, and Samuel wracks his brain, trying to recall as to whether or not he'd heard of this man before.

Knowledge Local to Recall Information on a "Major Rawne". [roll0]

Next, his electric blue gaze turns over to look over seemingly unarmed man that seemed so quiet. There was something disconcerting there about the silence, something not quite right. Wardwell scowls, obviously somewhat bothered by the fact that the man didn't even bother to introduce himself to the most esteemed Judge Benus. Where were the man's manners? Samuel looks deeper, attempting to get a good idea of what Shimon was like, and what abilities he would have to assist the expedition with. "Unarmed, it seems. Light armor, but mundane in appearance. No, no, this man was no combatant, but nor was he just some pawn of the church, no. He wouldn't be here if he was. There was something about... Ah, yes. A caster, but one without badge or sign of devotion to an organization. This one would need to kept watch upon, yes. I do not trust this wizard, far too unpredictable. Too difficult to control." Wardwell gives the mage one final look, drifting up to look into the other man's eyes from beneath the safety of his own tall hat, his stare most likely going by undetected. Regardless, the Inquisitor turns away from the rather plain, but no doubt dangerous spellcaster.

While Major Rawne may have only drawn a raised eyebrow from the Inquisitor, and the wizard earned naught but a slight scowl, the sight of a drow, a dark elf, daring to speak so brazenly towards the Lord Judge brought a great frown to Wardwell's weathered and scarred face. How dare the... inhuman creature speak towards the superior in such a way, how dare he demand gold from the church in such an unprofessional way. The Inquisitor does not like the drow at first, in his rich purple silks and foppish clothing. And so, without even bothering to hide his gaze this time, Samuel stares straight at the drow, absolutely expressionless save a slight twitch in his lip, and a strange dark look in his eye. "Drow. The very word sickens me. Horrid creatures, devoid of true human emotion, more akin to beast than man. Foul, and evil by nature, as evil as their twisted and false deity, the spider she-demon. The creature embellishes himself all in bright and expensive clothing, a terrible illusion. The wicked thing thinks himself a man, a noble even! Hah. The drow will quickly need to learn it's place, lest I be forced to teach it quite forcefully. Nevertheless, the creature is under the command of the Church now, and as such I must work with it. After all... There is never a shortage of cannon fodder. Perhaps I may even convert it in time, and show it the path of righteousness. It does seem to be a warrior of some sort."

The Inquisitor finishes assessing Phyx'al, however he does not cease his unsettling stare, his cold blue eyes glaring right at the other man's purple orbs. Wardwell tightens his grip upon his quarterstaff before speaking to Lord Benus again, although there's a good five seconds of speech where Samuel is still gazing towards the drow with hostility. His voice is still quite icy, but his speech increases in speed towards the end of his bit of conversation, clearly quite eager to get to his work. "My Lord Benus, I thank you for your kindnesses, however I would request that you simply consider me as you would any other man, for it was the god's will to take what I've lost from me, and I trust most wholeheartedly in the wisdom of the gods. Once more, I thank you most gratuitously for your praise, my lord. I do not seek fame, for I find great honor in simply serving my patron god as best I can, with fire, blade, or whip. I am certain that in time, the unrighteous and unsavory will know my name, however. I shall teach them to fear the Church of the Law, and I shall teach them their proper place in society, or cut them down with righteous fury in the name of the patron lord Saint Cuthbert."

"My lord... When are we to set forth?"

[Entaris]

Oh, dreadfully sorry, Captain Quick. I had thought you Round-Ears liked to get things done in your lifetime. Phyx snarled inwardly, a raised, pale ivory eyebrow the only outward sign of the impertinent man's rejection. Another town to add to his Burn List, nothing more. Mayhap a few abbils from the House could pay this place a visit. Always good to know at least one knife in the shadows.

Blinking himself from his reverie in time for the man's question and pause, he allowed himself a small smirk, inclining ever-so-slightly towards the Lord Human. As you say, the kindling before the spark. However, I would still request that missionaries be sent in our wake, say a week or two hence. He grinned slightly and looked towards the Inquisitor of Cuthbert momentarily. Our Patrons will have new blood within that time, have faith in that.

[Reogan]

"You leave the moment your affairs are in order, which," Benus says looking directly at Wardwell, "I expect they already are. I will grant you any small, material items for which you have need, and then you will depart for Eksel, where you will receive a rough map of where you ought to go. It is decidedly rough, considering that most of journey is through unmapped lands. Should any of you have the ability, you will be given a scroll of sending to use to contact us when the time comes. Do not contact me; contact the secretary from whom you will receive it. There, too, you will fill out the requisite forms to be given the job, as we will want record of who you are."

His head turns.

"Drow, if your words are not empty, then you will be a great boon to the program. That noted, the chance that your pride over-inflates your self-estimation is far greater than that on which I would be willing to stake the time of representatives of the Church proper. Perform well first."

[Entaris]

And your pride inflates your self-estimation of your life span, Blank. Phyx'al seethed in the deep recesses of his mind, feeling that familiar boiling sensation inherent in the Children of the Spider Queen.

Instead, he gave a single coughed chuckle and another slightly inclined head-bow, "As you say, Elg'caress."

[Hexalan]

"Thank you for your support, Lord Judge." Rawne says, saluting again. He quickly makes eye contact with each of his companions, finally settling on the Drow. "Phyx'al," he murmurs, "time to go." Rawne turns back and steps away from Benus's desk, awaiting the rest of the party's departure from the hall.

[Entaris]

Elated to be gone from Lord Round-Ear's presence, Phyx'al gave the barest of nods rather than the usual scowl and turned crisply on his heel to follow the others out.

[trysted]

Shimon bows crisply and makes a silent exit.

[Hattish Thing]

"You leave the moment your affairs are in order, which," Benus says looking directly at Wardwell, "I expect they already are. I will grant you any small, material items for which you have need, and then you will depart for Eksel, where you will receive a rough map of where you ought to go. It is decidedly rough, considering that most of journey is through unmapped lands. Should any of you have the ability, you will be given a scroll of sending to use to contact us when the time comes. Do not contact me; contact the secretary from whom you will receive it. There, too, you will fill out the requisite forms to be given the job, as we will want record of who you are."

Wardwell nods knowingly, his tall hat at an angle towards the Lord Judge, his head bent low enough to see the top of the large thing. He raises his head once more and speaks to Benus again, his deep voice echoing in the small room, each syllable meticulously enunciated. The man possessed quite a frightening voice, all things considered. As he speaks, he slowly clasps his two hands together, rubbing them slowly in anticipation. "You are correct, my lord. I prepared myself this morning for the journey ahead into the dark lands. I do not require further assistance from the Church, my lord, though I thank you once more for your desire to help us on our way. Perhaps you shall hear more of me in the future, Lord Benus."

"Until then, your lordship."

---

The Inquisitor walks out of the room now, his metal leg clacking against the floor. As he leaves, he speaks to the other assembled outside his office. "Are you prepared, gentlemen?"

[Reogan]

(The area around you is a hallway with a number of closed oaken doors. You've exited the room at the end of the hall and are on/have just descended a small set of steps. The other end of the hall opens without a door into the entry room where the secretary likely is.)

[Hexalan]

Rawne nods. "Onwards, then." he says, and proceeds down to the other end of the hall. "Shimon, you can use a scroll of sending, can't you?"

[trysted]

Shimon smiles and follows Rawne.

But of course.

[Reogan]

Behind a desk, a secretary elf sits in front of a massive filing structure that would be best described as overflowing with papers but for the disorder implied by the statement. Under her expert guidance, it seems, even the madness of the half the major paperwork of a continent seems well managed. Still behind the desk, next to the cabinets and cubbies, a lone door sits in the wall, unassuming oak like all the others. This door is mirrored by another across the room, making these the only two ways into the parts of the building that aren't the hallway from which you came.

As you walk in, stepping across the obsidian highlights in the white marble floor which spell out the city's motto, the secretary reaches a practiced hand under the desk, withdraws a bundle of forms, and drops four of them in one expert sweeping motion across the desk. She quickly drops a pen by each, adding two inkwells so each person can have one shared within easy reach. The forms are not long; the ten pages require only signatures and brief notes on the breed of mission you expect to undertake.

"These papers will be copied and stored in every major city across the continent, with copies sent back to the Old World. Did the Lord Judge give you any Requisition Forms?" The woman's voice has something of a foreign lilt to it; likely, she was raised in one of the frontier towns.

[Entaris]

With reflexes born of generation of instinct, Phyx'al fixes the Pale-skin with a dreadful glare and mocking sneerI see they have their own pet Sun-child... He casually remarked to his group, one ebony hand sliding out of his robes, bracers gleaming ever in the low light, to jot things onto the papers, but only after "testing" the quill by drawing on of the many Infernal symbols for Die onto the sun-worshipper's desk about the size of his hand. He stood and jabbed the point of the quill into the table, leaving it quivering in place as an aura of menace rolled off his shoulder likea flowing mantle, his seething ire never leaving the Surface Whore Sun-bitch. The other could deal with the forms.


[roll0]

[Hexalan]

"Thank you, Phyx'al," Rawne says quietly, pushing his way forward, just a little between the elves. He takes a pen and twirls it in his fingers, while taking a moment to skim the front of one of the forms to determine its contents. He leans casually against the desk, and looks right at the secretary. "Sorry, love, we were told to get the forms from you."

Diplomacy: [roll0] towards the purpose of making the secretary like us enough to hook us up with some sweet loot, instead of, for example, throwing a pair of scissors at Phyx'al.

[trysted]

Shimon quietly points out. You know why we are here, and you know how much he would like you to disturb him over a little matter of paperwork.


1d20+10[

[trysted]

Oops



[roll0]

[Hattish Thing]

Wardwell moves forward through the small hallway and into the marble-floored room quietly, seemingly not to be one for mindless conversation. He'll find his place in front of the desk, simply nodding to the woman before beginning to sign the ten papers. He does not bother speaking to the others, and appears to completely ignore Phyx'al's rude comment regarding the elven secretary. Though he does take note of it, saving the memory in his head. The drow would no doubt prove most difficult to work with.

Still, the Inquisitor does not worry himself over the drow further, for he knew that the dark elf would one day face judgement for his many crimes against the better people of the world. He was a sinner, after all.

And so, Wardwell continues to read over the papers and sign.

[Reogan]

The elf watches Phyx'al with an unbreaking calm until he begins to fill his forms. She then waits calmly until everyone is done. As she gathers the forms and places them somewhere under her desk, she responds, finding a number of new papers in the shelves behind her.

"If that is the case, then here is the necessary form for your party." She places one piece of paper in front of Rawne. "You are, I believe, Expedition Group 15, so make sure to fill that in as such in the appropriate blank. Should you require more space than that provided, you presume too much."

As you write, she returns the three free pens to their places and carefully stores one inkwell. She then plucks the stuck pen and begins to write on one of the two blank sheets before her.

[Hexalan]

Rawne starts filling out the tangential information, including painstakingly making sure he puts in "Expedition Group 15" in the appropriate blank. When he finds the actual section he was looking for, he gazes at it disapprovingly, and asks back at the group, "Is there anything you really have to get?"

[Entaris]

Hmmm... Phyx'al thought with one slender hand on his chin, contemplating for the barest of moments the things he'd already been thinking about for an entire boat journey.

The delicate hand descended from chin to tick off a list on the opposite hand's fingers.

Corkscrews. Excavation crew. Surveying equipment. Imported dreugar fungus rations. Wagons. A bucket full of the blood of heretics. A church-worth of stone and carving tools. Oh, and a good set of spelunking gear for myself, my retainer and my haul-boy. He listed off quickly, without so much as a twinge of the mouth to indicate which items were sarcastic or not.

[Hattish Thing]

Wardwell nods to the elven secretary once more before speaking to her quietly, though his bold and deep voice can be heard by most simply through being as crisp as it is. There's a softness to his words to her, but still a great detachment. "Your assistance is appreciated." He begins to fill out the last of the few papers before beginning to write down a few things he'd personally want with him during the journey. His writing is quite nice to look at, and it's clear that the older man has filled out quite a few parcels of paper in his lifetime. Still, he pushes the inkpen into the paper particularly hard, perhaps a little bit too hard to be strictly necessary. Wardwell listens to the drow speaking once more, his scowl deepening as he notices the sarcastic comment and smirk upon Phyx'al's lips. Though the Inquisitor knows that he's to work with these others as per the orders of the Church, he's still greatly annoyed by the disrespectful drow.

The man in black will speak towards Phyx'al, not in a threatening way, but certainly a tad condescending, as if scornfully scolding a child for making some sort of mess. "Know your place, dark elf." He continues writing upon the paper, not bothering to focus upon staring towards the dark elf. "It will not serve you well to disrespect the values of those you intend to have sponsor your expedition, now will it?" Wardwell continues to write, taking his time to make sure he's signed everything with the proper words and numbers. "Think before you speak." With that said, he finishes writing and sets the paper down, organizing it and handing it towards the elven secretary politely. When he's done, he'll stand up and look towards the others, his dark and billowing cloak falling down his shoulders like a waterfall of black cloth to rest upon the marble floor.



1. Three barrels of pitch.

2. Ten pounds of wooden plank.

3. One barrel of tar.

4. Rations.

5. Underlings.

6. Additional Torturer's Devices.

-Samuel Wardwell, Sr.

[Hexalan]

"I'll get you a bucket." Rawne labors over the fundamental section, filling it with clear, crisp letters, with the practiced hand of someone who has had to fill out innumerable bureaucratic requisition forms in the past.

Oil, eight pints. Signal whistles, three. Tents, three. Signal whistles, four. Manacles with simple locks, two. Hempen rope, fifty feet. Lamps, two. Hammers, two. Wood axes, three. Bow saw, one. Wood chisel, one. Mugs, two. Jugs, two. Chain, twenty feet. Chalk, five pieces. Canvas, ten square yards. Flint and steel, two. Fishhooks, three. Map cases, two. Blank books, two. Ink, six ounces. Inkpens, two. Shovels, two. Pickaxe, one. Astrolabe, one. Compasses, two. Pack mule, one. Pack saddle, one. Worthless baubles, 10 pounds.

Bucket, one.

"It is good to have supplies to get us in, even better to be able to get our own, eh? The longer we can last by ourselves in the field, reaching deeper into uncharted territory, without having to come in and resupply and lose progress...and if we can start building outposts, all the better."

[Entaris]

Phyx'al's sneer turns up a level in triumph at getting a rise from th surly old Quick, Again, you Humans take things for what you see. He scolded right back, arching one finger towards the sickening Bright Elf at the desk, She breathes, does she not? I have not raped OR tortured her, have I? If you knew a quarter as much as one of your 'advanced' age should, you'd know that's a sign of respect in itself, from my people. He replied sharply, stressing with his tone that he meant 'advanced' in the years of a Short-life. Any Drow past primary education knew all a Human knows in its lifetime or more. Pathetic creatures.

Finished with his dialogue with the creaking Quick, he looked over the form from behind the other's shoulder. His lips pressed into a thin ebon line before sighing, You people really don't like getting anything done, do you?

[Hexalan]

Rawne carefully glances over the form one last time, making sure that all the fields are filled correctly, then hands it in to the secretary. He makes eye contact, and pointedly casts his eyeballs toward the dark elf behind him, and whispers (not terrible quietly), "Don't mind him. He was raped and tortured as a child and just thinks that's how everyone is supposed to behave." Then, slightly louder, "Maybe if you didn't need half the continent's present population to follow behind you into the wilds, we could've done it quicker."

[Hattish Thing]

Phyx'al's sneer turns up a level in triumph at getting a rise from th surly old Quick, Again, you Humans take things for what you see. He scolded right back, arching one finger towards the sickening Bright Elf at the desk, She breathes, does she not? I have not raped OR tortured her, have I? If you knew a quarter as much as one of your 'advanced' age should, you'd know that's a sign of respect in itself, from my people. He replied sharply, stressing with his tone that he meant 'advanced' in the years of a Short-life. Any Drow past primary education knew all a Human knows in its lifetime or more. Pathetic creatures.

Finished with his dialogue with the creaking Quick, he looked over the form from behind the other's shoulder. His lips pressed into a thin ebon line before sighing, You people really don't like getting anything done, do you?

Wardwell curls his upper lip in disgust, slowly shaking his head with disapproval of the drow's harsh tongue. By now the dark elf's words have begun to grind and grate at the Inquisitors mind, and the expedition hadn't even begun. Why in all the god's names had this particularly offensive of individuals be chosen for this journey? So far the drow seemed good for very little but waggling that acidic tongue of his, and although Samuel rarely cared for what dark things were said about him, he was not one to accept blatant disrespect directed towards the Church of the Law, or towards those who worked for the good and most noble establishment.

As soon as the drow has finished his speech, the Inquisitor replies with a great sigh before speaking again, annoyance somewhat evident in his usually fairly unemotional voice. "Your people? Aye, I know all about your people, as do many of the others who consider themselves good and just in this wicked world of ours. They're villainous and vile, drow. It might even be said they're as foul as the spiders they worship so blindly. Rapers, sinners, and cowards the lot of them, hiding behind their poisons and within their shadows, just as ready to stab you in the back as they are to bend their knee in genuflection to their false and unclean idol, their 'Lolth'. You're just like the others I've read of, and studied. Pompous prats possessing naught but a caustic tongue and an ego several sizes too large for their own mortal coils."

He crosses his arms together and glares towards Phyx'al intently, clearly having had enough of him by this point. "It is even said that dark elves, as they are sometimes called, possess a skull of a smaller diameter than that of a man. Some say that this is due to the general shape of the head, much more lithe than the humans, with a bone mass much lighter than that of a dwarf. Regardless of the reason, by the time the skull has completely formed, the brain can only fill a certain space, meaning that the brain of a drow is smaller than that of any other civilized race, even the surface elves such as our good lady here. With any luck, when the gods finally reclaim your soul for themselves, they'll leave your body mostly untouched. It would do me will to look for myself and see whether or not the studies are true. I have been too harsh. Perhaps I oughtn't berate you so thoroughly for your ignorant way of viewing the world."

"As the studies suggest, it is only in your nature to be simpleminded."


Rawne carefully glances over the form one last time, making sure that all the fields are filled correctly, then hands it in to the secretary. He makes eye contact, and pointedly casts his eyeballs the dark elf behind him, and whispers (not terrible quietly), "Don't mind him. He was raped and tortured as a child and just thinks that's how everyone is supposed to behave." Then, slightly louder, "Maybe if you didn't need half the continent's present population to follow behind you into the wilds, we could've done it quicker."

He turns to the secretary and asks her a quick question. "Now, milady, may I ask when it is we are to be finished here? I fear we have already wasted more time than necessary, and I am eager to begin our journey."

[Reogan]

Without a word, the elf takes the sheet and rapidly scans through, notating it with her pen. When she finishes, she folds it, takes a bell from under the table and rings it, and a moment later a halfling comes in from the door behind the desk.. He takes the note and leaves.

"I believe," she says in a very controlled tone of voice, "That that is about everything. Take this sheet, which will serve to get you your supplies, which should be ready within the hour at our warehouse. The location is marked. Further, it will ensure you free and safe lodging from here to Eksel. In Eksel, you'll report to the Judge Prent or his representative for your specific assignment, though that will likely be in written form and not an actual meeting."

As she slides the paper across the table, you see that the legalese and permissions only take up the first eighth of the page. The rest appears to be a frank analysis of your intentions, coupled with suggestions. Singling Phyx'al ut in particular, it's recommended that he be kept away from civilized areas with poor defense and never sent off for lone work. Wardwell has only praise for his apparent character. The others "seem to be trustworthy workers at first glance."

"If there is nothing else, you may while away your free hour as you will. And, Phyx'al, take this."

She tears her second sheet carefully in two and slides one half to you.

"A copy of the bill for damages. This will be removed from the first payment you receive for your work."

250gp. It was a nice desk.

[Entaris]

Phyx'al's face stays exactly as he left it while the Idiot Inquisitor spouted his noisesome rhetoric. Once the Quick was finished and they had moved out of the building, did the Emerald Spider retort.

Indeed, we Drow are vile, cunning fiends as likely to stab each other in the back as have tea on an given afternoon. He began with a sneer, It has made us a stronger race than anything seen above or below the surface of Faerun. And what do your 'civilized" ways achive? Hmm? You war with each other openly, slaughtering each other on bloody fields of battle, losing hundreds and hundreds of lives. For what? Borders? Feh. Trifling things.

He openly laughed at the examination of his skull structure, Oh yes, that must be it. Though all Races Elven have a capacity to continue learning for hundreds upon hundreds of years, while your broad-faced Round-Ears manage to stop remembering how to not wet yourselves at... ninety? And your ears, smaller and without point, can pick up around...a fifth of the normal range for Drow? And you cannot see heat as we do. Your race would be hopeless in the Underdark, youngling. He chided right back, And another thing... He began again, turning towards the man, face suddenly serious, The Sun Worshippers hunted and attacked my people for thousands of years before the Drow were as they are now. Mercilessly driven from our lands on the claim that Ellistaree did not favor us. He jabbed his finger towards the man's face momentarily before regaining himself, YOU are a Priest of the God of Retribution! You of all the pathetic Quicks on this hopeless sheet of sun-baked rock should understand that my reaction is perfectly justified, if under-fulfilled.

[Hattish Thing]

Without a word, the elf takes the sheet and rapidly scans through, notating it with her pen. When she finishes, she folds it, takes a bell from under the table and rings it, and a moment later a halfling comes in from the door behind the desk.. He takes the note and leaves.

"I believe," she says in a very controlled tone of voice, "That that is about everything. Take this sheet, which will serve to get you your supplies, which should be ready within the hour at our warehouse. The location is marked. Further, it will ensure you free and safe lodging from here to Eksel. In Eksel, you'll report to the Judge Prent or his representative for your specific assignment, though that will likely be in written form and not an actual meeting."

As she slides the paper across the table, you see that the legalese and permissions only take up the first eighth of the page. The rest appears to be a frank analysis of your intentions, coupled with suggestions. Singling Phyx'al ut in particular, it's recommended that he be kept away from civilized areas with poor defense and never sent off for lone work. Wardwell has only praise for his apparent character. The others "seem to be trustworthy workers at first glance."

"If there is nothing else, you may while away your free hour as you will. And, Phyx'al, take this."

She tears her second sheet carefully in two and slides one half to you.

"A copy of the bill for damages. This will be removed from the first payment you receive for your work."

250gp. It was a nice desk.

Wardwell watches the halfling leave from the corner of his eye, although he continues gazing forward towards the drow disrupting what would have been a very quiet and peaceful morning for the Inquisitor, his scowl only deepening. Though his eyes remain facing Phyx'al for more time than strictly necessary, he eventually turns completely to loom over the paper on the desk, nodding a tad as he reads over the praise directed towards him.

With that done, he slowly ponders over whether or not he'd heard of a Judge Prent before this day, until he's of course distracted by Phyx'al's timely response.


Phyx'al's face stays exactly as he left it while the Idiot Inquisitor spouted his noisesome rhetoric. Once the Quick was finished and they had moved out of the building, did the Emerald Spider retort.

Indeed, we Drow are vile, cunning fiends as likely to stab each other in the back as have tea on an given afternoon. He began with a sneer, It has made us a stronger race than anything seen above or below the surface of Faerun. And what do your 'civilized" ways achive? Hmm? You war with each other openly, slaughtering each other on bloody fields of battle, losing hundreds and hundreds of lives. For what? Borders? Feh. Trifling things.

He openly laughed at the examination of his skull structure, Oh yes, that must be it. Though all Races Elven have a capacity to continue learning for hundreds upon hundreds of years, while your broad-faced Round-Ears manage to stop remembering how to not wet yourselves at... ninety? And your ears, smaller and without point, can pick up around...a fifth of the normal range for Drow? And you cannot see heat as we do. Your race would be hopeless in the Underdark, youngling. He chided right back, And another thing... He began again, turning towards the man, face suddenly serious, The Sun Worshippers hunted and attacked my people for thousands of years before the Drow were as they are now. Mercilessly driven from our lands on the claim that Ellistaree did not favor us. He jabbed his finger towards the man's face momentarily before regaining himself, YOU are a Priest of the God of Retribution! You of all the pathetic Quicks on this hopeless sheet of sun-baked rock should understand that my reaction is perfectly justified, if under-fulfilled.

As Phyx'al speaks, Wardwell decides he's heard enough from the drow. He speaks towards the elf at the desk once more, nodding his heard to her and reaching for the form he'd need. "I thank you for your assistance, milady. Good day to you." With that, he'll simply walk away, ignoring the jab of the dark elf's finger. As he leaves, however, he does pause briefly, almost seeming to want to say something.

However, he decides it would not be worth it to respond to Phyx'al, and simply leaves out that way, his black cloak billowing behind him until the only sound that can be heard from him would be the fading clatter of his boot and metal leg upon the floor.

---

He'll head to the warehouse immediately, and stop for some sort of quick meal before continuing towards the location he was told to head towards, ever the solitary man.

[trysted]

Shimon silently follows Wardwell. He learned long ago to leave discussions between religious people to the religious people. His worship doesn't require such..........formality.

[Hexalan]

Rawne raises his eyebrows as he watches the two angry men simmer with slightly-tempered rage, both restraining themselves until the more appropriate opportunity to throw rhetoric that explain exactly why he is better than the other one at each other arises. "Sorry about them. Either they'll grow complacent about each others' presence, and become best friends forged in the fire of war, or they'll kill each other by this time next week. One or the other." Rawne glances at the surface of the writ, then tucks it into his jacket. "Thanks, uh, Miss...what was your name?"

"Oh, and one last thing, are we to receive a scroll of sending from the warehouse, and in the event we are to use it, contact you, or some coordinator in Eksel?"

[Reogan]

"You may call me Seila. That will suffice. Your scroll will wait with your goods, and you will contact whomever you ought based on the information you have. Likely, it will be your contact in Eksel, barring major development of continental significance. Should that occur, contact me before you die."

She proceeds to start moving papers about, making marks here and signing there, eventually making piles on the right become piles on the left. She's clearly done with you.

Food is available for you all at the inn(s) at which you've surely been staying. It's uninteresting and filling. With salt, it almost emulates flavor.

The warehouse is a large, vaguely smelly building on the outskirts of town. There's a thin hubbub about as people come and go, some bringing goods, some taking them. The road should be rutted with wheel tracks from the carts, but the Church sees to their constant maintenance. You are directed to what seems to be a side door, and a burly dwarven woman, who introduces herself as Asthara, receives your list. Her eyes widen when she reads it through.

"Not afraid to ask for what you want, eh? Unusual. Most adventurers get cowed by the Judge--Lord Judge, I mean, beggin' your pardon." She waves a number of other workers--two humans and a halfling of surprising size--over and divvies up the work with them. They begin moving in and out of the building, piling the goods in front of you.


Oil, eight pints. Tents, three. Signal whistles, four. Manacles with simple locks, two. Hempen rope, fifty feet. Lamps, two. Hammers, two. Wood axes, three. Bow saw, one. Wood chisel, one. Mugs, two. Jugs, two. Chain, twenty feet. Chalk, five pieces. Canvas, ten square yards. Flint and steel, two. Fishhooks, three. Map cases, two. Blank books, two. Ink, six ounces. Inkpens, two. Shovels, two. Pickaxe, one. Compasses, two. Pack mule, one. Pack saddle, one. Shiny rocks, 10 pounds.

Bucket, one.


"Y'had signal whistles on there twice, so I just took the bigger number. I don't know what an Astrolabe is, and I have 'veto power' so I ignored it. Are the rocks good for baubles?"

[Hexalan]

Rawne looks through the pile briefly, pausing a moment to grab a couple rocks. "Yes, these are fine, thanks. By the way, is that mule trained?" Rawne pulls the saddle out of the congeries, and starts attaching it to the aforementioned mule.

[Entaris]

Phyx'al enters just after Rawne, a smug, victorious smirk tugging enthusiastically from time to time at the corner of his mouth as he basked in the afterglow of yet another intellectual victory over a Lesser who thought too highly of himself.

He looked over the pile as well, Did they at least manage to get climbing gear?I WAS actually serious about al,most half of that list, you know. He inquired.

[Hattish Thing]

"You may call me Seila. That will suffice. Your scroll will wait with your goods, and you will contact whomever you ought based on the information you have. Likely, it will be your contact in Eksel, barring major development of continental significance. Should that occur, contact me before you die."

She proceeds to start moving papers about, making marks here and signing there, eventually making piles on the right become piles on the left. She's clearly done with you.

Food is available for you all at the inn(s) at which you've surely been staying. It's uninteresting and filling. With salt, it almost emulates flavor.

The warehouse is a large, vaguely smelly building on the outskirts of town. There's a thin hubbub about as people come and go, some bringing goods, some taking them. The road should be rutted with wheel tracks from the carts, but the Church sees to their constant maintenance. You are directed to what seems to be a side door, and a burly dwarven woman, who introduces herself as Asthara, receives your list. Her eyes widen when she reads it through.

"Not afraid to ask for what you want, eh? Unusual. Most adventurers get cowed by the Judge--Lord Judge, I mean, beggin' your pardon." She waves a number of other workers--two humans and a halfling of surprising size--over and divvies up the work with them. They begin moving in and out of the building, piling the goods in front of you.


Oil, eight pints. Tents, three. Signal whistles, four. Manacles with simple locks, two. Hempen rope, fifty feet. Lamps, two. Hammers, two. Wood axes, three. Bow saw, one. Wood chisel, one. Mugs, two. Jugs, two. Chain, twenty feet. Chalk, five pieces. Canvas, ten square yards. Flint and steel, two. Fishhooks, three. Map cases, two. Blank books, two. Ink, six ounces. Inkpens, two. Shovels, two. Pickaxe, one. Compasses, two. Pack mule, one. Pack saddle, one. Shiny rocks, 10 pounds.

Bucket, one.


"Y'had signal whistles on there twice, so I just took the bigger number. I don't know what an Astrolabe is, and I have 'veto power' so I ignored it. Are the rocks good for baubles?"

For Wardwell, lunch composes of an uninteresting meal of broth and bits of somewhat overcooked chicken. However, the Inquisitor did not seem to particularly mind. After many long years of horrid meals while in captivity, the man had grown quite used to appreciating even the most poorly cooked of meals as long as he got something to eat, a privilege he didn't have at times during his life. As soon as the meal was over, the man makes his way to the room he was staying at, before dressing himself and preparing to make his way towards the warehouse he was instructed to head towards.

As he makes his way through the streets he'll ignore anyone he comes across on the path for the most part, although he does look about from here to there every once in a while, ever vigilant. Throughout his many years of hunting and killing the many evils of the world, he's learned to always be on guard, even in a relatively safe location. One could never be truly certain... The walk is fairly short, and eventually he finds his way towards the warehouse. He'll stride forward, his dark cloak flowing behind him as it often does. Once inside, he'll accept directions to the area he needs to walk to, and follows them easily.

Upon noticing the dwarven woman, he'll simply nod with his face as blank and unreadable as ever. However, as soon as she mentioned Benus, he'll narrow his eyes to her and speak brazenly. "It would not suit a woman of your position to speak ill of the Lord Judge so thoughtlessly. The Lord Judge does not 'cow' anyone. It would do you well to remember that, lest someone less forgiving then I hear you and mistake your tasteless jest to be treasonous... That would be a shameful waste of a good worker, now wouldn't it?"

"However, I thank you for your work. Your competence has been noted, however your words have as well."

[Reogan]

"Not on the list, not in the pile," says Asthara. "Them's the Lord Judge's rules...and I glorify the law through obeisance." These final words are stiff in her mouth, sounding rusty and rote. More than to Phyx'al, she seems to direct them to Wardwell. She's apparently cowed.

"Mule's trained to pull its load and to avoid battles. Ain't much more a creature that dumb can learn."

[trysted]

Are you sure about that? My companion's beg to differ..... Shimon says with a twinkle, having held his tongue a little too long. The one on the left can even say things, not smart things mind you, but definitely speech, and at length....I'm not making this up. Hopefully, he talks to the mule.

[Hexalan]

"Great." Rawne starts sorting through the things proper, stuffing them away in various saddlebags, or tying them to various frames and straps, or, in the case of one bucket, popping out a dagger when no one is looking, and scratching elven runes onto the surface. The bucket, thereby emblazoned with the grand sigils of House Xanarth, is presented with great ceremony to the eminent messenger of the Deep Country. Which means, Rawne scribbled "Phyx'al" on the side of the bucket, then came up behind the dark elf and stuck it on his shoulder when he wasn't looking. "Here you go. Feel free to fill it with the blood of the impure at your leisure." Rawne returns to the glistening heap of requisition, and continues packing the bulk of it into the mule's containers. "who's a good mule? is it you, sal? you better be a good mule, you thrice-damned beast"

[Hattish Thing]

"Not on the list, not in the pile," says Asthara. "Them's the Lord Judge's rules...and I glorify the law through obeisance." These final words are stiff in her mouth, sounding rusty and rote. More than to Phyx'al, she seems to direct them to Wardwell. She's apparently cowed.

"Mule's trained to pull its load and to avoid battles. Ain't much more a creature that dumb can learn."

Wardwell looks over the young dwarf woman again before nodding sternly. "Yes, yes they are." He'll continue, turning from her and breathing in the air, more than ready to get on the way. "And yes, yes you do. Continue to do so, and the gods will look down upon you with pride. Only good things come to those who earn the appreciation of the gods, and of the church."

"And only pain comes to those who don't."

He'll gaze at Phyx'al as the bucket is placed on his shoulder. He chuckles darkly to himself before cracking the slightest of smiles, although he does not bother saying anything to the heathenish drow.

"When are we to set off?"

[Entaris]

Phyx'al snorted what could possibly have been a chuckle at the bucket, taking it in his hand.

"I feel as though one of your Human jokes is being set up with this..." He commented offhandedly. He looked up at the Inquisitor and nodded, "I require food, but I shall luncheon with some of the nobles I will be visiting shortly. Give me some time, and I shall acquire us...additional funding." He remarked matter-of-factly before seting the bucket on the pile and heading towards the inn to fetch his retainer for a task.

[Hexalan]

Rawne finishes strapping up the various varying straps, and yells at the departing elf. "Inn. Two hours. We've got plenty of sun left today, we better get started. They ain't paying us to sit around." Then, to the people who haven't run off, "For those of us who haven't eaten yet, that now, then we should see about acquiring some food for the road, eh?"

[trysted]

The controversial bucket flies up in the air, seemingly of it's own accord, and lands back on Phyx'al in a manner to suggest that this is a bucket who knows who his master is, and has grown attached.

This time, however, it lands upside down on Phyx'al's head.


Unseen Servant

[Reogan]

In two hours time, you are gathered at the inn with all of your intended atrocities committed without incident. With Eksel near enough and the day still bright, you could well expect to be at your destination before nightfall. Indeed, the innkeeper advises you to go, perhaps in part due to the fact that something about your party makes him quake.

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

Eksel is 7 miles to the north. The road leading to it is beginning to be laid with stone, but only an hour from Rhenis it has fallen into being little more than one great rut leading northwards. Never a great forest, the landscape near the path has been clear-cut to allow comfortable sight lines in such a dangerous land. Or, rather, what was a dangerous land. Between two civilized points, the road is safe enough that you see lone travelers walking towards the main city. The sky is bright and blue, fading slowly as the hours advance. Perhaps three after you've started out, the sun is beginning to dip into its late afternoon slump, the ground is shifting again to stone, and you are entering through the wall of Eksel.
Eksel, like any city in a dangerous foreign land, began well-fortified with comfort eschewed for security. Not much has had time to change, and the outer wall is still a double layered log affair. Compared to Rhenis--or, certainly, anywhere back across the sea--this city is small. On a busy day, it might push one thousand people, and that's only before half of them return to Rhenis before supper.
The guards ask what your purpose is, and upon ascertaining it, one points you to an inn where your papers will suffice as payment.

[Hexalan]

Rawne squints at the falling sun, judging how much daytime is left, then looks back at the group. "Find the important people, then inn for the night, off in the morning?" Rawne turns back to the helpful guard again, and asks, "Where would the important people be?"

[Reogan]

"The Judge and the Mayor both keep regular hours in the City Hall, just behind the Temple of the Three. From your inn, it's just to the main street and straight north. Go around the temple. You can easily miss it, but you probably won't twice. If you have trouble, ask anyone. Folks are nice enough as long as you aren't preaching non-interference with the primitives."

The guard--a young (hu)man of around twenty five years--squints at the setting sun.

"You're probably too late to catch them now. They'll be back by the time trade's starting up again tomorrow, though."

[trysted]

It's been a long day's travel. Lets turn in for the night and catch the important people in the morning.

And by "turn in", I mean "I want a drink".

[Hexalan]

"Any objections? No? Let's go." Rawne sets off through the gate, towards the inn, dragging the mule behind him.

[Reogan]

The rooms at the inn are comfortable enough, and between two of them, there's enough bed for all of you to sleep, though not necessarily for you all to have your own. Mice seem to keep to themselves and bugs aren't above an acceptable size. The dinner is a flavorless mash of some variety and a broth so rich and salty you feel you would be happy drinking it for the rest of your life, which would likely be very brief if you did.

The alcohol, on the other hand, is either a very watery substance that only suggests it might have some intoxicating nature or a great tankard of something more viscous and black than any drink you've seen before. It's apparently a local favorite, though no local seems to be drinking it. It smells like alcohol and death, and has Bad Idea written all over it.

[trysted]

I'll have a beer or too. I'm not a fan of drinking things I can't see through.

Shimon starts off with his first drink. Mmmm, tasty stuff, and by "tasty" what I mean is "its wet, and thats good enough for me".

Any of you guys wanna tell me what that dark stuff is? I'm gonna admit, I'm curious but not curious enough to taste it. There was this one time....well, I'll skip the details but lets just say it started with a drink and ended up with a baker asking a ship's captain where his eldest daughter was, and not in a nice way. Not that it had anything to do with me, mind you.....

[Hexalan]

Rawne sits silently, with the remains of what was a bowl of broth. Currently, the bowl contains the delicious, deadly dregs of the good stuff, mixed in with a dollop of the unknown mash, which seems to made of raw wheat stalks and dirt. He seems to be attempting to mix them together, searching for a balance that would produce some sort of food with tangible taste and slightly healthier than eating pure lard.

Next to it, there are two almost untouched tankards, one of the black sludge and the other of almost-water. The black sludge lies undisturbed, like some monk's long-term experiment with a sealed glass bottle filled with various life, the surface almost seeming to undulate. The not-quite-water has had one sip taken from it, after Rawne witnessed Shimon drinking it and not dying immediately. He stopped drinking it after realizing it had almost negative flavor. Momentarily, Rawne considers mixing the two in a similar manner as he had the food, though he's not sure if that will create some deadly, volatile chemical concoction. Instead, he pokes at the mash in the broth, waiting for someone to tell Shimon what it even is.

[Entaris]

Oddly, the thick black substance reminded Phyx of the fungus-brews from home. He sat sipping the concoction while Lundt brought whatever he could get from the kitchens to his seat befor teh fire where he lounged with his krenshar.

"We should see about additional funding..." He remarked as he scratched his monstrous cats behind their ears, "Far'o'dia brandim fornusa?" He asked in what would be considered a coo coming from a human, the nightstalking beasts one of the few things to quell the flames within him.

[trysted]

Do you think we are likely to get that funding without having given anyone justification for it yet?
I'm not wise in the ways of religious orders, obviously, so I will have to defer to you on their likely actions.
Unless, of course, you had an alternative idea.

[Entaris]

Heh, of course I do. Nver have only one plan, abbil He chuckled, We just need to find the rich people here and talk them into a...more profitable agreement than the church will...what is the word? Acquiesce to. He commented cooly before looking up toward his retainer, Lundt, go find a jeweller. Let them know a House Zanarth artisan wishes to talk shop about services to render and clientelle. Bring him here by the fire. He ordered, waving to let the man know to set off at once.

[trysted]

Well, I'm all about it. But since your plan doesn't come into play until tomorrow, I'm going to leave this excrement to the pigs that it was obviously made for and go get some rest.

Shimon does indeed, take his leave early to go sleep. This is with the intention of getting up before the rest of the group, to go pay a visit to the market, and see what sort of magical or interesting implements may be available.

It's a new world, it may have new items he thinks to himself. And who better to blend the old and the new, then a guy who already blends?

[trysted]

and then

[roll0]


he also hits it with his axe