In this world, there are those that kill, and those who are killed. This division holds true even among demons. However, the entities designated as killers are far more difficult to define than they are to label. They cannot be reduced and generalised to savages who, in their mindless fury, tragically fail in leaving their fellows alive. They are not simple.

Some mortals choose to believe that killing is a mental condition, a disease. A convenient, naive, mind-easing falsity. And yet, it can be truth. Killing is a thought, a motivation, a will – one that roots itself into the psyche, and festers in the mind more potently and persistently than poison will ever plague the flesh. It is in that exact moment that a killer is born. The act that inevitably follows is not worth mentioning. A human, and life in general, is an almost humorously fragile thing. Cut it down, it dies. Smash the head, it dies. Strangle the neck, it dies. Sever the limbs, it dies. Rip out the guts, it dies. Killing is an act that is virtually uniform among all of the world’s planes. At most, demons are a fraction more creative.

Even the reasons for killing have much in common – ‘reasons’ for demons, oftentimes ‘justifications’ for mortals. There are those who kill by accident. There are those who kill by design. There are those who kill out of convenience. There are those who kill out of necessity. There are those who kill for justice – or revenge, for the two are often one and the same. There are those who kill and never deign to think about it. There are those who kill to savour the despair of the dying. And then there are those who kill, simply because spilled blood and mutilated meat sates the hungering of their soul.

Ferre, the Scythe-Bearer, belonged to this last group.

It was, she suspected, part of the reason why she consistently gravitated towards the Joneses’ funeral home. She cared nothing for pained cries, thought nothing of prayers for mercy, but oh so loved to watch Eugene work his nimble fingers, directing sharp instruments through the flesh of his subjects, cutting and carving, cleaving and chopping. Murder and mutilation put her fragmented mind at peace – it was as if she had returned to a time her body remembered how to sigh, yawn, and truly lay at rest. A time when her husk of silk and cloth encased more than a pitch-black murk, when her darkness contained more than a ceaseless craving for even further darkness.

Soon, none of it would matter. The advent of mending had never been out of her control – the die had been cast long before she had a purpose for it. It was a mere matter of timing now, timing and preparations. She needed souls. Slowly, agonizingly slow for anyone who entertained primitive things like muscles, Ferre rose from her chair. Dust scattered from her clothes - she had sat there for a month, deaf and blind to everything around her. The demon had turned into herself, conversed with her darkness, and came out having learned a lot.

Carefully moving the massive weight compacted into her lithe form, she blindly took her first steps. Heavy, metallic echoes resounded through the building. Her senses had yet to regain full functioning, but next to the sound of her own stumps upon stone, she registered a shrill screech that she had previously discarded as background noise. Now, she discarded it as plain irrelevant noise. It was midnight – time to leave. The demon detached her mask, thrust a hand into the now-accessible void, and reached for the snath of her weapon. The scythe gently curved out from her hood, whistling through the air, its blade forever sharp beyond imagination. Ferre lifted her immensely heavy arm with effortless ease – as if it were, indeed, a limb.

The demon swung. Though any other weapon of comparable size would have lodged itself in either floor or ceiling, the Scythe of Souls cleaved something else entirely. Reality. Using one of her few surviving Curse-Bearers as an anchor point, Ferre crafted a pathway, a neat, crimson-lined tear in the fabric of the world, ignoring trivial concepts such as ‘distance’. The demon ripped it open further, and then, carefully, stepped through it.

The soft snoring of an elderly woman filled the bedroom, blissfully ignorant of what had entered her house. Ferre knew where she had arrived. Owinn, the town beneath the ancient castle of Angarhyelm, from whence came man-slaying abominations. Her harvest – souls that held an absence of both good and evil – would be bountiful here. Youthful, powerful souls, with that particularly neutral mix of innocence and cruelty she required.

Now where was that orphanage?

Sweet and Hollow. The two words that would describe the sound reverberating all over the Godly Realm of Order. It was more of a noise due to its inappropriateness at the current moment. Filling anyone who had heard either malicious intent or frightening curiosity, a laughter that erupted from the female form of Lehel. The said half did not bother to hide her rudeness as her small frame rattled with her humorous fits. This had continued on for a while as she completely ignored those around her presence. For this was truly a comedic scene, she had found it the pinnacle of irony in many reasons more than one. Who would have foretell that Chaos would come to lecture Order about straying? She must not forget to document this on her journal if she ever manages to have one.

"Anarchy you have the penchant to be a farceur! If you ever desire to change your profession, I would gladly vouch for you in this entertaining field."

Words wrapped in honey entwined with sardonic poison left her lips with out hesitation. While her eyes of golden ebony embodied the mirth she had felt earlier gazed at the Goddess of Chaos in complete comfort. It was clear to her that Anarchy dislike this feminine person of hers. This had result to her enjoyment of further causing disharmony towards the female Goddess in front of them. Lehel had never felt intimidation from anyone including their God Father who had constantly reprimanded them from violence among each other. Thus, it would not be altered for any future that would be written.

"Do not come uninvited to my Dominion and throw disgusting words as 'STRAY'. I would never alleviate from the path which I have taken since my genesis."

It was like thunder had struck lightning as Lehel's words echoed with much ferocity and absolute coldness. Obsidian gold eyes stared into Anarchy without remorse, guilt or even a tint of doubt. His visage did not betray the inclemency shown by him. How preposterous for Anarchy to ask him such a blatant useless question. Lehel knew that she was not the most intelligent Deity there is. Taking note, Alannis serves as Chaos' adviser. Nevertheless, he did not expect for the female Goddess to incriminate him deviating from his role of Order. This was truly agonizingly frustrating for how he wanted to submit Anarchy to pain.

"Calm down, Lehel. My dear sister did not mean any harm. She only cares. However frankly speaking, you need not worry about me. I am Order and will always be."

Ending her statement with a melodic note as she stood from her throne which disappeared, Lehel approached her male persona and embraced him from behind. Yet, her eyes did not waver from looking at Anarchy. Moreover, she gently pulled him from the presence of Anarchy to create distance between them. Lehel narrowed his eyes towards the representation of discord as he did not show any form of like or dislike towards his female half's gesture. Although, he does understand the point she was implying about being calm.

"There is not a moment I have violated my purpose Anarchy and never will. If you feeble minded deities think so, then how pathetic it is for you to be called Gods and Goddesses. Being blinded by words that yield no results."

In that instance, the walls changed into the scenery of Ydgaeran. Lehel is not ignorant of their devilish plots to oust them who had been deemed irresponsible. His piercing gaze did not leave Anarchy's form as their surroundings continued showing the Dream Beast in doing the bidding of the one commanded it. Stretching his right hand sidewards, the 'Book of Sins' appeared in all of its glory. On the other hand, a left hand had been removed from the embrace of the male body and had been stretched towards Anarchy as the 'Seven Seraphs' appeared in its dangerous beauty.

"This is a sin. Do expect to be judge. In this perspective, is it not you who have committed such crime. Did you not think that i might be you who are on the wrong. Remember this, Order will prevail and will always remain unchanged."

These words coiled like much a perfect medley as Lehel duality spoke in much unison. They did not falter in every emphasis placed in the statement. If this is what they desires, Lehel would not prevent them in doing so. However, every action has their consequences and this would be theirs. Divine Judgment of Order would be uphold and Lehel would begin by destroying their worthless plan of having mere mortals claim Divinity.

Evelyn strode through the city streets with authority and command, far from the cowering, practically simpering woman that Alannis had reduced her to only a few hours ago. If, she thought, she was to become a Goddess herself, she would have to ensure that she maintained proper decorum and dignity in any further audiences with such beings. The crowds grudgingly parted before her determined gait as she went, as crowds tended to when one with an imposing aura passed in their midst. Back straight and chin held high, Evelyn was the very picture of imposing authority despite her frailness.

The doctor who had begun to tail her escaped Evelyn's notice entirely - she was not watching for pursuers, not in the crowded city streets where the volume of people kept most crimes confined to the alleyways, but rather for pickpockets. Jackson, on the other hand, trotting along behind her, was fully aware of Maffeo's presence. It might have seemed odd to the dozens of passers-by that the animal was following so tamely, more like a hound than a cat, but Jackson's intelligence was something that Evelyn was used to. She wasn't quite to the point of talking to him in any serious sense, though. Because that was what crazy cat ladies did, and single, alone and largely friendless she might be -- she was not a crazy cat lady. She just happened to own a cat.

The walk from the factory to her home took only ten minutes, or thereabouts, and Evelyn walked into her yard, closing the wrought iron gates behind her. Making her way up the pathway, she held the door open for Jackson to enter. The cat strolled inside, and she closed the door once again. Her destination was not home for now -- she had things to do! Arrangements to make. She couldn't afford to be idle about preparation for this ... journey. Of course, she would need to think of an excuse for the trip. She was well known enough in the city that 'treasure hunting' just wouldn't do. A scholarly interest might be believable, or perhaps development opportunities. No, a scholarly interest would have to do. A pilgrimage to experience a lost holy city first-hand was an almost fitting vacation for the strict and severe Evelyn Greyheart -- aside from, of course, the holy part. It was no matter. Her guards' job would not be to ask questions, after all.

Walking from her home, Evelyn noticed the doctor for the first time. She nodded respectfully to the man as she passed him, as one did to a healer. You never knew when he might be stitching up your side, and therefore it was good practice to keep yourself on his good side. Evelyn departed towards the city centre without tarrying.

---

The door of the Red Hands' company hall swung open with the characteristic creak that Paeval Keane had come to associate with the clink of coin. Adjusting his hat, the mercenary leader rose from his seat in the makeshift mess hall and walked the short distance from the bench to the doorway. A number of his soldiers were gathered around in conversation, though many were off on their own business - only a few of the company were on assignments at the moment, business was slow in this class of the business. The numerous mercenary companies located in Nasenorya saw far more jobs than the few that graced Rasmorya's streets, but it was without doubt that all of them wanted to be in the Red Hands' position. Work was infrequent, but damn if it didn't pay well. Only a higher class of mercenary could do business with the upper reaches of society; one botched assignment and word would spread like a plague. When you could afford to pick and choose, you could afford to boycott a mercenary company into ruin.

The woman that stood in the front of the office building that Keane had bought looked like the type of woman that could make his day extremely pleasant. She had the gait and manner that practically oozed wealth, even if her clothes were simple greys, Keane could tell they were simple by choice. The fine materials might not have been something that a self respecting soldier ought to have been able to pick out, but Paeval would admit that with the advent of the company's wealth, he'd softened towards the expensive coats and clothing that the wealthy tended towards. Gods help him, he'd even taken to the occasional bloody embroidery.

"Paeval Keane, leader of the Red Hands. How can I help you, miss?" the dark haired man leant forwards on the counter that he'd never bothered to replace, that made the place look more like the book-store it had been before Keane had bought it than a mercenary company's offices. Christ -- having offices at all was a far stretch from what Keane had grown up with. When the band of the Red Hand had been in its fledgling days, they'd camped outside cities and posted papers, never even being allowed inside.

The grey-haired woman approached him with slow steps, examining the room discerningly. "I need to hire some guards for an expedition that I plan to take. I will need them available for tomorrow morning."

Keane raised an eyebrow, "That's awful short notice, miss, I don't know if the lads'll.."

The mercenary leader trailed off as a bag of coins the size of two fists was deposited on the table. The glint of gold was just visible inside.

"I suggest you encourage your men to cooperate. I will make it worth your while. My name is Evelyn Greyheart."

Greyheart? That was a printing company, wasn't it? A company owner, then. If cash registers existed, Keane would have been hearing 'cha ching!' in his head.

"Alright, Miss Greyheart. I'll see what I can do. Can you tell me anything more about this expedition?"

Evelyn tapped one finger on her cane. Paeval eyed the stick with a level of wariness. It had the look of a stick that could be unpleasant to get to know. "The cartographer's office provided me with some maps, but due to the nature of the destination, they are varied and not entirely reliable. I have the intent of looking for Serna.”

Keane whistled, running a hand through his hair. “A lengthy, and some would say futile, task.” He murmured.

Pointedly glancing at the sack of money on the table, Evelyn folded her arms. “I would remind you that I can make it well worth your while, Paeval Keane. I will require two dozen of your finest soldiers, armed and with horses, outside the city gates before dawn tomorrow morning. Have as many horses to carry supplies as you need – an additional fifteen crowns will be provided to pay for a month’s supplies for all of them.”

It only took a few moments for Keane to nod his head. “Alright, Miss Greyheart. You’ll have your guards; my finest. Their captain will be a man by the name of Matthew Farstrider.”

Evelyn nodded her head, “Thank you, Mr Keane. And payment?”

“Five hundred golden crowns.”

“Three hundred.”

“Four hundred.”

“Three hundred and seventy.”

“Done.”

And with a final curt nod, Evelyn made her way back out of the building, leaving the sack of exactly three hundred and eighty five gold crowns upon the counter. Mercenaries were very predictable, and she knew that the man would not have been expecting any more than three hundred and fifty. Most started the price high, to dupe a wealthy lord or lady who knew little of haggling, but Evelyn knew how to work with them.

She noticed a doctor again as she left the mercenary building. Come to think of it, she’d seen another when she was leaving the Cartographers’. Evelyn frowned faintly, making a note to keep her eyes open. It would be no good to be killed by some form of stalker before she’d even left the city.

Next, she made her way to a stables and bought their finest (manageable) mare, instructing them to have her ready before first light the next day. Only then, with her guards readied, her maps gathered, her books waiting and her supplies provided for, did Evelyn permit herself to begin to make her way home. By this point it was late in the afternoon.

As she made her way through the city streets, she caught ear of a herald calling something loudly to the street.

”The king invites all of the gods’ chosen to join him in a feast of celebration tonight at his palace! All aid will be provided to aid them in their journey, and no expense will be spared!” he shouted, before his voice seemed to speed up and muffle slightly. “Imposters will be sanctioned severely, for the king does not wish to offend the heavens by lauding false champions! Terms and conditions to apply, and the King takes no responsibility for loss of life if people turn up just seeking a free meal!”

Evelyn raised an eyebrow. She didn’t know how the King knew about any of this, but she wasn’t about to turn up to be patronised at his leisure. She really disliked that man. He had tried to raise taxes on her company more than once – citing some ridiculous claim of monopoly and competition. She had put an end to that most swiftly. He was a fool of a king, with no real power. Industry ran this city, and that was that.

It was when she returned to the streets surrounding her home that Evelyn noticed the doctor again, by chance, as she turned to glare at a man who had failed to get out of her way fast enough. She met the masked man’s eyes and narrowed her own.

“What in the name of heaven’s fire are you doing?” she demanded, “You have been following me for the entirety of the day, and I demand to know your purpose! And do not even think about murdering me, because I highly doubt you will be successful, and even if you are, you will regret it!”

Evelyn wasn’t entirely sure why he would regret it, but she was sure that Alannis and whoever else was in on this apparent heavenly plot wouldn’t be entirely happy if she was stabbed in the same day as she was contacted. Maybe. She wondered if they’d just find someone else...

Probably. They were gods, after all. They were persistent, if nothing else -- and most likely a lot of things else.

Sarein slipped, almost unnoticed, through the shining streets of Rasmorya. The dusky cast to her skin, the daring cut of her clothes and the tattoos she bore would have attracted undue attention, and so with a flick of her fingers and the merest suggestion of teal fires, she redirected their stares and attention; not invisible, just…unremarkable in some way. It was only proof against a casual glance – anyone looking hard would surely see her as she truly was, but in truth it was perfect for moving in crowds unnoticed and with a minimal, elegant expenditure of energy – a philosophy that Sarein was behind one hundred per cent.

Rasmorya was odd; too many straight streets and broad, open places – her home city of Coronne, and the royal capital of Bandahar, they were places of serpentine curves and small plazas and sudden, unexpected monuments, intricate architectures completely different to Muiren styles. Aimless, buffeted thither and yon by gusts of exotic smells, the rising hubbub of Muiren voices, Sarein wandered through the city, from the guarded bridges that led over the wide river to Nasenorya – a huddled, louring morass of dwellings and denizens under a heavy pall of smoke from the industries there – to the leafy boulevards of the more select districts, where statues scowled over the walls and bougainvillea spilled out in elaborate purple waves.

Now, though, her wanderings had taken her close to the main thoroughfares again, thronged with carts and riders and pedestrians alike – their noise a low roar in the back of her mind as she strolled towards a market; to her alien eyes, as she beheld the bustling market street, it was as though a thin veneer of civilisation had been overlaid on howling barbarians. Everywhere, harsh voices clashed and clamoured; there was no civilised bargaining on bright cushions over tea, no, it was all done quickly and sloppily, exchanges completed as rapidly as possible, a clamour of hawking deals and counter-deals, haggling of the lowest kind.

Her sharp eyes watched pickpockets dart in and out of the crowds, footmen from noble houses bulking in their livery, burdened with deliveries, even – towards the better end of the market, it wouldn’t have done for any noble to be seen in the more déclassé areas, naturally – a few crested carriages, watched by more footmen while brightly-dressed peacocks fluttered leisurely around the market stalls, only occasionally deigning to make a purchase.

Sarein made a face. If even the lesser nobility – for it was a surety that the great houses never went to market themselves – buttressed and bartizaned themselves in so many layers of jewelled clothing, she dreaded to think of the Palace and what it would contain. A dagger might not be enough to get through all the fabrics – she resolved to take a look at what else was on offer in the city in the way of sharp and pointy.

All bemused, and wrapped in her thoughts as she sunned herself absently on the raised lip of a fountain, she watched a strange medic abruptly tend to an injured man with no clear incentive or goal to do so, preternaturally-green eyes bright with curiosity and her lips curved up into a small smile at the scene.

She saw him several times throughout that day, always moving with purpose – though trying to seem as though he weren’t – but it was none of her business if an itinerant doctor wanted to stalk an older merchantier with a back like a rod of iron. It was somehow comforting – and interesting – to see that such small scandals still occurred over here.

Still, what had truly caught her attention – even as she passed one of Alannis’ temples and bent her head in near-reflexive homily – was the bellowing roar of a town crier, loud even over the silvery carillon from the soaring spires of the God of Knowledge’s holy edifice.

“Hear me, hear me! By royal command of His Majesty the Lion of Ages and King of Muiren, Aledan Paeval, the group known as the Chosen are hereby commanded to present themselves for a formal banquet of seventeen removes in their honour at the Royal Palace!” The liveried man took a deep breath, preparing to belt out his announcements once again.

“Your pardon, sir.” Sarein’s voice was music, pitched perfectly as she relaxed her redirection cantrip and smiled blindingly at the official. The effect was quite amusing to watch; he paled and his eyes bulged as he beheld the almost sprite-like lady suddenly in front of him, seemingly only incidentally covered with silks and jewels in strategic places.

“Uh…” he cleared his throat nervously. “Lady?”

“Who are these Chosen? I have heard others cry much the same thing elsewhere in the city; are they some sort of traditional group your king wishes to honour?” The Muiren cant lay heavy across her tongue, hard and unfamiliar.

The crier shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know, lady. It’s a proclamation we were commanded to spread through the twin cities. Never heard of them before.”

Sarein nodded; her respect for the King rose several notches. He must have had a very efficient information-gathering network – either that, or he was a Chosen himself. She frowned; that could be problematic, kings always attracted attention, but also an advantage if parlayed into taking the royal army along with them.

“I see. Thank you for your time.” Almost magically, she produced a single heavy gold coin – a Poison Kingdoms fen – and tossed it casually towards him even as she turned to go; the crier called after her:

“Lady, you shouldn’t be walking around Rasmorya like that! The guards will take you in for indecency, you know!”

Sarein half-turned; emerald fire flickered between her fingers. “Au contraire,” she said with a fanged smile. “I go where I will, sirrah, and I wear what I will.” She vanished into the crowds, and though the crier sought her distinctive form, he failed to find her again, a nymph in the mist.

Sarein had anticipated that the Royal Palace of Muiren would be easy to find – from the sea, it looked easy enough – a sprawling complex of grand buildings and domes bedecked with hundreds of flags and defended from the rest of the cities by a high wall atop a hill – but from the ground it was proving maddeningly elusive. No fewer than six of Rasmorya’s ubiquitous guards had attempted to direct her, and all had failed miserably as she found herself staring at the same row of plumply self-satisfied houses for the fourth time in a row. Two of the guards had sent her off towards the river bridges – or, at least, had attempted to.

Raised voices – or rather, a raised voice, cultured and iron-hard – caught her notice as she was glumly debating returning to the ship, or risking a Point Me cantrip. She’d seen barely any evidence of the magic that was so common in the Kingdoms in the city, and wasn’t entirely sure how its display would have been taken.

Strolling leisurely over, she decided it would perhaps be a sounder plan to enquire of the locals. Shucking her sorcerous disguise-skin, letting the hazy whorls of it shred themselves into the aether, she performed a short curtsey, of the respectful sort, and then enquired: “I apologise for interrupting your little chat, honoured merchantier, lord doctor, but I am afraid I have managed to get myself quite, quite turned about in this city. Directions to the Royal Palace, if you’d be so kind?”

It would have been a blatant lie to say that Maffeo's "covert operation" had not paid off. It was much more of a success than he had imagined it would be. Sure he was pretty winded from the trek he made following Greyheart around the city, but he had learned everything he needed to. He probably should have stopped after overhearing her conversation with the mercenaries of Red Hands. After all, she had said the magic word: Serna. But he decided to continue his pursuit none the less. It proved to be worth his while once again, because he was able to hear from that Herald the King was holding a feast in honor of the chosen. And then something about impostors and execution. He hadn't heard quite clearly over the noise of the crowded city and the Herald's suddenly quiet voice. He noted Greyheart's subtle change of expression as she heard the Herald too. Paranormal activity in her office, mention of Serna, and her subtle reaction to the Herald's preaching about the Chosen and their soon-to-be banquet...Yes, he had all the evidence he needed.

He decided to follow her for a little while longer, but by then he was pushing his luck and thus paid the price. It seemed Greyheart was more aware of her surroundings than he had marked her for. He had not considered the possibility of getting caught and he had no immediate excuse prepared. Maybe he could spit out a half truth...He could claim to be one of the Chosen? No, wait. Greyheart probably intended to attend that banquet and it was hardly a good thing that the words impostor and execution were mentioned in the same sentence the Herald spoke. Maffeo wasn't stupid, he could pick up bits and pieces of a sentence and guess it's meaning. Most other people could as well, he would hope. Oh, sod it! He'd have to make it up as he went, he had already been standing there for a good five seconds like a mute fool. He had best say something quick before Greyheart called the guards to arrest her "stalker."

"Do calm down a league. While I am no murderer I can assure you it is, to the extent of my knowledge of such activities, never in any would-be assassin's interest to approach and kill someone in broad daylight. I would be happy to explain my business in observing your activities...If you would come closer. I prefer not to shout."

In a swift motion, Maffeo unclipped the longsword from his belt and let it clatter to the ground. He placed one of his feet on it and slid it behind him, probably in vain. He gave it a ninety percent possibility that Greyheart would stare at him for a few moments before yelling for the guards and galloping off, leaving Maffeo to be arrested. At which point, Maffeo would attempt to flee and either be captured or killed by the guards, ending his adventure permanently.

Please don't freak out, please don't freak out, please don't freak out...

Maffeo was right on at least one count. Evelyn did stand and stare at him for a good few moments, in almost disbelief at the man's words.

"Come closer? I hardly think so, sir." Evelyn scowled, "Discard your sword you may do, but I should think that had you it in your mind to kill me you would have more than a single, painfully obvious weapon with which to do so."

Evelyn was poised to continue to inform Maffeo of the frivolity of his actions and request, when another voice cut into the exchange. Turning her head, the prudish and proper Miss Greyheart was astonished to behold a woman wearing what looked to be a couple of straps of cloth, that did not even border on decent! Staring at her, aghast, Evelyn momentarily forgot her animosity and suspicion toward the doctor, and gestured at the stranger with her stick. "By the gods, woman, cover yourself! I know not what den of harlots you hail from, but I hardly think that the King, as much a fool as he is, would be inclined to allow one so brazenly dressed within sight of his palace!"

The woman folded her arms, looking between Maffeo and Sarein disapprovingly. "Phaw! A pair of miscreants the both of you. The King's palace is at the peak of the city; if you follow the incline of the streets upwards then eventually you will reach it. If you are too desperately lost, I would advise asking a messenger boy, or girl. Might I note, however, that venturing into the districts which surround the palace clad as you are... ma'am-" Evelyn pronounced the formal address as if it were far too good for Sarein -- reserved for people with some shred of decency, no doubt "- you will doubtless be turned away, if not apprehended by the guards."

Shaking her head, Evelyn sighed, "And as for you, sir doctor -- if you truly are a doctor, that is, I have little interest in your reasons for following me unless you intend to reveal a plot that could spell considerable trouble for me should I ignore it. And I highly doubt that there is such a plot in the works -- I have few enemies." Few capable enemies, anyway. Few enemies with the resources to make her life difficult, for certain.

Oozing disapproval, albeit not outright disdain or hostility, Evelyn turned to make her way home. If either party wished to converse further with her, then they would have to make the effort to follow her.

"Indeed you are found." she muttered in partial agreement with a rakish smile. The few interactions Finch has had end with a fight, murder, theft or staled stand off. And very rarely something could spark her interest. Or rather someone. Still there was no doubt in Finch's mind that she would not so much as blink if given the chance to zip a blade through this muddled child's belly. The way the girl spoke captivated Finch with rapt, morbid fascination. Such troubled folk such as that girl tended to drag others down with them. Perhaps it was a risk the rogue wished to take for the time being. No, Finch wanted to go down in history with some grand execution. As such it was enough incentive to make her cross that deadly line. Mortal lives flash in the blink of an eye on a cosmic scale. Even more bait to be taken, to get over this horrendous hunch. And learn more of the peculiar girl without the shadow of death brought to them. Finch often strides for what is nigh out of reach and what others have that is not yet in her own possession.

When an intense gaze holds the attention of her jungle hued eye it's all the woman can do to keep herself from fleeing. Gut instinct, rogue tick. She just got a let's-get-the-hell-out sensation. Yet her curiosity overwhelmed her better judgment as she watched the girl look at Himmel. Just who had she been addressing? If she claimed "nothings" then Finch would be wasting both of the time they had. Frogs? Oh gods. The woman could stand bloodshed and maimed bodies but frogs were far too much ironically. Thankfully the notion that Finch must be inquired for permission for one to touch Himmel is laughable. "Of course, cherub. I'm not the one to ask for that favor though. Himmel? May the child touch you?" while the gryphon understood Finch is a partner in crime and not a mistress, he can fathom simple tongues.

Finch stepped forth to greet her friend and nodded her head. The gryphon clucked softly and began to draw locks of her hair through his beak gently as though to groom her. His eyes swiveled to watch the small girl nearby. Unlike Finch, Himmel is well versed in the arts of behaving and tending to children. Although there was something so alarming about that one. The great bluebird puffed his throat and erected his crest with a bob of his head to exude his compliance.

Lucis leisurely whistled a surprisingly harmonious melody, as he and his companion left the forest behind them. The sunlight fought the cool breeze to warm their faces, and Lucis decided he rather liked being beneath the azure sky again. Trees were wonderful, but their ceiling of leaves was utterly eclipsed by the humbling heaven of spring, with all its cloudless infinity. Had Lucis’ right arm not been occupied, he would have been able to play his lute, and compose a song to the sky's glory. ‘Death of Clouds’, he would have called it, and it would have surely been sung for generations to come.

Lucis did not truly mind the fact that one of his hands was occupied balancing Baggage on his shoulder, though he had been slightly disappointed in his own inability to play the lute with a single hand. Baggage, as Asteria had humorously christened the unconscious man, had not yet awoken. She periodically jabbed the man between the ribs, but it only caused a few humorous squeaks, and Baggage rested unconscious as ever. Lucis was convinced the man was really, really tired. Could happen to anyone.

Lucis did, however, briefly wonder if it was wise to bring along an unconscious stranger. Granted, the body made an effective paperweight, and it was interesting to watch it eat in its sleep, but were they not taking Baggage someplace he did not want to go? After a brief exchange with Asteria, Lucis argued that there were only four cardinal directions, and the man had fled from one. That meant the odds of him needing to in their direction was one in three, and that was really not a chance anyone could complain about in life. Asteria had sighed and shrugged, though Lucis thought to see worry in the occasional glance. He answered each of these looks with the broadest of smiles -- though touching, she need not worry. True, he had never been flexible, but his strength had not left him, and his endurance had seriously not left him. It was still, in the words of an oddly-garbed healer he had once met, ‘suspiciously amazing’. Lucis could tirelessly carry an unconscious man for days.

Soon, the trio came upon a split in the road – one of them more passively than the other two, but all three came upon it nonetheless. For choices like these, Lucis had always tossed his dice and followed their guidance. It was not gambling or religion, not truly -- though, if the ten Gods did exist, then surely Fate and Chance dwelled within dice. But no. As someone with no destination, and a goal he could not quite put into words, Lucis’ reason was much simpler. If life’s luck ever left him alone, it would be far easier to blame two simple pieces of stone. Today, however, he would not cast his dice. Asteria was their navigator, and that was that. Lucis looked at his partner, uncharacteristically -painfully- silent, inquiring to their direction without a single word.

Anarchy chuckles, as the female form of Lehel burst into a fit of laughter, shrugging as she subsequently remarked. Inside, she was seething. This female form had always gotten on her wrong side, and if not for the Divine Rule, she would have engaged in a fierce, all-out battle, and restarted the ancient war that the Gods had fought amongst themselves all over again.

"Calm down, Lehel. My dear sister did not mean any harm. She only cares. However frankly speaking, you need not worry about me. I am Order and will always be."

Admittedly, that did little to soothe the tension between them and the Goddess of Chaos. Anarchy was still a picture of calm, but inside, she was a chaotic mess. A part of her wanted to believe the God, though she doesn't actually trust the apparently scheming pair. Yet another part wanted to get wild and violent, all to rid the Realm of this menace to her being, undermined only by a Divine Rule instituted by One Anarchy could never afford to defy. In any case, what was clear to Anarchy, was the fact that they seemed to take offense at her words.

Coming together, they pulled away from the Goddess, as the male Lehel continued,"There is not a moment I have violated my purpose Anarchy and never will. If you feeble minded deities think so, then how pathetic it is for you to be called Gods and Goddesses. Being blinded by words that yield no results."

Anarchy responded with a snide smile, nodding though she didn't mean it, just as her surroundings transformed in that instance. Glancing around briefly, she quickly realized that their plans had been a secret no more. The Dream Beast continued on with it's work, distracting Anarchy briefly, as she admired it's form. When the Goddess did turn back to face the two Gods, they had already brought out their renowned equipments.

Instinctively, Anarchy tensed up, summoning an orb of Chaos that floated down beside her right hand.

When she was sure they were not going to infringe the Divine Rule, she let the orb of Chaos vanish, sighing softly to herself.

"Maybe you're right. Perhaps I'm in the wrong after all. Since when was Chaos ever the good,"[b] She said, laughing aloud as she did. [b]"I suppose our conversation is over."

Snapping her fingers, she felt a rift tear into existence right behind her. Anarchy stepped back into the rift just as it opened up.

"Sorry for the rude visit. But hey? In your perspective, I guess I'm far too lost for redemption, no?"

Breaking into a laughing fit somewhat reminiscent of the female Lehel's, the Goddess quickly vanished into the rift that closed up after her.

[Entering Chaos' Realm]

Eugene winced at the disorderly conduct conducting itself in his lobby. Normally, Jones & Jones could be considered still as the grave (as it were), with nary a peep, other than the occasional strangled scream from downstairs. Now, with Warren entering and Ferre leaving and his trying to have a civil conversation, and the tearful reunion in the basement, the funeral home was bordering on chaotic. Grimacing at the squeal of Warren's piercing attempts at entry, he made his way over to the window.

At least, he thought, Ferre had left. He generally regarded her as a piece of furniture, but he didn't want to have too many unnecessary demons cluttering up the already tight space of the front lobby. (Having furniture for silly things like customer convenience was bad enough.) Truth be told, however, he'd take thirty violent psychopaths in exchange for Warren nearly any day. He particularly disliked his tongue. In fact, he particularly disliked almost everything about him. And that was hardly even considering the fact that Warren was one of the lucky few who seemed entirely immune to he and Leslie's caustic company.

He scowled, rapping on the glass to catch the whimsical demon's attention. "I hope you're intending on paying for that," he said nastily, glaring at the window as it hastily worked to correct itself (he had made sure that everything in the home, sentient or not, was afraid of him.) Eugene grumbled as he made his way to the wooden door, opening it and turning his attentions back to Warren. "Look, we do have a front door, you know. No need to go ruining anybody's windows." He muttered something under his breath, which might've sounded something suspiciously like, 'how would you like it if I went and scratched up your windows?' but it is, of course, far too ridiculous for him to have said that, seeing how petty and childish such a comment would be. "Where is this?" he asked, squinting as he examined the pleasantly clean streets, well-lit despite the late hour. "Rasmorya? Looks like Rasmorya."

MEANWHILE, in the morgue...

Ahem. Anyway.

Downstairs, Marcus leaned conversationally against one of the slabs in the mortuary, taking a glance to make sure he wasn't actually touching its inhabitant who was ever-so carefully wrapped in a clinical not-green-but-not-blue shroud. He laughed. "Trouble? The Joneses? Don't be ridiculous, Salem." He frowned for a moment, considering how much he disliked both of them. "Besides," he said jokingly, "If either of 'em tried anything I wouldn't take it. I'd make sure to show them who's b- augh, god!" His poor attempt at humor was cut short when he caught glimpse of Leslie's latest piece of artwork. Occupying the next slab over, the cadaver looked young, probably a man of no more than twenty-four. Marcus found his stomach churning as he processed the carefully laid out design, raw and red against the victim's pale skin. Tearing his vision away almost reluctantly, Marcus shuddered.

"Hells Below, if they don't give me the creeps." Suddenly eager to leave, he slapped down a neatly folded bundle of laundry. "I brought you some clothes." It was Marcus's favorite of his ties, too. Salem, unlike Marcus, wore colors that consisted of more than red, grey, and black, and this one was a nice shade of green. Marcus thought it brought out his personality, whatever that meant.

While he was waiting for him to get dressed, Marcus looked around the room. Normally in a death-induced haze and in no mood for observation, he found it interesting now to view the morgue in a new light. Finishing his visual rounds, he returned to the immediate and grimaced as his gaze fell to the floor (and subsequently, the mess Salem made). With a flick of a wrist (and a look of abject disgust), he sent it somewhere to the depths of Hell. He could only hope it landed on the head of some unsuspecting imp or, really, anyone who wouldn't bother to come after him. "I didn't realize it was common for reptiles to cough hairballs," he said, a bit of a smirk hinted at the corners of his mouth. "Got a bit of volcano in the lung, eh?"

Hardly waiting for Salem to finish tying his shoes, Marcus ushered him up the stairs, careful to make sure his weary partner didn't do anything ridiculous. Really he had only fainted that one time, but it wasn't like Marcus to ever let him live it down.

Mentally storing the insults away for leisurely redress later - harlot indeed! - the word had the same connotations in the Poison Kingdoms, a common whore outside the auspices of the dependable Bliss Alliance, the omnipresent guild that managed the better classes of courtesan and hetarae - Sarein cocked her head and quelled the angry throb through her veins even as Evelyn began to move determinedly away, her stick clacking resoundingly on the cobbles. Her words – those that weren’t unthinking affront - were interesting, and unsettling; back home, none of the commons would have dared to say Cidra vas Veneus was a fool. It was self-evidently false, in any case. Things were very different here indeed, it seemed.

“Wait!” she called, lengthening her step to keep up with Evelyn – another benefit of her attire was not being hobbled by acres of fabric. “The King a fool, you say? A dangerous thing to profess, no? You are here by his grace, not the other way around, would it not be true to say? And,” she said, still disingenuous and artful, “what precisely offends with my attire?”

Her smile was small and professional, but had an edge to it. “It is comfortable, covers my essential modesty, and your pale sun isn’t nearly fierce enough to burn my skin.” She bestowed Evelyn with a frankly appraising look, her gaze travelling from her severe hair to lined face and meticulously-correct and conservative Rasmorya fashions. Dull pastels, high collars – no hint of a neckline, only discreet accents…the whole ensemble screamed ‘respectable’ to any person in the vicinity – as though there could be any doubt - and the sucked-lemon purse of her lips only reinforced the impression.

Sarein was still young enough, despite her deadly reputation, to indulge in some petty sniping. “For my part, I wonder how you can even move in those restricting gladrags of yours. So many layers and flounces and ruffles and redingotes and Alannis only knows what else; it must take a team of staff to prepare you. The gods themselves must turn away when you finally struggle out of them at the end of the day, trapped in them as you are; a snail in its shell. No wonder perfume sells so well here.” Sarein’s green, green eyes were bright with curiosity and perhaps just a hint of buried malice.

“Still, where are my manners; you must consider me quite, quite rude, not to mention ungrateful.” Another abrupt change of tone, now honeyed and sweet, aimed at keeping Evelyn off her guard. “Sarein vas Naviri, in your debt for the guidance. Might I know yours? I cannot keep simply calling you merchantier, after all.”

She cocked her head, almost bird-like, at Maffeo. “Any more than I should really label you as ‘lord doctor’. I recognize the caduceus – that is what it’s called, isn’t it? - but the rest of your attire…” she let her voice trail off expressively, contriving to suggest that maybe the symbol meant something else to him.

[Ephemeris, Keep Ephemeris, Sunset Terrace]

When Alannis returned to his realm, the wellspring of his power and a substantial part of his very being, there was no quantifiable change in the fabric of the dominion; the Mercury Sea still blazed painful silver, at full reflectance, the burnished sky still shone and Sunshadow still drowned in its eternal roses, but somehow everyone and everything in Ephemeris knew of the return of their god.

His manifestation in the heart of his power was not spectacular; golden motes simply spun themselves into his usual form of a fey young lordling in silver and gold. Eight wings of shimmering, shifting aurorae flashed for a moment before fading away as Alannis stepped properly into his realm, relishing the feel of the heady-scented breeze on his face and the polished mosaic floor beneath his feet.

Merely an aspect of himself, of course, but such a pleasurable and satisfying one. Alannis looked out, past his empty silver chair and the ranks of banners, out over the golden leagues, allowing himself just a moment of introspection. Things were, thus far, proceeding to plan – or at least, within acceptable and projected deviation. Gods never tired, they were proverbial for it; the unceasing watch of the divine, but Alannis felt he’d got as close as it was possible to be in the recent past, scouring his records and scrying with his Panoptic Eye as all around him the heavens trembled to a new, sour dissonance in the symphony.

Casiran, loyal, ever-dependent Casiran, quickly materialised, landing perfectly beside his master in a whisper of argentine and a crackle of lightning. “My sovereign,” he intoned, a light carillon.

Alannis smiled. “Ah, Casiran.” A slight wrinkling of his brow. “I can feel you’ve pinched off part of the realm.”

A soft bracer-clash against a cuirass. “Yes, divinity. With the Mercury Sea at full reflection, all entries have been rebuffed.” A pause. “I used the Eye to track the disturbances; an emissary from Chaos requesting admittance. Not wanting to countermand-”

“Yes, yes,” Alannis said impatiently. “I see. Hold the Keep, Casiran. If you urgently require me, I’ll be at Castle Conjecture, in that little pocket-realm.”

The God of Knowledge vanished from the Terrace, leaving his seneschal staring into open space. If he wanted to follow, the Radiant Servant would have to fly and then take one of the fleet of xebecs currently at anchor in the Gateway Port; the Mercury Sea was rather terminal in its responses when ordered to bar any transit.

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

[Ephemeris, Castle Conjecture, Bubble]

The world returned to Alannis with a sharp pop; a tiny part of his demesne curved in on itself, formless and with shining walls, with its centrepiece the emissary, an amorphous mass of violent red energies coursing with coruscant lightning.

No wonder Casiran had contained it; continual shivering feelers and pseudopodia reached from the thing and reflected back from the curve of the bubble, chaos trying to collapse the very fabric of the realm, an irritating little tickle in the back of Alannis’ mind. It looked as though Anarchy had simply pulled up part of her realm and given it a few simple instructions and instincts; but Alannis was canny enough to understand that not everything was always as it seemed.

“We are Alannis, honoured emissary. The wait and containment were unintentional on our part; we had urgent business in the mortal world and were not expecting a visitation.” He paused, a half-heartbeat, perhaps considering whether the servitor would understand the offer of Siris wine and cakes. “Now, we will have your purpose for being in Ephemeris, and no doubt the warm regards of my divine kin, also.”

Well. That could have gone better.

You know, maybe if he had been more subtle. Perhaps he should've walked away instead of making a fool of himself. No point in getting hung up over it now. What could he possibly say to convince her he wasn't a murdering sociopath? Best to withdraw now, further pursuit would likely result in yells for the guards. No need for Maffeo to get himself incarcerated, not yet, anyway. He'd been an idiot to think she'd walk over to him in the first place. "I prefer not to shout." Gods, why hadn't he just said "I'm a rapist, please come closer." This is what happens when he doesn't think things through. Oh, and that look on her face. That would haunt him for nights to come. There would be no recovering from that, certainly. His best bet was to just track her caravan. No, Maffeo was no tracker. And it was already apparent he had pushed his luck to it's limits in trying to follow Greyheart throughout the day. Plus, that was in a crowded city, he would be on the open road now! Nowhere to hide. Yes, he would hire a tracker of some sort or another. He should probably buy a horse while he was at it, provided he had enough money. They would stay a few miles behind the caravan on the road, probably the best way to avoid detection. He didn't even want to think about what would happen if he was caught on the road and left at the mercy of Greyheart's mercenaries.

Maffeo lowered his head and threw up his hands in a mock gesture of defeat. What more could he have said? He turned around and retrieved his longsword from the floor and quickly clipped it back onto his belt. As he returned to his standing position and got ready to locate the nearest inn, he got an eye-full of the lady Greyheart had been yelling at about her attire. Now he could see why she had almost forgotten about him mid-rant. She was scantly clad, but Maffeo, along with most other men in the city, would scarcely complain. No sooner had he seen her, she bounded over to Greyheart. Maffeo took due note of the chorus of whistles from the nearby single and male pedestrians, though she scarcely seemed to notice. Maffeo delayed his departure further to watch as the woman, who seemed to have called herself Sarein vas Naviri, chewed out Greyheart with an equal, if not greater than, string of insults.

If anyone asked, Maffeo just wanted to watch Sarein insult Greyheart. Her clothing totally had nothing to do with it.

Much to Maffeo's dissapointment, Sarein ended her retort with an apology (at least, he thought it was) and a request to know Greyheart's name...Funny, Maffeo only ever got her surname. Now uninterested and not wanting to get caught staring, Maffeo turned to leave. Naturally, she turned her head and spoke to him, much to his surprise. Why she wanted his name, he didn't know, but she recognized the caduceus, so that was enough to perk his interest.

"Yes, It's called the caduceus. The symbol is incorrectly associated with my profession, but I am forced to conform to it. Otherwise people wouldn't think I'm a doctor..."

He said the last sentence with a hint of bitterness. Mostly directed at Greyheart.

"The the symbol that should be associated with my profession is the Rod of Asclepius, but few people recognize it. Mostly because of the scarcity of people being afflicted with Dracunculus medinensis these days, and thus seldom having need for the foul parasite to be wound out of the ulcerous blisters with a rod..."

He paused for a second realizing he had rambled, before actually addressing the rest of Sarein's sentence.

"I am Doctor Zorzi. This outfit is standard for Doctors in these parts."

"Indeed I do say." Evelyn said, not breaking stride as Sarein followed her, "I am here by my own grace. His city rides on the back of its business, and he knows it. But that is irrelevant. My opinion of the king has little bearing on how to get to his palace."

The prim woman bristled at Sarein's flow of retorts, and it was only an acute sense of dignity, and indeed, superiority that prevented her from rounding on the foreigner with a vengeance. "Your attire may be suitable in your culture, Sarein Vas Naviri, but here we are not so hasty to display our bodies to be ogled. No self-respecting Rasmoryan woman would be seen dead in such clothes. But again, this is irrelevant. We both have places to be - I assume, on your part, and I am not of the inclination to stand here in the street exchanging scything darts with a stranger."

Tapping her stick decisively on the ground, Evelyn paused in her walking to turn to face Sarein. "My name is Evelyn Greyheart. You may address me as Ms. Greyheart, or as Madame. Or not at all, considering we are unlikely to meet again. I do not mean to be rude, Miss Naviri, but I have provided you with your directions and I wish to be on my way. I have things to do."

Without more than a cursory glance at Maffeo, Evelyn Greyheart was once again on her way. She would never be packed and ready for tomorrow if she kept getting delayed!

Well, that was an exaggeration. However, she was eating away into her scheduled delay time, and that was never fruitful.

A few bolts cackle out of it's form, held back barely in time before it actually struck the God of Knowledge. Taking a measured step back from the God, the unnamed servant of Chaos bowed it's scarlet, circular head respectfully. It then stands upright, orbs of sparkling yellow looking at Alannis, but not directly, hissing in a voice that probably sounds more like a snake speaking.

"My Lady the Goddess of Chaoss ssends her warmest regardss."

As it's mouth opens to enunciate every chosen words, the bolts of lightning would cackle softly and flash - so much so that it sounds amusingly as if there was a broken record playing as it spoke.

"Sshe hass ssent me to tell you that sshe wisshes to sspeak with you about ssomething important."

The Chaos Servant finishes it's words with a deep bow. The red aura that composed it's being circle around in it, stirring the air around it into chaos. Such was the nature of Anarchy's realm; it attempts to bring everything into a state of pandemonium. This was, perhaps, a reason why many Gods and Goddesses alike abhor having the Goddess of Chaos visit their realms. One can only imagine what Alannis thought of this, as the Servant stares politely as it awaits a response.

An emerald mane of feathers tickled Sophia’s face, making her giggle uncontrollably. So far, her efforts at mounting the gryphon had amounted to very little – helplessly dangling from the beast’s neck was her greatest accomplishment still.
“You are sooooo cool,” she chirped and clucked in fluent Gryphon. “I want to get on you hey let me on how did dwarves get on you I don’t get it because they are really small and it is hard getting on you when you are small. But maybe I should not be sitting on you unbridled because I might be sitting directly on your spine and maybe that would be really not pleasant for either of us but mostly you.”

Even without mounting it, the mere presence of the gryphon was soothing. Sophia vaguely felt like she had done this before… before…
“Ah, for me to touch such a magnificent one in these troubled times…” the girl spoke dreamily, resting her head just beneath the withers. “I used to work with your kind, you know. A Speaker, they called me. Keeper in later years. My very own mother was among the first descended upon by your race. Godsends that bestowed flight upon us ground-bound humans. Angels, we first revered you as. Warsteeds, we forged you into. Forgive us… forgive us…”

“Have you forgotten your place, woman?!” the girl spoke, suddenly struggling with the strange throat-sounds of the Gryphon language. “The Omniumvirate decreed for the Child to meet the Mother. The Child’s recent quest for apotheosis changes nothing! Do not impede!”

“Damned coffin-dodgers,” Sophia scoffed in even more broken Gryphon, barely bothering with the simplest intonations. “Yer both stupid fer bickerin’. Flesh-rendin’ freak-bird here aside, haven’t ye noticed this woman is armed?! She an’ I, cut from identical cloth we are. Two-faced fiends, and I’ll assure ye, neither face is pretty.”

“Do not flatter yourself, Mirr,” the Keeper said, attempting to calm the now growling gryphon. “This woman has shown nothing but kindness, and she is in the favor of a gryphon. Know that no animal as noble as this one would ever align itself with the likes of you.”

“Times have changed and forever will, ye foolish fossil. Look, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about what you did to this flying freak’s ancestors, but I reckon the beasts possess enough intelligence to ditch yer sorry hides after a century or two of abuse.” Mirr retreated from the increasingly threatening gryphon and wiped her feather-greased hands off on her tunic, utterly failing to hide her disgust. “No point talkin’ to the bunch of bleedin’ useless remnants you are. It’s up to me to get us back on track. Just sit back on yer mediocrity-rooted arses and watch me.”

“The Omniumvirate does not approve of your person, Mirr, but it will support your actions. Hurry. The Tide in the Eye is rising. Reality backlash is imminent.”

“Approve? Support? Acting as if either means anything… hah.” Mirr turned towards the woman, eyes firmly locked onto her toes, avoiding all eye contact. It was impossible for her to mimic the Child’s mindless facial expressions, and secretly, so secretly she herself did not even know, Mirr felt intimidated. “I… gotta pee. Bye.”

Mirr’s bare feet slapped on dark stone as she walked off in hurried, steady strides. Soon, the strides turned into leaps. The Child never just plainly walked or ran, Mirr knew, but they were too close to their goal for time-consuming façades. Brick structures and danger-filled alleys passed her by like a crimson blur, blood dripping into her vision with each passing step. When she reached a guard post, one that she knew to border the transition of Nasenorya into Rasmorya, Mirr collapsed. Sophia had, literally, never been made for running. With luck, the guards would take the Child into Rasmorya. After that, Sophia's search for the Mother would continue. Their pilgrimage.

She turned to Evelyn once more. “How fortunate I am not Rasmoryan, then! I confess to an enjoyment of argument, and the correction of opinions which sorely need adjustment…but as you say, the day grows late; you have things to do and I, no time to waste with persons of no consequence. Still, I thank you for your help. Alannis keep and protect you wherever you may travel, Ms. Greyheart.” Sotto voce, she added: “I hope he does the same for me.”

Sarein turned and bowed formally to the doctor. “New knowledge is always useful,” she said, with a half-smile. “I shall bear in mind your dress if ever I am hurt and unable to deal with it myself. My thanks, Doctor Zorzi, and a very pleasant day to you. Hopefully I shall not get lost yet again on my way to the Palace.”

A half-step away, and she gestured to herself; there was no green or teal fire, no flashing lightning or ripple of air, no extraneous expression of power, but her tattoos shifted and moved in a sudden riot of colour and life, and the fabric of her dress flowed up to her neck and down to the respectable Rasmoryan length, her eyes fixed on Evelyn as it occurred, copying her dress in all things save for the colour, which remained a brilliant emerald. Of course, it hadn’t actually altered in the most fundamental of senses – that would have required rather more power than Sarein was prepared to spend on frivolities in a strange land – but a well-crafted illusion was something she could almost do in her sleep, and was far less draining.

Thus attired, Sarein vanished once more, not invisible, just…unremarkable in some way, the eye sliding over her and to more interesting sights. Unless, of course, one knew what one was looking for.

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[Rasmorya, Royal Palace of Muiren]

By the time Sarein actually made it to the Royal Concourse, the broad boulevard lined with trees and banners that led in a gently sloping curve up to the Palace gates, they were lighting the lamps as dusk gathered overhead. The golden thread in the flags flying from the many turrets of the Palace sparkled dimly, but not enough to make out the designs on them, even with the flood of light pouring out from the many banks of windows on the outward face of the palace buildings.

In truth, the place wasn’t particularly difficult to gain entrance to. Like most such buildings, it was a massive process that went on continually; the Royal Palace housed many wings of government; scribes in the chancery working on the official documents, the Treasury agents with their armoured carts of iron and brass, the kitchens needing huge loads of meat and grain and vegetables…the list was endless, and it was, naturally, impossible to stop and search every single one of these carts, and in any case the guards assigned to those gates were not the most assiduous nor the most intellectually-blessed. Sarein was naturally cautious, and wished to consult with her countrymen before committing to anything concrete with a strange monarch.

It was relatively easy, at least, for a Claw, to slip inside, all unnoticed in the sea of humanity supplying the grand edifice of the palace, riding in with one of the shipments bound for the kitchens, not that they knew it, of course. Once inside the walls that cut it off from the rest of the city, Sarein slunk away from the cart as it stood before two servants who appeared to be having a discussion about where, exactly, the load of produce should be sent and stored, and vanished into the shadows cast by leaping torches. It seemed the brighter, more even light cast by oil lamps or magelight was reserved for the nobility.

In the safe embrace of the shadows, Sarein pondered her next course of action. Obviously, the goal was to meet with the king, and hopefully any other Chosen as might have found their way to Rasmorya and heard the invitation. Of course, that could have been accomplished quite easily by simply strolling up to the guards on the main gate and announcing herself, but Sarein preferred to get some sort of idea of the person she was dealing with before being so open and brash. Plus, she wanted to discreetly pick the brains of Lord vas Rini as to the Lion of Muiren. Mostly useless and near-terminally affable, he nevertheless had occasional flashes of insight that justified his continued existence, plus a trustworthy manner and face that worked even in the Poison Kingdoms.

First things first though; there were always a standard set of things a Claw would do when in an unfamiliar, unmapped environment, and one of them was to map it as soon as possible, as much for their own reference as for others who might one day find need for it.

Fortunately, a sorceress whose skills were specialised rather in the direction of illusions and half-truths had some advantages in that area. Of course, there was far too much palace to cover in any reasonable length of time or in detail; hundreds of passageways and courtyards and turrets and all the forgotten places that came with having a vast building worked and reworked over hundreds if not thousands of years. Thus, she concentrated on outlines, major routes for the servants and the occasional noble, moving like a shadow from one pool of darkness to the next – the gardens, at least away from the buildings that spilt buttery light in all directions, were ill-lit and the topiary was menacing in the twilight.

Plenty of places to lurk.

True dark had fallen by the time Sarein had identified the major buildings and the concentrations of guards stationed around them into a very rough scratch map. The largest and most impressive of them all doubtless held the throne room and where she wanted to go – presumably her countrymen would also be either quartered or at the least found there.

As close as she dared to be to the grand doors without being seen, Sarein relaxed the illusions spun around her, letting her dress return to its usual state and peeling away the redirection cantrip, revealing the Poison Kingdoms girl in all her glory, taking a few precious moments to compose herself. A touch of magic – Taranis’ Perceptive Paradigm, to be exact - gave sparkle to her eyes and enhanced the dusky glow of her skin, a quick pat-down of her weapons and vials of venom and she felt prepared to sally forth out of the shadows of anonymity and up into the perfumed halls that the nobility walked. It was time to see the King in action with her fellows. Gold gleamed at her finger, a heavy signet ring with its intricate crest there for all the world to see, her pass into the rarefied world of the Court.

She melted out of the shadows in front of the main entryway, emeralds sparkling from brooches and in her hair, discreet little ornaments that hinted at status rather than bellowed it.

On her finger, the heavy signet ring shone gold, a poisoned glow.

The two footmen – both impressive six-footers who looked good in red and gold - at the doors looked haughtily unable to believe their painted eyes as she approached up the last of the causeway, her dusky skin catching dark gold in the light from the lamps.

“May we aid you…my lady?” It seemed as though they were having some trouble crediting her with the title.

“Sarein vas Naviri, attaché to Lord vas Rini. You may aid me, yes. I have become rather...separated…from my compatriots in the delegation from the Poison Kingdoms. I would like to rejoin them post-haste.”

The accent and the air of authority seemed to carry the day; after a split-second of ogling – and who was she to deny them that? – and they bent into shallow bows, one of them peeling off from their post after a moment of mutual glaring, silently jockeying for the privilege.

“I will escort you, my lady," one of them said firmly, stepping forwards, extending his arm. "This way.”

Whatever else Sarein might think about Muiren, they had wealth, and it showed in the Palace in abundance. Some rooms the obliging (helped along by a little cantrip and, apparently, the cut of her clothes) footman led her through looked as though the monarch had simply raided the treasury, heaped the gold in the centre of the chamber and then set off a bomb that plated the stuff all over the walls and ceiling and floor - and whatever furniture had happened to be present at the time, too. It was all quite dazzling.

When they arrived, finally, at a set of double doors at the head of a small flight of stairs, the footman had a whispered conversation with two rather more splendid servitors at flawless, white-gloved attention.

Eventually, he returned, with a hangdog, apologetic expression on his face. “I apologise, my lady; the King is already meeting with your people. If you like, you can observe from the minstrel gallery…”

Sarein concealed a wide, wide smile. That was perfect; things were going better than expected. “That would be most helpful, thank you.” She tipped him a heavy gold Kingdoms fen - well, noblesse oblige - for his trouble and was rewarded by his wide smile. She had an ally.

The minstrels’ gallery was dark, and partially screened-off from the main cavern that was the throne room, hung with enormous banners of past campaigns and with a broad strip of red carpet dead-centre.

In the cover of the gloom, Sarein watched her countrymen gathered on the floor far below, in supplication to the King of all Muiren, Aledan Paeval.

He was an elderly monarch, with a shock of white hair and a pepper-gray beard, neatly trimmed and groomed to perfection. He carried with him an aura of power and command, wearing it like a cloak – but there was something subtly wrong about the whole ensemble, as though he were a boy trying on his father’s cape rather than the powerful adult he was known to be.

Most of his Court, too, were more or less what she had been led to expect – a few powerful guildsmen and lots of nobles, but one, rather closer to the throne than most, drew her attention. He was incongruous, but she could not say for sure why this was so; he was attired suitably for a royal occasion, everything about him said ‘powerful lord’ – but instincts deeper than sight were screaming at her, screaming that here was something decidedly alien, something that had no place in a mortal court.

His eyes flashed up to the gallery, and she saw stitching around his mouth, as though someone had slashed it wider and an incompetent surgeon had closed him up again. It strained redly as he smiled, and it was not a nice grin. Green fire flickered as half-formed spells and cantrips whirled on her tongue; no noble would ever allow that sort of thing.

“Demons in the Court,” she murmured, ducking out of sight and sagging against a carved cedar screen. Well, that wasn’t unusual; House Naviri had a full set of the fae in the Palace of Silver Dragons back home, and the Emerald Palace in Bandahar had a bevy of shackled demons of various orders. And naturally, no sorcerer’s tower or residence was replete without a few of the demonic orders, but there had been nothing in any briefing about the Muiren Court having such things; otherwise they would have brought more magi whose specialties lay in binding and breaking, just to be on the safe side.

It was unsettling; Sarein felt the pressure of the gaze of Lord-who-was-not hot on her back, but stayed where she was, observing and ready to intervene at a moment’s notice even while Lord vas Rini was formally greeting the Lion of Muiren far below, a shimmering river of elegant silken green and blue in a sea of sumptuous red and gold.

[Ephemeris, Castle Conjecture]

Alannis frowned as Chaos made another determined – although probably unintentional – attempt to destabilise the little pocket realm. Ineffectually, as it happened; he was there himself, after all, lending it strength and rebuffing the pseudopodia with little more than a mildly irritated thought; well was it said that all the gods were omnipotent in their own realms.

Being friend and advisor to the Goddess of Chaos meant one had to be prepared to put up with this sort of thing every so often. Given all the benefits available to Alannis in this arrangement, he was prepared to pay that small price.

“I thank you for the message, now return from whence you came. I thank you for your service; inform your Lady I shall make for her side as soon as I can.” Alannis stepped back and spread his wings, great fans of sparkling, shimmering aurorae, pinions of shaped light and maybe. “Go on, go!” He put a little power behind the command, something to speed the creature along as it sped across the aether to Anarchy’s realm in the heavens, a nightmarish maelstrom of energy and rock continually forming and being destroyed, an orgy of creation and wanton destruction without any constructive, guiding hand.

One of the intricate rooms of Castle Conjecture swam back into existence as the servitor vanished beyond the gates of Ephemeris, a room lined with blazing guards used to dealing with exterior threats of one flavour or another. There were no windows, and only one, heavily-barred and warded door that could be detached from all the rest of the realm, a useful containment mechanism.

In any case, Alannis did not remain long, sending out long cords of his power to wrap around Cynosure and Canopus, the two white Radiant Servants who guarded his terrace and served as envoys and guards when he had need of such things. They would be proof against the random chaos of Anarchy’s dominion, he would see to it – unless, of course, she turned her full attention to them.

In any case, soon the three of them were hurtling across the heavenly aether, burning across the twisting, endless sky, heading for what in divine sight appeared as a giant bloody ruby, spilling crimson all around it as it moved as part of the heavenly puzzle, all the realms locked in an elaborate dance.

Alannis kept a watch for unfriendly forces; while little could directly inconvenience him, delays were never appreciated. He flicked a smile at his two Servants, blazing painfully bright even to immortal eyes, close-helmed and unreadable to all but the most experienced. “Let yourselves get drawn in to Chaos and I shall be very annoyed,” he told them, deadpan. “I’m not anticipating any trouble, but let’s not get complacent, hmm? Readiness is the prime part of preparedness, and all that.”

He looked down at the glowing ruby that was Anarchy’s demesne, and touched down with his power, making it ring like a bell to divine senses. “Better let the Lady of Chaos know we’re here, after all.” His fertile mind was racing even as he maintained the outwardly friendly façade, running through potential scenarios as he waited.

Dull. These court dealings, as important as the little king insisted they were, were nothing more than dull to Straw. He remembered the old days, of public executions and bloody treason around every corner. There was still treachery, of course - in any court there was treachery; in his short time here Straw had identified four individual conspirators against the king, three of which wished to take the throne and one who merely wished to kill the fool of a king and let any other take his place. He did not, of course, choose to inform Adelan of this. A weak and fumbling king would only last so long - those who succeeded him would make far better tools for his mistress.

The treachery was meek though, tame. Where was the bloody murder, the torture, the great game in its most violent form? Gone, gone, gone. Culture and etiquette had taken the place of violence and sadism amongst the nobility, and it was oh so very dull without the latter to spice it up a little.

Straw had not expected the king's message to be acknowledged by the Chosen in any great magnitude - that was why he was here. If Laeveria had thought the chosen would flock to the king like sheep, she would merely have ordered him to execute them himself. No, Straw was here in order to hunt. They would leave the city, soon, and he would find them. They would travel in groups, alone, with entire companies at their backs - but however they travelled, however fast, with however many soldiers, they would die. He could almost smell the death now ...

Sniff.

He could smell it. The touch of the gods, the immaculate, the divine. One of them was here, and she saw him. Straw grinned from his position beside the king, stitching stretching and straining with the movement in a disturbing manner. His eyes turned to gaze upon Sarein, though he remained facing forwards. He could smell her, see her ... he could already feel his claws sinking into her skin, the feeling of life slipping away between his fingers...

She would die.

She would be the first, and then the rest would follow. Like lambs to the slaughter - if the lambs did not come to the slaughter, then the slaughter would go to the lambs. Or something like that.

"King .. lend me your ear." Straw whispered. Adelan stiffened slightly as the demon spoke, but nodded his head, holding up a hand momentarily to halt the discussion with the Poison Kingdom entourage.

The demon bent down to place his lips mere inches from the king's ear. "Give the order. My Lady's men will take things out of your hands. There will be no blame with you. Your men have been warned to fall back, yes?"

Adelan nodded wordlessly. Straw smiled, and tapped one finger on the throne. "The order, little king."

Coughing, Adelan raised his voice slightly. "Ah, Captain - it occurs to me that our ... other guests are kept waiting. Send them my ... regrets, and inform them that I will be with them shortly."

Straw smiled again. A feebly coded command, but it would suffice. The guard captain disappeared into a corridor to the side of the room, and for a few moments the negotiations resumed as before. Then, the sound of booted feet reached the ears of the Poison Kingdom entourage, and confusion arose on their faces. Adelan didn't have to fake his horror when the doors to the throne room were thrown wide open, and a line of soldiers - clad not in the royal colours of Muiren, but instead in an elegant white and pale blue, with silver armour that glinted in the light.

"Wh- what is the meaning of this?" The king stammered - his words were clichéd, and Straw almost rolled his eyes, but the fear in his voice was genuine enough to fool the Poison Kingdom's diplomats, he thought.

"Our lady offers greeting to the Poison Kingdom. She wishes that we celebrate this meeting with the greatest form of reverence." The soldier that stood at the head of the column was a beautiful man with sparkling blue eyes and blonde hair beneath his helmet. His voice was monotone, and without emotion or conviction. One of Laeveria's pets.

The leader of the ambassadors turned to face the soldiers, shocked. "What? Who is your lady, and what reverence do you speak of?"

"Death. Your blood will pave the way for her dominance. Prepare yourselves for execution. None will be spared."

As the man finished speaking, the two dozen soldiers moved forwards as one group. The few guards foolish enough to stand in their path were cut down mercilessly as they moved with robotic efficiency, seemingly thinking as one mind. Others fled, and with a stammered cry of horror, so did Adelan. The soldiers hit the Poison Kingdom's ambassadors like a charging wall of razor sharp steel, and blood soon began to coat the gleaming floors of the throne room...

Straw, in the meantime, was conspicuous in his absence. At the first entrance of the soldiers, he had moved, almost a blur as he darted aside and underneath Sarein's viewpoint - out of sight beneath the balcony. His claws unsheathed like daggers, and dug into the wall as if it were wool. With quick, spider-like movements the demon had clawed his way up and past the Minstrel's Gallery, and he dropped down silently to the rear of the space, behind and to the side of Sarein as the soldiers below began to charge.

A gurgling and crunching of bone sounded as Straw's hand closed around the neck of the guard who had escorted Sarein up to the gallery, his claws scything through the man's throat as his grip crushed his spine.

"Chosen..." he hissed. His voice was eerily youthful, eyes glinting through a fringe of blonde hair, stitched grin wide as blood ran between his fingers. The guard crumpled to the floor. "My lady sends her regards... you are honoured to receive them." It wasn't a question. "Let us see if your gods will give you strength, girl."

With a sinister chuckle, Straw made to strike Sarein down with one fell sweep of his claws across her torso, a brief flash of focused golden eyes visible as his hair swung with the movement. Golden eyes that betrayed nothing more than pleasure as death filled the chamber below, and as his prey was within his grasp...

Sophia idly wonders why the world has grown so quiet, and is overcome with inexplicable sadness.