Rasmorya, the city of the Day

[Rasmorya, Greyheart Printing Company, The Office of the Chairwoman]

In the stillness of the office, the only sound the rippling thrum of the clocks and the steady scritching of the Chairwoman's pen, air molecules in the farthest corner writhed and danced as a god made himself manifest upon the earth, shaping what mortals thought of as immutable reality to his whim.

Hidden from the sight of the office's occupant by a protruding, overstuffed bookshelf, Alannis quickly took stock. Though manifestation was not his strong point, his avatar was the same as it always was, so there were no surprises there - a lithe blending of human and elfin features, a mix of male and female characteristics, dressed in silver and gold and the latest mortal fashion, culled from the minds of the city as he passed.

The room he'd manifested in, as shown by the Eye, was large and quite airy, a good working environment. Rugs on the floor took the chill off the flags and bookcases groaning with volumes and papers lined the walls. A dark fireplace - it was still late summer, after all - crowded one wall and a heavy, old desk dominated the far side of the chamber, piled with papers and presided over by an austere human woman with iron-grey hair who commanded with her pen. There were no pictures or paintings, nothing to suggest a life or interests, just rows of timetables pinned to the few areas of walls not occupied by bookshelves or clocks.

The floor shook, subliminally - undetectable to most, but to Alannis it was easy to feel, a pulsing hearbeat as the presses floors below thumped rhythmically. It calmed him, and, composed, he stepped out from behind his cover, his footfalls noiseless.

The mortal - Evelyn Greyheart, Chairwoman of the Greyheart Printing Company and the true divines' prime candidate as the replacement for Lehel, the God of Order - remained bent over her work, presenting Alannis with a prime view of a crown of close gray curls.

His voice rang about the office, suddenly, smooth and mellifluous. "Good afternoon, Madam Greyheart. A moment of your time."

"This is unacceptable."

It was quite remarkable to observe how these three words, spoken with a calculated precision from the pursed lips of a thin, weak old woman caused their target's - a youthful man with a strong, worker's body and dashing, handsome and (normally) confident features - face to pale quite so visibly. His lips moved as if to speak, eyes betraying utter horror, but a sharp clank cut him off.

Evelyn Greyheart's eyes were narrowed as her stick met the metal frame of the printing press beside which she stood, the sound echoing throughout the lofty chamber. With it, a ripple of unsettledness followed, as workmen and scholars alike shivered. They knew what that sound met. Ms Greyheart was angry, and now was not a time that anyone wanted to be the object of her attentions.

"Well?" The query came sharp and swift, as cutting as any blade. "Don't you have some sort of pitiful excuse to offer me..." the woman consulted a clipboard she held in her free hand, "...Cauton?"

Dannil Cauton's eyes met the icy gaze of Ms Greyheart's hazel orbs for only a moment before they dropped away. Straight-backed and tight-lipped, she was every inch a proper noblewoman, with the slight problem of the absence of noble blood seeming to pose absolutely no problem. Dannil had no doubt that, should she decide to, Ms Greyheart could walk into the palace itself and give the King a talking to, and no guards would dare to interfere for the woman's sheer presence. Garbed almost always in grey or black dresses of fine make and material, the few times that he had seen the woman in her less formal dresses had only added to the sense of power and authority to her. When she wore jewels and colours it just made her look more like someone who could actually have you executed.

Not that he doubted that she could arrange that anyway.

"I... Ms Greyheart, the press, it hadn't been oiled, and the mechanisms were..." he trailed off at the rising anger upon the woman's face, cowering.

Evelyn narrowed her eyes further (it was miraculous that she could still see for the slits that they were), "You have some gall, Cauton." she said. Her voice was eerily calm now, and that was a hundred times worse than when she sounded livid. "To break my press with your lumbering, imbecilic workmanship, and then to blame it upon the machine itself?"

"Ms Greyheart, I'm telling you-"

Crack.

The resoundingly loud sound of metal meeting flesh echoed in Dannil's ears as he stumbled aside, clutching at his face where Greyheart's stick had struck him. For an old woman, she seemed to possess more strength than was possible. Most of the staff at the company thought it to be the Stick itself, that much he knew by the way they pronounced that capital letter every time they spoke of it.

"You will leave my building at once. You will not be paid for this week's work, you will receive no further employment by my company. You will be expected to pay for the damages to my machine."

Dannil's jaw dropped. "But, Ms Greyheart, my family! We will starve!"

"Get out!" she barked, lifting her stick once again.

Dannil Cauton got out.

As the man scurried from the room, murmurs passed amongst the other workers, until Evelyn silenced them with a single pass of her tyrannical gaze. They only relaxed when the clack, clack, clack of her stick against the metal walkway faded into the distance as she disappeared into the corridors of the administration offices.

---

It was some time later that Alannis found Evelyn within her office, pen scratching up a draft of the official documentation that would demand payment from Cauton for the machine that he had so carelessly damaged. He would be charged the exact cost of its repair - Evelyn might be cruel, but she was not a cheat. The fact that his family would likely go hungry, or even starve to death, did not weigh on her conscience in the slightest.

"Good afternoon, Madam Greyheart. A moment of your time."

Her eyes snapped up at the words the God spoke, and they narrowed into slits at the seeming youth that presented him to her within her office.

"You have precisely five seconds to explain why I should not call security and have them throw you out to be fined for breaking and entering." the woman said, her voice level and humourless. An unreligious woman, Evelyn had no recognition of Alannis from idols and pieces of art. As far as she was concerned, he was just another man, breaking into her office. A man with a remarkable air of command, mind, but she had no intention of paying any mind to that nonsense.

"That would be an...unfortunate...turn of events," Alannis replied serenely, his eyes darting around the office, restless and never-still. "As they would at best think you quite mad. I have no desire to be seen by the unwashed masses, after all. Still, we do believe some laxities are allowed the elder mortals - although what your workers would think and say if they knew you'd had your guards up here hunting nothing but air..." Alannis' voice trailed off suggestively. "Ah, authority. Such a fickle idol. As steady as a pillar of sand and twice as ephemeral. But enough - though I am the very foremost proponent of discussion and debate, even I must concede there is such a thing as the time and the place - and this is neither."

A split-second pause, and in that time Alannis strode closer, moving like a snake, his form fluid and changing from an affable young gentleman to an altogether more feminine form. "Your pardon." It wasn't an apology, nothing like, there was no trace of that in the tone; it was simply an indication, of sorts, that Alannis was going to do something - and more than likely Evelyn would not like it.

Alannis moved, then, quickly and fluidly, flitting about the chamber; her voice was light and fast, distracted, a stream of words. "All your books are in alphabetical order, your papers and requisition orders filed chronologically by subject. There are timetables on the walls, ordering the days, weeks, months, years, you wind your clocks every day at the same time and correct for discrepancies without fail or exception. Your desk is ordered with geometrical exactitude, items awaiting your attention to the left of you, those completed to the right, an orderly process and routine. Your clerks are instructed to enter this room on the hour and disseminate your out tray to the appropriate departments." Her voice slowed and her eyes ceased their darting. "This office is like a machine, nothing is out of place. That gives Order a way in, a crack in my defenses. Can't risk it, can't risk it." Like summer lightning, the god was off again, hands a near-blur as she worked along the neat ranks of bookshelves, upsetting their careful order. Evelyn's in-tray and out-tray rose and swapped over, papers stormed into the air and scattered from their piles, the clocks suddenly stopped at different times, a fire - absurd in summer - blazed up in a hearth that had been cold and dead for months.

"There. Not perfect, not permanent, but sufficient for our purposes. No evidence of higher involvement. For the best, at this early stage." Alannis' gaze fixed once more on Evelyn. "We can only assume your religious instruction has been deficient in some manner, for you not to recognize us." Her gaze flickered to the Stick and Evelyn's cat, Jackson, and darkened. Her fingers looked like claws in the light, slender spires of cutting bone.

"Attend, Madam Greyheart," she all-but-growled. "I am Alannis, God of Knowledge. The Crowned Catharsis and the Sovereign Immaterial, if you are of a mind to be formal." Speculative eyes bored into Evelyn's face.

"But then...you don't believe in anything very much, do you? You will, in time, but right now...Only in what you can see, and hear, and touch. You discounted our vision, wrote what you would doubtless call an hallucination off as fatigue, or the red wine you had last night, rationalised it away - and it was hard enough to send through that morass of pricing targets and cost-cutting initiatives and timetables and rotas that fill that head of yours in the first place. Manifestation, physicality, was the only viable option, in the limited time that was available." The deity nodded, as if to affirm what she'd said. "Especially since we had neither the desire nor the inclination to go wading through that mire of thoughts in your head again for no certain benefit. You would have merely discounted our commands yet again, to no good effect - and that we will not tolerate. Is that clear, Madam Greyheart? Now, pay attention."

Alannis waved a hand; golden fire burst from beneath her claws, splitting and re-splitting, forming a broad grid in front of Evelyn. Tiny cameos blossomed in the spaces; the pantheon of Braesorn in great detail, thin lines linking them. "As you may recall, these are your gods, from Ai on the left to Broxigar on the right. I credit you at least with the wit to know their dominions, if not their faces. Five of our number have now strayed from their purpose." Their cameos glowed in hadean shades, casting a sickly light in the oiffce. "Their divinity has warped, their realities strained and altered, their purpose is no longer to serve mortals as guiders and guardians. The balance of all the Heavens is altering, and it has been ordained that these rogue five will be replaced by mortals, to restore the equilibrium in a less...dramatic fashion than the manner achieved before. You have been chosen to replace Lehel - and looking around I can see why." A languid wave, encompassing the office, conducted with a silver pointer that hadn't existed a moment ago and would once more cease to do so when Alannis' had no further need of it.

"As we said. You are our prime candidate for the replacement of Lehel. It is our strongest recommendation that you take up this mantle." A pause, and Alannis' eyes sparkled, darkly.

Voice cargoed with ingenuousness, the god continued, almost idly. “Unless you want to end up like your late friend, of course, the one with that chain of luxury boutiques. Mistress Ellworthy, last of the Baronetesses Ellworthy. Great beauty in her day, married Nathaniel Ellworthy sixty-four years ago. Splendid fellow, well-liked by most. Nothing too much trouble for his business. Went to every city they opened a branch in to cut the red ribbon and serve at the counter for the day, always gave Siris bonuses to his staff. Nice man. Deliriously happy with Marianne, they both were, until he died of a heart attack after eating too much roast swan stuffed with widgeon at one of their dinners.” Alannis sighed; her androgynous face darkened.

There was a suggestion of claws again as she continued. “After he was gone all the joy went from Marianne, and you and the others moved in around her. She got cold and ruthless, and at her funeral your little cabal were the only ones that truly mourned her. Up and down the country, in all her stores, they partied and toasted her cousin’s health on the night of her funeral. A sad end for someone with so much promise.” Alannis looked up and her eyes blazed brilliantly. “And that’s right where you’re headed, Madam Greyheart. Now, unlike Marianne, you have no family – no wonder – and there’s no clear line of inheritance. When you die, your so-called friends will fall on your assets like vultures, Anarchy tells me. Greyheart Printers will be torn apart and your name falls into the dust with your life’s work. Just a footnote in the minutes of a dull Chamber of Commerce meeting, recording that the Greyheart Printing Company has folded in the sixteen hundred and eighty-seventh year After Creation-" Alannis sniffed, derisive, then added "-Mortal calendar - and its properties have been absorbed into other, more financially-viable enterprises.”

A heavy sigh from the languid avatar, a change of subject. "In any case, despite our choosing, apotheosis is no simple matter and both you and the others will require mutual assistance - and such allies and powers we are able to grant you - if success is to be even concieved of. There are other Chosen - they have been attended to by the other powers who still remain true to their purpose. Seek them out; we will do our best to ease the way for you. There are some Chosen in this city, others are further afield. Now."

Alannis laid one hand on an elaborate clock, her clawlike fingers surprisingly delicate as they changed the mechanism. "By this clock you have four minutes to ask questions before Lehel may once again actively observe this area. You may ask three of me, but speak quickly."

Evelyn's baleful glare shifted very quickly as Alannis spoke, briefly darting into surprise before collapsing into downright shock. She was quite certain that this person had been a man. Maybe it had been the light? It must have been the light.

Then the woman began to move around her office, and where normally Evelyn might have unleashed a torrent of verbal abuse, she found herself rooted to the spot. There was something in the air with this woman (if she was a woman? Evelyn really wasn't sure any more) that made it seem that it might be rather a bad idea to try and interfere with whatever she was doing.

As what appeared to be a stream of consciousness poured out of Alannis' mouth, Evelyn did try occasionally to get a word in edgeways, with little success. "But- I don't see- What do you --"

Each time, she was cut off by the continuing flow of words, and words, and words. It was more than a little infuriating.

Was she using order as a noun? Did she refer to Lehel? Evelyn might not have been religious in practice, but she was educated enough to know the pantheon by name and domain. But the gods didn't directly interfere in things, did they? No. That was why Evelyn doubted that they were anything more than concepts. When had she started being superstitious? This woman was clearly insane.

"What are you-- stop that!" Evelyn exclaimed as Alannis began to tear through the office, ruining all of her careful systems, her schedules, her work! Did she not have any idea who Evelyn was? Furiously helpless in inaction, all she could do was watch on, still remarkably reluctant to make any sort of movement to stop her. Insane people could be dangerous! That was definitely why she wasn't moving. It was a conscious decision, not anything ... else.

"We..?" she began, but again, was cut off. Jackson, in the meantime, yawned widely in his basket and returned Alannis' gaze with what could only be described as an abjectly unimpressed stare.

The woman's announcement took Evelyn off guard. She was a god? No. She believed herself to be a god. Though that would explain the oddness about her gender... Alannis was always described as ...

No! It was nonsense to think so. It wouldn't explain anything, rather open up a whole raft of things that needed to be explained all over again!

And yet, Ms. Greyheart found herself attending rather meekly, her face set in a worried frown. Alannis went on, speaking things that she should not know - her dreams, her dismissal of the odd lucid dream of several nights past (she had had a glass of wine before going to bed, that known to cause such things! Now she sounded defensive in her own head!)...

It would not be tolerated? Good grief. She was surely deluded if she thought she held authority over...

"Grief and ashes!" Evelyn whispered under her breath, taking an involuntary step backwards and paling visibly as golden fire poured forth from Alannis' hand and the cameos appeared. As the god spoke - and Evelyn found herself slipping more and more into believing that this was a god, how else could she have known these things? Light! Then why was she being visited, of all people?

She listened in silence as Alannis went on, up until the god revealed her reasons behind the visit. She had been chosen to replace Lehel? What?

Evelyn's mind boggled, and her heart did several somersaults in distress. Her state of being only worsened as Alannis went on to describe in flaying detail the pathway that her life would take if she didn't accept this expectation.

The god picked at every insecurity, every fear in the back of the iron-willed woman's mind and reduced her to a pale, horrified wreck. Her knuckles were white with the grip they had on the back of her chair by the time Alannis was done. Silence hung over her like a blanket. Evelyn was utterly speechless.

"I- wh... what?" she exclaimed, "Is that it? Am I just expected to ... wave my hands and become a god? Isn't the very idea behind a god that they are without the flaws of mortals?"

As her wits began to trickle back, Evelyn shook her head in dismay. "Those aren't my questions. Four, you say? And that isn't one either."

Ashes and grief. Four questions to ask, when she had a thousand that this ... lecture had sparked? How could you react to being told you were to be elevated to the status of god with just four questions?

The machine that was Evelyn's mind worked at full capacity to sift through the masses of questions that screamed for attention. She took a lot of deep breaths, to clear herself of irrational blurting. Irrational blurting was pointless and the realm of less intellectual individuals. It had no place here.

"Very well." she managed after a short time, her voice slightly unsteady, she was still somewhat unused to speaking to a god, of all things!

"Firstly... In what manner am I supposed to achieve apotheosis, without being struck down by Lehel in the process? Secondly, what additional resources, if any, are to be put at my disposal to achieve this? Thirdly, how will I identify the other 'chosen' and vice versa? Fourthly, may I bring others with me or must I rely on myself and these other chosen alone in both travel and the event itself?"

Evelyn paused, frowning, "And finally? I request undeniable proof that you are who you say you are, and that this quest is genuine. You could quite easily simply be a powerful mage attempting to shut me down. There are enough people with reason to."

Maffeo Zorzi was clueless, a very rare thing indeed. For the majority of his life he had known what he was doing every second of every day, yet now he was sitting on a bench in the middle of the densely populated city of Rasmorya trying to figure out what he needed to do. That wasn't going to be easy, considering he had taken a blind chance out of sheer boredom to listen to a presumably drunken "prophet" to search for the "chosen." Who, apparently, were five lucky individuals who were going to undergo Apotheosis and replace the Gods that had "turned their backs to the world." Naturally, the Prophet was not good with specifics and failed to enlighten Maffeo what Gods exactly were running away. All Maffeo knew was that he wanted to take the place of Alannis, regardless of whether s/he had turned their backs or not. Doctor Zorzi was not the type of fellow to be bothered by the fact that he hadn't been appointed by the other five Gods to take over after someone.

So without having any clue where to go, Maffeo set out into the world with nothing but some rudimentary supplies, a journal, and a map. The map, naturally, had been lost in a ferocious attack from a Bear. Which is to say, Maffeo killed a bear for food and mistakenly used the map to wipe the blood off his person, rendering the map unreadable and downright useless. Maffeo merely followed the roads from that point, thwarting several attempts to mug him, before winding up in the city of Rasymorya. Perhaps Fortuna had smiled upon him? Probably not. Maybe it was just dumb luck. Maybe Fortuna was one of the Gods who called in quits. Whatever the case, Maffeo was not interested in being the God of Chance.

Maffeo sat on a bench in the crowded streets of Rasmorya, his doctor's bag beside him. He sat there, twiddling his thumbs idly. How was he going to go about this? Good fortune had brought him to the city and probably saved him from getting murdered out on the roads, no way he could hold off bandits forever, by helping him get to Rasmorya...At least, he thought it did. There was no way fortune would smile upon him twice in one day, it was a silly and unlikely notion.

Then he saw it, some young fellow in workman's clothes stumbling through the crowd, towards the street next to the bench Maffeo was sitting on. His hand was pressed hard to his cheek. Maffeo could only see a good amount of blood welling from under the man's hand as he stumbled, likely trying to find a doctor. That idiot was going to get his wound infected that way. Who knows how many other people were going to catch something from him with his idiot-blood pouring all over the place. Maffeo hadn't come to this city to start his usual business here, but at least this was something to do in the mean time.

"Hey! Stop!" Maffeo yelled, standing up and snatching his bag from where it rested next to him.

A few people turned to look at the oddly dressed doctor, but not the bleeding workman. He was probably too focused on getting to a doctor. Maffeo sighed, pushing aside some people in order to reach the workman. Maffeo grabbed him by the shoulder, trying to pull him towards the bench that he had been sitting at a few moments before.

He spoke softly to the man. "You're hurt. This way, quickly."
"Huh?" The workman looked at Maffeo confused for a moment, "Oh, you're a doctor...Right."

The workman mumbled something but didn't resist Maffeo as he ferried him over to the bench. He sat the man down before digging through his bag, trying to find some cloth. Eventually, he found some. He put his bag down and moved the man's hand away from his face, revealing a fairly large laceration. Probably caused by a metal pole or something hitting him across the face.

He pressed the cloth to the laceration and ordered the man to hold it there while he got his supplies ready. The man obliged, keeping the cloth to his cheek to help stem the bleeding. That wasn't going to be enough, however. Maffeo would probably have to stitch the wound. The doctor retrieved a spool of a fish-line like wire, some alcohol, and a needle. After removing a good length of the wire he dabbed it in the alcohol along with a needle. He still needed to wait for the bleeding to slow down before starting, though.

"What the hell happened to you?" Maffeo asked, more annoyed at the man than whoever had caused him the injury.
"My boss got all mad at me for breaking a press, even though it wasn't my fault. You see..."

Several minutes passed as the man explained the delicacies of printing presses and how they functioned. It was quite boring and Maffeo found himself wondering if he should just use healing magic to close the wound. No, he tended to save that for more serious injuries. He liked direct treatment much better anyway. While the man was prattling on, Maffeo retrieved a little cotton ball and doused it in the alcohol.

"Gods, if you keep talking I'm going to strangle you 'till your blue in the face..." Maffeo mumbled, gesturing for the man to move the cloth off the wound.
"What did you say?"
"I said, Gods, that's terrible. Why would you ever work in such a place?"
"Yeah well, it pays the bills. At least, it used too. And now that stupid wench is going to make me pay her back, even though I have no money to do so!"

Maffeo merely mumbled in acknowledgement to the man's plight as he dabbed the wound with the cotton ball to clean it off. The man showed visible discomfort but he'd probably be worse off he hadn't happened across Maffeo. Once the wound was cleaned sufficiently, Maffeo began the stitching. Much to his dismay, the workman kept talking despite the severe pain.

"But it's alright, I heard that crone got what was coming to her."
"What do you mean?"
"One of my fellas took a peak in her office before I left, which would've been a huge mistake but..."
"But what?"
"You'll probably think I'm crazy."
"Go on, I'd like to hear."
"Heh, well, he took a look inside and books and papers were flying everywhere and going into different places. The clocks were spinning out of control and Greyheart was just staring at this space in her office like something was there. He said her mouth was so wide open it almost hit the floor! She didn't even see him open the door! I only wish I was there to see it, they way she treats her workers..."

Maffeo was silent and just continued his stitching. When he was done, he sent the man off on his way telling him to get them taken out by another doctor in a week or so. He threw the cloth away and returned to his seat on the bench...Perhaps this would be worth investigating.

[Rasmorya, Greyheart Printing Company, Office of the Chairwoman]

“Wave your hands and become a god? Oh, don’t be idiotic, Miss Greyheart! There’s little that offends us more than a drooling imbecile! If it were easy, every Tom, Dick and Hobthrush would be cluttering up all the halls of heaven! We’d have Gods of Lettuce, or Dark Places, or something similarly inane, loitering around our courts and getting in the way.” Alannis interjected, smiling a fanged grin even as Evelyn got a hold of herself – remarkably quickly, all things considered – and began to ask marginally intelligent – if somewhat obvious – questions.

“Ah, Madam Greyheart,” Alannis said cautioning, raising an admonishing finger. “We said four minutes by this clock and three questions only. Angling for more, while commendable, is also asking for trouble.”

Alannis’ fey half-smile evaporated like summer mist as Evelyn finished her questions and demanded proof of her divinity; her golden eyes blazed and her lips skinned back from her teeth. The wrathful golden mantle her Radiant Servants and court had seen before settled out of the air and around her head and shoulders, and she closed, predatorily, with Evelyn. “You have a way of showing respect to your god that would make most atheists green with envy,” she remarked, deceptively mildly, the sarcasm thick in her voice nonetheless. “If you truly wish to experience life as a mindless drone, no more capable of reason than a radish, well, that can be arranged.” Her eyes spilling light on Evelyn’s lined face – they were that close – she rested one bone-spired finger on her cheek, and then said, softly, as though in thought, “Still, a healthy inquiring mind is something to cultivate. It might keep some of the other Chosen from charging into an active volcano or something – especially since at least one of them doesn’t quite have a mind any more. I suspect she’ll gravitate to you in short order.” Alannis absently turned away from Evelyn, seeming to get herself under control; the wrathful aura died away to a barely-there flicker, a golden aurora subtly limning her head and shoulders.

“Now for your questions, since I gave my word. Imprimis, concerning your possible apotheosis, well, it’s never been done before – not on Braesorn, anyway. It isn’t the sort of knowledge deities or mortals deserve, in truth. Otherwise we would try to raise up those pleasing to us and cast down those abhorrent to our sight. But, nevertheless…” Alannis’ face grew sly and cunning as she continued.

“For all secrets and mysteries man and god was not meant to wot of, there is a keeper. Almost as old as we are, his heart beats to the tune of the worlds – if you wish to wax poetic. He is the Ygaderan, the Sharer of Dreams; he walks among all mortals sleeping. His duties mainly involve the ordering of the ephemeral spheres – mortals rarely see him waking, and mostly forget him dreaming. Those without our hands upon their shoulders, anyway. We called him forth from his realm to serve as a guide for you; even the gods are bound by covenants. There is a place on this world hidden from all our sights, I have learned, where I believe such knowledge can be found, and the Ygaderan is the only one who knows its location.”

Alannis paused, and then continued. “You’ve seen him, Madam Greyheart, in those visions you so strenuously denied. Secundus, it follows that so have the other Chosen; the Ygaderan is the lock, and you mortals – or in one case, an almost-mortal, a construct - our key.” An odd look flashed over Alannis’ face – perhaps pain? – before her features firmed once more. “You will know them by their knowledge of him.” She paused, as if considering something, blazing eyes fixed on the distance. “Decima may have twisted the strands of your Fates together, so you are drawn to one another, but I make no promises for Fate.” Alannis added something decidedly uncomplimentary sotto voce.

“Tierce, if you wish to bring along servitors and minions, then that is no concern of ours. The Chosen must survive to the point of apotheosis; how that is achieved is up to you. Whether by a small band of you moving quietly across Braesorn or protected by an army that blackens the sky, is irrelevant to the greater goal.” Alannis paused, tapping spires of bone together with an unnerving clack.

“In any case, Lehel knows not of you, not yet, in any case. Thus, your first aegis is secrecy, although I fully expect that to last only a short while. The others are not gods in name only, after all. Your second aegis is a static one, and something of a double-edged sword. Scattered across this world are sites considered holy to us; temples, shrines, - for myself, great libraries and places of learning, for example – and in those sacred to the five faithful, you are safe against a smiting from on high.” Alannis looked at her speculatively.

“I would suggest you get yourself blessed by the most powerful priest of the faithful gods you can find. Such things have power, even to divinities. We shall see how you proceed, and what obstacles are thrown in front of you; it would be unwise to draw attention you might otherwise have avoided by plating you in burnished sunlight or something similar. Fear not, for I am watchful.” A heartbeat’s pause, and Alannis rooted among Evelyn’s desk, hunting restlessly through the mess.

“Aha!” Clasped, oddly delicately, in her claws – slender spires of rending bone – was one of Evelyn’s paperweights, the one that had previously held down the stack of quarterly maintenance reports.

“I’m appropriating your paperweight for use as a temporary artefact, Madam Greyheart. You don’t mind.” It wasn’t even a question; Alannis was already working, shaping arcane sigils onto the mundane glass. Golden motes twinkled inside and around it when she was done; in a single, fluid movement, the god rose, turned and cast it lazily into the centre of the room; a brilliant flash, and a globe of images appeared there, places and people far distant from Muiren, a flicker of the Eyrie at the top of the Camera Obscura, other, stranger things.

“Sarein vas Naviri,” the god commanded; the pictures whirled and writhed – hell on mortal and immortal eyes – and firmed into the Rasmorya docks, where brightly organic Poison Kingdoms ships lay at anchor – changing colour as they communicated. A lithe slip of a young woman was just emerging at the far end of the quay, dressed in daring (at best) emerald silks yet who seemed to terrify two scale-armoured guards who were protecting the flotilla from the rest of Rasmorya. The images hung, for a moment, in the air, bright and real and very vivid, before fading; Evelyn’s paperweight fell to the floor and disintegrated into sparkling dust even as, like the pictures, the god herself began to vanish into the aether.

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[Rasmorya, Docks, Quay Fourteen, KS Alacrai]

Sarein swayed, and took hold of the ship's railing to prevent herself from tumbling head-first into the briny deep. Beneath her grasp, she could feel the vessel trembling slightly, the faint thrum of magic through its veins as the Shipmage talked to and guided it.

Though they were at port, it was an unfamiliar one, and the ship doubtless required the calming touch of its mage to keep them there; a Poison Kingdoms ship without its mage always made its way back home, sooner or later.

"You are quite well, my lady?" Sarein jumped; she'd neither heard nor sensed anyone approach, but it was only the Shipmage, looking tired and ill himself, his tattoos looking dull and lifeless, moving listlessly.

"Yes, yes, quite fine." She was a Claw - they were always prepared for anything. A split-second evaluation of the situation, even through the fog of vision which was only now draining from her brain, and she added, "I have been recieving instructions by farcaster." A total lie, of course, but one that would explain away any percieved weakness and focus the Shipmage's mind on what those 'instructions' might be. "How is the Alacrai?"

The Shipmage ran his hand fondly along the rail - the ship shivered slightly and reddish pigments bloomed under his touch before fading away - and looked up at the furled leaf-sails. "The winds are strange and the waters taste unfamiliar." A grimace flashed across his face. "This port is horrifically dirty, but we are managing. I'm learning all I can, along with the other Shipmages, so we can better instruct our guildmates back home if His Grace's venture is successful."

Sarein nodded to the wharf and the distinctive jewel-scale armour of two Kingdom guards at the end of it. On either side, tied up to other jetties and quays were more trading vessels from their flotilla, and beyond those the chunky, leaden ships of the country they'd come to that rode dully at anchor, without any of the bright grace and pigmented flashes of communication that there were between the trading flotilla. So very alien.

"Tell me about this place."

The Shipmage looked surprised, laquered nails flashing to his mouth to cover the lapse. "My lady, surely-"

"Yes, yes, I was given a briefing. However, there is a difference between a briefing and experience. I highly doubt you were briefed, but you have experience. Tell me about this place. And where is the Ambassador?"

"Lord vas Rini has gone ashore with his senior staff and a brace of guards. He is attempting to deal with trade negotiations, after all. It wouldn't be polite or honourable to make them come to us in their own city, would it?" It was an honest - albeit basic - question, of the sort Shipmages were well known for.

Sarein slipped a smile, a split-second flash across her face. Shipmages often became so due to an inability to deal with the social intricacies and the waters of politics that pervaded mainstream Kingdoms society and academia, appreciating, as with most of the military personnel, its strict hierarchy and little room for the ambiguity that most natives thrived on. Similarly, things could be a bit more relaxed around them and their guild.

"Quite right, Shipmage." She squinted up at the sun. "What're you doing in the sun? It'll be too hot to move, soon."

The sorcerer smiled. It was reassuring to see that even the Claws could make mistakes. "The sun's nowhere near as fierce and it's not anything like as humid as it is back home. We don't need to break at high noon, see. I'm taking soundings of the flotilla, checking our condition."

Sarein frowned - and not just at her own lapse. "Where's the Fleet Captain? Isn't this her sort of job, taking the readings, not yours? With all due respect, Shipmage."

"No offence taken, ma'am," the Shipmage replied, smiling. The Claws weren't so bad after all, despite all the horror stories. "Efcap's holed up in her offices, said she wasn't to be disturbed unless a ship was sinking or something of that ilk. Asked me to do this instead." He paused a beat. "There's a Fourfold Serpent outside her doors, so on balance I'd suggest she was serious about that. If...if it's an emergency, my lady, I could dispel it for you..."

Sarein waved an idle hand, thinking about the sorcerous relative of the hydra which now apparently stood before the efcap's quarters. "My thanks for your generous offer, but dispulsion would be the least of my concerns. It wasn't an urgent matter."

Well. Not in the usual sense, anyway. They'd been dancing around one another for weeks, and Sarein had rather hoped that making port would release certain tensions on the efcap's part. Apparently it'd done the opposite, worse luck. Or rather, a planning oversight, since Sarein did her level best to engineer events to her liking rather than trusting to luck. It was what had made her a good Claw, really. She considered - briefly - dispelling the Serpent and dragging the efcap out, and quickly discarded the idea, then thought about leaving a note pinned to the door with a knife for emphasis. That, too, was dismissed as wishful, soppy thinking in short order.

"Uh...my lady?" The Shipmage looked uncomfortable, shifting from one foot to another, wondering quite why Sarein was still stood, still as a statue, at the railings.

Sarein nodded to the crowding rooftops of the city that sprawled out before them. "Your impressions of this place, if you'd be so kind?"

The mage sighed and felt at-ease enough with the Claw to relax slightly on the railing. "It's always too cold and the people here wear far too much, even when they don't need to. I don't tend to spend too much time on shore, to be honest - and we're usually not here either."

Sarein recalled that this particular sorcerer had been recruited from one of the handful of private ships that actually did the long run between Coronne and Muiren. Even so, his comment didn't make much sense.

He must have seen her confusion, because he qualified: "This place is actually two cities that have grown into one, and they're very different. We normally have to dock in Nasenorya, over the river. They don't seem to like having our ships in their shiny city here. O'course, now we're official..." his voice trailed off, no doubt seeking assurance that Bandahar had indeed given the project the go-ahead.

“His Grace has given his full support, Shipmage,” Sarein said reassuringly. “And we do have two galleons from the Fifth Fleet as escort; proof enough of Bandahar’s approval, I think.” A total lie, of course, since the Fifth’s base of operations were the trade routes around Coronne and the Admiral of the fleet in any case was a Naviri, but it seemed to mollify the Shipmage, at any rate.

“Oh, good,” he said, much relieved. Sarein decided to get the conversation back on track.

“Still, I expect it will be much the same as any other city. There will doubtless be palaces and mansions and restaurants, just as there will be tenements and slums and brothels.”

The Shipmage shrugged, muscles moving beneath oiled and tattooed skin. His were of breaking waves, and ships, and monsters and legends from the deeps, all shifting and changing.

“Begging your indulgence, m’lady, but Rasmorya is more the first one than the second. They save that sort of thing for Nasenorya, where the crime lords rule.”

Sarein blinked. “Crime lords?” The Shipmage winced and tried to explain the concept; in the Kingdoms, anyone who was sufficiently savvy to rise to any great stature in the underworld as an independent was generally either Dealt With or welcomed into the fold. The extreme measures the existing nobles used against such rising stars ensured only the best ever actually made it. Sarein tried to understand, and eventually shelved it as ‘confusing foreign ways’, a box that was growing larger and larger with each passing minute that she observed Rasmorya, briefing or no briefing.

“Thank you, Shipmage, I believe I understand,” she said eventually, adding another little lie to the balance. It didn’t matter; her blazing smile took care of any doubts.

The man shifted uncomfortably, and it couldn’t have been the lazy swell of the waves. Sarein cocked an eyebrow, he shivered.

“Begging your pardon, my lady, but…why are you really here? If it’s smuggling you’re concerned about-”

“His Majesty the King wishes to foster improved – or, rather, any – relations with Muiren, given the apparent mutual markets between our nations,” she replied smoothly, eyes not leaving the city. “It will cut down on smugglers and swell the treasury, I’m told. My purpose here is to ensure vas Rini doesn’t sign away the Elfin Marches for a trinket, to keep Kingdoms interests to the fore. Beyond that, my reasons are my own, but necessary for the security of the Poison Kingdoms and our Silver Throne. Good day, Shipmage.”

Lithe and outwardly confident, her head still ringing to the Ygaderan’s call, Sarein vas Naviri flowed down the gangplank and the quay, out past the frightened guards and into the teeming city of Rasmorya.

Well. That had certainly been an experience.

As Alannis disappeared, Evelyn sank down into her seat heavily. She stared at the chaos that her office now formed in silence for several long moments, her fingers steepled and her elbows upon her desk. If she had previously doubted Alannis' identity, then those doubts had faded. She wasn't sure at what point they had faded, but perhaps it had had something to do with a feeling of impending wrath when the woman had placed her finger on her cheek.

Ashes and fire! An hour ago the most pressing matter on her mind had been filing for a few gold coins, now she was considering apotheosis?

Not that she seemed to have much choice in the matter.

A hesitant knock came upon the door, as one of the clerks poked their head inside. "Ah, is everything alright, Ms Greyheart..?" she inquired tentatively.

Evelyn looked up from her contemplation, her face remarkably straight considering the circumstances. "Yes. Merely a minor upset. I may require some form of ... cleanup, however. But do not send anyone immediately. I require a moment."

The clerk nodded hastily, and retreated outside again.

So, travelling, was she? It had been a while since she had done that. Really, now that she had begun to think about it, it should be quite straight-forward. She merely had to locate these other chosen, and then figure out where she was going.

Or did she already know that? She recalled something from the dream... the vision, regarding a city. An ancient one, of some sort. Well, that would be a good start anyway. She would need a cartographer -- Evelyn rose at this point to take a piece of chalk to a blackboard thick with objectives and profit tables. With one broad sweep of an eraser, it was cleared, and she began making notes.

A cartographer, or experienced traveller of some sort. Guards, of course, in case of bandits -- she'd have to investigate the more reputable mercenary groups in the area. Horses, perhaps a carriage - no, a carriage would be too obvious. People tended to rob carriages.

Good grief. What was she going to do about the company?

Pausing in her planning, Evelyn folded her arms and frowned. She was, unusually for her, rather taken up in the moment. Abandon everything and go off to become a god? Why not! It seemed like an expedient thing to do. Particularly after being told in no uncertain terms that she was rather expected to. By the gods. She really had acknowledged them before, just not in any tangible fashion. It would be foolish to deny the existence of gods when science had no explanation for things such as magic, avatars and the like. Evelyn just hadn't really thought to bother any of them with silly things like prayers.

Grief. Now she was making excuses to a deity that wasn't even here any more.

Sighing, Evelyn placed her chalk down. Jackson the cat yawned and stretched, pointedly unfettered by this entire affair. Giving him a glare, she walked to her desk and began to clear up the horrific mess that Alannis had created. Taking note of Alannis' words regarding Lehel's influence over particularly ordered places, she did not go to the effort of returning it to its prior state of filing, only to make it at least somewhat presentable. When she was done, the office still looked far worse for wears than it had done, but it was a vast improvement regardless. Several hours of long and hard thought had passed, but she had finally reached a decision.

Walking to the door, Evelyn opened it and looked out. She glanced to her secretary, lifting a hand. "Fetch me Mrs Iriant, please." she instructed.

Alotta Iriant was Evelyn's head clerk, her immediate subordinate within the company. Practical and possessing a strong sense of business, Alotta's only flaw was that she was significantly too nice. Evelyn had considered replacing her more than once after she had protested cost cutting measures made at the cost of workers or wages, but her capabilities were too great to waste.

When the woman arrived, Evelyn was waiting for her at her desk. If she noticed the rearrangement of the room, she did not comment, looking decidedly nervous.

Steepling her fingers, Ms Greyheart began to speak. "I am going on leave for a time, Mrs Iriant. An urgent matter has come up that requires my full attention. As a result, I am unable to continue managing the company for the foreseeable future." With a slow, deliberate movement, Evelyn pushed a piece of paper across to Alotta. "With your signature, this document will, effective immediately, grant you ownership of the company for a year's time. Should I have not returned by then, you will be released from the contract and the company will become yours wholly."

Alotta stared at the older woman in shock. "Wh- Ms Greyheart, are you certain? This - your company, your family's life achievement..?"

"Amounts, in sum, to very little at all." Evelyn said simply, her brow lowering. "Call it an epiphany, if you will, but there is a matter which I must attend to. The company will benefit from a gentler hand, Mrs Iriant, and that hand is not my own."

Rising, she walked to the window and gazed out upon the city. "You have much experience within the company. I do not doubt your capability. You will find everything you need in this office - forgive the disorganised state. I had an excitable visitor." Evelyn reached down and picked up her Stick, hand tightening around its tip.

"That will be all, Mrs Iriant. Good day. We may speak again, or we may not."

Turning for the door, Evelyn's Stick clacked as she walked. She paused as she reached it, however, and turned. "Oh, and I believe there is a man somewhere in the city of the surname Cauton. He is to be offered employment. Make sure that he doesn't break anything, however. Goodbye, Mrs Iriant."

And with that, Jackson trailing after her, Evelyn Greyheart left her office for the last time.

"The game is afoot, Jackson." she murmured as she walked out into the street, stick clacking on the cobbles. "And our first step is to identify the players."

"Meow." Jackson agreed.

Maffeo watched Dannil into the crowd and remained in his seat. Truly, it was incredibly coincidental that he worked for someone who may or may not have been chosen. What he described did not really sound like a theological revelation, but what else did he have to go on? There was a flaw for him, always so trusting and so willing to believe just about anything anyone threw at him. Whether or not old age or his sheer gullibleness would be the death of him would remain to be seen, but at this rate, it's just about neck and neck.

But he'd worry about that later. What was he going to do now? He had a lead, yes, but he highly doubted it would be wise to march into a printing factory and demand to know whether or not the current owner had been talking to Gods up in her office. From what he had heard, she was in her office inside the factory. She would have to leave eventually, wouldn't she? Especially if she had just been talking to Gods about a quest she had to embark on. And given the assorted peasantry that filled the streets at the moment, a factory-owner would scarcely be hard to spot here. Yes, he would wait, simply because a direct approach would make him look like a lunatic. Then again, he was on the vaguest quest ever embarked on in the history of man-kind. Perhaps he was already a lunatic for taking the ravings of a half-drunk mad Prophet that wandered into his village to heart.

Or maybe he was just bored. At least this quest, even if it was just a bunch of horse-droppings, would give him something to do.

So he sat on that bench and waited, it was painful, waiting that long. He wanted to go and do something else, perhaps buy one of those flintlock pistols he had heard so much about. However, he was convinced that the second he wandered off Greyheart would depart and he would lose his lead before it even began. It had been about noon when he had treated Dannil and by the time he spotted Greyheart it was at least four 'o clock. He wasn't exactly sure, considering he had mistakenly left his watch back in his home. Greyheart was easily distinguishable from the rabble in the streets, as he had predicted. She was carrying a cane...At least, it looked like a cane. Probably the one she had smacked Dannil with and caused the laceration across his face. Further, a cat was following her.

Okay, he found her. Now what? Approach her? Tell her he wanted to kill the God of Knowledge and take his place? Fat chance. Maybe whatever God had spoken to her had revealed the location of Serna and she would head straight there. His best bet was to tail her, perhaps pose as another passenger on whatever mode of transportation she chose to get her to Serna...Or...Wherever. She looked wealthy, there was no way she was going this journey alone. She would hire mercenaries and escorts. Perhaps he could offer his services...Well, not now, of course. She'd know something was up if a doctor suddenly ran up to her and said "Hi, I hear you're taking a trip and could use some help..." No. No way he was doing that. He'd tail her.

Maffeo got up from his bench and began to follow Greyheart, keeping enough distance away that he could see her but she would not immediately notice him. He made sure a good number of citizens were in front of him, not enough that he would lose sight of Greyheart, of course. He stuck out like a sore thumb, he was probably the only doctor in this part of the city. Still, he would not let that daunt him. Unless she was a paranoid sociopath, she would probably just assume he was heading in the same direction as her as opposed to immediately assuming he was stalking her...If she noticed him at all, that is.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

[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.

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...