The murmur of voices and the crackling of the fire could be heard through the huddle of tents that made up the rebel camp. Eggs and some chunks of meat crackled in a pan held over the flames, rather luxury items for the rebels, smuggled up the hill by one of their many spies.

A quiet morning, and a good breakfast, it seemed like the start of a good day..but the peace was suddenly shattered as high pitched, raspy screams tore through the trees.

“You’ll never stop Skorn! You may as well throw down your weapons and beg for a quick and merciful death!”
The shout echoed through the camp as two rebel soldiers entered, back from a scouting mission, half dragging a figure after then. Their patch leather armor was askew, tunic patched with blood..and who knew what else, a look of disgust on their faces as they struggled with the twisting, kicking, biting creature held between them.

Closer inspection would reveal a young woman, though not a young woman who was in the least bit natural. They knew her well enough, as something infamous, something vile. Skorn's Apprentice, his pupil and protege.

At only nineteen, the girl whom her mentor had given the name of Spectre was unrecognisable from the child Skorn had taken in the train as an apprentice. Necromancy was a powerful form of magic, but what it took was more than energy and concentration. It ate away at you from the inside, slowly destroying you. As the magic began to devour her life force, her skin had turned a pale, corpse grey, the irises of her eyes fading nearly to white. It had taken it’s toll on her health, the girl was powerfully magical, but not physically strong...barely able to lift a sword...let alone fight with one.


She was bony and angular in figure, dressed in black. She was clad in a black, short sleeved tunic, breeches, boots and black woollen gloves. Hung around her neck was a silver amulet resembling the skull of a canine. This attire, coupled with her pale grey complexion and the black stains of funeral pyre ash marked under her eyes, marked the girl out as still an apprentice, not yet qualified..but she had proven to be quite a prodigy in the evil art...much to the horror and revulsion of the people that she had inflicted her powers upon...turning dead rebels into undead monstrosities.

Despite being captured, she seemed extremely defiant about it, and appeared adamant that Skorn would destroy all of them eventually.
The men seemed utterly disgusted and vehement in their hatred to this young woman. What could make anyone serve such a vile man, and even worse, be so loyal to him?

Thwip.

A knife spun through the still morning air, seeming to actually slide neatly into the tree trunk meters away from the place where it had been thrown- a stump, beside which two hooded figures stood. The burlier of the two figures emitted a low whistle as he observed the knife, which had sunken into a knot on the tree with almost frightening precision. "Your perfect aim sickens me, Prince," the man said good-naturedly to Saraf.

"Don't resent me, Rancon." The second figure, taller but far more slender, chuckled mildly and headed off at a light run to retrieve the knife."It's simply the result of years of having nothing better to practice." Once he reached the tree, he grasped the silver handle with slim brown fingers, pulled, and suddenly doubled over coughing.

Rancon swore and rushed forwards. Once he reached Saraf, however, the fit of coughing had passed. "Are you alright?" he asked, supporting the Prince with an arm.

Saraf nodded quickly, wiping his mouth quickly with the back of his hand.

"The cough's getting worse." Rancon said. It wasn't a question.

Saraf didn't respond.

Another sound suddenly echoed through the camp, the sound of a young woman screaming with desperation, anger, and fanaticism that was becoming steadily louder as she neared the camp. Saraf and Rancon exchanged a look and quickly stowed their throwing knives away, cutting through the forest back towards the rebel camp.

"What's going on?" A low voice drifted across the already quiet camp. It was a mellow, calm voice, but somehow it was heard throughout the rebels. The men grew silent, and became still as their Black Prince walked through the tents towards the struggling girl in the middle of the camp that seemed more like a wild animal. Despite the fact that it was Sir Gar Locke who truly held the men's hearts, Saraf was respected in his own, quiet way.

One of the men cleared his throat and indicated the girl, whom the men were looking upon with disgust. "We found her on in the mountains collecting bones, Prince- she's a necromancer, one of them." As he spoke, bitterness filled his voice and he gingerly held his left arm, which was covered in blood. "Won't shut up about Skorn, I'm about this close to kicking her."

"Go seek the medic." Saraf said quietly to the man, who was clearly in pain. He admired the man's resolve- but a dead rebel was both undesirable, frustrating to deal with, and useless. A look of hesitance flickered for a moment across the scout's face, but he nodded and left, limping slightly as well as he headed through the slew of tents to the rebel's healer. He didn't argue. People typically didn't argue with Saraf.

That left the remaining scout, who was unscathed, but who was holding the girl with difficulty.

Saraf looked down at the girl. She was shockingly pale and bony, and her eyes bore the dull look of someone who'd had their life force sucked away from them. Despite that, she was fighting quite fanatically, seeming oddly smug in her confidence that Skorn would destroy them all. Not too likable. But still, admirable. Intrigued, Saraf lowed his hood, and a mop of overlong black hair spilled out, scraping his shoulders at its longest. Although his hair had fallen into his erratic, green eyes, they were unmistakenably sympathetic and filled with pity.

"What," he murmured, "do we do with you?"

The higher elevation of the mountain could be easily a beauteous locale. It was the late chill of the season, and life was returning steadily to the wild. Even against the manmade chaos, it seemed nature continued on. Impeded or stunted by the trampling of feet, the burning of timber, the smelting of the very Earth itself… and yet here it remained. Hiding quietly, preserving what power it had over the lands called Magna. It was a human name, but it was so much more then that. Magna was the mountain, and Magna was their encampment, and yes Magna was the dread of their former fortress. It encompassed them all, and did little to retaliate having been caught in the wars of mortals.

A sad smile appeared on the lips of a would-be knight. Just a man, but remaining to become more then he ever dreamed. As a child he pretended to lead his host of chivalrous knights to victory against imaginary foes. So many youthful days lost in the nuances of saving damsels and slaying dragons. He dreamed warily of those olden times, they seemed further then ever. His fingers gently prying petals free from the bud of a wild flower. Casting them into the flow of a small stream nearby. Watching as they undertook their endless journey to destinations unknown.

He couldn’t help but feel empathetic toward the little bits of flora. Gar too was guided swiftly to a path that led to uncertainty. A desperate secret and one that wasn’t shared with anyone. The bitter truth was that he was always afraid. It seemed that at any moment their enemy would march down with ten score strong of the vile undead, and in moments have them ruined. Each brave man in his army was worth ten times what they believed, and doubly so to his trusted lieutenants. He didn’t want to see them killed, and even more desperately wished to return them to the sanctity of their homes. Mayhap that day would come.

From the thickets the loud clamor of boots stomped heavily over the wilderness, a panicked running could be heard. Emerging from below a face stained with dirt and gasping for air appeared. In the eyes of the messenger there was intrigue and above all alarm. The rebel spoke with great pauses, struggling to keep the oxygen in his lungs long enough to form proper sentences.

“ Sir… At the camp… An enemy captive…”

Having already stood Gar took his fellow by the shoulder, all sadness had fallen from him. A smirk now appeared upon his lips, and his eyes brightened with the news.

“Thank you, do not tire yourself my friend. Catch your wind and return to the camp when you can.”

No more words were exchanged; he took off with steady pace. Staying fleet of foot, but careful not to become too ragged, he’d need to appear in strength. Running ragged would only prove to their new captor the urgency of the scenario. This would not do, the rebellion would be far less threatening if their leader appeared panicky. Besides, there was the prowess of those that were within the encampment. They had ascertained and caught this enemy, they could assuredly handle themselves.

The situation was far stranger then what he had anticipated upon arrival. Saraf had already come upon the newly acquired opponent. There was a sense of relief in this knowledge, the Black Prince was a compatriot well respected and for good reason. With the duty becoming less pressing, Gar remained at the rear of the crowd. Though whispers and quiet cheers marked his approach, they were hushed at best in the presence of the secretive general.

The haggard cries for Skorn’s victory were difficult to miss, but what made them surprising was where they came from. Held between battered grown men, and fighting like a wild beast was the shell of a young girl. Her visage was somewhat disturbing and a harrowing example of what the prices of the dark arts were. Many thoughts slipped through his head, quick decisions and dissections of said ponderings. Here before them was a beast in the guise of a child. The ultimate question was to what extend of her was still that child, and what was too far gone? The next one was more obvious, what do they do with her? The only option that seemed viable was to wait and see the unfolding of these events for just a moment longer. He would certainly step in when the time was right.

Nym sat cross legged inside on of the smaller tents in the encampent, gazing down hard at the rough looking parchment infront of her, deep thought obvious in her expression. Now that the true heir was with them, the rebels were going to need to take greater risks to get closer to their goal. This meant she had to be prepared for everything, hence her latest plan. There was something she needed to make sure she was prepared, and she was going to get it - it wouldn't be hard, by the look of the building plans she had infront of her. They were only a rough guide, but they would do well enough. When she had the next chance to, she would venture into Magna to complete her latest scheme, hopefully without the knowledge of the likes of Gar. They wouldn't approve of this plan, but it was unlikely that she would go unnoticed.

Her trail of thought was ruined by the feral screams of Skorn's victory, the sound of many footsteps as most of the rebels in the camp went to see what the commotion was all about. Quickly, she rolled up the parchment she'd been examining, stowing it away under her collection of odds and sods in her tent, before also going to see what was going on.
She peered through the crowd, cursing her infirior size as she had to squeeze though some of the taller people to get a descent view. Being one of the youngest in camp was annoying, nobody wanted you to see anything - never mind if you went and helped to bring the true heir out of prison.

She watched as Saraf stood close to the girl that was writhing in the grasp of the two scouts. Nym didn't like the look of the girl, she looked not much older than herself, though it was hard to tell with all the disfigurment. And that is why she never wanted to be a mage of any kind, power changed people.

"Skorn's apprentice..." She heard a quiet voice say, looking over her shoulder to find Prince Morpeth standing behind her - other rebels having stood aside a little to let him through, though Nym stood firmly where she was. He still didn't look fully well again, after being broken out of the dungeons not so long ago, still sickly thin and the tired look of his eyes still remained for now. Nym had been told that he would get better over time. "She waited for the day I would die in my cell so that she could re-animate my body the way Skorn does with my father..." He explained, his gaze never having looked away from the girl as he spoke.

"She should be disposed of then!" Nym said, loud enough for most of the rebels to hear along with Gar and Saraf. If she was a danger to the Prince, then they had to get rid of her - it was simple enough. Some of the other rebels seemed to agree, a murmer rumbling through the near silent crowd of rebels.

"It's not as easy as that..." Morpeth replied thoughtfully, though he liked to think it was. He watched alongside the rebels, taking no role in deciding what to do with her.

Giovanni silently arrived into the borders of camp, returning from an assassination contract. He was tasked with killing a landlord taxing his subject into poverty. The mere thought disgusted him, as anyone who mistreats the people entrusted to them needs to suffer. Giovanni hadn't actually fulfilled that part, because he had simply slit his throat in his sleep. A little too much mess in his opinion, but it got the message across just fine. He had gotten "paid" in several silver ingots, conveniently looted from a lock-box. He hadn't demanded money to be paid by the villagers that had tasked him with the assassination contract, as money was the reason it had been made at all. As Giovanni entered the camp, he lifted the hood of the crimson robe he wore off of his face. His eyes swept around the encampment, taking in changes. His eyes were a nuisance outside camp, one being blood red, the other green, because if you saw a man kill someone with them, wouldn't you remember his face? Giovanni simply kept the shadow of his hood on his face at all times in public.

His grim face turned slowly to a man walking towards him, his arm covered in blood. The Healers eye's flashed a questioning look at the man standing before him, studying his arm. Bite Mark? Sword? Maybe. He touched the arm, and the man hissed in pain. Bite Mark. Disinfect the wound, bandage, possibly stitch, then monitor. His diagnosis was interrupted when a bout of screaming began. His hand felt for the hilt of his knife.

"It's alright. She's bound tight." The soldier said. Giovanni nodded slowly. She? He would find out later, as there was a wounded man to tend to. He led him to a tent the same color as his robes, a nice crimson. He sat the man down and began to work.


The soldier, Lando, as he was called, exited the tent, one arm bandaged firmly. Giovanni cleaned up inside, wiping blood off his work table, packing tools, the like. He walked out of the tent when that task was complete, and headed toward the direction of the screaming. As he neared the crowd, he spotted Nym. He had heavy respect for the Prince, and all rebels. One had saved his life, after all.


He ghosted up behind the young girl, his shoes making no sound against the earth. He stood behind her, studying the rather grotesque girl screeching at the crowd. It didn't make him angry, just weary. He had heard this all before. People tend to rant before they die.

"Sedative?" He said, just loud enough for a few people to hear him, his voice emotionless and heavy.

Ailill was sat in quiet contemplation in the forest glade he had taken to visiting when he needed to think. He sat on the soft, moss-covered ground with his legs crossed and his eyes shut. The glade was full with flowers, exotic and out-of-season blooms that it would be impossible to find elsewhere.

Bumblebees buzzed around the glade, attracted by the huge array of colors. The did not pay much attention to Ailill, but rather floated dreamily from flower to flower.

The snap of a twig broke Ailill's trance. Opening his eyes, his head snapped round to the direction the sound had come from. The flowers withered and died all of a sudden and the bees - who must have been quite shocked - buzzed out of the glade with great haste.

"...Juve?" came the voice of Lotthi, a young messenger for the Rebels, just as he stumbled out of the undergrowth and into the glade "There's a situation in camp. People are saying we've captured Skorn's apprentice."

Ailill jumped to his feet, surprisingly nimble for his age. "Thank you, Lotthi," he said, walking up to the young man and looking him up and down. His hair was full of twigs and leaves, he had a scratch along the side of his face - no doubt from a thorn. Placing a hand gently over the scratch, Ailill's (or Juve as he was known to most in the Rebellion) eyes misted over briefly, turning completely white momentarily. He removed his hand and the scratch was gone without a mark.

"You should be more careful, Lotthi. There are things in this forest that can give you more than a scratch," he said gently patting the messenger's shoulder "Follow my path back to camp."

Lotthi simply nodded. Ailill set off at once through the forest, staff held before him. As he walked, the undergrowth parted before him, leaving a clear path. Lotthi followed close behind as the plants returned to their original position soon after Ailill had passed. Soon, they stepped out of the forest and walked into the outskirts of camp. The commotion could be heard even from here. Rushing through the camp in the direction of the crowd which was now considerable and growing.

Making his way through the crowd, he paused as he noticed Sir Locke hanging round towards the back of the crowd. Catching his eye, he gave a quick nod in his direction, knowing he'd step in at the right moment. Reaching the front just in time to hear Giovanni suggest "Sedative?".

"Be careful,she's more dangerous than she looks, stand back." he warned everybody, walking up to stand beside Saraf, he examined the sickly girl. Leaning close to Saraf, he spoke in hushed tones "She's a danger to us all as long as she's here. But she's just a child - we can't condemn her simply because she has been tainted by Skorn. Besides, if she is his apprentice, she will know useful information."

One of the scouts, trying to keep hold of his grip, struggled to explain the situation as he caught sight of some of the higher ranking rebels beginning to congregate around the commotion, no doubt wondering what had led up to this. Thankfully the attacks of the necromancer were far from damaging and more of an annoyance, but it disrupted his concentration. His shortsword was draw at the time, the tip splattered with some sort of dripping, viscous ooze, black in colour.

He set it down, and hazarded a clumsy salute towards Gar and then to Saraf and Ailill before beginning to speak.
"We were out scoutin on the ridge, not far from here, when we heard some kinda humming...like...musical humming from an outcrop..we went to investigate..there were dead there...lots of dead...a burned cabin with loads of bones inside..they must've...locked people and and set it alight...the stench..." he muttered, trying to keep himself on track.

"This one was there, collecting up the bones and humming to herself....we tried to get closer but...she saw us and started talking in this strange language...made the bones collect together into these...creatures. They jumped us. Got poor Sylvester, they tore his throat out before we could even get our weapons ready. We managed to take one apart, and we grabbed her...the other chased after us...I think it went to bits after a while though." he explained.

"Poor Sylvester...he was a good man...wife and two sons too..."

Smoke

Looking up, Zerid saw a small column of smoke drift lazily towards the heavens. Where there was smoke, there was fire, and where there was fire, there was people. "Of course," He mused, "It's more than likely everyone there is dead."

As he crested the hill, his cape caught the wind, blowing out behind him, and revealing the scene of carnage below. The smoke was coming from a cabin that had been set of fire, and bones littered the ground around it. His eyes followed the path of the smoke again and he saw the carrion birds beginning to circle.

Half running, half sliding, Zerid made his way down the slope of the hill. As he came to the bottom, the stench hit him like a slap in the face. Wrinkling his nose, he began to see if there was anyone around. Something stopped when he was 15 feet from the house. Turning around, one of the bodies had caught his attention. Most of the dead were all bones and rags, but this one fully clothed in leather and had a weapon. Leaning down, Zerid realized a few things. One, he hadn't died in the fire, his throat had been ripped out. Two, if he hadn't died in the fire, then who ever did this might still be around. Three, he wasn't clothed like a soldier of the Kingdom, so he might be a rebel. Four, his comrades had either died also or had been too busy fighting who ever was did this to close his eyes.

Sighing quietly, Zerid closed the mans eyes, and put his hands on his chest. Standing up, he realized one of the skeletons was too far away to have died in the fire. Walking over to it, he reached down and picked up the skull. There were still trace amounts of magic in it, rather dark magic. Zerid hoped who ever had faced the necromancer had survived. Looking up, he saw tracks of what could have only been some one being dragged.

"Looks like it's time to go." He muttered. As he walked with the tracks, the first of the carrion birds landed.

Saraf's eyes fluttered half-closed momentarily as he waited for Locke, Giovanni, and Juve to arrive; he stood silently, contemplating the ragged girl while taking in the voices of the other rebels. With his long, thick eyelashes, it seemed as if Saraf had fallen asleep. His mouth twitched faintly with amusement as he heard Nym's comment; the girl might be small, but she was spunky and outspoken. Her idea seemed to strike a chord with most of the rebels, however. But Saraf wasn't about to dispose of the girl, despite what she had become. She had to be more useful than that. Giovanni's comment he took with more careful consideration…perhaps it would be better to sedate her for the time being until they could get a better grasp of what was going on.

"…she's just a child- we can't condemn her simply ecause she has been tainted by Skorn. Besides, if she is his apprentice, she will know useful information." Juve, as usual, provided the wise counsel that had been on Saraf's mind. Killing the girl was out of the question. But it was unlikely she'd talk to them now, not in this condition. But if she was sedated, if she calmed down a bit…the Black Prince was infamous for his skills of persuasion, although he never had to resort to torture.

He listened to the scout's explanation of what had happened, feeling a weight drop inside of him when Sylvester was mentioned. Poor Sylvester. The look in Saraf's green eyes hardened a little as he stared down at the girl. Despite how young she looked, she was a murderess- a dangerous one. Showing too much mercy would be foolish.

"We'll sedate her for now," he decided, speaking in a low tone to Giovanni. "If you have something that would last several hours…or I could use my flute." Saraf's hand drifted towards the pockets of his cloak. It was well known among the rebels that the Black Prince played an enchanted flute that could lull people to sleep, if only momentarily. "In either case, let me know when she wakes."

Looking over his shoulder at Gar, Saraf murmured, "Would you disagree?"

Doublepost, ignore.

Thorwulf stood alongside the other rebels, who watched the young woman getting dragged into the camp. Well he was able to hear her, even before being able to see her. She came into the range of the illumination of the torches, that were still burning, despite the light of the rising sun. Her hateful cries and shouts wouldn't meet her appearance, weren't it for the pale skin and overall bony figure. Immediately did Thorwulf recognize that face, even thought the followers of Skorn rarely visit his Inn for more than closing it for the night's guest. Sometimes even a few of the royal soldiers, who now had to follow Skorn, came for a visit after their duty. He surely knew this girl, even if only from sight. When she was following Skorn around town, the soldiers had called her "Spectre", none seemed to know her real name. Quickly he checked that the cloth mask still covered most of his face, his nose and mouth at least. Above his clothes he wore a simple robe in natural, light brown colors, hiding his commoner clothes beneath. Every trusted member of the rebellion knew his true appearance and name, but he prefers to look different than usual, should a spy infiltrate them.

He kept staying silent as the others spoke and discussed about the next steps to do with their prisoner. He wasn't one of the members of the rebellion, who held much responsibility, at least when it came to making decisions. He, and a few other rebels, had brought the goods of his storage to the encampment just a hour ago and he had decided to stay a while, so he would be up to date. They brought fresh rations, breads, eggs, cheese and even some meat, as well as a few weapons that were stolen from a weaponry of the royal soldiers, such as pikes and swords. Now Nym suggested that they should get rid of the necromancer. From what he heard that she had done to the populace, Thorwulf knew this was a wish of many. If he were to make that decision, he would have probably agreed to that, but luckily it wasn't his. The wise Ailill stepped forward, as he warned all to take a step back, Thorwulf suddenly found himself no longer in the last row. He didn't fear this girl like he should, but maybe he was just overestimating his own powers. He didn't speak up on the course of action that Saraf suggested, but silently agreed that whatever decision would be made, it shouldn't be one made in rush.

Nym almost jumped out of her skin as Giovanni appeared out of nowhere, suggesting that they use a sedative on the necromancer. Nym didn't think it would do any good for getting any information out of her, but if the leaders thought it was worth it - then she would not disagree. Everyone seemed to edge back as Juve warned them, Nym now left nearer the front, glancing behind her to find that Morpeth had moved right out of the way. She frowned slightly, wondering what kind of memory he must've been having to make him want to move away from the girl. She understood that it must've been hard for him right now, but he needed to pull himself together - for the sake of Magna.

This reminded her that she still had unfinished business, as did the sight of good old Tumblers. She edged her way over to the masked man, hands behind her back as she moved towards him slowly - trying not to attract too much attention to herself. She was still watching the scene with Skorn's apprentice, though she spoke to Tumblers quietly enough so that nobody else could easily listen in on what she was saying.
"When are you going back, Tumblers?" She asked, glancing up at the masked man for a moment with slightly hardened eyes. She was unsure how obvious it would be that she wanted to back to the inn with him, but if not then it was something a few words would fix.

~~~

Morpeth had edged away as the man they called Juve warned them all to move away from the girl, not because of the warning, but more for the sudden flashbacks of the past that ran through his head - and wouldn't disappear. He'd spent so long trying to block them out while in that dungeon, and he'd managed to keep them away since being broken out by the rebels. Seeing Spectre here though, it just flooded back. It went back all the way to his father's death, which might not have been her fault, but she was connected to him - to Skorn. The thought of what he'd done to his father made him quiver with anger, his fist tightening a little as felt like driving his sword into the heart of the girl. It felt like it would make everything equal, though he knew it was not the right way to go about this.

His father had taught him better than that.

He had to wait for her and Skorn's time. Then he'd have the chance to avenge his father and reclaim the land in his name. He glanced back to the crowd as they seemed to have decided that sedation was going to be the best course of action - as long as she was nowhere near him, he was pretty sure he could handle this. He stayed in the back of the crowd, keeping himself out of sight of Spectre; one wash of his anger and he could've made a grave mistake.

Giovanni remained blank at the news of Sylvester's death. One did not become a killer when one shows grief. He focused on the girl, and was brought out of his daze by Saraf. "If you have something that would last several hours…or I could use my flute." Giovanni held up a hand. The flute was unnecessary. He reached into his robe and pulled out a small dart, a pointed metal rod no bigger than a sowing needle, the feathers blue. He held up four fingers, meaning the girl was out for four hours max. He could use a higher dose, but it would probably kill her.

His arm flashed out, the needle shooting towards the girl and hitting her square in the neck. The contents emptied from the hollow tube. She would be unconscious in seconds. He picked up the limp girl and carried her to his tent. Some soldiers decided to follow, but The Healer decided not to object. He placed the girl on a cot, and tied the wrists her to the headboard tightly. He sat on a stool and waited for her to wake, the other rebels nervously standing by.

Spectre had been yelling and screaming up until the effects of the substance began to become noticable. She stopped for a moment, shaking her head as if trying to clear her head, but then her head fell forwards, her arms going limp in the grip of the two scouts. The scouts were pretty pleased about this, and soon set her down for Giovanni to deal with, not exactly having enjoyed being kicked and bitten.

After being set down on the cot she lay still, her form motionless and unnaturally cold, the only real indication of life in her body being her periodic raspy breathing.

Not that he was surprised by the decision made by Saraf, he approved of the style the rebellion was lead. While Gar Locke was usually regarded as the leader of them, everyone can say their part. He was a man to admit the lack of knowledge he had in special field and let others, who showed more proficiency in these parts, take responsibility for that. Thorwulf himself was just rarely present here at the encampment, usually available at his Inn. Only to transport more important news or goods to the rebellion, would he leave it. It's not that he would qualify as a leader for any of these areas anyways, he was not the one to motivate a lot of people, well only through the means of alcohol. The Matters were further complicated by the people's growing fear, business isn't going so well these days. As he noticed Nym standing close by to him, he listen to what she had to say, before he replied. He spoke rather silently, not that he would bother with anyone listening, but he didn't want that apprentice of Skorn hear him.

"Guess you want to come along, huh? Well, I have to talk with Giovanni and Master Ailill before, but I'll leave as soon I've done that. Get your things together, we should be back before the spies of Skorn start missing me at my Inn. Their controls of the people in our town seem to increase."

With these words he watched the mysterious healer, who was so much more than he appeared, throw a needle towards the girl. After just a second, she seemed to be in deep slumber. As he carried the girl to his tent, Thorwulf was one of those to follow him. He waited till Giovanni had bound her to the cot, before he stepped forth and whispered to the healer.

"I know you could handle her, should she wake up, but I want to make sure that she can't do anything stupid. We surely don't want her to raise an army or harm any of our comrades."

He looked up to the soldiers in the tent. He spoke to them as he walked over to the sedated young woman.

"You should better leave this tent now, It's Giovanni's after all. As much as he might enjoy guests, there is no need for you to stay here. If you have nothing to do, help the other store the rations in the big tent."

Thorwulf waited till all of the other rebels had left the tent of the healer. Than he began to speak words in a strange tongue, one that you wouldn't hear amongst usual people. In fact you wouldn't even guess an Inn keeper to ever have ever heard of this language. It wasn't only the words that were strange to an spectator. The left hand of him started to glow, small sparks running over it. Purple light radiated from those sparks. After a while the sparks didn't seem to travel randomly above the hand anymore, they seem to wander towards his index finger. With his fingers spread, he placed the hand just a short distance above the unconscious young woman's face. With his index finger he scribed a complex invisible sign on the forehead of the prisoner. While he wrote, he could feel his strength drawing, feeling weaker and weaker with every move. After some seconds it was done, thought Thorwulf felt like he had run for hours. The barrier he had placed on Skorn's apprentice might not be strong enough to stop any powerful mage, but it was enough to stop the powers of someone that was just at the start of developing their magical potential, the sedative would only increase this effect. Before he was able to leave the tent, he had to speak with the healer.

"That should do it. I will leave for the town soon, is there something you need here, Giovanni? I could bring it with me the next time I'm here, or send a messenger with it, if you need it earlier."

Ailill's heart grew heavy as he heard the patrol's account of the day's events. The death of a good man filled him with sadness at the best of times, and yet now - when the Rebels were already stretched thin and every man counted - it felt even more of a loss.

He watched silently as Giovanni threw the dart at the girl, as she gradually went limp and finally unconscious. As the girl was carried off to The Healer's tent, he leaned in once again to Saraf and said "I think we need to hold Council."

Turning to face Gar, he walked quickly up to him and - speaking in his usual calm, soothing voice - addressed him in the casual manner only a good friend could get away with.

"Gar, you need to call Council. We must decide what is to be done with the girl - and we do not have long before the sedative wears off. We cannot simply keep her unconscious forever and she is too much of a danger to remain here."

He looked at Gar knowingly. He could not mention it in public - he was not naive enough to accept the loyalty of all the rebels without question. He was constantly cautious of those who may betray the Rebel's cause. Yet this look spoke many words. Ailill wanted to move the girl to The Shrine, and as he looked at Gar he hoped it would be clear of his suggestion.

The Shrine was perhaps the most closely-guarded secret within the Rebellion. The remnants of an ancient Druidic Temple, it was rediscovered by a group of rebel scouts and soon converted into a place of healing, where the most seriously injured of the Rebellion are taken to recover. Old Druid magic fills the temple even now, the effect of which is accelerated healing of even the most serious of wounds, an inescapable sense of well-being, warmth and of good health.

Glancing past Gar for a moment, his eyes settled on Thorwulf talking to Nym, before walking off towards the tent where the girl had been taken.

"You'll excuse me, Gar, but i have some business which i must see to momentarily. You will assemble the council?" he said, his voice as calm and tranquil as ever, almost comforting. He nodded at Gar briefly, before walking past him and to the entrance of the Healer's Tent. He waited outside for Thorwulf's exit, sensing the familiar twang as a spell cast within the tent fell into place perfectly.

He simply coughed loudly to announce his presence to Thorwulf, waiting patiently outside.

Although he heard it, Saraf did not immediately respond to Juve's suggestion of holding a council; he seemed to be caught in a trance, frozen in a daze as he watched the girl being sedated and subsequently dragged off. Thoughts were flying through the Prince's mind as he stared off into empty space, contemplating this new change in events. How can she help us? And what kind of threat is she? This isn't something that can be approached with haste… She was so odd..and so very wasted. He had recognized the sign of overabuse of magic on her; she had stretched her power beyond its limits. Oddly enough, Saraf found that an emotion much like jealousy was rising up within him; why would someone willingly give up their vital, living energy when he was forced to watch helplessly while his strength ebbed away, while his body slowly deteriorated…but thinking of what could have been will not help anything in the slightest. Once the girl awoke, Saraf decided he'd speak to her- not only to try and pry Skorn's plans from her, but to find out why she had become the way she was, why she was so fanatically devoted to Skorn, how he could persuade her to turn against him…but that's not for another four hours or so.

Finally turning to Juve, he murmured, "I wouldn't object to a Council. Let me know where and when it'll be held." Turning, he walked away back through the crowd of men, his bare feet barely making any noise on the crisp grass.

There was one man he wanted to talk to.

Once again, men backed up slightly as Saraf passed through them, watching as the dark-skinned boy stopped in front of the Prince Morpeth. Morpeth, like Saraf, was young- younger than he should have been, given the great responsibility that had been placed on his shoulders. But unlike Saraf, he was locked into his burden. Saraf had often observed Morpeth, wondering what kind of person the prince was…wondering if he was truly the one right to rule Magna.

Saraf had neither seen Morpeth's expression nor heard Morpeth's words while the girl was still kicking and screaming, but the Black Prince was frighteningly intuitive. It was impossible for Morpeth not to have felt any emotion when looking into the face of the girl who had assisted with his imprisonment and his father's…reinstitution. But here was the man they were fighting to put back on the throne. Morpeth could not show weakness.

Placing a hand on Morpeth's shoulder, Saraf's bright green eyes surveyed Morpeth's face searchingly, looking for signs of emotion. "Just what," he murmured, "is going through your head?"

Wonderful, it had all been going well so far. Saraf and Aillil had turned out to not only guess his course of action, but enacted upon it. This was their relationship, Gar was no doubt in charge but he listened and he didn’t hoard the power. This wasn’t ‘his’ army after all, each man had a stake in it. Any soldier could approach with their concerns. He welcomed the bothers of any who called themselves part of the rebellion. That was how they had stayed alive so far.

Giovanni was a sight uncertain however. The knowledge of life and death seemed far too alike at times for Gar to be comfortable with him. Always a lingering doubt held contempt for Givoanni’s aid. They didn’t stand equally when it came to beliefs and political action. Despite the misgivings he wouldn’t turn away the help, and within the recesses of his heart he knew the man wasn’t malicious. Misguided maybe, but he was never treated differently for being of a different opinion.

The girl was surprisingly easy to dispatch, her frail constitution having succumbed rather quickly to the work of the dart. Remaining long enough to see her dragged off to Thorwulf’s shelter and cunning healer’s hands. Each member performing his part and without any sort of leadership barking orders. A little debating was far from the worse that could have transpired. Both his lieutenants were so kind as to even suggest the next course of action. A call for Council was just on the verge of his mind, and he would see to it that they would have their private meeting.

Calmly he began to take the stage Spectre had held. Moving like a king toward his throne, allowing each step to be firmly planted. The sway of his cape, the glistening of the gold trimming of his wardrobe, and head held uplifted. Standing spotlighted among the crowd that was slowly disappearing, upraising his arm a gesture he wished to be heard by those that remained.

“Heroes of Magna, preservers of life pray listen close now. We have taken captive one who would turn the tide against us, proud sons of Magna applaud for yourselves. For with each step we come closer to the day we all long for the most. The glorious day of victory when we fell the false god, when we send Skorn unto the very dead he twists and manipulates.
A day when we may bury the grateful dead, and not fear their return. A day when we give salute to a King who breathes the sweet mountain air. A day my friends, when we can lead the lives that we fight for now.”
His voice softened, and a twinge of sadness had taken it. Looking into the many wandering eyes of the listeners, he began to feel the pangs of their loss. Taking in a deep breath to sway the silence he began to speak once more, a grin forming on his face.

“We will get there together, but for now I must ask of you. The scouts reported a house filled with the deceased. Warriors from the mountain, who will bury these lost souls? Who will mourn them? My brave knights, we must go to this place. Those slain by violence must be honored, and entrenched deep within the ground. Where, hopefully, none may disturb them. Pressley take any volunteers you can spare and lay these poor people the rest. Leave no evidence that Skorn ever touched the place. Cover your tracks my friends.
As for everyone else pack whatever belongings are not important. This camp will need to be ready to move at any given second.”

With a flick of his wrist the tip of his blade was thrust skyward. Its face glimmering in the few rays of sunshine it could catch. Another formality that followed his speeches or commands. Those armed withdrew their own weaponry, mimicking their speaker’s action.

“Till all are one.”

The crowd was quick to respond, returning the same phrase back. The meaning of it was somewhat superficial. The belief that they would meet each other again. Exactly what circumstances this gathering would be under was up to interpretation. Many believed that it was a promise they would fulfill in the afterlife, becoming whole by returning to their fallen friends and families. Other’s believed it to be less serious and only meant that when they were ‘one’ again, it would be during another one of Gar’s speeches.

“Lotthi, would you kindly tell Juve and our dear Black Prince, that we will be holding a private Council within my quarters. If Prince Morpeth is feeling well enough, please invite him as well.”

The crowd came to life at the passing of their leader. Men and women rushing here and there, many off to pack and some to join Pressley on his journey. Where once the encampment had been controlled and silent with captured attentions, it was now bustling with individual activity. Everyone had a task, or was preparing to undertake one.
The journey to Locke’s camp meant pushing one’s way through most of what was considered Rebellion territory. It was just a small brown tent kept upright with plenty of rope and care to how it was staked. No guards could be found here strangely, just the quiet of the mountain and the serenity of silence. It was no secret that within the heart of their headquarters was a far more luxurious shelter. One that many would consider proper housing for someone of Gar’s office, but it remains empty every night. Two guards posted at it sides at all times to further persuade outsiders of the illusion. It was a clever little rouse, and one that probably will undeniably save him one day.

Once the drape that served as a front door was cast aside he slipped through to the confines of his makeshift home. The inside was nothing glamorous a bedroll and half burnt lantern were kept company only by a small pile of books. Historic records of various wars and their battles. Also there were three cushions lying on the hard floor. This was where much of their plans came to life, and no one was the wiser.

Nym was glad that Tumblers knew what she was thinking, then she wouldn't have to ask outloud. She flashed the man a grin as she was told to get her things together, nodding once as she knew that she had to be quick so that they could get back to lower the suspicion from the spies at the Inn. As Thorwulf got up to follow after Giovanni as he carried the girl away, Nym's attention was turned to Gar as he unleashed one of his moodlifting speeches - with a request to go and bury those killed on the mountain. If she did not already have her own plans, then she probably would've volunteered to go up there, but she thought this more important.
As Gar lifted his blade to the air, the others followed suit; she held her fist in the air, the blades of her gauntlet serving as her weapon. She chanted along with the others once before quickly making her way through the dispersing crowd to her tiny tent.

She would only be staying with Thorwulf till he next returned to the camp, which hopefully wouldn't be too long - if so then she would just have to journey back alone; something that was rarely approved of by the Council, but if it was necessary then she would do it. They all had to take risks at times like these.
She knelt down in amongst her minimal amount of stuff, grabbing a small bag into which she put the parchment she'd been observing before, her spare set of clothes, her cap and her belt with throwing daggers. Her aim wasn't as good as Saraf's but she was going to be as good as him one day - she had decided. When she was packed, her tent was practically empty, only her sleeping mat and a small lantern left.

Nym emerged from her tent, noticing that Juve was waiting outside Giovanni's tent, her head tilting to the side slightly as she wondered if Tumblers was still inside. She wondered what she should do in the meantime as she waited for him to be ready to go.

~~~

Morpeth looked at Saraf with a slightly solomn expression as he was asked what exactly was going through his mind at this time. He had to be strong, for the morale of these people who were working so hard for him.
"Memories, mainly." He replied, holding his frown steady as he looked at the man they called the Black Prince with his own lucid eyes. He glanced over Saraf's shoulder for a moment as Sir Gar gave a motivating speech to the rebels, a sudden sadness hitting him as he heard of the loss of a rebel. He hated that these people were dying for his cause, but he knew that he would be nowhere without them. His gaze returned to Saraf,
"Seeing her again brought everything back, along with the anger and hatred I feel to Skorn." He admitted, knowing that there was no point in lying.

"But seeing these people, it changes everything. The rebels are bringing hope to Magna yet, and I know that if they see me broken down - that hope will be dissolved and the morale will be down." He continued, keeping his voice low so that only Saraf would hear. He didn't want the rest of the group hearing his words. "I know I should be strong for the sake of everyone, but it's hard right now... with her around." He said, looking away for a moment as he felt rather embarressed and ashamed with himself that he was being so weak.
"Maybe... I should find something to do; help the group with something. Just to keep my mind away from Spectre and Skorn for a while." He suggested, looking to Saraf - unsure if this was the right move to make.

Giovanni watched as Thorwulf excused the lingering soldier from the tent. He was grateful for this, because dealing with them for three hours would have severely annoyed him. As Thorwulf began his spell, Giovanni took this in stride. He had seen many strange spells, most of which deadly. He was gazing at the girl, studying her bony frame. She wasn't truly ugly, but her build was rather disturbing. He was snapped out of his observation by Thorwulf. "That should do it. I will leave for the town soon, is there something you need here, Giovanni? I could bring it with me the next time I'm here, or send a messenger with it, if you need it earlier." Giovanni cracked a near invisible smile. It was about time someone made a supplies run! He grabbed a piece of parchment and quickly wrote down the names of a few herbs, ones that could be secured at few of the rebels contacts at a rather low price. Handing it to Thorwulf, he heard the clearing of a throat. "Visitor." He said in his blank voice. He got up, and quietly stuck his head outside. Spotting Ailill, he waved inside the man inside. Giovanni left the tent and was smashed into by rebel. He had been running, and smacking into the healer had knocked the wind out of him. "Juve....Black..prince...Morpeth...Gar's Tent...council.." He helped the downed man up, and sent him on his way. Giovanni decided to join this council whether it was necessary or not. He walked to Gar's shelter and confronted the guards. They passed after a heavy glare from the assassin. He walked into the shelter silently and stood near the entrance, pulling the cowl over his head as a formality. The shadow obscured everything but his mouth and chin. The true face of a killer.

"I would not want a ruler who comes to the throne through anger and fear." Saraf replied, lifting his hand. He knew it was difficult for the prince to see someone who had tortured him for so long, but the sad thing about royalty was that no one ever cared how they truly felt- the only thing that mattered was how they ruled the land. "You may find this annoying, Prince, but ensuring your stable rule after Skorn is just as important as defeating Skorn himself. And a prince who seems to cower behind the rebellion leaders will not last long, even if you are more than justified in your fears. Turn your fear into anger. Otherwise we'll never defeat Skorn." Saraf was silent for a moment longer, contemplating what action to suggest to the prince.

The answer was given for him by an out-of-breath messenger who had to double up for a moment, panting hard before delivering his message. "Sir Gar Locke is holding a Council meeting in his quarters. He's asked for you, Prince…well," Lotthi tripped over his tongue for a moment, realizing that he was in the presence of both the true Prince and the Black Prince. "Gar wants both of you to come," he finally said, bowing to Morpeth.

Saraf dipped his head in respect to the prince as well and pulled the hood back over his head. "I'll see you there."

Saraf had always respected and admired Locke's choice of living quarters. Small, humble, and on the edge of the rebel camp, it was serene and unpretentious. It was the headquarters of the rebellion- where their schemes and their hopes came to life and manifested themselves as acts of rebellion. Ducking under the entry flap, he took a seat on the cushion furthest to the left- his by habit. He gave an imperceptible nod to Giovanni; he had not realized the healer would be at the council meeting, but if Locke allowed or desired it, he had no objections.

"Gar," he murmured immediately. Saraf typically listened more than spoke at council meetings, unless it was to interject with his own eccentric perspective on things, but for the first time, it seemed, Saraf wished to speak first. "You know I don't often push for this, but we need to take more action. Skorn's apprentice is just the tip of the iceberg- and now that we have her, who knows what sort of undead army will come after us in search of her? We can't stay here much longer, and we need to start doing…more. I know we haven't got the force to take on Skorn, but our army isn't growing fast as it is. Something needs to done."

Screams. The horrible screams echoed over and over again through the dark and narrow corridor where a quite large creature wrapped in a robe which covered everything from it's waist and down, several intimidating armor pieces attached here and there and a hood which covered it's true appearance, stalked quietly. The creature was large, tall and shadows whirled on the floor where he moved. The screams of agony, sorrow and anger filled the dark hallway and it was like music for the creatures ears, if it had any. This creature or shade, as many would call him, was named Lanmo. He was a shade, brought alive from the silent grave he had once slept in to serve a new master, to serve Skorn. No one outside the Palace knew of Lanmo's existence and even then there was few inside the palace who knew of him. The only ones who had meet him and was still alive to think about him was Skorn, his apprentice Spectre who didn't seem to like Lanmo for some reason and Skorn's daughter who had marched into the throne room when Skorn had given Lanmo his new orders. Suffice to say, she was severely punished or at least Lanmo hoped so. He was sent away before he was able to see what her punishment would be. His new orders had been something more delightful than watching some child in pain. He had been sent down to the dungeons to interrogate Skorn's new prisoner, a Rebel they had found travelling in the woods close to the city. Torture had been authorized by Skorn in this matter.

Lanmo reached the stairs leading up from the dungeons and began to proceed up towards the light once more, leaving the dark hallways and the screams behind him. He was currently wiping off the last blood spots from the tip of his right gauntlet. Humans had so much blood in them and after hitting them hard enough, blood usually ended up all over the place. He had been toying with the rebel for two whole hours with his awful torture techniques before the fool had decided to give him some information before he died. These rebels were vigilant and their loyalty to Sir Gar Locke and the rebellion was most impressive, but everyone who dared to oppose Skorn would die by the hands of Lanmo. Sooner or later.
The shade moved swiftly through the once great corridors of the Palace and he didn't stop for anyone or anything. His news was more important than anything. When passing servants they dropped what they had in fear and remained still minutes after Lanmo had disappeared out of sight. When passing soldiers they too were left stuck to the ground in fear. Their very bones turned to ice when the shade was only a couple of meters away from them. This was a special occasion and he had no time to be stealthy when moving back to Skorn.

When he finally reached the large doors leading to the throne room he didn't bother to knock and opened both doors in a swift move and closed them quickly again. Before him was an amazingly big room and in the end of it sat the undead former king on his throne and on the chair next to him sat Skorn. Lanmo made his way to Skorn and bowed deeply before him.

"Master." He said with his bone chilling voice.

"General." Skorn replied and Lanmo rose from his deep bow.

"I have essential information which I obtained from our newly deceased prisoner." The general began and now he looked Skorn right in the eye. "They've captured your apprentice Spectre..."

The look on Skorn didn't seem to change but never the less, it was not Lanmo's duty to see how his master reacted to the newly acquired information he brought with him.

"But that's not all. The prisoner also told me that one of the most popular Inn's in town, the Red Blossom Inn is under the influence of the Rebellion. In fact, he told me that the owner named Thorwulf Doggarson is a loyal rebel himself. He had provided shelter for the group who captured the Prince before they travelled back to the Rebels camp."

There was a short silence between the general and Skorn before Lanmo spoke once more.

"What do you wish to do with this information, Master?"

Naturally impatient did Thorwulf wait for Giovanni to write down his list. He wasn't the one to haste with big plans, as long as he could keep himself occupied otherwise. Such as it was now, as he had to regain his breath from the spell he had just cast. After some time, he received the list from the healer. He had taken his time to look over his work again, though not with the eyes of a normal persons. As he looked on the body, he nearly saw nothing. Only a low shifting black nebula moving, thought it was thin and clouded by gray mist. His look returned to normal, seeing the young pale figure on the cot again. Seemingly satisfied with his work, and with the the list of the healer's things at hand was about to leave the tent. Just as he turned towards the tent's entrance, he heard Giovanni announcing a visitor. Feeling the familiar presence close by, he could tell, who that was. So instead of waiting inside, he moved out, just after the mysterious healer. As he was outside, he could hear the poor Lotthi from the ground stumbling his words out, something about a council meeting. It wasn't his part to care about such a meeting, thought the person that was waiting outside for him needed to care. Master Ailill was one of the leading members of the rebellion, thought not a warrior on the front-line, he inspired respect into everyone around him. Thorwulf bowed his head in front of the older man, a gesture you could only see rarely on him.

"Master Ailill, how are you today? Sadly I don't have much time today, as it appears you have neither."

Ailill acknowledged Giovanni with a tilt of his head as he left the tent and walked past him. He felt uneasy around Giovanni - his line of work was not a comfortable topic for Ailill. Yet he had proved himself again and again and Ailill found himself trusting the mysterious individual a little more ever day.

He watched him walk off, then crash head on into Lotthi, who was babbling on about the Council. Giovanni picked up the messenger and sent him on his way.

Just then Thorwulf left tent also, bowing his head before speaking to him. "Master Ailill, how are you today? Sadly I don't have much time today, as it appears you have neither."

"Alas, you are correct Thorwulf. It appears a lack of rest is payment for my sins," he said, laughing heartily "But i just wanted to ask your help on a very important matter. I need a book - well, more an ancient tome in fact. It's called 'Natura suus magicis virtutes occultas' and unfortunately it is extremely rare, though i am told a few copies have recently come onto the black market in the city. If you could procure a copy for me, i would be forever grateful - it is vital for the rebellion that i get hold of a copy."

He knew that if any of the Rebels could get hold of the book, it would be Thorwulf with his huge array of contacts. He just hoped that it was possible at all.

"Perhaps i owe you more explanation..." he said after a short pause "But i haven't the time currently. I promise you i will though my friend." His voice was sincere.

He looked around himself hastily "I fear i have kept the Council waiting long enough, but if you need anything do not hesitate to contact me." He bowed his head to Thorwulf - as he often did to members of the Rebellion at all levels. Many thought it was unnecessary for a man of his age and standing, yet to Ailill it was about respect. Everyone deserved to be afforded respect until they had done something to lose that right. Respect, in druid culture, was something lost - not something earned.

He walked away from Thorwulf, making his was speedily to the humble tent at the outskirts of the camp which Locke called home. As he stepped into the tent, he caught the end of Saraf's speech "...who knows what sort of undead army will come after us in search of her? We can't stay here much longer, and we need to start doing…more. I know we haven't got the force to take on Skorn, but our army isn't growing fast as it is. Something needs to done."

"I agree with Saraf," he said, as he walked across the tent and sat on one of the large cushions, sinking into it with a sigh. He looked around the tent, his gaze lingering for a moment on Giovanni before settling on Sir Locke, "We are treading water. Our location is most likely no longer a secret to Skorn - and if it is, it won't remain so for long. The girl must be moved and we must put a plan into action. You will not like my suggestion but i believe the best place for the girl is The Shrine." He looked once more at Giovanni, who would have had no knowledge of The Shrine due to it's secrecy.

"The Shrine is the ruins of an ancient druidic temple. We captured it many months ago and it has become a sanctuary for the injured of the Rebellion," he explained to the Healer, turning slightly to address the group as a whole "If we took the girl there, her health would improve...she would feel better. Perhaps then we could tempt information from her."

He waited for the obvious criticism - taking the girl to The Shrine carried the risk of it's location being discovered should she escape or somehow communicate it to Skorn.

Morpeth nodded once in agreement with Saraf's first statement. He knew that many would not have liked to see their King rise again in a mind held by fear and anger - it was no way to rule a kingdom. He needed to be calm, strong and brave - fear pushed aside. He could not rule a kingdom in fear of what could possibly happen. If he was not confident in himself, he would not be confident in his decisions and it would lead to his downfall.
Saraf was right, he had to buck up and pull himself together - he was the Prince of Magna, and it was his duty to reclaim the throne and restore this once great kingdom.
It wasn't that his fear had to be turned into anger, it had to be turned into determination. Without determination, there was no hope of defeating Skorn.

His traill of thought was interrupted as Lotthi appeared, winded and panting for breath as he told them that both Princes were invited to a meeting with Sir Gar. He glanced to Saraf, who also bowed to him - something he actually frowned on at the moment. Before he could tell him not to do that in future, Saraf had gone off in the direction of Gar's tent.
Morpeth turned his attention back to Lotthi, giving the young messenger a gentle pat on the shoulder,
"Don't rush back, catch your breath first." He suggested, before slowly following after Saraf towards Gar's tent.

He was hesitant about entering the tent at first, though the guards that stood either side of the make-shift door stepped aside for him immediately - even with his questionning gaze. He murmered a quiet thanks to them before slipping inside, to see that there was already a gathering inside. It seemed that he was the last inside, seemingly already having a discussion by what he heard of the last of Saraf's words, soon followed by Juve's.

"Perhaps, I could help recruit more people?" He said, as he shuffled out of the doorway, gingerly setting himself on the cushion the other side of the middle. He glanced at the others around him, "I'm not sure how many would still be in town, considering my absence, but I know many names that will follow the cause - but have yet found the courage to cross the line into the rebellion. I'm thinking that personal invitations to join the rebellion will gain us many more allies in a short amount of time; and by personal, I mean myself visiting these people."
Morpeth was unsure what the verdict of this idea would be, but it had to be better than nothing. Saraf had given him the motivational kick he needed to become more active in this rebellion, and this was the best first move that he could make up in such a small amount of time.