Exalted 3e - Welcome to Thorns (IC)

**HalfTangible** · 2020-11-12, 10:56 AM (ISO 8601)

"You mean the Deathknights? What, you wanna write them an apology?"

Nord rolled his eyes. "No, we wanted to write them love letters. Do you think a deathknight lady would like being compared to funerary bouquets?"

Snark aside, Nord paid close attention to their descriptions. If Nova was the designer of the Stormhammer and she was kept out of harm's way by the Mask, then she was definitely central to his operations. That made Nova a high priority target... but if she was being kept safe and out of harm's way, then an assassination wasn't feasible. At least not in the short term. Seven, on the other hand... if he was reaching out to potential apprentices, that was a way in. If they could find a young necromancer...

Dancer's question was a fair one. Nord had been assuming either that the necrotech had given up (like the Thornsguard) or that they simply didn't think the Mask could be beaten. The information they'd given so far seemed fairly low-value anyway; knowing your enemy's name didn't necessarily give you the strength or knowledge needed to defeat them. On that topic...

"One of those... projects of yours thought I was of Gens Karal." He raised an eyebrow. "Interesting little feature, and I imagine it took a lot of time to get right... or should I say wrong. But why would it need to know, let alone speak it aloud? It strikes me as somewhat like knowing the birthday of the Tyrant Lizard charging at you."

**Inspector Valin** · 2020-11-12, 11:31 AM (ISO 8601)

"Lady, you've made one little mistake." The green haired tech pauses for just a second before snorting in derision. "You've mistaken me for someone who cares."

Snark aside, the words do seem to stir something in the man. As best he can, the necrotech pulls himself upright against the wall, standing to better draw himself level with Dancer, bonds aside. "I have been killing captives one after another after another for weeks. I heard their cries every night since I got here. The walls ain't that thick. I worked long, painful hours to build a giant monster: joining nerve endings, cutting through flesh, assembling bone plates, and of course the ####ing 'harvesting', or else I'd have ended up on the block myself. And.... now it's all moot anyway. You wrecked it. All that death, all those late nights, all that screaming and pain and blood... and it didn't even matter."

There's no humour in this account, no dry wit or pretense at detachment. Just sorrow and anger. The Tech closes his eyes, taking a moment before looking back up at Dancer with a chuckle. "So, why d'you think I'd give a damn what you learn about Nova and Seven at this point? D'you think I'm some kinda patriot? Loyal to the Mask and his order above all else?" He gives Dancer a mocking salute, before slowly shaking his head. "I came to Thorns to learn a craft I had a knack for, something no one else would teach me. And instead of studying the arts macabre, I got thrown out here to do the deathknights' dirty work. I owe them nothing. I'd have run if I'd had a decent way out. Buut... island. Thornguard." He sighs, sinking back down to the ground. Too late for could-have-beens anyway.

Originally Posted by HalfTangible

"One of those... projects of yours thought I was of Gens Karal." He raised an eyebrow. "Interesting little feature, and I imagine it took a lot of time to get right... or should I say wrong. But why would it need to know, let alone speak it aloud? It strikes me as somewhat like knowing the birthday of the Tyrant Lizard charging at you."

"Oh, the Sovereign?"

The technician's eyes flit half open. He still looks dispirited but this subject is safer ground for him. His field of expertise as it were. "It's an old prototype of Seven's. He's been working on ways to hunt Dragon Blooded. That one wasn't too bright, but it had a knack for sniffing out the bloodline once it'd gotten a sample. Figured that could help with infiltrators."

He looks up at Nord, curious as to why s non dragon could've gotten that reaction. "You Lookshyan? Might've twigged you if you had some strong Karal ancestry."

**Ascension** · 2020-11-12, 11:59 AM (ISO 8601)

Rivers is still hurting, but they've managed to drag themselves to the site of the interrogation. They lean against one of the walls, heedless of their anima wearing against it like the tide... they hope it looks nonchalant, but it's necessary to stop the room from spinning. Gods and Dragons, couldn't this have waited?

They try to focus past the pain, focusing on the helpfully-unmasked necrotech who's leading the conversation. They try to take the measure of the man, the story told by his unconscious tics and body language. Is his apparent antipathy toward his masters sincere? Or is he trying to deceive his interrogators? What does he hope to accomplish here?

Spoiler: OOC and Roll

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Read Intentions, -2 Wound Penalty, 2m DB Socialize Excellency for an auto-success.

Spoiler: Roll

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(9d10)[10][1][3][3][10][2][7][5][6](47)+1 success

**HalfTangible** · 2020-11-12, 12:02 PM (ISO 8601)

"And what goal, exactly, would have made any of this 'worth it'?" Nord scowled.

When the necrotech answered his own question... Nord almost asked why anyone would create a ten foot tall undead monstrosity with black voids for eyes and bleached skin to act as an infiltrator... but right before he did, he realized he probably meant to catch infiltrators.

... Actually that initial idea was much more horrifying than he initially gave it credit for. If Sovereign was a prototype as they implied, then the necrotechs could've replicated its abilities for use in smaller monsters. Maybe even modifications to live humans. If they did that then there could be spies in Lookshy, stronger and better and infiltration and spying than any mortal man and far more numerous than the Exalted. Tracking down dragons in general wouldn't be terribly useful, but tracking down specific bloodlines could be... or it could be used to know who to avoid... Was Saki in danger from these things? He dismissed the idea out of hand. She was brilliant and investigation was what she did for a living; she was safe, at least, but-

Oh hell, that wasn't the only problem.

He glanced at the dragons. This group had at least three, and if Sovereign and its ilk could identify bloodlines, that would be more than enough to find any of them in Thorns. If Sevens had other creatures like that...

**Inspector Valin** · 2020-11-12, 12:42 PM (ISO 8601)

It isn't too hard to read the truth behind the necrotech's detachment. 'Broken' might be a touch too grandiose a term, but the man is sorely worn down by what he's gone through. He was quite sincere about his feelings towards the work here, and the reasoning behind him remaining. He has no motive or objective in this conversation - the destruction of the Islebreaker has brought the tech a sense of finality to the events here, but rather than satisfaction it's left him feeling confused and hollow. He's just giving you the truth because he has no reason to lie, and thus far the truth has mostly consisted of complaining about things he's spent months being aggravated by.

**Sticks** · 2020-11-12, 01:02 PM (ISO 8601)

Looking at Rivers' face, Dancer can tell they've confirmed her suspicions. This prisoner is beyond caring. That can be very useful, but also dangerous. He could be broken in either direction, for or against them, but it'd be a delicate operation. He'd be useless as a double-agent, his information was limited and would soon be outdated, and his skills were not the kind this resistance would stomach utilizing...nor would she, she was pleased to find.

That look at Rivers also confirmed something else she'd suspected. The smuggler was bruised and exhausted, they all were. She'd not be missed for days yet, she could afford to recuperate with the resistance for now. The more logistical information she could find, the better.

"Well, as we're inundated with supplies, spoils, refugees and prisoners, I say we beat an orderly retreat from here and see about contacting any potential allies. On your feet, necromancer! You may be worth something to someone yet."

**pfm1995** · 2020-11-17, 02:36 AM (ISO 8601)

"If everyone is ready, I agree." Marrow says, pushing away from the wall. He's happy to procrastinate on what to do with the prisoners; they can put them on the ship and then... then they can decide. The man's story had felt, well, familiar if he was being honest. There were only so many ways to do more than just survive in Thorns; Marrow himself was being trained to fight in the Mask's service. That he was using that training against the man was a saving grace, but could he really castigate the man for not having the same opportunity? Especially when his own skills needed infrastructure that Marrow's didn't. While they walk, he keeps asking questions to keep his mind moving.

"What can you tell us about the artifacts in the vault? Is there a reason they weren't simply... used for parts?" Is that something that can even be done? Marrow isn't sure, but it feels likely. If you couldn't, why were the scavenger lords constantly hauling broken technology out of the old citadels?

**Inspector Valin** · 2020-11-17, 10:49 AM (ISO 8601)

"Yay. I feel so valuable right now." the necrotech deadpans. All the same though, he does as ordered: rising to his feet and following the others out of the room, taking his time to ensure he keeps his balance. One of the waiting Cureva members snaps to, running off to fetch the remaining prisoners to be brought onto the boat.

The green haired man's eyes still look dead, but he turns to Marrow as the young Dragon speaks, nodding at his words. "They might've been eventually. But you can't just melt the godmetals down for scrap. They're too tough for that. And there's no sense wrecking the tools of the ancients if you can figure out how to use them yourself, or repair any issues."

He's back on safer ground now. It takes the tech a second to catch his breath before starting to explain in earnest. "I'm guessing you hit the storehouse with the blood lock, right? Stuff in there was all things we dredged up reclaiming the tower's lower levels. This place never got salvaged since the First Age as far as we could tell, so it was quite a haul. We sent a few things back with the airship that were judged high priority by Lord Arubato and his secretary when they inspected the joint. Plan was to bring out a secure transport with a vault of its own to haul the rest back to the city, once we'd gathered enough to justify it. They'd have been examined by someone like the Nova, or at least a trusted senior artificer."

The red robe chuckles to himself, as the group walk into the entry hall. There's even a gleam in his look to Marrow as he gestures to himself. "Give it to some low tier technician like me, and they figured we might just say it's worthless, pocket it and make a killing. 'bato knows better than to trust the likes of us."

**Ascension** · 2020-11-17, 08:11 PM (ISO 8601)

While the necrotech may joke, the value of a person is never a laughing matter to Rivers. What price does the man put on his loyalties? His sort can never be trusted - that should be obvious enough from the current circumstances - but how affordably can he be bought?

Rivers watches the man closely as he speaks with Marrow, paying close attention to how he holds himself, talks about himself. Weighing cynicism and sarcasm against ambition and aspiration like gems upon a jeweler's scale. What would it take to make this man an agent of the resistance?

Spoiler: OOC and Roll

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Finding the Water's Depths (3m): This is a special Read Intentions roll to determine what it would take to convince him to join us with a Bargain roll. Success both reveals his price (either monetary or non-monetary) and his strongest Intimacy relating to that price, if any. I'll throw 1 WP on it for an auto-success.

Spoiler: Roll

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(9d10)[3][4][4][5][2][8][9][8][10](53)+1 success

Incidentally, once I have that information, I'll be good to move on to the next scene. Rivers isn't bargaining quite yet; they're just assessing. They'll wait until they're in a better position to make the offer.

**Inspector Valin** · 2020-11-17, 08:22 PM (ISO 8601)

Rivers has little difficulty taking the man's measure. He might be low and dispirited at the moment, but that occasional gleam in his eyes speaks volumes. He wants to work. Not butcher innocent civilians. He might have an interest in a particularly macabre artform, and the ability to continue his studies there would be the safest way to secure his loyalty, but simply providing the man with a laboratory, resources and trust will go a long way in and of itself: whatever work that might entail. The necrotech's been talked down to and ordered around in Thorns' service, doing things that made his stomach churn and treated like a cog in the machine - a little respect for his mind and abilities will go a long way with a carefully framed offer.

Spoiler: OOC

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Principle - I will find my own path (Major)

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It doesn't take the group too long to lead the little procession of captives to the ship. The Informant is talking with the Tidemare leader, Saya, listening to her repeat a name of some kind. The rest of the Cureva have returned already; search complete, waiting to cast off. Only Thunder and Violet remain with the Chosen, guarding the impromptu prison train. The pink haired woman turns to greet the group as they approach, a welcoming smile starting to creep onto her face, but she visibly blanches as she sees the nature of the captives the chosen have taken. She raises a trembling hand, trying to confirm the evidence of her eyes as the group step aboard. "You're... You're bringing the people who butchered us out of here too? Are you CRAZY?! That's... that's -"

"- completely understandable."

The Informant chimes in as Pink's words fail her. Before the discussion can go too much further, the mysterious man meets the former captive's gaze, his own tone growing more somber. "I know how you must feel. But this is a victory for life. The killing has ended, the abomination lies destroyed. Celebrating such a feat with a mass execution of our own would be in poor taste. Assuming you are willing to find some accommodation for them, and that there is no fighting while you are aboard my ship, I have no objection."

Pink looks like she's at least very ready to consider it, balling her fists. A few seconds and a deep breath are enough to calm her however: with a sigh, the singer steps away from the Informant, turning her back on both him and the Necrotechs. The wolf however fixes the red robes with a thunderous gaze: seemingly on the verge of charging right at them. The one un-masked Necrotech meets his gaze with that characteristically drained look of his, a move that causes the wolf to snarl. Violet and Thunder swiftly usher the techs down the stairs into the hold, trying to get them to safety before the beastman decides to take things a step further.

The Informant meanwhile turns to the Chosen, seemingly considering the matter settled. Once again, the dapper stranger is all smiles, waving to the giant spirit behind him with a flourish. "Now! Saya has agreed to transport the escapees to a contact of mine in Port Calin. From there, they should have relatively easy passage back across the Scavenger Lands - the Guild run regular caravans through the area, and I've an account with the local Factor for this purpose. I'll need to throw a few Talents their way when I'm next in the area, but that's my problem to worry about. Every last soul will have a homeward path ready for them."

The Tidemares trill happily, starting to flit away from the dock to begin the long swim north. The Informant watches the merry seahorses go, sparing his friends a wave while commenting to the group. "As do we. For better or worse." The mood turns a touch more somber as the sing-song spirits swiftly bob along into the horizon. The strange blue haired man; 'Azaloch', Informant, Heaven-Sent, takes one deep breath of air, his gaze turning to the Islebreaker. He spends a few seconds taking in the smoldering, sinking monster corpse, a very satisfied look on his face. His indulgence does not take long however: after a brief silence he takes up his bow and gehu once again, nodding to the group. "Let's get back to Thorns."

The first brush of the gehu's strings sets the wheels of the ship spinning, the strange dragon-boat turning against the dock. It doesn't take long for the music to intensify - once their prow is pointing at open waters, the speed seems to pick up almost at once. The paddle-wheels begin to shudder at the increased power, the Informant's song growing more energetic as he strives to drive the vessel forward. The water is churning below and the wind blows strong against the deck as the magical craft zips straight past the Islebreaker: Lacroix's once intimidating mountainous monstrosity of soulsteel and bone now reduced to just an island on their left as they breeze by into the fog. After a few minutes, the patchwork tower that had been the scene of so much blood and death also falls back into the obscurity of the mists.

It truly has been an eventful day.

**Inspector Valin** · 2020-11-17, 08:36 PM (ISO 8601)

Intermission
Night - Descending Fire, 22nd Day
Dusk falls over the shoreline of Thorns’ dockyard district: Aspir Haven. The faint traces of sunlight start to recede from the sky as the shadows lengthen - the city beginning its nightly descent into the Underworld. Across the waterfront gaudy lights in blue and gold flicker into life and music begins to play as a trickle of rain begins to fall over the boardwalk. Crowds of revelers cheer as the casinos, taverns and showrooms swing open their doors, music rising, ready for the business of the night.

Nearby, amidst the maze of alleys and backstreets that make up most of Thorns' industrial heart, Jans of Theos is panting for air. The scraggle limbed dockworker rounds the alleyway corner at a sprint, almost falling to the ground as his boots slide over the wet cobbles. Jans scrambles swiftly to his feet, using a nearby crate to steady himself. He places a hand to his chest, trying to quieten his breathing as he glances down the path he just came from, eyes wide in the fading light.

No one. No footsteps either, just the patter of raindrops on wood and tile. Gods be good, has he shaken the thing?

Jans takes a deep breath. Something tells him he’s not safe yet. The dockworker starts to continue forward down the cobbled path, each step hesitant and quiet as can be. This is part of the old waterfront; he hasn’t been here in years, and the twists of the path have proven near impossible to run through. The buildings here are low class residences, one built atop the next with boards nailed together across the upper levels of the street to form a winding maze of creaky bridges.

And all the doors are firmly shut. The locals know the value of a closed threshold.

Somewhere in the distance Jans can just about make out the sound of people cheering, the familiar strumming of finely tuned strings. Nightfall. The boardwalk must be close by. Hope soaring in the young man’s heart, he quickens his pace, rounding the corner with a rejuvenated heart. He’s almost back to the city proper. There’ll be people, guards, someone! He’ll be safe!

They're waiting for him in the next alleyway, perfectly still. The figure is a silhouette at first, but it takes a step closer and an errant lantern gives Jans enough light to see his hunter by.

They’re smiling. The stranger seems almost beautiful to Jans at second glance, in the half-real way a silhouette could be. The gentle lines and contours of their shrouded form make him think of some ethereal herald of serenity, inviting him forward to their bed for a pleasant time. They wear a loose sleeveless jacket, buttoned at the waist to show toned muscles and a dancer’s frame, and they couple that with a purple silk chalwar to complete the vaguely Delzhan look. Something out of a dream, perhaps, a promise of bliss in the shade of some distant bedroom. But then some primal part of Jans' brain registers the incongruities. The faint black lines that crisscross their body. The mismatched blue-green eyes, the strange coloration on some patches of skin. How that smile, that vicious pointed grin, seems almost too wide for the face that bears it.

Without a word, the stranger reaches for the scabbards slung over their jacket. The twin blades faintly glow as they’re drawn: two serrated edges, shining blood red in the lamplight, eager and ready for use. The figure bows to Jans, a vicious glint in its mismatched eyes. Before the luckless longshoreman can process the mocking gesture, the patchwork monster lunges forward with a joyful cry, bringing its first blade up ready to tear right through its hapless victim..

And then, in an instant, salvation.

Quicker than the eye can follow, a stranger steps out of the shadows behind the monster, interposing himself between it and Jans with a twirl and bringing up his mid and forfinger to catch the blade right in one of its notches. And with that simple motion, the strike fades away. For just a second Jans can swear he sees the painted image of a wave rise alongside the man’s arm. But no, a second look confirms that the stranger is simply wearing a dark blue coat - albeit one with golden trim to match his shining blond hair. He couples it with formality - a shirt, cravat, nice trousers. He’s big - not excessively so, but his muscles are toned, jaw firmly set and he stands tall and proud. This is a man who will keep you safe. A wall between the light and dark.

“HAH! Quite the timing, eh friend?” The new arrival laughs in a hearty barritone at the still disbelieving shoreman, before turning to meet the monster’s gaze. The creature grimaces in frustration as the stranger grins up across the blood red serrated blade, moving his hand ever so slightly as the patchwork creation struggles to bring the sword down upon both Jans and his newfound protector. Snarling, the monster pulls back for just a second before striking again and again, alternating between the twin blades, raining a fuselage of blows down upon the intruder. The golden haired man doesn’t utter a word, simply catching each attack in turn between his fingers, that same smug grin on his face. He doesn't take one step backwards either.

Panting for breath, Jans backs away from the confrontation, the two fighters now solely concerned with one another, before almost falling over a young woman who was standing in his path. She’s quite a strange sight herself in a blue and white cloud-patterned robe, topped by a cravat at her neck, with her silver hair fixed into a neatly plaited bow thanks to a sapphire butterfly hairclip. The odd official bows to the shuddering man, as though nothing about this situation was peculiar in the slightest.

“Good evening, sir. My apologies for the actions of our comrade. However I must ask you to please leave the area at once. We have confidential matters to discuss with the Unrepentant Soldier. Any attempt to overhear this conversation would constitute an act of espionage against the crown of Thorns, the penalty for which is...”

But the frightened youth is already long gone, Jans sprinting from the alleyway as fast as his feet will carry him over the slickened cobbles. The golden haired man chuckles, nodding to his subordinate. “Thank you, Eiko.” Stepping back from the Soldier and finally letting the old shade’s blades fall to the swords, he fixes the embodied ghost with an inquisitve expression, thumbing in the direction Jans had just withdrawn from. “You really call this a hunt? Chasing a no account mortal through backstreets after dark?”

Of course they wouldn’t understand. The Soldier takes a step back, sheathing his ruby swords with a twirl before tilting his head to glance between his unexpected guests. That picturesque mouth crumples into a contemptuous frown at the two still-living servants of the Mask standing before him. “What the hell do you want, Arubato?”

The newly named man places a hand to his cravat, adjusting it slightly. He doesn't bother to look at the Soldier anymore, simply responding as he fiddles, chuckling a little. “Oh, I want lots of things. A good time, a nice meal, a warm bed… but it’s what our Lord wants that’s the issue.” Now seemingly finished fixing his outfit, the golden haired courtier claps his hands. “Eiko! Explain.”

The young woman steps forward, bowing her head before the two warriors of Thorns before beginning her account. “This morning, the facility known as the Dawn Crucible was attacked. It housed the Islebreaker - a prototype necrotic war engine designed for heavy duty combat against the Lookshyan navy. The mortal guards were slain, with minimal survivors among the technical staff - predominantly those who ran and hid once the assault began.”

Every word is delivered with perfect, clipped delivery - not a hint of emotion or judgement in Eiko’s voice. This is nothing more than recitation of the facts. “All additional security was destroyed. The facility’s primary transport ship and corresponding airship were destroyed. The commander, Captain Dorian Lacroix, is missing presumed dissolute. The Islebreaker has been deemed unrecoverable due to extensive damage to its primary weapons systems. The Seven Degreed Physician of Bleak Maladies and the Rising Nova that Scours the Sands of Time have both registered extreme displeasure with Lord Arubato at the loss of...”

Arubato gently puts his hefty hand to her shoulder and Eiko stops her account mid sentence. The Soldier snorts, a satisfied gleam in his mismatched eyes. Some of the tension leaves his shoulders as the old warrior spreads his arms with a welcoming if unsettling smile, “Heh. Y'know, I’m with you on this, Bato. Stupid mess like that ain't your fault. Those two should blame themselves for making their big flashy superweapon so ****ing easy to break!”

He laughs uproariously at that, a booming chortle that echoes out through the alleyways, his chest rippling in the evening half-light. Snorting gleefully at the thought of irate deathknights, the Soldier runs a slender hand along his bicep, sighing at the feel of flesh beneath his touch. “Now this? This **** is real art. Beauty and strength, piece by piece, woven together by On Fe’s finest. I got Veritas, the Black Hand… not these squabbling up 'emselves kids. Look! Y'can see how the muscles join together, skin flows over one section to the next, the join here...”

Eiko’s cheeks drain of colour ever so slightly as those delicate fingers continue to trace the stitches that have knitted the Patchwork Regalia together while its inhabitant narrates the condition of each 'component'. The Soldier glances her way, fixing the young dragon attache with a smile that for just a second shows a maw of sharp, spectral fangs. Arubato meanwhile maintains his composure as best he can before snickering in a far from dignified fashion and gesturing to the street. “I appreciate your support, Soldier, but… well, we're in Aspir. Do you need a room to yourself?”

The remark elicits a furious growl from the Unrepentant Soldier: any hint of friendship or camaraderie gone in a flash. “****ing stuck up thin-blooded whelp!” In an instant his hand goes to the swordgrip at his back, ready to draw his daiklaves once again. Eiko steps to her master’s side, falling easily into a defensive stance, a fresh breeze sweeping across the alleway as her eyes begin to glow a faint blue. Arubato simply keeps his gaze locked on the Soldier, arms at his sides, his smile unruffled.

After a few tense seconds, the Soldier brings his hand down from the grip, sighing in resigned irritation. “Think what you like, the pair of you. It doesn’t matter. You coming to me over this is still stupid." The old warrior places a hand to his head as he starts to elaborate. "Like the girl said, the Crucible’s a classified island facility - outside the city limits, and outside my watch. That ain't peasant work. It’s been hit by the Confederation: Intelligence Directorate strike team, the Iron Brotherhood, we’ve enemies enough in the province, even before you start talking about the Realm. Thornguard must’ve let the information leak. Naval Guard’s fault for letting the attack through, too. You want the Dog, or Meszaros, or you could go to Marita and file a complaint with the bloody Council of the Concordat for all I care."

"But no. You’re bothering me instead. Because...?”

“Because we’ve taken this before the Mask’s court already. Her Ladyship has performed her divinations and presented the results in closed session. I have the transcript here, along with appended orders from Lord Mask.” From his coat, Arubato withdraws a roll of thick parchment. He doesn’t bother to unfurl it, simply turning it to face Soldier, presenting an emerald wax seal with the four petaled crowned flower emblem of the city for his inspection. “Her finding was that the assault was orchestrated within the walls of Thorns. A surprise to all of us, but certainly plausible. Some band of malcontents got too big for their boots, perhaps, stowing away on one of the transport ships?”

Soldier rolls his eyes at that, looking like he has to resist the urge to laugh at the idea of Thorns’ disorganized, dispirited rebels going through with such a ploy. Arubato raises a brow at the Nemissary’s nerve, but chuckles. “I mean, that was how her report to the court went. Are you saying that our beloved councilor is... mistaken?”

The patchwork Dragon Blood tenses at the implication of that, looking to the ground. His misfit skin seems a shade more pale than before. Now it is Arubato who fixes the Soldier with a predatory smile as he steps forward, a hand raised. “Quite. So the attackers must have come from somewhere within the city. A success such as this is sure to embolden them: we’ll be faced with more sabotage unless this is addressed now.”

“And well, while the Islebreaker might have been my project on paper... you are the ambassador to the City, Soldier. You’re supposed to make sure the hoi polloi don’t have the spirit to do things like this!” Stepping forward, Arubato passes the sealed scroll into the Soldier's hand. The ostentatious Water Aspect takes a second to lean forward, whispering into that delicate light green ear with a playful grin on his face.

“And so, until the ones who did are cold in the ground, whatever mischief they get up to falls on your head. Not mine.”

The Herald of the Mask pats the clammy shoulder of the Patchwork Regalia, before turning around to share a smile with his aide. “Come along, Eiko! We’re late for dinner at the Meruvian! Your sisters are doubtless already there, stuffing their plates while we’re stuck wading through filth and grime. Oh, the unceremonious life of a herald.”

Arubato’s oft-quiet assistant dutifully falls in behind him. The pair walk leisurely to the edge of the street, the Soldier still motionlessly clutching the scroll and glaring daggers into the back of that well tailored coat. Arubato chuckles; though he doesn’t bother to turn around, simply waving a hand in his comrade’s direction. “Soldier, don’t look at me like that. Think of it as a challenge! You’ve got prey that can destroy high end necrotech out there. Surely they have to be more of a fight than unarmed commoners? You can put that body of yours through its paces, see what it can really do. It’ll take you back to your living days!”

The Soldier taps slowly at the grip of his daiklaves, pondering that idea as the two Dragons exit the alleyway. A few seconds later however, the wind picks up for just a second. Three little words full of genuine mirth fall softly into the Mortwright’s ear as if a whisper was carried on the breeze. ”Enjoy the hunt!”

And with that, in the half light of the alleyway, the Unrepentant Soldier begins to smirk once again.

**Inspector Valin** · 2020-11-18, 05:45 PM (ISO 8601)

Return to Thorns
Noon - Descending Fire, 22nd Day

The voyage back home is strange. Even once the dragon boat leaves the mist, the light of the sun above does not return. A faint twilight haze plays around the ship: not enough for the little group to see too far into the distance. It's as if night has fallen once again - there's no sound across the ocean, save the Informant's now more sedate music, the group's own conversation and the thrashing of the water wheels.

After a while however, the passengers hear a faint sound, from somewhere above them. Looking up, there's a strange black arch hanging overhead, glinting in the strange twilight of the Informant's dragon boat. As the curious craft draws underneath it, the group hear a strange chiming sound as a breeze picks up. The wind running through this strange crystal bridge makes music of its own, a chorus of gentle bells that mark the ship's passage. The Informant doesn't look up, but his music shifts, falling into harmony with his new accompaniment. With a blink of the eye, the black diamond arch resolves into a distant series of stalactites, somewhere far above. The haze of twilight fades into a far more material and certain darkness, broken by the dragon-boat's humble lantern. But after a few seconds, a whoop of joy goes up.

"We're here! Gods be good, we made it!" The old man calls with gusto. Following his gestures, the group can make out lantern fires surprisingly close by. As they draw closer, the shadows resolve into a familiar sight for some members of the group. On the far shore of this underground lake a small boardwalk has been erected, complete with a few warehouses, a couple of taverns and a handful of rickety wooden piers that look barely serviceable. Beyond that are a ramshackle collection of shacks and houses, spaced so close together they seem to have been thrown against the far wall rather than built, with a handful of lanterns at regular intervals just giving the outline of this hidden settlement. There's a few larger white stone towers too, larger and better lit, with many coloured banners flying from the windows

This is Jochim's Hold: an ancient smuggler's den beneath the city of Thorns, usually accessed by a complex series of mystical locks that lead out to sea, rather than... whatever that was. If the resistance against the Mask of Winters has a home base of sorts, it's probably here.

There's a few folks about as the dragon boat draws closer, and naturally the bedraggled looking sots of the pirate port can't help but stare at the brightly painted vessel with the loud stringed instrument aboard. The white bearded man jumps for the pier before the ship's wheels have even come to a halt, sprinting for the shore with a cry of joy. The pink haired woman chuckles, before turning to Rivers and Granny. "I've gotta get back to the Seven Tee. Boss' probably going spare wondering what the hell happened to me. Hope I'm not out of a job for almost dying." The Seven Tiered Sanctuary - a legendary club and center of sin in Aspir Haven, that supposedly runs down deep into the Undercity. Rumour says that it's run by the infamous phantom thief and foe of authority Silken Laughter. Pink winks at her newfound Chosen friends, "You ever want to meet the boss, come by! Tell them Cadenza said it was okay. He'd probably love to meet big shot rebels like you in person: we're all in this together, right?"

Meanwhile, back on the boat the wolfman has emerged from the hold, carrying the last of the unconscious folk. He props the poor man as delicately as he can up on the deck, before turning to the Informant. "These people are still hurt. Need somewhere to rest." The blue haired mandarin nods, his eyes gleaming at the request. He claps his hands. "One more thing I'd already planned on. Soaring Cricket!"

"No need to shout, you arse. It's not like we were going to miss you in that contraption." A grumpy looking bald man in a green robe clambers onto the boat, glaring at the Informant with disdain entirely unfitting of a monk, followed by five more spry looking young men and women in similar dress. The acolytes fall in behind Cricket as he examines the survivors: the old healer needs but a glance, and a few brief touches to make his appraisal. Soon enough, he's on his feet and nods to the Informant. "Nothing too serious. We'll take them, if you're good for what you offered."

With a simple nod, the Informant reaches into his knapsack, rummaging for a few seconds before withdrawing a series of slim labelled vials: some holding herbs, some with liquid. The blue haired stranger takes a second to inspect each one before passing it to Cricket - the Immaculate squinting at them in turn, before adding it to the leather satchel he carries at his side. After half a dozen of these exchanges, the trade is done - the Informant returns his belongings to their place beside the helm, while Cricket nods to his acolytes. The group start to unload the prisoners one by one, the senior monk taking a final brief moment to bow to his trading partner. "Pleasure doing business with you." Soon enough the little procession are making their way back to shore, the wolfman following them closely.

That leaves the Cureva, the necrotechs, the Feathered Serpent and Whisper's ghost-friends aboard the dragon boat - still a fairly sizable party. On the pier, a small group of onlookers has gathered, staring up at the ship with something between confusion, fear and avarice for whatever this valuable looking ship might hold. The Informant however is not focusing on any of these people for the moment, instead turning his eyes across the party of Chosen. "Well. Welcome home!"

There's some mirth to that statement; this place doesn't look like anyone's idea of a happy hearth, but some true happiness is there as well. The Hold is the best home those looking to fight the tyrant of Thorns could realistically ask for. With a flourish, the Informant pulls his knapsack over his shoulder. "I have some business to attend to, but we mustn't defer our celebrations and discussions for too long. We will meet again tomorrow, at sundown, the upper room here."

He waves towards a dingy looking dockside tavern. The sign shows a green dragon's head, with a line of red smeared across the neck. There's the splintered wreckage of what might have been a crate in the alley to one side, and the door is half-way off its hinges. It doesn't look inviting. All the same, the Informant smiles warmly at the group. "I have a lot to explain, I know. All the same, I'm hopeful we will be able to help one another more openly going forward. To me, this mission was a test. One you all passed with flying colours"

A tap to his giyu causes the oversized instrument to vanish, along with his bow. Whistling to himself, the Informant hefts his knapsack aloft and over his shoulder, before bowing to the group. "See you tomorrow night!" And with that, he in turn alights from his ship, strolling merrily into Jochim's Hold past the startled crowd. The man dressed like a member of the aristocracy, clad in silk and with a golden chain on plain display, has decided to just walk right into the midst of a settlement of hungry, desperate folk: more than a few of whom ply their trade as smugglers, cutthroats and pirates!

And yet... somehow, the crowd melts away from him as he goes, the onlookers beginning to disperse with a disappointed sigh. None of them seem still interested in acquiring whatever cargo the dragon boat might hold, their minds turning back to the humble tasks of the day. A man mutters to a friend, just within earshot of the Chosen. "'s jus' like my ma always said. Don't pick a fight with someone weirder than you."

Spoiler: OOC

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You have half a day, a night, then a full day to spend as you see fit. Feel free to attend to the loose ends from this mission as you will; beyond that, I want to see what your characters get up to on a daily basis. Get a sense of what their lives are like, what they do to fight Mask. Happy to work through some scenes with RP, happy to let you montage a bit, whatever you guys wanna do to show what your characters are up to.

**HalfTangible** · 2020-11-18, 07:48 PM (ISO 8601)

[Plans]

Before any other prospects had come up, Nord's plans had been simple: train, prepare for battle, help where he could. Get anyone who wanted to leave out of the city. Maybe skulk about in the night if he was feeling restless. The people here knew him as a god-blooded mercenary down on his luck, and he would prefer to keep it that way. Nord eventually approached Marrow/the Cuerva to ask them about study material. "I'm looking for books. Anything on the Thornguard's history as a military force. It's probably heavily propagandized (both by Thorns and by the Mask) but I can work to scrub that out, it's better than nothing. Can you bring me books from your school or do you know anywhere in the city I could go?"

Nord considered Cadenza's offer. Silken Laughter's reputation as a rebel against all authority and purveyor of sin certainly made the prospect enticing (for many good reasons and many more wrong ones), but ultimately Nord was no socialite. He could go and try to offer his services as a sellsword, perhaps... if he could get Rivers to come along, they could do the talking. Yes, he would try that. If nothing else, a potential ally could be won. He would find Rivers to talk to them about it later. The smuggler was much better poised to make deals than Nord was.

On the topic of socialites... when Dancer (seemed to) have a free moment, Nord would approach her, too. "Excuse me... Dancer, was it? I didn't get a good look on the island, but what I did see was Fire dragon style. I've studied it a bit, but I never mastered its forms. Would you be willing to show me more, perhaps, later... or tomorrow... Sifu?" His desire to learn more of the style was genuine, but more than that... he didn't really know anything about her, and training together would let him learn. He'd only just met this woman and yet he trusted her as much (if not more than) his other comrades in the resistance.

The next day, Nord would go looking for Soaring Cricket, or more specifically, the injured he was taking care of. Even handed off, Nord couldn't help but feel responsible for them. He wasn't a doctor, but he needed to be sure they were okay.

Spoiler: OOC

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So... Nord's basic to-do list consists of (in no particular order):
-Help around the area with oddjobs using his muscles and/or combat skills. (when not doing anything else)
-Help anyone who wants to leave the city with stealth skills as he promised
-Ask Marrow about anywhere he can study up on the Thornsguard's history as a military. If anybody knows where to get that info it'd be a group of students.
-Ask Rivers about going to the Seven Tiered Sanctuary (tentatively tonight)
-See if Dancer will be his Sifu in Immaculate Fire Style, if only for a time. A bit much to ask of her, perhaps, but she definitely knows the style better than he does.
-Check on the injured we've brought back. (tentatively tomorrow)

**Sticks** · 2020-11-18, 07:58 PM (ISO 8601)

The Dancer looks after the informant with some degree of jealousy. That ability to move through crowds is something she'll never have here, not without compromising her mission.

She turns to address Nord's inquiry, smiling coyly. "Why sir, I would be delighted. It's just a little bit of self-defense training I picked up from my teachers, and I am nowhere near good enough to be anybody's 'sifu'...but I will show you what I know...if you are willing to escort me back to the Shroudvaunt. I am just a foolish girl in service to poor Queen Lillia, you see, and it's just like me to get myself into trouble and need a big strong man to escort me back home with my honor intact." She takes his arm playfully, elegantly hooking her elbow into his while Pyrefly whizzes around them both.

**HalfTangible** · 2020-11-18, 09:34 PM (ISO 8601)

Originally Posted by Sticks

The Dancer looks after the informant with some degree of jealousy. That ability to move through crowds is something she'll never have here, not without compromising her mission.

She turns to address Nord's inquiry, smiling coyly. "Why sir, I would be delighted. It's just a little bit of self-defense training I picked up from my teachers, and I am nowhere near good enough to be anybody's 'sifu'...but I will show you what I know...if you are willing to escort me back to the Shroudvaunt. I am just a foolish girl in service to poor Queen Lillia, you see, and it's just like me to get myself into trouble and need a big strong man to escort me back home with my honor intact." She takes his arm playfully, elegantly hooking her elbow into his while Pyrefly whizzes around them both.

A slight blush came over him as Dancer locked his elbow with coy enthusiasm. That was... unexpected. A dragon-blooded didn't need an escort anywhere, but if she wanted him to come along, who was he to refuse? Pyrefly certainly seemed to be having fun, chittering and swirling around the two. He'd been arm candy for a dragon before, he knew what his role was here: make her look good (Not that she needed much help for that, but still). Primarily, this meant looking charmed and interested in her every word as she schmoozed with the high society schmucks... although that assumed they were going to a salon. And they may very well have been, or why bring him along? She certainly was strong enough to fight off minor cutpurses without his help.

"You seem quite capable to me, but if an escort will bring you comfort, I will provide." Nord said as they began their walk towards the Shroudvaunt.

**Sticks** · 2020-11-18, 11:50 PM (ISO 8601)

The Dancer laughs a little too enthusiastically at Nord's comment. My, he really is a very honest man, isn't he? She leans her head on his shoulder as they walk, the better to whisper. No eavesdropper will be very inclined to hear the vulgar details of a high-society lady's fantasies down here in the underbelly, no such woman could have much imagination anyway. "Well you see, I am quite capable, but I can't let anyone know that. You hardly make a noble-born piece to show off to my courtly 'friends' as bruised and rubble-coated as you are. No, you're much better as the kind-hearted lower-city bruiser who rescued me from whatever dire situation I've been in all night. You know what I'm capable of, but to the court I am simply Hollyhock, Queen Lillia's favorite dancing girl. Hollyhock is a sweetie, very curious but too innocent to know the dangers of the world. Innocence is such a commodity in this city, even since before the invasion."

She steers Nord around a bend as they transition onto the shady-but-legal back ways of the city, wending their way towards the palace of the Autocrat. "So here's the deal, you are a kind mercenary who took pity on me when I stumbled into a tavern being perused by several degenerates. You gave them what-for, but I was so overcome by my ordeal that I passed out in your arms. You carried me up to your room and kept vigil over me until morning, when I awoke and we came to know each other." She gives Nord a sly look. "No, not like that. I'm too innocent and you're too honorable, remember? So you showed me around the docks, taught me the enchanting life of people who work with fish and rope for a living, just long enough for us to start smelling as salty as we do, then insisted on taking me home. I'll introduce you at the gate, the guards will make a big show of 'no unauthorized personnel past this point', we'll exchange looks full of sadness and wonder at what could have been and whether or not we'll meet again, then I'll go in and spread my tale as clandestinely as court-gossip can be. My stock will go up, I'll have a ready-made excuse to sneak out whenever I please, and nobody will think twice about seeing us together again. Consider yourself briefed, Tai-i." She finished, using the shogunate-era rank jokingly, but sure it would stick in his mind.

**HalfTangible** · 2020-11-19, 12:51 AM (ISO 8601)

Nord calmed down a bit as she explained her reasoning. Thank the gods, it was entirely faked. He was just arm candy. That made things much simpler.

Oh that poor sweet summer child.

As she teased that his thoughts might've gone somewhere scandalous, his calm immediately died. He hadn't even considered it before she'd said it, but... He shook his head to clear it. No, no, nothing like that happened. Doubly so since this entire story was fabricated and it didn't even happen in the story anyway stop thinking about that this is a mission like any other!!! Take her orders and don't think about anything else!!

Gods I miss Saki.

"... Understood, Sho'sa 'Hollyhock'. I've been telling everyone I'm a god-blooded mercenary anyway." Nord still wasn't looking directly at her. At least he wouldn't have to fake a blush... though sorrow might be a bit difficult. Although he'd had a few salons where he'd been forced to wait outside the gate for Saki to return... yeah, he could draw on that experience. Maybe get a tear going. As Pyrefly flicked in front of him again, though, he frowned and looked to her. "What's the story for the little guy? He was there when I met you?"

**Sticks** · 2020-11-19, 02:13 PM (ISO 8601)

The Dancer straightens up a bit and allows her arm to slip so only her hand rests on Nord's forearm. Her eyes follow the little sprite as he darts about them. "Ah, yes, I'm not sure how I'll explain him away. This is Pyrefly. He was a pet of Lacroix, but...well...he seems rather besotted with me at the moment. He's potentially very powerful, and certainly matches my element..." She extends her other hand and the spirit darts towards it, zipping about her wrist like a luminescent bracelet. "...and to be honest I've gotten quite attached to him as well. It's not every day in my line of work that I meet something as pure as him. Heh, I wonder if I'll have to develop a new dance incorporating a lantern or somesuch, he does seem to like dancing as much as I do."

By this point they are almost at the warded walls of the Shroudvaunt. Nord will be allowed in here, as all citizens are, but the eyes that observe them now will be more astute. "At this point we should lean more into our 'relationship', my dashing mercenary. There's a small gatehouse on the other side of Arvika Park where we can part ways, but you will be followed after I go in. I suggest taking a leisurely stroll down indirect paths before you return to Jochim's Hold. Perhaps take a meal at Walkir's Eye up at Suzumiya Roost and make inquiries about mercenary work there. It's up to you really. After your second or so visit I expect the surveillance will ease up."

**HalfTangible** · 2020-11-19, 02:56 PM (ISO 8601)

Originally Posted by Sticks

The Dancer straightens up a bit and allows her arm to slip so only her hand rests on Nord's forearm. Her eyes follow the little sprite as he darts about them. "Ah, yes, I'm not sure how I'll explain him away. This is Pyrefly. He was a pet of Lacroix, but...well...he seems rather besotted with me at the moment. He's potentially very powerful, and certainly matches my element..." She extends her other hand and the spirit darts towards it, zipping about her wrist like a luminescent bracelet. "...and to be honest I've gotten quite attached to him as well. It's not every day in my line of work that I meet something as pure as him. Heh, I wonder if I'll have to develop a new dance incorporating a lantern or somesuch, he does seem to like dancing as much as I do."

By this point they are almost at the warded walls of the Shroudvaunt. Nord will be allowed in here, as all citizens are, but the eyes that observe them now will be more astute. "At this point we should lean more into our 'relationship', my dashing mercenary. There's a small gatehouse on the other side of Arvika Park where we can part ways, but you will be followed after I go in. I suggest taking a leisurely stroll down indirect paths before you return to Jochim's Hold. Perhaps take a meal at Walkir's Eye up at Suzumiya Roost and make inquiries about mercenary work there. It's up to you really. After your second or so visit I expect the surveillance will ease up."

Nord didn't want to say anything, but... Lacroix knew about Pyrefly which meant that if he ever returned (far from impossible, unfortunately) and heard rumor of a pretty dancing girl with a blue will o wisp as part of her routine, that could come back to bite them in the ass... It was very cute, though, he had to admit, and he didn't want her to get rid of the little guy. So he kept silent on that front.

When she discussed losing any followers he might have, Nord snorted genuinely amused. He almost booped her nose, but decided against it. "Tails, I can handle, 'sweety'. Don't worry about that."

Spoiler: To do list

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-Help around the area with oddjobs using his muscles and/or combat skills. (when not doing anything else)
-Help anyone who wants to leave the city with stealth skills as he promised
-Ask Marrow about anywhere he can study up on the Thornsguard's history as a military. If anybody knows where to get that info it'd be a group of students.
-Ask Rivers about going to the Seven Tiered Sanctuary (tentatively tonight)
~~-See if Dancer will be his Sifu in Immaculate Fire Style, if only for a time. A bit much to ask of her, perhaps, but she definitely knows the style better than he does.~~ Yes. Also she's pretending to be his girlfriend now, apparently; or at least a scandalous dalliance.
-Check on the injured we've brought back. (tentatively tomorrow)

**Eurus** · 2020-11-20, 10:18 AM (ISO 8601)

"Oh, the boss came in for a drink one day, I asked 'er what kind she preferred... Liquor, she said! So lick 'er I did! And now I don't work there anymoooore~"

In the grimier parts of Thorns -- and there are many of them, these days -- Granny Taya is a common sight, her red hair almost as distinctive as her colorful personality. Shambling through the neglected lanes of the Legacy district, draped in layers of patched fabric to keep off the chill of the gravebound city, she hums bawdy songs to herself, drawing bemused looks here and there. Though she doesn't have much in the way of money to spend, she ends up with a bowl of broth and a strip of unidentifiable meat anyway from a man who thanks her profusely for the gout cure she gave him. She checks in on a man with a broken limb that she set a week ago, who paid her with a bundle of clean rags, and on a friend who patched her teakettle in exchange for a mix of headache-easing tea.

Eventually, she makes her way belowground. Although she doesn't seem to take great pains to sneak, her route is so erratic that it would be difficult to follow her discreetly. Under the surface, her demeanor never changes, but the way people react to her does.

"A man came in for some paint one day, I asked 'im what kind 'e preferred..."

To say that Granny is a figure of respect here would be... not entirely wrong, but perhaps misleading. A few people touch the brim of their hats or give her a nod as she shuffles down twisting corridors, and she gives them a cheery greeting or just a brown-toothed grin. Whether they like her or just tolerate her, they at least know her here. She predates most of them, after all; she remembers when this place was almost empty, the domain of a few smugglers and some nameless bones. Beyond that, not many people want to annoy one of the few half-decent healers left in service to the living. Which is fortunate, because today she has to ask for a favor.

---

Not many people would recognize Nine-Lives Rho, on the other hand. Partly, this is because he's not very distinctive, with his bald head and salt-and-pepper beard, a few orange tattoos on his scalp oddly hard to notice unless you knew what you were looking for. In equal part, this is because the actual Rho is a bandit who doesn't live anywhere near the city anymore, having moved on long ago after a rather terrifying message in his tent appeared one morning. Now Granny uses his shape to smuggle goods in and out of the city. Not many goods, mind you -- just what she can gather outside the city or nick off ships and caravans without provoking too much retaliation. But it's something. A trickle of food and medicine and even the occasional few weapons coming in to the living members of the city, when there's so little to go around. Today, however, he doesn't have either of those things. Instead, he has a theoretically valuable but cumbersome and dangerous artifact to hide.

After dark, on the first night since returning to the city, a few men slip down the docks, Rho among them. The payload they're here to pick up is hidden, but crudely. Wrapped in canvas and rope and strewn with seaweed, it could be random detritus... but around here, it would likely be scavenged within a day or two at most. So they have to move it somewhere safer, and quickly. Fortunately, Rho knows routes that everyone else has long forgotten, and it's a quick matter to haul the cumbersome thing through a half-flooded tidal cavern into a cunningly hidden chamber of the Hold. The men pass around a flask in silence, then nod to each other and go their separate ways.

Spoiler: OOC

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First: Granny's territory is (most/part of?) Jochim's Hold, and it has the following descriptors: Dark, labyrinthine, and insular. Hopefully this should make it good for sneaking around and hiding, and bad for infiltrating and spying!

Second: I'd like to spend my Lunar XP on some skills that I think were all pretty relevantly "practiced" on the island.

2 XP (Lunar) - Performance 1 > 2
2 XP (Lunar) - Resistance 1 > 2
2 XP (Lunar) - Awareness 1 > 2
2 XP (Lunar) - Dodge 1 > 2

**Ascension** · 2020-11-21, 05:43 PM (ISO 8601)

During the boat ride, Rivers finally gets their rest, pains eased by Granny's herbal concoctions - questionable in taste, but not in effectiveness. Bedraggled appearance aside, they're feeling quite like themselves again by the time they reach Jochim's Hold, which is fortunate. They have work to do.

Day:

Within hours of the boat's arrival, Bountiful Waters, freshly scrubbed, gowned, and bewigged, makes an appearance at her warehouses in Aspir Haven. She's not there to micromanage - Rivers can't afford to run her business like that, given their obligations to the rebellion - but it's important that neither her employees nor her clients forget her presence.

Being Waters for the afternoon is a relief, in all honesty. Open conflict and sincere conversation are both uncomfortable to Rivers; donning the merchant's mask of empty charm and cheer gives them the chance to relax into a familiar role, a role they know they can play well. They know all their lines by heart. Waters knows just how hard to laugh when Uncle Candle tells the same terrible jokes he tells every time he comes to pick up wares for the little general store he runs near the border of Legacy, and she knows that rolling her eyes as soon as he turns his back will endear her to Prairie Rose, the most cynical of the southern warehouse's clerks. She knows that when Sergeant Lu of the City Watch comes calling, a few token gestures of respect and a hot cup of tea are all that's needed to keep him from investigating anything too closely. And so on. It barely even requires thought at this point; it's all formula. Just as simple as balancing the books, and just as easy to tip in Rivers' favor.

Night:

Empty charm has its limits, though, and Rivers prefers not to chat with the dead if it's at all avoidable. Nightfall finds them back behind the wards of Jochim's Hold (some of them wards that they themselves placed and maintain), and that's where Nord finds them, investigating the run-down tavern that will be their rendezvous point with the flamboyant informant on the next night. They're in their identity as Scarlet Rivers, smuggler king, with hair pulled up in a topknot, exaggerated eyebrows, and a severe, militaristic outfit. They're wearing their new gauntlets, as well... it's a risk, identifying the weapons with one of their established personas, but if the artifacts are to be anything more than a pair of supremely valuable paperweights, they're going to need time to get used to wearing them, and Scarlet Rivers is already known to be affiliated with the Resistance.

"What is it?" Scarlet asks Nord, pointedly looking away from the young Solar, inspecting his armored fingers with his face a mask of practiced boredom. His voice is lower and brusquer than Rivers' normal tones.

**HalfTangible** · 2020-11-21, 06:46 PM (ISO 8601)

Nord gave an appropriately sad goodbye to Dancer at the Shroudvant (thank Sol that her name was also a title, that almost ended badly) before leaving in a randomly chosen direction. Initially walking with the calm, brusque confidence of a man who knew where he was going, he eventually found an alleyway and took it. He doubled back on his own trail, moved erratically, and more than once simply crouched down and waited for someone to show up.

Spoiler

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Wits 5 + Stealth 4 + Stunt 2 + Full Excellency 9 (personal pool) (why not? It'll recharge by the time night rolls around)
(20d10)[1][8][10][7][10][7][2][8][6][1][10][5][4][1][1][3][4][7][8][1](104)

Eventually, Nord would return to the Hold, and while he wasn't sure where River went during the day, he did know where the smuggler of indeterminate origin was at night, when in their rebel persona. He would eventually find his way to them, but for the time being he busied himself with oddjobs around the hold. There was always need of someone strong and/or durable.

"Cadenza invited us to the Seven Tiered Sanctuary to speak with Silken Laughter." Nord reminded the smuggler. "I wanted to take her up on that offer tonight, but I'm not much for conversation and niceties; I'd probably find a way to enslave myself to the man before they open the bar. You, on the other hand, seem to have that marked down pretty well. He's apparently a pretty big rebel, figured you could get his help better than I could."

Spoiler: To do list

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-Help around the area with oddjobs using his muscles and/or combat skills. (when not doing anything else)
-Help anyone who wants to leave the city with stealth skills as he promised
-Ask Marrow about anywhere he can study up on the Thornsguard's history as a military. If anybody knows where to get that info it'd be a group of students.
~~-Ask Rivers about going to the Seven Tiered Sanctuary (tentatively tonight)~~
~~-See if Dancer will be his Sifu in Immaculate Fire Style, if only for a time. A bit much to ask of her, perhaps, but she definitely knows the style better than he does.~~ Yes. Also she's pretending to be his girlfriend now, apparently; or at least a scandalous dalliance.
-Check on the injured we've brought back. (tentatively tomorrow)

**Inspector Valin** · 2020-11-21, 06:52 PM (ISO 8601)

Shroudvant
Palace of the Autocrat
The heart of Thorns, dubbed by some the Puppet Court, cuts a fine image in the midst of Shroudvant's skyline. It suffered no damage in the siege, but had been the victim of Thorns' downwards spiral following the end of the last war. Now the Mask's coffers have helped renew the faded outer wings. Today every wall shines in freshly scrubbed marble, its spires tall and proud against the midday sky. A sight almost inspiring enough to make you forget about the statues of the Mask that have been erected across the district, the dictator looking out across his people from raised plinths with his iron countenance fixed in that menacing grin. Dancer knows of only one that has a different pose - placed before the palace's main gate, making a show of bowing before the local crown.

And even that rendition of the Mask has a mocking smile.

It seems that the 'heart of Thorns' is quite busy today. As the pair draw further into the Shroudvant, the growing density of well dressed nobles and courtiers in their wash of colorful outfits, coupled with the occasional passing shrouded figure makes it clear that something is happening at the Palace. Dancer knows that court is not scheduled for today, so like as not there's been an unexpected turn of events - a hurriedly called duel, perhaps, or a foreign ambassador arrived unexpectedly. Irritating, but not course for concern. Were things looking bleak for Queen Lillia, these bootlickers wouldn't be within a mile of the palace. The Mask's blade hangs above the Throne, and they all know it - no one here is brave enough to risk being caught in the midst of such a reprisal.

(Save, perhaps, the Queen herself.)

Dancer and Nord don't have far to go now. A brief jaunt through the park draws just a handful of curious eyes, but as they reach the side entrance to the palace a small gaggle of indistinct figures turn a corner to start walking alongside them towards the entryway. The ghostly procession are talking among themselves, murmuring in hushed tones of various figures of little import. However, one member of the group casts their eyes towards the two Exalts.

"Ms. Hyacinth?" Second Minister Zhong Yi floats away from his colleagues to join them. One of the few ghosts to have volunteered for a role within the Autocrat's Court, the sedately robed official seems like he'd have been just as grey in mortal life. His beard is thin, the tufts of hair that peak beneath his cap ethereal, and the wrinkles around his eyes persisted into the grave. There's an air of grace to his demeanor however, eternally calm and impossible to ruffle. Faced with the queen's favored attendant apparently keeping the company of a roughneck, Heart doesn't show a trace of anger: instead the old ghost is the image of grandfatherly concern, glancing between Dancer and Nord. "It's surprising to see you away the palace. And with a stranger at that. Is everything quite all right?"

Spoiler

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Read Intentions, trying to establish what you two are doing together. Targeting each of you: Dancer, then Nord

Spoiler: Dancer: RI

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(10d10)[6][6][3][4][3][4][2][2][8][4](42)

Spoiler: Nord: RI

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(10d10)[3][2][4][10][1][6][7][1][6][4](44)

Legacy
Old Rhiannan
Granny Taya's travels today have taken her through Thorns' old market district. Once bustling with life and activity, today the market square is sepulchral - with the buisnesses driven away the Thornguard use the local silo to distribute a brief ration of grain to Legacy's inhabitants, and those in line are far too afraid of being rejected by the black-armored guardsmen to dare talk unless spoken to. Here and there however, a few locals craftsmen still endure, and they are quietly jubilant at the little gifts Taya brings. Naturally, most are willing to offer her a favour in turn, and so the cycle continues on, even under the shadow of the Mask.

These islands of life aside however, most of the district is deserted now - old shops boarded up, inns lying vacant, looted after the fall. It's while she trundles her cart through such a stretch of ghost town, the wind and creaky boards her only apparent company, that Granny hears an all too familiar sound. A young girl's voice, breathing fast, stifling a sob. Glancing to her side, Granny can just make out an unruly strand of dirty red hair, peaking out from the top of an open barrel. Someone really isn't all that good at hiding.

Aspir Haven
Bountiful Waters' Office
While Waters' duties are mostly simple and relaxing, especially following a tumultuous fight and a stressful mission, even the humble merchant lady of Thorns finds stressors of her own easily enough. These include a brief missive, passed to her by the hand of a well dressed courier, and written in impeccable High Realm calligraphy

Prince Tawny Aves, in the name of the Guild, graciously requests the presence of Mi'lady Bountiful Waters at a small salon: to be hosted upon his yacht the Glorious Endeavor to mark the First Day of Calibration. Beneath that declaration are given the particulars of dress code, and a brief outline of the planned menu and entertainment for the evening

Well! Aves is a true Merchant Prince - his shipping concerns link up a sizable amount of water trade across the eastern coast of the Inland Ocean - Cherak, Kirighast, Nexus and Arjuf have offices of the White Oak Trading Company. He's also sunk significant resources into Aspir, and thus Thorns by extension: rumor has it he's planning to seek a Hierarch's seat when one next becomes vacant, and so currently is working rapidly on any excuse to buoy his coffers. Is he looking to muscle Bountiful Waters into capitulation to the Guild: to drive her out of business and remove one of the monolithic trading organization's few competitors in this market? Or is this a more positive gesture: a potential partnership or alliance, aimed at undercutting the Mask's import and export tariffs?

From what Waters and Rivers alike know, the Guild seldom consider themselves bound to any kind of fair conduct when dealing with those outside their mercantile order. It'd be foolish to expect Aves to hold to a higher standard than his peers. But who does he seek to undercut here? Mask? Waters? Both? Neither? Regardless, there's just over a week to go until this get together. She could simply refuse it - Aves has issued this invite late enough that it wouldn't be too hard to find excuses to stay away.

But if she does that, what happens next?

**HalfTangible** · 2020-11-21, 07:09 PM (ISO 8601)

Originally Posted by Inspector Valin

Shroudvant
Palace of the Autocrat
The heart of Thorns, dubbed by some the Puppet Court, cuts a fine image in the midst of Shroudvant's skyline. It suffered no damage in the siege, but had been the victim of Thorns' downwards spiral following the end of the last war. Now the Mask's coffers have helped renew the faded outer wings. Today every wall shines in freshly scrubbed marble, its spires tall and proud against the midday sky. A sight almost inspiring enough to make you forget about the statues of the Mask that have been erected across the district, the dictator looking out across his people from raised plinths with his iron countenance fixed in that menacing grin. Dancer knows of only one that has a different pose - placed before the palace's main gate, making a show of bowing before the local crown.

And even that rendition of the Mask has a mocking smile.

It seems that the 'heart of Thorns' is quite busy today. As the pair draw further into the Shroudvant, the growing density of well dressed nobles and courtiers in their wash of colorful outfits, coupled with the occasional passing shrouded figure makes it clear that something is happening at the Palace. Dancer knows that court is not scheduled for today, so like as not there's been an unexpected turn of events - a hurriedly called duel, perhaps, or a foreign ambassador arrived unexpectedly. Irritating, but not course for concern. Were things looking bleak for Queen Lillia, these bootlickers wouldn't be within a mile of the palace. The Mask's blade hangs above the Throne, and they all know it - no one here is brave enough to risk being caught in the midst of such a reprisal.

(Save, perhaps, the Queen herself.)

Dancer and Nord don't have far to go now. A brief jaunt through the park draws just a handful of curious eyes, but as they reach the side entrance to the palace a small gaggle of indistinct figures turn a corner to start walking alongside them towards the entryway. The ghostly procession are talking among themselves, murmuring in hushed tones of various figures of little import. However, one member of the group casts their eyes towards the two Exalts.

"Ms. Hyacinth?" Second Minister Zhong Yi floats away from his colleagues to join them. One of the few ghosts to have volunteered for a role within the Autocrat's Court, the sedately robed official seems like he'd have been just as grey in mortal life. His beard is thin, the tufts of hair that peak beneath his cap ethereal, and the wrinkles around his eyes persisted into the grave. There's an air of grace to his demeanor however, eternally calm and impossible to ruffle. Faced with the queen's favored attendant apparently keeping the company of a roughneck, Heart doesn't show a trace of anger: instead the old ghost is the image of grandfatherly concern, glancing between Dancer and Nord. "It's surprising to see you away the palace. And with a stranger at that. Is everything quite all right?"

Spoiler

Show

Read Intentions, trying to establish what you two are doing together. Targeting each of you: Dancer, then Nord

Spoiler: Dancer: RI

Show

[roll0]

Spoiler: Nord: RI

Show

[roll1]

Nord was not the kind of person who would (or could) hide his intent. ~~Dancer~~ Hollyhock Cyanith was holding his hand freely, and though he was not holding a protective/commanding arm around the girl, he wasn't pushing her away either. Up until the ghost approached directly he looked relaxed, as calm and assured as one could ever be, like he was marching beside a friend. He was there to provide escort, not because he thought he needed to, persay, but simply because he was asked.

The moment that the ghost approached, however, Nord's posture shifted to one of readiness. His eyes roved over the band of ghosts and nobles, mentally counting heads and potential threats. He was taking his role as an escort very seriously despite how unnecessary he felt it was.

He glanced to Dancer. "Friends of yours?"

**Sticks** · 2020-11-21, 10:19 PM (ISO 8601)

Dancer makes a small show of clutching Nord's hand in a reassuring manner as she greets the ghost. "Oh, Minister Yi, I've told you before it's 'Hollyhock! And it has been such a night! I left here yesterday evening in a palanquin to...well..." She blushes, innocence writ large on her face. "Well, I was meeting a man, if you must know. An overseer in the Thornguard. He seemed to nice at first, but when we were alone he was such a lout! So very crude! And those hands! Well, I made my excuses and fled into the night, but I was set upon and chased by thugs, I don't know where! I'd have been killed or worse if...if my rescuer hadn't come!" She leans elegantly against Nord's arm.

"He showed them what-for! And he was so very polite to me afterwards. He tended to me after my ordeal and then escorted me home! Well...first he took me to breakfast at the warfs. Have you ever had fried eels? I ate them every now and then before her majesty took me in of course, but I'd never had them so fresh! What an experience. And Nord is ever so kind...oh! Is he allowed here? Has something happened?"

This kind of deception is old-hat to Dancer. Throw in miscellaneous details so uninteresting and so believable that nobody would doubt them, then when they are overburdened with irrelevant information, ask them for something substantial without breaking step. Half the time the questioner forgets their inquiry in the first place. Ghosts can be trickier, but she is fairly sure she can handle this one. A ghostly courtier is basically an eternal old man, and no old man has ever thought to have misgivings about a ditzy beauty.

Spoiler: OOC

Show

Stunt boosting Dancer's guile to 6+.

**Inspector Valin** · 2020-11-22, 10:19 AM (ISO 8601)

Shroudvant
(Side door of the) Palace of the Autocrat
Yi has the grace to wince at Hollyhock's correction of her name, a faint darkening of the cheeks evident. When her inquiry comes, he waves a hand, "Oh, it's nothing important. It's just turned into a merry day. We've a wedding announced between Atrodyne and Karathis' youngest, there's a little party in the east ballroom to celebrate the moment. Meanwhile, a band of Doctor Veritas' students are hosting a display in the south wing, and the Cinder Troupe are giving an impromptu performance of the Tragedy of Polybius to the Court proper: I'm told they're quite hilarious." Leaning closer to the young dancer, Yi shares a conspiratorial whisper with her. "Between us, I think her highness is just in a good mood. The Soldier's away from the palace today: that tends to make things a bit more cheerful for both sides of the veil. She'd approve almost anything without his sour face around to spoil the party."

Some ghosts, even other ghosts can't stand. Zhong Yi chuckles, receding back to the head of his entourage to regard the pair with warmth in his eyes. A warmth the entire party of shades seems to share. A handful of indistinct looking forms drift over to Nord, patting his back ever so faintly while the more solid image of Yi continues to speechify. "No, you two have clearly had the more exciting time of things! You have my thanks, Master Nord! To defeat a ranking member of the Thornguard in battle is quite the feat. And... well, we can hardly let Ms. Hollyhock's protector go unrewarded, can we?!" The minister snaps his hands at the sentries stationed by the gatehouse. "Guards, let us through! A minor ceremony before the Queen in recognition of such worthy service... yes, that should be easy enough to arrange. I'll see you added to the session."

Humming to himself as he thinks ahead to how best to stage such an event, Yi is already leading his procession forward towards the gates, his ghostly friends gently jostling Dancer and Nord along, chattering excitedly. "Aww. Young love." "Fought a few duels myself." "You only fought cows, nai nóng!" That's the trouble with ghosts. They love drama. Living in proximity to so many, it sometimes feels like they invaded Thorns just to take a more active interest in everyone's personal lives. Yi usually resists such temptations, but there was no way even he could've held strong against the chance to fete the happy (potential) couple as soon as possible.

Spoiler: OOC

Show

If you want to try and get out of this, feel free. ;)

**Eurus** · 2020-11-22, 07:18 PM (ISO 8601)

It's pure coincidence that Granny picks that alley to slouch against the wall and pull out a battered smoking pipe. It's big, blocky, and battered, and she stuffs the bowl with too much tobacco before she lights it and sits shamelessly on the ground next to the occupied barrel. It's not actually that uncommon of a sight. Even before Thorns fell (and she can only think of it as a fall, these days, even though it's still around; it's a reanimated corpse, like the Mask's minions), there were always vagrants with vices, and Granny can pass for one easily enough.

After a few minutes, she inhales, hacks a cough, and starts to sing.

"Whaaaaat do ye do with a drunken barmaid, what do ye do with a drunken barmaid..."

You could describe Granny's singing as many things, but "musical" isn't really one of them. Her voice is nasally, her meter sloshes back and forth, and she keeps pausing to take a puff on her pipe. As the verses get progressively more comical, however, she seems to slowly get better -- or maybe one just gets used to the pain.

Spoiler: OOC

Show

Granny will attempt to inspire a mood of amusement and humor with her terrible singing, to coax the hiding person out. Or make them laugh, either way works.

**Sticks** · 2020-11-22, 08:02 PM (ISO 8601)

Dancer's mind races. This is more exposure than she'd really been hoping for. Certainly, she's comfortable center-stage, but at the moment there are too many variables to juggle, and she is honestly tired.

"Oh minister Yi, please don't make a fuss. My companion was just about to depart..." She slips her hand gracefully from Nord's arm. "And I was so hoping to rest and freshen up. If so much is happening this early in the day, I should be ready for whatever adventures the court holds this evening."

She bows to both men, living and dead, and rushes off towards her lady's quarters. She does manage a half-look back towards Nord, a goodbye appropriate for one grateful for another's time, but unsure whether they'll meet again. Now she can focus. It will be simplicity itself to beg exhaustion and remain cooped up. Besides, the Dancer has many ideas that she needs to clarify, and a clandestine trip to the palace library might be in order.

Spoiler: OOC

Show

Goodby Tangible. I hope you have many fun games to come.

**HalfTangible** · 2020-11-22, 09:31 PM (ISO 8601)

Originally Posted by Inspector Valin

Shroudvant
(Side door of the) Palace of the Autocrat
Yi has the grace to wince at Hollyhock's correction of her name, a faint darkening of the cheeks evident. When her inquiry comes, he waves a hand, "Oh, it's nothing important. It's just turned into a merry day. We've a wedding announced between Atrodyne and Karathis' youngest, there's a little party in the east ballroom to celebrate the moment. Meanwhile, a band of Doctor Veritas' students are hosting a display in the south wing, and the Cinder Troupe are giving an impromptu performance of the Tragedy of Polybius to the Court proper: I'm told they're quite hilarious." Leaning closer to the young dancer, Yi shares a conspiratorial whisper with her. "Between us, I think her highness is just in a good mood. The Soldier's away from the palace today: that tends to make things a bit more cheerful for both sides of the veil. She'd approve almost anything without his sour face around to spoil the party."

Some ghosts, even other ghosts can't stand. Zhong Yi chuckles, receding back to the head of his entourage to regard the pair with warmth in his eyes. A warmth the entire party of shades seems to share. A handful of indistinct looking forms drift over to Nord, patting his back ever so faintly while the more solid image of Yi continues to speechify. "No, you two have clearly had the more exciting time of things! You have my thanks, Master Nord! To defeat a ranking member of the Thornguard in battle is quite the feat. And... well, we can hardly let Ms. Hollyhock's protector go unrewarded, can we?!" The minister snaps his hands at the sentries stationed by the gatehouse. "Guards, let us through! A minor ceremony before the Queen in recognition of such worthy service... yes, that should be easy enough to arrange. I'll see you added to the session."

Humming to himself as he thinks ahead to how best to stage such an event, Yi is already leading his procession forward towards the gates, his ghostly friends gently jostling Dancer and Nord along, chattering excitedly. "Aww. Young love." "Fought a few duels myself." "You only fought cows, nai nóng!" That's the trouble with ghosts. They love drama. Living in proximity to so many, it sometimes feels like they invaded Thorns just to take a more active interest in everyone's personal lives. Yi usually resists such temptations, but there was no way even he could've held strong against the chance to fete the happy (potential) couple as soon as possible.

Spoiler: OOC

Show

If you want to try and get out of this, feel free. ;)

Originally Posted by Sticks

Dancer's mind races. This is more exposure than she'd really been hoping for. Certainly, she's comfortable center-stage, but at the moment there are too many variables to juggle, and she is honestly tired.

"Oh minister Yi, please don't make a fuss. My companion was just about to depart..." She slips her hand gracefully from Nord's arm. "And I was so hoping to rest and freshen up. If so much is happening this early in the day, I should be ready for whatever adventures the court holds this evening."

She bows to both men, living and dead, and rushes off towards her lady's quarters. She does manage a half-look back towards Nord, a goodbye appropriate for one grateful for another's time, but unsure whether they'll meet again. Now she can focus. It will be simplicity itself to beg exhaustion and remain cooped up. Besides, the Dancer has many ideas that she needs to clarify, and a clandestine trip to the palace library might be in order.

Spoiler: OOC

Show

Goodby Tangible. I hope you have many fun games to come.

Nord's blush deepened to cover his entire face and part of his neck. He nodded mutely along with her statements and simply left the Shroudvant. "Yeah, I... Thank you Dancer, I'll see you later." No one would be able to follow him... and despite that promise, no one in the resistance ever saw him again.

Nord's part in this story was over. He'd left the city. Thorn's freedom was not winnable by him, but he'd proven to himself who he was: one of the Illuminated. He wished he could've stayed. Dancer seemed a lovely woman, though he wasn't sure he was ready to start a new relationship. He wanted to work more with Rivers and Marrow; they were clever, like Saki was. Learn more of Granny and Whisper. But some things just weren't meant to be.

He took nothing from them, but he found his way out of Thorns. His legend went on from that place... but that is a story for another time, if it is ever told at all.

For this is a story of Thorns and its brave resistance...

Spoiler

Show

Didn't feel right to leave without giving Nord any kind of send-off. So... this is it. Best that can be done under the circumstances. Goodbye, guys. Wish I could've found out who Valin had planned as Nord's mate, anyway

**pfm1995** · 2020-11-23, 04:05 AM (ISO 8601)

As they approach the ominous black arch, Marrow stops mid-recount of their titanic struggle against the necrokraken with a small sigh of relief. He'd just finished recounting his gambit with the airship and, though his cuervae were laughing uproariously and slapping him on the back, he didn't feel much inclined to relive those moments. The wounds were still too raw. Apprehension at the sudden musical accompaniment turned into wonder as Jochim's Hold came into view; Marrow made more than a few double-takes as he looked back and forth from where they'd came from and the familiar boardwalk they were sailing towards. He'd seen magic before, but not like this... this had implications.

Jochim's Hold was a familiar sight, not that he'd ever admit that much to his parents. One of his childhood friends had dragged him down here when they'd been, what, fifteen? Back then the city was still rebuilding and pretty much any bar had cared more about ability to pay than age, but it was so much more exciting down here with the smugglers and other rogues. They'd been mugged on the way out and had bragged about their street baptism for months afterwards. The place was the same now as it'd been then - the details had changed, sure, but everything still looked like it was a stiff wind from collapsing, like the buildings and people both were held together by a patina of grime and delusions. He breathed in deep, managing not to gag. He did love this place.

A few exhortations were all it took to get the cuervae up and moving; he and his watched with attentive eyes as the Informant handled the wounded. This mention of 'some business' was suspicious, at best, but the man had earned himself at least a modicum of trust. Enough that they could talk about it later at least; besides, Marrow had his own business to attend to. With quiet words, gestures, and a few stern orders the cuervae gathered up both the artifacts and the prisoners. Jochim's Hold didn't have a jail - people who made trouble enough to be worth it were just knifed and dumped in the outflow current - but it did have a bank, of sorts. A bank where Marrow maintained a vault.

The Fortress Storing The Dowry of Mount Meru's Son - the name was a bad joke, "Meru's Son's Dowry" is an idiom for the blood of the Dragons - was situated in one of the squat stone towers that dominated the 'skyline' of Jochim's Hold. Specifically, it occupied the basement, first, and second floors; the next three were owned by some vaguely Guild-adjacent smuggling ring and even Marrow hadn't been able to find out who owned the floor above that. Maintenance of the structure as a whole was done by whoever felt like it (no one) whenever they felt like it (never), so the journey up the crumbling steps was always a little eventful, but inside the building was well lit and clean. The Fortress brooked no irregularities. Long streams of salt and arcane symbols ran along the walls; solid iron bard separated entrants from any sensitive items. A key and a quiet word to one of the ushers brought Marrow's band downstairs, where a second key let him into on of several doors. The inside was sparse: a few chests (which the artifacts that would fit were promptly put in) and a bookshelf full of books that the Mask's censors would disapprove of - banned texts from the Realm mostly, though there was a volume from Whitewall on their management of the shadowland outside the city. "You'll stay here for now." Marrow said, addressing the nechrotechs. "The hosts are, unfortunately, used to dealing with slaves so there are procedures in place to feed and water you. It's not exactly luxury but... well, it's what you've got. Help yourselves to the books."

With that, Marrow left. He didn't have anything else to say.

The trip back to the Petricorum was almost shockingly uneventful, and Marrow found his feet starting to drag. Now that the adrenaline of the fight and their escape had passed, a bone-deep weariness was starting to set in. His throat still flared with pain when he coughed wrong and his back felt like one single massive bruise; the smell of the hard liquor they'd spilled all over themselves to explain their long night out wasn't helping his growing headache any. They didn't bother with the front gates, instead they just hopped the fence closest to the student dorms with routine ease - everyone but the greenest freshmen knew the trick to it. Room assignments at the Petricorum were what the teachers liked to call a 'motivational tool'; they came up for review once a year and each cuerva had to defend their allotment, oftentimes with a fair bit of politics, bribery, and outright violence. The less-successful cuervae were split up and scattered in whatever nooks and crannies individual students could take and hold; Cuerva Roots Untouched By Frost (why hadn't it been 'Roots Untouched By Fire', Marrow briefly bemoaned) had claimed a full floor for themselves in Marrow's first year and had held it against all comers ever since. They'd turned the place into part fortress and part den; the furniture may have been eclectic but each and every piece was comfortable; there were always a fires going in the hearths and there was never any shortage of food or drink. Each room was also separated by thick, barrable doors and there were no fewer than five emergency exits - they were prepared, should the worst happen. Ironically, the only place good tactics took a backseat to sentimentality was Marrow's room itself, which he headed to right after stepping in the door. His friends tried to talk him out of it, to demand that he finish the story and spend the night drinking and celebrating, but he begged off with excuses about having to finish preparing a lecture on the strategic considerations of a Marukani campaign. Truthfully, he was just tired.

Pretty much any tactical encampment doctrine written... well, ever, would hold that the commander's tent should be in a central location easily reached by those with the need and easily defended. Marrow's room was up against the outer wall and under the stairs. The ceiling was too low, the floor creaked and you had to turn sideways to walk past the bed. There were freshmen with better rooms than him, un-Exalted freshmen. Marrow stayed here for one reason, and one reason only. Settling down at the desk with some paper and an inkwell, Marrow reached over to open the window.

It was beautiful. A woman's voice came lilting up from a hidden garden, carried to Marrow's room by some trick of acoustics. It was the best part of his night, when she decided to sing, and though he knew she knew others could hear her he could never tell her - The Dweller in the Iron Belltower suffered none to admit to having heard her practices, her mistakes. She'd rain down vicious vengeance on them all, if he admitted to listening. To him, all the mistakes only made the singing more beautiful. He sat there, listening, ink dripping down onto blank paper, until his eyes grew heavy and his head snapped back up from his chest. Then, finally, he closed the window and went to sleep.

Thread: Exalted 3e - Welcome to Thorns (IC)

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