CotCT 5e IC

[Zero Prime]

Aubin D'Ambrosio, Hellknight deserter AC: 15 | HIT POINTS: 20 | CURRENT 10 | HIT DIE: 2d10 | CURRENT: 2d10 INITIATIVE: +4 | PASSIVE PERCEPTION: 11 | PASSIVE INSIGHT: 13 ACTIVE EFFECTS: None. CONDITIONS: None. Aubin immediately noted Shadi's reaction to the sigil etched into his flesh, a brand that he, himself, loathed as much as any who saw it. However, it was a wound from the past, one that he loathed, but one that drove him forward, to be something more than blind obedience and unquestioning faith. He stepped back as the Shoanti woman performed the rites for Lamm, he didn't particularly feel as though their tormentor deserved such observance of faith, but he did feel that Shadi deserved it, she would not be here, in this city that sickened her, if she too wasn't wrong by the black hearted Lamm. As he pleaded with his companions, they each fell away, expressing concern for the plan which, he felt, brought closure to the situation, that would burn away the corruption and the violence that their quarry had inflicted upon the district. Allow it to flourish and heal. Still, even as Scipio walked away in disgust, Aubin could only nod, his head low. "My thanks, guardsman," for who, other than a guardsman would have the loyalty, not to the crown, but to the city itself, it made sense, given the man's demeanor and skillset. "You will have my support, this I vow." It did not matter to Aubin that Scipio likely could not hear the pledge, or was too incensed to care, but a pledge was a pledge, a man's word was often all he had. He removed his cloak, and held it in the briny water of the bay until it was sodden and thrice it's weight. He then wrapped it around his shoulders and mouth, tasting the foul salt of the bay in it's cloth. A muffled voice spoke to Podgan, "Wet cloth will protect your chest and throat from the smoke," he moved through the fishery as the other's left, dousing exposed, flammable surfaces with alcohol and other flammables so it could be set alight. While he did so, he looked for pikes, gaff hooks, and other such instruments with which to push burning piles into the bay to prevent the spread of any fire. He nodded at the Factor as he worked, thankful for the diminutive man's presence, it was comforting if nothing else. He readied the flint and tinder, setting the fire in the back portion of the fishery, the rooms supported over the water, where the fire was easiest to control, and would drop into the cold, dark waters, where this rotting carcass of a building would be mourned by precisely nobody, for the damage it had wrought to Korvosa and the people of this very district.

Spoiler: Out of Character Actions

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OOC: Aided by chemicals from the creation of Shiver, gunpowder where needed, alcohol and other such accelerants, Aubin is going to create a controlled blaze, meant to drop the fishery into the bay, and send a message that Lamm & associates are no more, which will hopefully embolden the residents of the district to no longer allow men of Lamm's disposition to hide amongst them, while preying on them like a parasite. If you would like any specific rolls let me know.

[Amnestic]

The Fishery

As the fire takes hold of the fishery and works at its wood and those within, you cluster outside. The heat steadily rises as the flames spread, cracking and breaking the old half-rotted wood. Orphan and party both watch as the flames rise and rise before the supports give way, and the entire building sinks forward, crashing down from the slanted shoreline into the water. The building continues to burn as it steadily sinks further and further into the riverwater, before finally being consumed by the liquid and extinguishing the flame. The fishery is gone, and its owners with it, swallowed by flame first, and then the icy black of the Jeggare river at night. Whether because of the sudden lurch towards the water, the cold weather or simply serendipity, adjacent buildings are spared the flame.

Some orphans scatter, choosing the cold of the streets over trusting adults - both you and that of orphanages - and believe they will make it on their own. Some might be right, but the cold chill of the winter wind that wraps around you may lead one to believe that at least some of them won't make it in the end. That's nothing unusual for Korvosa though. It's an inevitability that those on the streets will perish in winter, and no matter how much charity the churches offer or how well policed the streets, Korvosan streets always spit out some bodies by the time the frosts thaw in spring. If they're lucky they'll be discovered before the sewer otyughs that lurk below find them.

The majority of children choose to remain include Kester and the still unconscious Nodder, apparently preferring what guiding hand Loric can offer, awaiting the return of Puddles. She returns sometime after the fishery is gone, and it's only Kester's intervention (and the sight of her unconscious brother) that keeps her from fleeing as some of the other orphans did. With Loric and any others who wish to assure the safety of the remaining children, they're delivered safely to the nearby orphanage. The Matron there, a kindly middle-aged woman with more stress wrinkles than a sunned prune, welcomes them in with a mixture of appreciation and frustrated sigh. Not at you or the children, as she is quick to explain, just at the continued state of the city that would bring this on.

Early Morning, 31st Day of Abadius

Wherever you choose to rest your head overnight - be it a brothel, an inn, your home or simply the streets, you are alerted in the mid morning while darkness still cloaks the city. Though night presses down from above, the skyline of the city pushes back with an orange glow. Fires, flickering on the horizon. Some close to you, some far, but dotted across the city in what looks to be every district. The frantic clang of alarm bells harmonises in a perverse way with a cacophony of screams, the clash of steel on steel, shrieks of terror, and the occasional detonation of arcane magic. The hefty wingbeats of the hippogryph mounts belonging to the Sable Company swoop over the city, angling towards Castle Korvosa at a breakneck pace.

Through all the noise and the chaos, the din of a city temporarily gripped by madness, you hear the shouts that herald the cause: "The King is dead! Long live the Queen!" and its counter cries, ragged and screaming "Hang the Queen! The usurper must die!"

Sunrise

When dawn comes the city is...quieter. Not quiet, but quieter. The fires have died down, the sounds of combat have ended, though the streets are still loud with talk and people. Far louder than the streets of the day yesterday. The uneasy powderkeg, briefly flared overnight, has now settled into merely toying with matches instead of being actively ignited. The heated blood pumping through the city is offset by the wintry fall of snow. Thick clouds on the horizon, even buffeted by the seawinds, promise more and more to fall over the coming day, and potentially worse tomorrow still. Though it chills to the bone, it may be for the city's best. It will keep some less-dedicated folks from taking to the streets. Either way the city is in dire straits, on the brink of yet another uprising.

As you make your way across the city, it's impossible to miss the rumours and gossip from those brave or warm enough to take to the streets. Though King Eodred II's health had been declining for some time, his sudden death caught everyone off guard. Some say it was a disease that even the grandest of clerics in the city - of Sarenrae, Abadar and even Asmodeus - could not cure, though the words "poison" and "curse" are not far from such discussions.

Already stifled labourers, put down by Eodred II's spendthrift reign, are taking to the streets. Soot-covered smiths, salty dock workers and all manner of artisans seem immensely displeased at Ileosa taking the throne. The knock-on effect is immediate: Merchant ships and wagons apparently have no one to unload their goods, and the steady flow of food begins to hiccup and stumble. Not only that, but the Acadamae now officially has closed its doors allowing none to enter or leave. The Bank of Abadar follows suit, closing its gilded gates to the public, with a contingent of the faithful armed and ready to repel any would-be looters.

Having arranged to meet up again at a spot you all know - outside Zellara's empty home - you reconvene a little after the sun rises, though it's blocked entirely by thick white-grey clouds above. Slushed snow from your passing clings to boots, and each step steadily dirties the clear white snowfall with grim and dirt. Lancet Street is a quiet place for a meetup, secluded, and relatively untouched by foot traffic by the time you all arrive. What few residents the street have seem to have decided the best option is to stay inside, and given the weather it's hard to blame them.

Spoiler: OOC

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Feel free to go into more detail on where you sleep, maybe some orphan stuff for Loric, etc. If you choose to get up to stuff during the 'Early Morning' you will exclude yourself from a long rest though. I'm happy to do some timewarping stuff as needed, but remember that the party is severely split. Try not to do something that might get you killed and cause a time paradox.

Also, the weather is Snowing. This has the following effects, though not all of these will be immediately (or potentially ever) relevant:
Overland travel speed (but not combat movement) is halved.
If you try to take a long rest without cover and heat, you need to make a DC15 ConSave to gain the benefits of a long rest. On a fail, you gain no benefits. If you fail by 5 or more, you gain an additional level of exhaustion.
All Cold damage rolls have +2 to them.
The sky is blocked by cloud cover. High flying aerial creatures have Total Cover. Outdoor light doesn't count as Sunlight for the purposes of sunlight sensitivity and similar traits.
Ability Checks with navigation tools to determine your location based on the sky are made with disadvantage.

[3SecondCultist]

Shadi, Who Was Skoan-Quah Human Stone Sorcerer HP: 18/18, AC: 13 PP: 14, PI: 14 Active Effects: None Conditions: None Concentrating: —

Shadi's dreams are full of fire and water. She stands atop a spire of endless stone and looks out over the ruin of the new made world as it is torn apart by nameless disaster; roiling cinder-swarms of soot and ash travel across barren wastes, and the silt-rich sea bursts forth from its confines to spill across the plain. Where they meet great columns of jet-fog erupt and billow upwards, choking the skies and casting all in shadow. Though the tower she stands on is secure, she stands under the pall in perfect silence as her vision begins to fade. At the edge of her consciousness, she imagines a hand reaching out to her. No human action, this, but an extension of the rock itself - cool and inviting and immutable. The last sensation she feels before waking is the embrace of stone.

"The King is dead! Long live the Queen!" The words - shouted hoarsely over the echoes of calamity - come from a crier barely ten yards away from where Shadi has come to rest her head for the evening. The former Skoan-Quah warrior cracks open her eyes blearily, failing to absorb the words until they are repeated as others begin to shout nearby. Shaking off the vagaries of sleep, Shadi begins to extricate herself from her den. Excavating the loose mounds of top-soil that she has gathered requires only a thought, as one of the 'walls' of her sleeping area i is pushed up and away and she crawls out of the ground. As she emerges from her self-made warren, her vision swims with blurred shapes in the darkened distance, and the outlines of flames. For a few heartbeats, Shadi is convinced that she is still dreaming before realizing the truth of what she's seeing.

Korvosa is burning.

The first thought - spitefully, uncharitably - is 'good riddance'. Despite her pursuits and the limited success she had at Plates and Plateaus, this city has brought her no joy, and she has never met such ill-spirited people in her life. The face of the Hellknight crosses her mind, and the memory of it frozen in some kind of twisted conviction, believing that the best cure to a thing in pain is to set it ablaze. Maybe one fishery wasn't enough of a world for him to save.. Yet her mind is still muddled by glimmers of guilt - shouldn't she help these people, despite their failings? 'Civilized' though they may be, even a warren of tomb-robbers such as this has innocents, people who are surely suffering as a result of the chaos to come.

The concern fades. This is the way of the world, and there will always be those too weak to avoid getting stepped on. She cannot help them alone in any case; to get involved now would invite a quick death by someone labelling her as part of 'a Shoanti plot' or some other nonsense. Retreating back to her den, she wraps herself in a shroud of claiven earth to stare down the storm within.

---

Shadi wastes no time after dawn breaks, pulling her cloak tightly around her shoulders to ward off the goosebumps on her bare arms from the deep bite of snowfall's chill as she cuts a path directly across Korvosa to the agreed meeting place. Though she enjoyed seeing a few traces of the stars at night, she has to concede that if she doesn't want to freeze to death, she'll need to find a roof over her head and a warm blanket. Though she has a few coins leftover from her working stint, with the restaurant burned down she'll need to find another source of income until she can start to think about rebuilding. Hopefully the haul from the Fishery will help in that regard.

The Shoanti arrives at Zellara's dwelling on Lancet Street under a limpid milky sky and waits in silence. Despite the cold, she does not seem to twitch or shiver - she may as well be a statue on the street corner.

[TriciaOso]

Factor Podgan, Deep Gnome Cleric of Abadar Level 2 | HP: 17/17 | AC: 18 PP: 14 | PIv: 13 | PIn: 14 Concentration: No | Active Effects: No

Podgan sits the firewatch, and talks to any of the children who will listen about hope for a life beyond the streets, a life after Lamm. He escorts them to the orphanage of a gentler god with the rest of the group, and goes home troubled, his mind full of fire and the hollow eyes of the neighborhood, watching them all with mistrust. Two former officers of the law, a priest of civilization itself, an aristocrat; and two foreigners, yet each in their way as honorable as any devotee of Abadar the gnome has ever met. The children cut down, combatants like any other; the child dangling, and the desperate intemperate passion of the tanner to save him.

In his dreams he sees his god, the god of justice and law both, torn apart and battling himself, strict rule of Law against the demands of Justice, and where their titanic feet tread in the city of Korsova, fires bloom and people run in terror, and Mercy chases after them with water, doing all she can to save the innocents. He is dedicated, life's blood and oath in his own breath, to those titans; but his heart is with the ragged figure with the ewer.

Fire and chaos in his dreams, and he wakes to find his dream loose in the city. The day that follows is terrifying, not just because of the chaos but because even the Temple is at a loss. The law is torn in two, flapping loose, and no one knows what happens next. The closure of the bank wounds him at his core; what is it but a confession that even the edifice of the law is defeated and dares not open its doors? What hope can they offer? And more prosaically, what about the gold in their vaults that people surely desperately need back? They took it with a promise. If that promise means nothing, then he means nothing. Nothing more than what Lamm made him.

It is a good thing he took out and oiled his scale mail for his work the day before, because it is needed as soon as he rises from bed, and he is already sore with the weight and wearily sick of its clanking obviousness when he joins Shadi in the alley. He continues to look absurd; in armor designed to make a tall man look like a gleaming exemplar of law and wealth and civilization, he looks like a fat, ambulatory candlestick.

"Good morning," he says cautiously to the Shoanti woman. "I know little of your people, I'm afraid, but I must say I was struck by your commitment to the dead yesterday. You seem to me a very honorable woman. And I think you did more to sway our friend than any of the rest of us."

[3SecondCultist]

Shadi, Who Was Skoan-Quah Human Stone Sorcerer HP: 18/18, AC: 13 PP: 14, PI: 14 Active Effects: None Conditions: None Concentrating: —

"I do not believe it is a good morning, Pogdan," Shadi replies with a vague gesture towards the city behind her. She does not turn around to look herself. "There will be many more dead to speak over before the sun sets again."

The warrior sighs, shifting in the snow and creating an ever-widening pool of brown-grey slush at her feet. "Your words are kind, but mine failed to move the Hellknight from his course. Maybe your choice was the more honourable, to stand beside an ally on ill ground even if you did not share their beliefs." From her pocket she produces a small bundle which she carefully unwraps in front of the armoured rock gnome.

She reaches out, passing out a morsel of what appears to be some sort of jerky before biting some off to chew herself. "This is maxmax. Dried moose back meat treated with maple and sugar, a recipe from home. It will keep up your strength."

[TriciaOso]

Factor Podgan, Deep Gnome Cleric of Abadar Level 2 | HP: 17/17 | AC: 18 PP: 14 | PIv: 13 | PIn: 14 Concentration: No | Active Effects: No

He chews it thoughtfully. "Quite tasty, yes. And, ah, an entertainment in itself." He chews a bit longer.

"We all gathered yesterday to commit a crime. My oath is to the law, and I cannot find honor in it, for myself. For you, of course, as an outsider to our ways, I am sure it was different."

"But crime or no, it felt needful to me, and so I went with the intention of seeing it done with all the... the decency we could manage, under the circumstances. If it was needful to him to burn the the fishery, then, well--no one promised me it would be easy. No harder than watching a nobleman loot warm bodies or healing children forced to protect their abuser. Yet in the end, we did it, and we did do it with what decency there could be, and..."

He looks at the smoke in the sky and finally swallows the lump of dried meat. "On this not-so-good morning, where less careful fires burn... that is something, I suppose."

[purepolarpanzer]

Creissus "Crease" Walrun Ornetto IV Human Bard AC: 14 HP: 17/17 PP: 10 PIv: 11 PIs: 12 Conditions: -- Concentrating on: Bardic Inspiration- 1d6 0/3 2 / 2 d8 HD The Night of the Fire Crease did not linger long at the site of the fishery. As far as he was concerned, his business here was concluded when Lamm died and the loot was accounted for. So while the others were managing the fire and the orphans, Crease headed for the Bard's End for the night, intent on a good night's sleep. Perhaps not as good as the manor bed he shared with the coquettish Kroft girl, but perhaps even better now that Lamm was dead. Yes, he attempted to convince himself, he felt... better. Revenge was... sweet. Assuredly, things were on the path to his personal betterment. But if that were so... why did he have a bitter taste in his mouth and his heart? Shrugging as he moved down a dark alley, Crease figured that it was nothing that could not be banished with good wine. And now he could afford good wine. Early that Morning As warring shouts filled the street, Crease covered his head with his pillow and cursed his fourth glass of wine. The King is dead... and I feel like I am too. But... bright sides not we will have an audience with THE most powerful person in Korvosa instead of the SECOND most powerful. And she will be in our debt, at least to some degree... Blearily, Crease went back to bed with a smile on his face, dreaming of honor restored and Anoria returned to her rightful place. Sunrise on Lancet Street Crease is late. He would say fashionably late, but the truth is much more biological than that. He'd woken up with a hangover from the hells themselves. Something about killing Lamm hadn't satisfied him as he thought, and no amount of wine would wash the bitterness of dissatisfaction from his mouth. That hadn't stopped him from trying. Still, he had plenty of experience walking off the results of a night of overindulgence. In the time he'd spent preparing this morning he'd had several cups of black coffee, an icy bath, and a hearty, greasy breakfast with extra butter and runny eggs. By the time he arrived, he was late, indeed, but he felt halfway human again. Boots crunching through snow, he approached the others with a pained smile, a new feather in his cap, and an impish salute. "Good morning, all. I'm sure you've heard the news. We're all about to meet with the supreme ruler of Korvosa and make her day. I assume you've all followed my instructions and bathed?" He gave a few experimental sniffs as though to test the question.

Spoiler: OOC

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Rolling perception to see if anyone stinks. (1d20+1)[9]. I'm tempted to argue that Shadi sleeping in a literal hole in the ground gives advantage, so in case it does (1d20+1)[21].

[RandomWombat]

Loric the Tanner Human Monk/Ranger AC: 16 HP: 18/18 PP: 13 PIv: 10 PIs: 13 Conditions: -- The Wake Upstairs, Loric is seated inside near the front door to shelter himself from the chill wind outside as he waits with the other children for 'Puddles' to return. When the others climb up and inform him of the fire, he frowns slightly, but does not complain. This building is of no importance to him, nor the fate of its neighbors if the fire should spread. He would disappear into the night and be forgotten if need be. Again. But no such disaster occurs, as they stand vigil outside. What irritates him his he and the children having to stand out in the cold for this foolish act of passion. He remains for a time, with the children, waiting for the boy's sister. The heat of the flames provides more respite from the weather than huddling in some nearby alley would. "Such a shame," he comments idly as he squats near a wall, offering cover from the wind. Fire flickers across the tired lines of his face as he stares into it. "The roaches were quite pleased with their lot. May just be the only thing this man has made happy for a long time." The crocodile, he imagines, was beaten to keep it mean and obedient. Apart from his small eulogy to Lamm's pest infestation, he doesn't say anything to those others standing around. When puddles arrives, he leaves the talking to Kester. Speaking is not his strong suit, and he is as likely to frighten the girl away as convince her to go with them, even as he carries her brother. Bringing those who are left trailing behind him like ducklings, he marches to the Dawnflower House. With his charge delivered to safety, the man vanishes from the group as mysteriously as he arrived. The Morning of Fire On the edge of the Thieves' Camp, near the shore of the water, Loric sits in the damp grass and looks out over the city. His dreams had been haunted by thoughts of the past, and he had risen early. The dawn is welcomed not with the tinged aurora of the sunrise, but with the blazing red of more fires lighting up the city. The shouts and clashing metal bring him back in waking memories, clutching his spear haft tightly in front of him. The city is at war with itself. The streets run red with blood, the snow of the winter morning stained. It is a reflection of a truth that has been lurking underneath its skin for a long time: the city is at war with itself. Nothing has changed. As embers of an old fire start to kindle anew, purpose twitches the man's hands. His thoughts turn to rotten old miser at the tannery. Plastered upon the wretched thing's face, Loric sees Lamm's leer. He is starving these people. Behind Loric, the Thieves' Camp, many depend on the tannery to get by and that is being exploited. These are his people now. They have helped him build his fence. They have helped him care for his sheep. The war will not notice one more casualty. Cruel and destructive justice moves Loric from his seated position, the familiar old haft carrying his weight from its rest. It is ready. It is willing Remember your oath. This is not who you have to be. The other voice, drifting in the scent of the tannery around him, speaks to him in a soothing tone. Looking down at the patterns in the wood, Loric debates between the two. "I swore never to take up the blade in the name of war." He holds the staff in both hands, closing his eyes as he whispers to himself. Convincing himself. "This is neither blade nor war." Stepping away from the shore, he walks towards the tannery, moving through brush and cover of darkness. It is early still. No one else will have arrived yet. He can find the old man as he returns to his seat of power, if the city's revels do not take him first. It is karma's due, and Loric would not begrudge karma for claiming it first. The Rendezvous Loric is already waiting outside of Zellara's residence when the others arrive. The others can tell he has been there for some time, as snow has settled on his shoulders and atop his hood. His clothes look freshly washed, but the stink of the tannery still clings to him like a shroud. It is immediately obvious to Cressius, assaulting his delicate nose with its invasive tendrils. "I have not," he points out the obvious, in answer to the fop's question. "If one cannot withstand the smell of work, they are not worthy of my respect."

[Bunny Commando]

Scipio Arquetius - HP: 17/17 - Conditions: None - Active Effects: None - Harrow Points: 1

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

Early Morning
After having escorted Pogdan, Scipio goes back to the small house he has rented in Old Korvosa and tries to get some rest - as much as he is tired, however, sleep doesn't come easy. A deep, painful longing for the Shiver fills his mind; if he had at least one vial...
...the former watchman starts punching his pillow over and over and over in a desperate effort to use the anger he feels for what he has lost to stave off his desire for that poison. After a while he sighs and relaxes a bit, trying to remember the words Pogdan had used to help him during the dreadful days when his whole life crumbled because of the Shiver, because of Lamm. Yes, Lamm - the man he helped murder. Now that he has some time to ponder on what happened, Scipio realizes, surprisingly enough, that he doesn't feel guilty and he has no fear of retribution, be it from Lamm's associates, the Guard or the Hellknights.
After his brush with death back in the Fishery, meeting Pharasma doesn't scare him.

Thanks to the memory of the peace he felt when everything went dark, Scipio finally manages to doze off. Korvosa has other plans, however. When the screaming starts, Scipio abrutply awakes and goes to the the window to check what's happening. Screams, fires, violence. The Curse has struck again. The city he loves seems bent on destroying itself and he feels powerless - Lamm might be dead and yet it doesn't seem Korvosa is any different from the day before.

Sunrise
He arrives last, still a bit drowsy. He wears the same patchy clothes he wore during the night, but at least he is more or less clean. He nods a greeting to his accomplices and doesn't seem in a talking mood, but when Crease gets close he moves away and says with an indignant tone "Stop acting like you're the one calling the shots. You're not." he scoffs and shakes his head "You truly believe we're going to be close enough the Queen could actually smell us? Don't be a fool."

[purepolarpanzer]

Creissus "Crease" Walrun Ornetto IV Human Bard AC: 14 HP: 17/17 PP: 10 PIv: 11 PIs: 12 Conditions: -- Concentrating on: Bardic Inspiration- 1d6 3/3 2 / 2 d8 HD Crease wrinkled his nose at Loric and looks absolutely aghast at Scipio. I don't presume to be in charge, but I would be remis if I didn't utilize my superior skills in diplomacy, gentility, and negotiation, alongside my elevated social rank, to our advantage. I simply offer advice to maximize our profit in this exchange. And not all profit comes in the form of coin. Acknowledgement. Respect. Privilege. Even position. All of these and more can be earned by preforming favors for a Queen. And all of which may be squandered if the Master of Horse, Head Butler, or the Chief Groomsman, any one of which may be the one we actually hand the bauble off to, smells the scent of piss and rotten brains on one of our number. I'm only trying to help you all see a bigger windfall. Crease tried to look nonchalant, but allowed it to fade into a thorough pout as his will slipped.

[Bunny Commando]

Scipio Arquetius - HP: 17/17 - Conditions: None - Active Effects: None - Harrow Points: 1

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

"Sure, the Queen couldn't wait to have the like of us at her service." Scipio snorts, sarcasm dripping from every word "I mean, we're just a Shoanti - no offense, ma'am, just stating people here in Korvosa don't like your kind - and a tanner - again, no offense, I know what it means to work with your hands - and a couple of former addicts." the former watchman shakes his head "What you really mean is that you hope to get respect, privilege and what else. But know also too well that the rest of us doesn't stand a chance, no matter how clean and well-dressed we are. But truth is: you're fooling yourself." now the tone of the chelish man is less rough, there's a hint of pity "We got scammed, cheated, exploited by Lamm because we're a bunch of losers. He knew all too well no one would really care if something happened to us, so he could toy with us without any real fear of retaliation." then he points his finger towards Crease "And if you had even a shred of influence or power here in Korvosa, Lamm would've left you alone. You're just like us: a nobody. The Queen won't care about you, she won't care about any of us. Nor her servants."

"Believe all of us heard what happened during the night. People don't want a foreign Queen - can't say I blame them, she's from Cheliax. Believe the new Queen'll want to strengthen her rule, suppress any opposition. Tying your fortunes to the Queen could very well mean help her get rid of these people."

[Zero Prime]

Aubin D'Ambrosio, Hellknight deserter AC: 15 | HIT POINTS: 20 | CURRENT 10 | HIT DIE: 2d10 | CURRENT: 2d10 INITIATIVE: +4 | PASSIVE PERCEPTION: 11 | PASSIVE INSIGHT: 13 ACTIVE EFFECTS: None. CONDITIONS: None. Firewatch: Aubin tried to remain stoic over the course of the blaze, leaning against the gaff stick, patrolling the perimeter of the smouldering fishery, ensuring the blaze did not catch to neighbouring buildings, however, his hands betrayed him. They shook, not from fear, or anger, or outrage. No. They shook because he craved, he desired, he longed for the poison that Lamm had thrust upon him, and in his weakness, he had accepted. He looked, even now, through the smoke and the flame, out over the bay, and he could hear her screams, if he thought to, and the cotton that the shiver packed his brain in could not stop the thoughts as they came roiling in, the blame, the guilt, and worse. He had committed a crime today, a murder, perhaps several, and all he felt for it was ... empty. Nothing. After the fishery's inevitable collapse into the cold, dark waters, he turned, perhaps his companions had been right, perhaps this had been for naught, another wound on this city, in this town. Surely he had excised it, but with what, a poker? He had seen what such instruments do to a man's flesh, he had been an armiger long enough, flame burns away corruption, but it is not clean, and a burn is a terrible thing to live with. Could Korvosa? Could he? His mind wandered as his feet took him through the byways and alley ways of the city, before he found himself, once again, walking the length of Lancet street. It was oddly different at this time of night, and it's alleys echoed with his footfalls, the wind moaned through chinks in the stone of neighbouring tenements, a haunting, ghostly, sound, but no matter where he looked he saw no flicker of their hostess. He shrugged his shoulders, clasped his hands together and approached the manor, breaking in through a boarded window. It's interior did not match his memory, dusty, faded, furniture, or remnants of, mouldering fruit in bowls, cobwebs, and an air of abandonment. It possessed none of Esmeranda's hospitality, or her wisdom, it was a carcass, emaciated and paper thin, like Aubin himself. He stood at the table, where a night previous he had sat, he looked to the head, where she had sat, and in a sombre, tired voice, he whispered that the deed had been done, justice, vengeance, or just murderous revenge. He scoffed, her vessels were well chosen, if nothing else. He gathered the old, rotten wood from the room, breaking it over his knee, and tossing it in the hearth, Korvosa nights were unforgiving cold, and he did not mean to die this night. Using what was left of his smoke powder, flint and steel, he started a fire, running his fingers through the flame, just to feel something, anything, before, finally, the unrelenting fatigue of the night's work dragged him down into oblivion. 31st day of Abadius: He awoke with a start, the cries of his dreams mingled with those of Korvosa's citizenry, until the two were, both, indistinguishable and undeniable. Had his fires spread? Had Esmeranda's vengeance consumed the minds of the town's inhabitants ... the cries of the mob echoed through his sleep addled brain ... the king dead, the queen to blame ... what portent of this had the discovery of the locket been? It all seemed madness and flame, when he heard the sound of familiar voices from outside the manor's boarded doors. Donning cloak and hat, he r rubbed snow and sleet across his face, it's bracing frost, forcing bleary eyes wide, cautiously moved around the corner of the revenant's home, to spy his murderous companions, as Scipio, loudly declared himself, and his allies losers, in the eyes of Lamm, and, very likely, the Queen of Korvosa. Shrugging Aubin could hardly disagree, "Ill omens abound, smoke, and flame, and fire, last night we conspired to murder, for motives of our own. Now, the city stands aflame, cries of Regicide echo through her walls? It seems ill advised to return a Queen's bauble when her crown is wreathed in ash?"

[Amnestic]

Now gathered and with your next goal decided upon, you head west towards Castle Korvosa. Anyone could find it in the city even if they were a complete stranger to the land, as it's almost certainly the most imposing structure in the entire city. A fortress, citadel and palace all at once, the castle is built atop an ancient four-sided pyramid, built millenia ago by the Shoanti. Few things boast of Korvosa's victory over the Shoanti more than the Castle, a monument to domination, and a warning to the remaining tribes that live beyond the walls. So tall are the castle's bladed towers and parapets atop the pyramid that the castle can be seen from anywhere in the city, and likewise someone in the castle can see down to anywhere in the city. Though the King is dead and the monarchs have had a distinctly tumultuous legacy before now, it's no mistake that the entire city rests under the looming gaze - and shadow - of the throne.

The castle's position at the top of the pyramid also serves a second notable, and deliberate, function: that of tiring out any potential petitioners, be they expected or otherwise. The broad ramps on each of the pyramid's four sides aren't prohibitively steep, but you're nevertheless climbing the equivalent of a number of tower's worth in height, and it's enough to leave even the most hardy among you huffing and puffing, especially when the snowfall beneath your feet makes the ramps concerningly slippery. It's possible that a twisted ankle or a slipped foot at the right moment and the wrong step could send you sliding down the side of the pyramid, to almost certain death, if not grievous injury. This, it seems, is an acceptable risk to the Throne. Perhaps on other days a contingent of guards or workers would be sent out to keep the ramps clear and secure, but today there is no one. The guards normally expected at the bottom of the pyramid have been pulled away, and you're not accosted during your ascent, nor do you see anyone else making the trek, though with three other avenues to the castle, they may simply have chosen another route.

The city's thick tension isn't alleviated as you ascend through the cold and snow, vision half-obscured by the frozen flakes falling from the firmament. Step over step over step, your legs complaining, your knees aching, your shoulders shivering, your breath clouding. Until finally you breach past the edge of the pyramid and ascend onto the flat plane. What was once a far off sight in the castle now looms over you almost as a malicious shadow, its dark stone breaking through the cold, fog and snow.

More pressingly than the castle however are the dozen Korvosan Guards on duty at the gates - gates that are shut, and likely barred. Security has been pulled back, heightened, and is on alert. Though they're not actively pointing their weapons at you, they look a hair's breadth from doing so. High strung, cold, and perhaps a little more than eager to fight. At the very least they're restrained enough to hold off from immediately feathering you with crossbow bolt volleys. Instead one - a sergeant, if his insignia is to be believed - steps forward from the collected guard and calls out to you. "State your identities and business! Do not approach until given leave to do so!" His voice, cracked from cold, may have echoed out to the city on any other day, but today it's half washed away by the wind and snow.

[purepolarpanzer]

Creissus "Crease" Walrun Ornetto IV Human Bard AC: 14 HP: 17/17 PP: 10 PIv: 11 PIs: 12 Conditions: -- Concentrating on: Bardic Inspiration- 1d6 3/3 2 / 2 d8 HD Crease steps forward, but only a single step, having no more desire to be cut down by swords than to be feathered with bolts. He takes a deep breath, his exhale rising from his lips and smoke, and clears his throat before proceeding. I'll let my allies provide you their names, but mine is Creissus Walrun Ornetto the Fourth. Perhaps you've heard of my many stage performances, concerts, or of the many notable deeds of my household for the Crown. No? No matter. We are here because after being engaged in combat by some local thieves, we discovered amongst the spoils of victory a bejeweled brooch that I immediately recognized as originally belonging to our noble Queen. As loyal and humble citizens of our fine state, we knew it was out duty to see it returned to her, post haste. If she sees fit to reward us for the life or death struggle we engaged in that led to it's recovery, all the better for us. We will gladly wait here while you alert the proper courtiers, and perhaps even the Queen herself, that we have come to return her prize. Making doubly sure that he is too far away from the guards for them to simply reach out and yank it from his grasp, Crease holds out the brooch, letting the jewels catch the light, just to hammer home the point that they were here with purpose, not violence or revolution, in mind.

Spoiler: OOC

Show

Persuasion- (1d20+7)[27], or (1d20+7)[20] if someone wishes to assist.

[Amnestic]

Creissus' words, along with a scrutinised look at the brooch in question - at a distance - provoke a short discussion among the guards. Their lips unreadable, their voices unheard over the whipping winds, until the sergeant turns back to you. If he's impressed by Creissus' position, he doesn't show it. Perhaps he's well used to dealing with nobles in his position, or perhaps he's just cold and tired. "Understood. Those who wish to enter may do so, however you must surrender all weapons, magical component pouches, arcane focuses, holy symbols, and any other similar items prior to entry. These will be returned to you when you leave." They don't move to open the gates, however, presumably waiting until you're disarmed before doing so. The abundance of caution is clear on display.

[Zero Prime]

Aubin D'Ambrosio, Hellknight deserter AC: 15 | HIT POINTS: 20 | CURRENT 20 | HIT DIE: 2d10 | CURRENT: 2d10 INITIATIVE: +4 | PASSIVE PERCEPTION: 11 | PASSIVE INSIGHT: 13 ACTIVE EFFECTS: None. CONDITIONS: None. Aubin was not at all surprised by the request, however, with a commanding view of Korvosa, he did note the areas of smoke, and ruin, from the early morning riots, and given the current state of the city, he was surprised by the unease he felt at disarming himself, even while in the presence of the Queen's guard. A deep inhale, he removed his coat, draping it over one arm as he unclasped his bandolier, from which hung his rapier and paper cartridges. He then drew his pistol, carefully, in a slow, deliberate manner, so as not to be feathered by crossbow bolts, holding it with the bandolier, "Surely you've a man to collect our arms, if forced to place my pistol upon the snow and sleet, it will irreparably damage the firing mechanism. Perhaps send a man down to collect it? I've two more daggers in my belt, but only so many hands, yea?"

[3SecondCultist]

Shadi, Who Was Skoan-Quah Human Stone Sorcerer HP: 18/18, AC: 13 PP: 14, PI: 14 Active Effects: None Conditions: None Concentrating: —

Continuing her trend of remaining quiet, the Shoanti woman chews on the snack that tastes of home as she listens to the others waste time on matters already decided. They are all going to the castle to see the queen, who could apparently also be a usurper but nobody really knows anything about it. Shadi nods in agreement when Scipio mentions her kindred not being accepted in these stolen lands; that much is obvious enough. Although she has taken care to use magic to clean off her clothes after lying in the dirt for the evening as requested, altering her wardrobe is out of the question. She has earned what she wears now, and there is little that anyone here can say to change that. Especially not the Hellknight, who she does not acknowledge from the moment he shows up on the scene. Shadi barely even looks at him.

The journey through the snow is not so long as to be overly taxing, but she has not expected the weather to turn so drastically. Wrapping herself tightly in a cloak with a similar fur lining as the rest of her Storval clothing, Shadi stares up at Castle Korvosa balefully when the group arrives at the base of its titanic pyramid. She wonders - not for the first time - how many of her ancestors died defending this place, and how long it took for the invaders to think of the land as theirs after the slaughter was done. The climb is spent in similar laconism. Shadi focuses on keeping one foot in front of the next, the mechanics of movement and overwhelming desire to avoid slipping on slick stone taking the place of too much rational thought.

It is only when they reach their destination at the castle gate itself that some part of her stirs out of its momentary hibernation. The guards call for a halt and the preening liar presents himself, and then in a moment they're asked for their weapons. Shadi pauses, her fingers moving towards the hilt of her sword and the bundle that holds her hunting spears, but looks at Pogdan to see what the gnome will do.

[TriciaOso]

Factor Podgan, Deep Gnome Cleric of Abadar Level 2 | HP: 17/17 | AC: 18 PP: 14 | PIv: 13 | PIn: 14 Concentration: No | Active Effects: No

For his part, Podgan surrenders his dagger and the crossbow he carries awkwardly on his back without even a murmur; he is more reluctant to give up his holy symbol, even though his armor and shield still clearly proclaim his faith and allegiance. But there is nothing to be done about it.

[RandomWombat]

Loric the Tanner Human Monk/Ranger AC: 16 HP: 18/18 PP: 13 PIv: 10 PIs: 13 Conditions: -- "I am here for my fair cut," Loric tells Cressius as he begins to rattle on about authority and power and other things that interest him not. Closing his eyes and pulling his meagre cloak around himself, he breathes two streams of hot breath out from his nose. "That is all. Let us walk before our toes fall off." And walk they do. A grueling trek through a city where ruined storefronts freshly looted greet them on the side of the road, and homes with windows boarded up before or after they were broken stand as tiny fortresses against the civil unrest. A city at war with itself. The words repeat themselves over and over in Loric's mind, a carousel unable to stop. The mantra is a welcome distraction from the biting cold. For once they begin the ascent to the castle, the thick overcrowded buildings on either side no longer shield them from the bitter wind, flapping Loric's cloak around himself. His teeth chatter and his feet protest, his old spear haft now serving true its purpose as a walking stick to keep him steady. In a rare moment of material envy, he wishes he had heavy furs as the Shoanti woman did. At the summit, he waits with his eyes closed, though he fears that his snow-covered eyelashes may freeze them shut. His hand holds to the haft of his spear jealously as they are asked to disarm. It has been a constant companion. "May I keep my walking stick?" he asks, speaking up with a strained voice unused to rising above a soft whisper. Spoiler: Rolls Show (1d20-1)[1] Persuasion (1d20-1)[1] Adv if anyone else provides Help If they are unconvinced, he will turn it over. His fists are only marginally less deadly anyways, but they don't need to know that.

[purepolarpanzer]

Creissus "Crease" Walrun Ornetto IV Human Bard AC: 14 HP: 17/17 PP: 10 PIv: 11 PIs: 12 Conditions: -- Concentrating on: Bardic Inspiration- 1d6 3/3 2 / 2 d8 HD Crease hands over his weapons readily enough, then passes his guitar as well. He does not volunteer that his voice is all the focus he needs for most of his spellwork, rightly fearing that they might gag him. If he was anything at all, Crease was abhorrent to being gagged.

[Amnestic]

The sergeant nods at two of his companions to move forward and cross the boundary between you. The guards - wrapped in cloaks as thick as they're allowed - bring along two large storage boxes sufficient for all except the largest of your weapons. "They will be stored in a room inside the castle away from the elements. The Korvosan guard would not damage another's property without just cause." Though the tone is placating, there's an edge of irritation. It's not helped any by Loric's attempt that falls flat. "Every other day we've got some upstart mage or priest trying the 'walking stick' trick. I'm not snowblind, you can walk fine." The soldier in front of Loric beckons a little more aggressively than necessary for the weapon to be handed over, and only inclines his head the very slightest in thanks when it's done.

[Bunny Commando]

Scipio Arquetius - HP: 17/17 - Conditions: None - Active Effects: None - Harrow Points: 1

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

Scipio stays quite silent when the group is confronted by the Korvosan Guard, even trying to avoid making eye contact with them - they might know each other, maybe even worked together and he feels quite ashamed of what he has become now. When asked, he surrenders his weapons without trying any trick; in the end, these people are just doing their job, a job he had once as well and he knows all too well what it means to have to deal with civilians who just have to make your day harder because "reasons".

[Amnestic]

With your weapons and any casting implements safely secured without issue, the sergeant visibly untenses, even if only slightly and barks a quick order to open the gate. You're lead - escorted, some might say - inside by a contingent of soldiers armed with spears and heavy crossbows. Their poise is one of nervousness combined with relief. As your group passes the threshold into the castle the sap of the wind falls away. Though it's hard to call the castle warm, the torches that light the way and the thick stone ensures enough heat insulation that you're markedly more comfortable. Alas, what greets you is not a flat plane or perhaps a nice reception waiting room, but yet more stairs. They trail upward along the side of the castle, passing under a gatehouse archway, but rising up another three entire floors - and castle floors with high ceilings are rather larger than the residential buildings of Korvosa proper. If the stairs affected the armed and armoured guards they don't show it, but they didn't have to walk up the pyramid in the freezing cold. If anything they seem relieved for the chance to get their muscles working.

After a devastastingly tiring slog step over step you arrive to the third floor of the castle, in what appears to be a cloakroom, furnished with wooden wardrobes, benches and other accoutrements for visitors to leave their heavy traveling gear behind. There's one person waiting here, and from her stance and movements as you enter she's clearly been waiting for you. Despite the safety of the interior of the castle she is decked out in full plate armour, save for the helmet that sits on a bench nearby. A falchion rests comfortably across her lower back near horizontal - an unusual position for a sheathed blade. Her red hair is short, left in a pixie cut style, though there's very little sense of the fey about her. Most notably however is the crisscross of scars across her left cheek the stretch up across her eye and nose, no doubt made with a bladed weapon. Rather than diminish her beauty, the scars instead seem to draw you in, granting her a physicality instead of the ethereal nature that nobles prefer to aim for.

She gives a curt nod, before introducing herself. "Sabina Merrin. I'm told you've something that belongs to the Queen. Is this correct?" How or when she was told isn't clear, but it seems the Sergeant sent a message between Creissus' introduction and your ascending of the castle proper. She doesn't mince words, with each word being delivered with utmost effiiciency. When she takes a look at the brooch in Creissus' possession, it brings a smile to her face - small, barely creeping at the edges of her lips, but noticeable for those paying close attention. With a nod and a gesture, she addresses the guards. "You can go, these heroes pose no threat to the Queen." A quick salute - impeccably uniform in nature from the guards - and they march back the way you came, leaving you alone with the knight. "Despite the recent news, the Queen will want to hear from you - and reward you - herself. Before we see her, please confirm how you would like to be introduced - name, title, accolades and the like."

Spoiler: Sabina Merrin, Int(History)

Show

Spoiler: DC1

Show

There may have been a famous witch by that name. They're unlikely to be the same person, but you never know with witches.

Spoiler: DC11

Show

Sabina Merrin is Ileosa's right hand and bodyguard. Rare indeed are the occasions where Sabina is not with her Queen when they're not within the safety of the castle walls. She earned her position with near peerless strength and skill with the blade, and holds the respect of those under her.

Spoiler: DC18

Show

Sabina was originally part of the Korvosan Guard, but owing to her incredible skills with the blade, ferocity in a fight and beauty, the Queen requested she be discharged and instead reassigned to serve her directly. Sabina accepted eagerly, and is without a doubt Ileosa's most staunchly devout servant. Though Ileosa's reign is legitimate by law, there's little doubt that the respect in soldiers that Sabina inspires contributes greatly to the Korvosan Guard's willingness to serve Ileosa after Eodred's passing.

[purepolarpanzer]

Creissus "Crease" Walrun Ornetto IV Human Bard AC: 14 HP: 17/17 PP: 10 PIv: 11 PIs: 12 Conditions: -- Concentrating on: Bardic Inspiration- 1d6 3/3 2 / 2 d8 HD "Well met, Lady Merrin. You may introduce me as Creissus Walrun Ornetto, Fourth of his Line, of the Citadel Hill Ornettos. My thanks for allowing me my full name and title." Crease has a Cheshire cat grin splitting his features, and he shot a superior look at the doubters who said the Queen would not meet them in person. He notably forgot to add that he was FORMERLY of Citadel Hill, and more recently of common room floors, the benches at the Bard's End, and whatever lad or lady's bed felt like sharing. He took a moment to add a modest spritz of cologne from a crystal bottle, being careful to not fill the cloak room with the strong scent and choke out his allies and guide.

Spoiler: OOC

Show

Crease is being careful not to spritz enough to offend anyone, but I think it would be far funnier if he failed to do so, don't you?

[Bunny Commando]

Scipio Arquetius - HP: 17/17 - Conditions: None - Active Effects: None - Harrow Points: 1

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

Sabina Merrin. Scipio has never met her, but back in the days when he was part of the Korvosan Guard she was the kind of person he looked up to. Even though he seriously doubts Merrin has ever heard his name - let alone about his dishonorable discharge - there's still a completely irrational fear of being recognized by someone he once (and maybe still does) admired. So when it's his turn he says with barely more than a whisper "Scipio Arquetius. No titles." like a schoolboy who didn't study for the exam and hopes no one would really hear him. Whatever shame Scipio may feel right now is however surpassed by the sheer disgust of having to smell Crease's cologne (and that look doesn't help either) - the former watchman wrinkles his nose and coughs, but the presence of Merrin seems to stop any grievance he has against the noble.

[Zero Prime]

Aubin D'Ambrosio, Hellknight deserter AC: 15 | HIT POINTS: 20 | CURRENT 20 | HIT DIE: 2d10 | CURRENT: 2d10 INITIATIVE: +4 | PASSIVE PERCEPTION: 11 | PASSIVE INSIGHT: 13 ACTIVE EFFECTS: None. CONDITIONS: None. Sabina Merrin? There had been tales of her pursuit and capture by the Hellknights, they had tried to interrogate her, but before they could remove her tongue she spoke an abyssal incantation, invoked her patron's name, and disappeared in a cloud of smoke and brimstone. Surely this couldn't be her, though he quickly averted her eyes, lest it were. In a clipped tone, he responded, "Viscount Marcillus Praecus Aquillonius, House Eriabor, formerly of Cheliax." Best not give the witch his real name, it was said it could be used to exert influence over ones mind, and if he was going to lie to a member of the Queen's Court, it had best be a practiced lie.

[TriciaOso]

Factor Podgan, Deep Gnome Cleric of Abadar Level 2 | HP: 17/17 | AC: 18 PP: 14 | PIv: 13 | PIn: 14 Concentration: No | Active Effects: No

"Factor Podgan, of the Bank of Abadar," he says simply. Other than the odd coincidence, the name means nothing to him, but he shows her respect regardless, intimidated by the palace.

[3SecondCultist]

Shadi, Who Was Skoan-Quah Human Stone Sorcerer HP: 18/18, AC: 13 PP: 14, PI: 14 Active Effects: None Conditions: None Concentrating: —

If Shadi was apprehensive when the group made their ascent up the side of the great pyramid and were forced to give up their weapons, she is positively on edge as they are escorted into the depths of Castle Korvosa. A part at the back of the woman's mind is always counting the number of guards in each room and corridor they pass, looking futilely for exits among the stark and forbidding masonry. The return of the stairs are a welcome respite from her restiveness, as she is too busy making sure she stays upright and forward facing. It will not do to look weak in this place - more than any hunting ground in the Plateau, here there are predators.

And before long, the group finds themselves face to face with one. Shadi sizes up Sabina the moment she claps eyes on her; the easy fighting stance, comfort walking around in full plate, and the battle-scars all scream 'champion', yet she has also heard the name associated with a witch. Surely this cannot be the same woman? Although she has little experience with witches in general, from what she's heard in the past they are not too far removed from the shamans of her homeland, few of whom are known to wear that kind of heavy armour. Then again, stranger things have happened.

"Shadi, who was Skoan-Quah." The words are out before she can stop them. She neither blinks nor breaks the woman's eyeline, and the name is spoken with terrible serenity.

[RandomWombat]

Loric the Tanner Human Monk/Ranger AC: 16 HP: 18/18 PP: 13 PIv: 10 PIs: 13 Conditions: -- Bereft of his staff, Loric feels restless, fingers flexing and balling at his side. He reaches up and rubs his opposite writes for want of something to occupy them. The cold stone is a comfort, when it takes the place of snow, ice and bitter wind. Passing by the torches on the stairwell upwards, Loric reaches up and brushes his fingers near the flame, feeling the warmth glance across the numb digits. Alas, no time to stop and warm himself by the fire. The soldiers here all carry themselves with discipline, and when they arrive at their destination the reason why becomes clear. Merrin's reputation precedes here, even among the Thieves' Camp outcasts. A symbol of all the power and authority of the crown. Is she also a warrior, he wonders to himself, looking at the woman's battle-scarred face. The distinction between the two is subtle. Not all soldiers have faced real war. "Loric," he answers plainly, a single word crouched among the honorifics and titles of those around him, even the stoic Scipio possessing a family name. Once, he would have introduced himself as the tanner. Perhaps he will again. But here and now there is a limbo there, a place between the warrior and the tanner, an impure mixture. So the hollow name will stand alone.

[Amnestic]

If Sabina finds your strange band of individuals amusing or curious she doesn't show it, nor does she give anything more than a curt nod and perhaps the hint of a raised eyebrow in response to each of your introductions. "Very well." She turns to an otherwise unremarkable door on her left and beckons you to follow. It opens smoothly, clearly maintained, and you're lead into what could only be the throne room. It's longer than it is wide, leading up the length to the throne itself. The tall vaunted ceiling leads to a number of stained glass windows at the far end, past the throne, depicting past kings and queens. Crimson tapestries hang along the other walls. It's pristine, clean as anything could be and a far cry from the rotting hovel that was the fishery, but it also feels remarkably empty. There are no trophies, or grand works of art, save for those forcibly installed into the windows. A roaring fireplace offers light and heat to the hall, and a red silk carpet provides a gently arching path to the throne's base.

The throne itself is a black metal construct, adorned with similar crimson cloth to the overhanging tapestries and comfortable red cushions. Sat upon it is a woman, who could only be Queen Ileosa. Beautiful even in mourning. Her brown hair is tied up into a simple yet elegant style of hoops and braids, and she has foregone her usual ostentatious styles for a plain black mourning dress and veil, behind which her hazel eyes regard you She wears no jewellery, nor adornment. Were it not for the quality of the cloth and tailoring you could mistake her for any grieving woman you meet on the street, albeit one possessing great beauty.

True to her word, Sabina loudly calls out your names and titles (true or otherwise) in order as you enter, before accompanying you in the walk towards the throne, stopping a good fifteen from the seat of power in Korvosa. Sabina gestures for the brooch, not allowing you to progress further, and takes it, crossing the distance to stand beside her monarch and hands it over. Ileosa gently holds the object, running her delicate fingers over the ornate craftsmanship and jewels with reverence. When she speaks, it has the weight of a ruler behind it, but softened by emotion that she can't hold in.

"This brooch was stolen from me some time ago—I had not expected to see it again, truth be told. A dearly cherished gift from..." She trails off, unable to complete the sentence. "And yet, here on my darkest day, you come before me with kindness. The return of this brooch is much more than an honorable deed. It is inspiration. It is hope. Tell me, how did you come by it?" There's no threat in her question, it's not an accusation that you did the deed. Instead, it seems raw curiosity, perhaps on the journey that her precious object took before finally returning to its rightful owner.