Melio's Story

92nd Day

Drakyvaria

Primarch’s Palace

“Rielc, begin.”

Consider this our attempt to nullify any previous grievances between our two cities. It is an attempt to foster more trading and build more cordial relations between our two cities. It is our wish that both of our cities may prosper atop these sands. Which is why I ask that you allow myself…

The old advisor nearly fell out of his seat as he heard the Primarch’s words.

“Lord Primarch! You cannot possibly be considering this. When did you conceive this notion?” The advisor stared at his lord in complete shock.

“I…had some time to think. It’s one of the few things Primarchs have never done, seeing as how we’re always too busy fighting off an enemy outside or within.”

“But Lord Primarch…it is all for the good of Drakyvaria,” the advisor stated in a pleading tone.

“Yes, a thinking Primarch is for the good of Drakyvaria, not one that rushes blindly forward.”

At that, the advisor acknowledged the Primarch with a nod. Perhaps Aug’Feyleth was ruling longer than the others because he had a brain.

“Do tell, Lord Primarch. You will be spurning Duatos’s...”

At the mention of Duatos, the Primarch shook his head. “The Ka’etruscans…”

The halls were devoid of servants.

He chose to say no more, he was aware that there might be a spy in his midst, concealed behind several drapes in the hall. There always was.

The Primarch merely shook his head.

“I would very much prefer a bit of Khalthi syrup, Rielc.”

The advisor stared at his Primarch.

Aug’Feyleth shifted his eyebrows. The advisor understood.

“Right, yes. I will have the servants upon that task quickly,” and Rielc left immediately, leaving the transcript scroll unfinished upon the Primarch’s desk.

As Rielc left, so too did the spy slip away, the Primarch narrowed his eyes.

---

93rd Day

House Ka’etruscan

“And he said nothing more?”

“Nothing more, my liege…”

Duatos Ka’etruscan shifted his sharp gaze away from his underling as he repetitively rotated two metal spheres in the palm of his hand. It was a therapy used to improve manual dexterity and strength. His claws were long and needed a bit of a trim.

He was perhaps in his eighties for a Drak, according to the timekeepers. He bore a scar that carved through his right eye and ran down the right side of his face, ending just below his mouth. The skin there was rougher than most other places, as new and harder scales had formed on the edges of the wound. His skin was a light brown. His crest was bony and covered in rough scales. Four fangs protruded from his lower jaw, two on each side of his face, evenly spaced apart.

He was in his dark grey robes, tied at the waist by a black sash. He had thick, scaly appendages that were analogous to human hair, running from the back of his crest and ending just below his broad shoulders.

Duatos’s quarter was secluded near the rear of the Ka’etruscan manor. It was the patriarch’s place of work and contemplation.

The spy kept his head down as he kneeled on one knee. The Ka’etruscan patriarch paced around slowly, he looked to his palm and felt like crushing the orbs, but that would yield nothing useful for him. He exhaled from his nostrils and took a seat behind his desk, placing the spheres back within the box they came from.

He opened one of the volumes that had been piled upon his desk, “Any word from Melio?”

“Not yet my lord.”

“Dismissed.”

The minion replied by stooping first and then slinking away into the dark recesses of the hall, leaving the lord to his thoughts.

He leafed through the pages of this volume with interest. It was an old work, composed perhaps ages ago by Drakyvarian elders long passed.

The tome was filled with ancient runic markings, not seen by any of the common folk, and very rarely in the manors of the noble houses. Tomes such as these were left among the timekeepers who kept and transcribed the records for future generations.

However, the patriarch managed to comb through the old family records. And he was particularly consumed by this new work. Knowledge was power for him. It spoke of old prophecies, rituals, and even magic. To the average person, such a volume had no value or importance other than perhaps entertainment.

Magic was believed by many to be a long lost art. He knew otherwise.

He looked to his hand, which by now began to glow in a dark blue aura. The waves of light emanated from his hand which he chose as the fount for the power.

But just as he was beginning to draw on a larger fraction of his potential, a quick wit voice danced across the chamber from him.

His energy abruptly faded as he looked up to see a familiar face, a Drakyvarian in dark grey, scaly skin. He had an eye patch across one of his eyes, strapped to one of the two short horns protruding from his crest, arching backward.

“Melio! Do you not knock?”

“Apologies, lord,” the younger Drak smiled slyly, his forked tongue hanging loosely, as he bowed before his lord.

“Where have you been?”

“I found one.”

“One? When?”

“Some time ago.”

The patriarch gazed at him through narrow eyes, “Where is he now?”

“Fulfilling the task,” Melio replied curtly.

Duatos smiled.

---

Protectorate City

It had been three days since the original attack, and repairs were pretty slow.

Rather than waste the efforts of the Guard to hunt down the attackers, the council decided to follow a rather original idea. And it went as followed.



Since this was the first time bandits had ever attacked the city directly, this would be the first time the City would call upon willing travelers and adventurers to hunt down bandits in this manner. The Council members that devised this idea, Cidny and Homar, were in a word, clever. They knew greed was a powerful motivator especially in Protectorate City. The idea would only work, however, if greed overpowered fear. Because if there was one thing everyone knew, the perpetrators were well-armed.

Would it have been worth it to hunt down some bandits?

Three hundred bezants was a good enough amount to get fat on. They were hoping that those who read the postings, which were immediately distributed among the people and pasted onto the walls, would focus on the rewards rather than the other less appealing portions.

Normally, the Council would have left this matter in the hands of the rangers.

However, two more rangers had been found dead in the outskirts of Protectorate City. Each decapitated, their bodies were barely recognizable with the sand covering them.

A wandering merchant caravan stumbled upon the pair of bodies, which were mutilated, whether it was before or after they were killed remained to be seen.

They were only recognized by the vagrant style of dress, their possession of a large assortment of weapons from pistols to sabers to axes, and personal badges that were inspired by the one that adorned Jolo Grossman’s hat.

It was interesting to note that the bandits were bold enough to attack the Rangers, who were possibly the best fighters in the City. They may have lacked formal training, but their experience made up for that. Seros and Jolo, the founders of the group, would often take new recruits and throw them into the middle of a group of bandits. If they lived, then they had some talent. If they didn't, well, it was pretty obvious they weren't going to be rangers. Beyond that, these people had no families, and were completely and utterly devoted to the cause of justice, a lofty motivation. They fought as though they were the last man standing, and if they were going down, they would take as many of their foes down with them.

It was all the more surprising when no other bodies were found beside the two dead lawmen.

The bodies were buried on orders of the Council. Secretly, the Council was actually pleased that the bandits were targeting the wandering lawmen. Their little conflict would keep them busy while they managed their own business without interference from Jolo and his people.

As to the location of the head, he was nowhere to be found, gone off in a wild goose chase as rumor had it.

Perhaps he was already dead. Killed by who?

The Council did not care.

They had to prepare for the horde of travelers arriving at the Dome. The man's fate was his own.

93rd Day

House Ka’etruscan

“Can you guarantee for certain that he will succeed?”

The gray skinned Drak drifted to the other side of the room, over the rug that covered the floor of his liege’s personal quarters. He sifted through the books that lined the shelf, feigning interest, but ultimately combing his inner thoughts.

He took in a tentative breath before answering to his lord, “No.”

Melio continued, “As much as I would like to trust the abilities of a Protectorate, I cannot…in good conscience,” he placed the book back on the shelf.

The Drakyvarian noble would not hound Melio for this, and the servant knew as much because they were already a step ahead. They had prepared in the event that their assassin failed to achieve all the objectives.

Duatos had long trusted the counsel of Melio, who was a seasoned fighter, and a sharpened mind. Picked off the streets, the petty pick pocket was trained to be a servant at first, but the young Drak possessed a mind that was fed by books, an insatiable appetite to learn. He was cunning and clever, his lord knew that much. Any male servant of the house was trained diligently and sharply, and Melio seemed to be prodigious, so much so that he became a first and foremost lieutenant of Duatos.

To some degree, the patriarch regarded his retainer as higher than his own pureborn daughter, whom he would have fed to the lower houses through a hand in marriage to secure his position had the girl not raise herself to be more of the males. She had to fend for herself after her mother left Duatos and stayed with the other half of the family. Now, Duatos’s daughter was living somewhere out in the great Ba’Gatha with an all-female cadre of deadly fighters as her personal guards and loyal followers. Duatos was only pleased by this, as it rid him of having to deal with her marital affairs, but occasionally she would return to the city and perhaps pay her respects. Their relationship was never the best, though he doted upon her in his earlier years, those were soon swept away. Duatos was more focused on training his three sons, two from his first marriage, with his second marriage bearing him his third son and the girl. To him, they were all to be his lieutenants and generals of the lords below him.

“The Solarians can be handled. As for the lawman, he will be a tougher sand viper to deal with.”

“He certainly is capable isn’t he?” Duatos replied, as he leafed through another page in the volume.

“Yes my liege, it is surprising for a human.”

Duatos chuckled slyly, “Enforcing law among the wastes…a noble effort, but a considerable waste of time for a man of his caliber, there’s nothing but filthy dregs out there.”

Duatos tented his fingers before him, as the flame from the nearby candle flickered and glowed in front of him.

“The Lyk fellow,” Duatos said, as he stared at Melio, “He is an astute one, and I fear that he may have already sent word to someone pertaining…”

The lizard’s green eyes went slack as he thought for a moment, “I fear for the same thing lord, my ears have told me that he sent out a courier on the seventy fifth.”

“Did he?” the patriarch anxiously shifted in his seat, his gaze fell upon his servant.

“Indeed lord. Though we caught him, we were remiss, and the letters had fallen into another hand. Presumably an ally of Lyk,” Melio paused.

The patriarch closed his eyes and his nostrils exhaled a lengthy breath, laden with frustration.

“I hope there is more to this,” the patriarch opened his eyes, turning his visage to his subordinate.

“Yes lord, my agents are tailing him through the desert as we speak. He is traveling with two others, an avian and another human from our last reports.”

“What of them?”

“I would not presume them to be the Solarian’s allies, for they seem to be just messengers themselves,” the young Drak held his claws behind him, “However, we believe…that the avian and the girl are the messenger’s bodyguards.”

“We will either kill them all, or separate the messenger, kill him and take the letter.”

Duatos smiled as he saw Melio clench his fist near the end of his words.

“I’ve taught you well,” the old lord returned to his book once more, “See to it that the letter does not reach its intended destination.”

Melio bowed to his lord for the compliment.

“And how fares your dealings with the Protectorates, lord?”

Duatos skipped through some pages in the ragged tome, “They are a crafty and cunning kind, not to be underestimated, but ultimately human. Lord Ko’thnim has made no gains in his attempt to wrestle the mesas from them. Perhaps I should watch and wait before doing anything.”

“A wise call, lord,” Melio said.

Duatos waved his hand, Melio understood the gesture, and replied with a retreating bow that signified his leave.

---

“What makes a city? I ask those of you, sons of Ip’Kesh, born of noble blood?” Duatos asked his three colleagues gathered around him at a table.

They were playing a game called Svolda. It was a game for four players, involving a fictitious map somewhat resembling the desert in which they dwelled, and multiple game pieces. The map was divided into multiple little territories, and the objective of the game was conquest. The game began with one person, chosen randomly by drawing lots. That person was to ask a question to his three compatriots on the subject of war, politics, or conquest. The rest were given only one opportunity to correctly answer the questioner, or master as he was called. They were to answer in rotation, which was clock-wise most of the time. Should none of his compatriots correctly guess the answer to his inquiry, he was allowed to take a territory, and ask another question to repeat the cycle once more. The first person to correctly answer would be the new master, and he would begin his cycle of conquest. The only inherent flaw of the game were the subjective answers, but that was never a matter that worried Duatos or his fellow lords, for this was a game that they devised by themselves, for themselves. None of the lords had ever tried to rig the game in their favor, for they all recognized that it was a pointless game. It was less about the map, and more about the thinking.

“People,” answered Niaos’Ko’thnim, Duatos shook his head.

Lord Niaos’Ko’thnim was broad shouldered, broader than most. His skin was a dark orange, rocky like the desert sands. His dress was among the most traditional, ripped cloth swaddling him incompletely, with a sash at the waist to complete his garb. All his fingers were ringed off with ornamental Xth metal. He stood nearly a head taller than the other lords present.

“An army,” answered Shri’Othrek, Duatos shook his head.

Shri’Othrek, the second oldest member of their little brotherhood was a distinguished general during the first and second wars with the Protectorates. And when the last Emperor, Nusdei’Feyleth, was assassinated, all the other lords fell back to the capital and attempted to claim the throne. Shri, however, remained at the front, caring less about their political struggles; he was more captivated by martial glory. He provided the majority of the Drakyvarian war effort in the closing stages of the war, and subsequently he lost nearly the entire family treasury in the blundering siege of Protectorate City. Nevertheless, the mines in his family’s territory managed to recuperate the losses after war’s end.

“A ruler,” answered Prae’Ylneac, Duatos shook his head.

Prae’Ylneac was the oldest of the group, older than the next oldest member, Shri’Othrek, by as much as ten years, but one could only assume. Time was a fickle thing to measure. Ylneac was slightly stooping as a result of his old age. He had some white specs that covered the rim of his chin. His eyes were greyed and murky, but that never affected his vision. His hands were fixed in cloth, to cover scars that he incurred years ago.

He let slip his tongue, “Water,” before he moved a mounted warrior piece into an empty territory.

The others scratched their chins and contemplated his answer.

95th Night

Protectorate City

Portia made her way through the shadows where few lamps dare lit their light. She glanced over her shoulder every couple of steps to ensure that nobody trailed her. Even the beggar across the street, sitting lazily against the wall of a shack, could have been an eavesdropper or a spy. Her pace was quick and darting.

The slums of the city witnessed a peace of silence that was intermittently disturbed by the shuffling of feet and murmuring voices. Even in the dark and dankest parts of the city, one could still find a restaurant or tavern open late into the middle of the night. The city was always full of perfect places for clandestine meetings.

---

At the edge of a darkened tavern, where the candles’ radius of light could not reach, sat two people of rather furtive dispositions. They were seated in a booth near the exterior of the tavern. There was no wall between them and the outside world. The conversations of the establishment were dimmed like the candles.

Both of them had wide brimmed hats meant to cover their eyes from onlookers, but not from themselves.

One was a Drak. One of his emerald eyes was covered by a patch that was strapped to an opposing horn on his crest. His forked tongue hung loosely out of his mouth that was lined with fangs, but when he spoke, it retreated into the recesses of his jaw. His tail was curled and hidden from plain view. A pair of tonfas were strapped to his back with the handles shadowing his shoulders.

His hiss was near indistinguishable when he spoke in the tongue of man.

“So the letter has reached its destination.”

“It has. It was meant to be delivered to a Mox Ierba.”

The other was a female. Human. She sat directly across from him with most of her face was concealed in shadow. Her hair was dark and smooth, and her face, sultry. Her skin was fair, despite having seen much of the desert. Her lashes danced each time she blinked. Her eyes seemed almost like gold in the night, but that was merely the flicker of the flame in the corner of her eye. Her lips, though dry and unadorned, were luscious. They moved about like a predator in the desert, with guile and beauty all the same.

She was wrapped within a dark coat, as she sat with one leg crossed over the other at the knee. She wore knee-high boots that were as dark as her coat. She sat in a relaxed and reclined manner against the wall. Her hands were gloved, one of them reached for the bowl sitting in front of her on the table.

Her coat had hidden a kopis, which ran the length of her hip to where the coat ended and just a bit more for others to see the tip of the blade itself. Fortunately for them, she had washed the blade clean of the blood that it had rendered in the little skirmish before she entered the city. People in Protectorate City were quite the paranoid sort, any sight of blood meant trouble.

The gray scaled Drak watched the woman for a brief moment before he glanced to the outside streets. A bowl sat before him like the woman. In his bowl was a liquid, a dark and rich red. He reached into the small pool with a single leathery claw, and began to swirl it about his finger. Then he retracted the claw and surrounded the bowl with the rest of his hand.

He took a sip.

“Mox Ierba? I’ve never heard of that name before.”

It was very characteristic of Michael Lyk to have delivered the letter to some unknown. He had made the trail quite hard to follow. Melio considered him a worthy adversary, especially to have given them pause this far. He pitied the man. It was only inevitable that he would fall to the blade of an assassin, one that would be returning with news of the Solarian’s death quite soon. The others were mere accomplices that had to be dispatched.

Lyk was a threat, him and Moyro.

“He’s a blacksmith. Several bandits captured him days ago during the attack, perhaps they were among your cadre.”

The attack, the 90th day was still fresh on many of the citizens’ minds. Melio had arrived only a day ago, but he was immediately caught up on the recent ‘invasion,’ as some fervent and frenzied people claimed. He chuckled.

“How…coincidental…”

Portia scoffed, she looked around, “We still have a chance though.”

“What chance is there?” he inquired.

Melio had not arranged for an extended stay in Protectorate City, this turn of events, however, forced his hand. He still had an assassin to meet the next day before he would return to his lord. It seemed the return trip would have to be postponed, but he was adaptable. He would have to hear the woman’s news, as he was sure that events changed rather quickly in the desert, but the news itself was slow in reaching ears.

“The letter speaks of a treasure located in Spire Canyon.”

The mention of treasure immediately pulled Melio’s eyes directly in line with that of the woman’s, “Oh?”

“Yes,” she hinted with nonchalance, “It was from Lyk, no doubt about it. Signed and sealed from him.”

“Where in Spire Canyon?”

Portia spoke, “The letter says it is buried along the rock wall, and Jolo intends to set out with them tomorrow.”

“Indeed? Jolo?” Melio paused, he steepled his fingers before him.

The ranger was not dead yet. He was aware that his assassin had not quite finished his job yet, but perhaps this was a chance to kill two skarras with one stone or so the Vaul saying went. He knew the letter was of greater importance, but the pieces seemed to be falling into place. He could only smile.

The initiative was in his hands, he gathered that he needed to pursue it lest it escape his claws. He knew his lord would be infuriated should that happen. Lord Ka’etruscan had a temper that could be cast upon an unlucky soul.

“By which route will they go?”

“Perhaps by land, but expediency demands they go by air,” Portia paused, “They know someone is coming after them, and they’ve been advised to make haste.”

“Whichever method they take, my agents will find them, and they will overtake them,” Melio placed the bowl down on the table.

“Like today?” her lips curved into a sly smile.

Melio gave a soft chuckle, he was aware of the little mishap that delayed him and his lord’s plans. Had the bandits killed the couriers, they would have escaped with the letter and its contents. It was by fortune that Jolo and his band found the Cron Suil and his companion. Had they been seconds later, they would have only found a pair of bodies covered in sand and blood.

Melio returned to the ranger, “You had some fun out there did you not? But no, not like today. Tomorrow, fortune swings our way.”

“What is your plan then?”

Melio looked deeply into the remaining pool of tea in his bowl before he glanced at Portia.

“We let them find the treasure,” he paused, “And then we swoop in and kill all of them. Simple.”

“It sounds easy doesn’t it? But they have some capable fighters among them. Aside from Jolo himself, the Cron Suil and his companion survived your minions.”

“Yes I’ve seen them, capable they are. Outnumbered as well. My other agents will be notified.”

Portia stood up from her seat, ready to depart, “I will inform you of any changes to the situation, if I get the chance.”

“Even if you don’t, my eyes will still be on you.”

“Likewise,” the ranger promptly turned on her heel and left.

Tomorrow was to be a long day.

[Co-written with VindicatedPurpose, Dementedness, Redred33mer, conor]

96th Day

Protectorate City

Airship Docking

The group watched as an airship pulled into the hangar. They stood in the middle of a group of patiently waiting passengers on a departure platform several feet off the ground. Eian and Shari had their belongings bare to the rest of the travelers. Others could tell that they were itinerants, not city-dwellers.

Kaidman waited with the messengers and Jolo's friend, Yeron. There was a bit of a lull in this part of town, the excitement of the blast and seemingly random attacks on Protectorate City seemed to have calmed down in only a few days, but it was surely still a hot topic. The young swordsman looked at the messengers who only tagged along for the receiving of payment.

Portia stood in the back watching their conversation with interest. Her eyes shifted to each one of them from time to time before resting on Kaidman. There was something off about him, but that was nothing more than a feeling. She had seen him fight, was it luck? No man was ever lucky. He was hiding something. Yeron's presence, though, was unexpected, he was a possible threat to her plans. She scanned the platform for Melio, landing upon a drak who's face was covered beneath a wide brimmed hat.

He returned her gaze from his end as he was separated from her by a throng of passengers waiting to board. The gray-scaled Drak watched the group closely amid the crowd. He recognized the two desert walkers who were the messengers. He also spotted Jolo, who was supposed to be dead. The younger man was likely part of their entourage. The older man, he had the bearings of a ranger. He looked somewhat familiar. Where was Jolo?

"How much exactly are you looking for in compensation? If you had to put a number in bezants on it?" Kaidman asked.

"We were promised two hundred fifty," Shari spoke.

She was as candid as ever, her partner, Eian remained quiet.

"I'll remember that," Kaidman noted. He recalled their being an agreement that they would get a cut of the treasure, if it was real that is. And whatever may be hidden out in the desert could be worth much more. He'd rather not have his new friend, a weaponsmith with his forge just obliterated, be schemed out of a chance to recover well from his misfortune.

"It is quite a bit less than what the city was promising in exchange for bags full of bandit heads and hands," Eian added, "We were hoping we could sustain ourselves a bit and work some other odd jobs if we could not find the receiver of the letter."

"Your friend sounds like he's in a bit of trouble," Shari glanced at Kaidman.

"He was. I must question why he has been the target of an attack like this. Who did he know? And what was known by them? It seems someone went to considerable lengths to track messengers like you and try to assail you. This is while they were trying to kidnap Mox," he explained.

"We're just messengers, we know nothing of the politics that plague your friend," Eian replied in his tactiturn manner. He added nothing more to what he thought was a sufficient answer.

"What do you know?" Kaidman directed his question at Yeron.

"I honestly wish I could answer that for you. I've been out in the desert so long, and it's hard to get believable stories from people on their travels. I rushed back as soon as I got solid intel that the attacked had happened. Too late to do anything of course but I figure something like this Jolo could use another rifle around."

Yeron stroked his beard and gazed out into the distance.

"Something don't feel right though, yanno? Treasure in the middle of the desert, free, no strings attached treasure. Combine that with all the happenings recently it seems damn suspicious. Not that I mind, hell my ol' trigger finger was getting itchy anyway" finishing with a hearty chuckle and wink in Kaidman's direction.

"Yeah, well whoever's interested in our suffering is playing for the win. I cracked my ribs a few days ago taking a bullet in my armor, when I found Mox," Kaidman told the Ranger. "And they seem to have numbers, too."

"Damn, ribs are a painful one. Nasty bit of hurting in that."

"It's fine to have the numbers but it won't do a load of good if you've got the mental capacity of a headless Yakola."

Shari giggled, "I've seen those around, they make better meat than mounts."

Eian cleared his throat at her comment, "I don't believe that treasure is anywhere close to free."

"I agree, they're damn tasty." He replied to the young girl. "Well knowing our luck it probably won't, but time will tell what price has to be paid. If any."

Kaidman considered the situation for a moment before he said aloud, "I almost want to go myself, for fear of harm and loss of any one of you. We wouldn't want the few that have important pieces to this puzzle to be lost. But if I do go, I'm also afraid you may not hear from me again."

"Careful there, some of that is for us," Shari clipped.

"Shari," Eian cut in.

"No, 250 bezants worth is yours. You just said, and that's if it even exists," Kaidman answered sharply.

"I just wanna shoot some bandits."

"And that attitude will find you dead," Kaidman replied.

"Well I'm gonna die someday anyway, if I can go down making those sons o' bitches scream then i'll die happy. I hate bandits, they're scum."

"Yeah, and Jolo isn't too far off with his age. If he and you were to just drop dead that'd upset the Rangers as a whole mighty well. Ever hear the saying, 'live to fight another day?'" Kaidman responded to Yeron. He was getting restless just standing there and began to pace a little bit, looking around. He spotted a hooded woman and fixed his eyes upon her. It was the Ranger they were with yesterday.

"Sure I have, but there's a reason to my madness. I've seen things that will haunt me. I've put bullets through the skulls of men who were lucky to die so easy. It's hell out there, and I know you know it. But the only way I can do this day after day is if I go out with the expectation of not coming back. That way I don't have to worry about emotion effecting judgment. If I do come back in one piece then I count my lucky stars and go again tomorrow. It's a vicious cycle but if you go in with no expectations then nothing can go wrong."

There was a void in the conversation following the veteran's words. Numerous other mouths speaking in various corners of the hangar filled the lull.

"Portia, is it?" Kaidman called, trying to remember her name.

"Coming to join the party?" Her stance was questionable, as it seemed she had been standing there for a bit. The fact made him uneasy; she had no reason to stay back like that, and she had left the previous night for a rather guessable reason.
Yeron leaned against a wall. Maybe Kaidman wouldn't understand but hell everyone has their own way of coping. He snapped out when Kaidman began talking to Portia.

"Ha, tell you what. I ain't seen a soul better with a blade than Portia. She'll gut a man before he even realizes what's happened. I'm glad she's a ranger, otherwise I might just have nightmares of her roaming the desert for the other side" he chuckled once more carrying a smile that would light up anyone's day.

Portia eyed the warrior closely, she remained aloof of their conversation, but her ear was interested in what they had to say. She smiled a modest smile in reply to Yeron's comment about her blade work before she turned to Kaidman, "Don't let me stop you."
Kaidman considered her words. What exactly did she mean by that?

"I have nowhere to go to be stopped. A possible few bandits doesn't mean very much to me," he stated plainly. "What makes you think you're in my way?"

Her lips remained closed as Mox and Jolo rejoined them.

Jolo puffed away with a cigar tucked to the side of his mouth, Mox was in tow gripping a long slab of bladed metal that he had retrieved from his forge. It was the only useful thing that still remained, valueless, but still useful. He could hack a bandit in half with it if he wanted to. It was wrapped up in bands of fabric that he found strewn on the ground. If he had the time, he would have shaped it into smoother steel with which to protect himself with. The two of them emerged from the crowd to join the others already waiting for them.

"Did you all get along while we were gone?" Jolo asked.

To which Kaidman simply ignored the question, continuing to stare at the figure that kept itself mysterious. He chose to ignore Yeron's comments as well, as he was a more foolhardy individual. On some level, you had to be to be a Ranger, but Yeron's overt headstrong nature was excessive to the point of being careless. It's why he went to Jolo rather than Yeron first if there was a problem among the sands.

---

The group was at the van of the passengers onboard the platform. Jolo spotted a ship captain as he was ordering his crew mates to unload supplies from his ship.

"Excuse me sir, are you headed to Spire Canyon by any chance?"

The man turned to Jolo, "Spire Canyon? No sir, we're headed east."

Jolo nodded his head at the man's reply, Spire Canyon was west. Jolo rejoined the group as they searched for an available ship.

"Jolo, do we really need an airship to get out to Spire Canyon? It's at most three days of walking, if you only do ten miles a day that is," Kaidman complained. He wasn't one for getting tangled in the mess of civilization's organized chaos, though he admired it. Societies made things possible which were not possible before.

"Is it now? That's three days of non-stop walkin'. We could probably get there in a day and be back in two."

The old ranger paused, rubbing his beard, which had since the ninetieth, regrown. He had not the time to condition his facial hair, but such was the life of a ranger.

"But somethin' tells me that we might not be headin' back," Jolo swung a look at Kaidman, "Call it a gut feelin' kid. 'Sides, I'm sure you've never flown befo'."

Taro overheard the man, as he was dealing with a delivery. Some letters to various people, some tried to kept their faces hidden but did it poorly, and one of the letters seemed to cause some stir among the person who got it. Taro couldn't tell if it was good news or bad. He did know however, that he and Vander were going past Spire Canyon.

Kaidman followed along before having the chance to ask, "Jolo, you're talking as if you're getting to old for this stuff. I don't mean to be rude, but maybe you should skip out on this adventure. I can get to Spire Canyon and back without an issue, and if something went wrong, you'd know." The young swordsman looked at Jolo, his brow furrowed; his friend had been a Ranger, a self-perpetuating entity, for at least as long as Kaidman had been alive. Perhaps Jolo was getting too old.

Jolo took another puff from the still lit cig; he learned to sustain them for quite a bit longer than most smokers. Even if he barely smoked as much as most smokers. He considered Kaidman's points carefully, or appeared as though he were.

"Sounds like you're the one callin' me old, but don't worry I'm not that old. We're goin' along because I think that treasure has a trail to it. Seems a bit coincidental that bandits kidnap that boy yonder," Jolo jabbed a thumb back at Mox, who was with the rest of the group, "Then we return to the city, where he receives a letter and death threats aimed at keepin' him away from some supposed treasure. It's what I do. So help me find a ship."

"Maybe I can help?" Taro asked, walking over to them. "My father is the Captain of the 'Morning's Light,' and we are headed that way, if I heard you right and you're headed toward Spire Canyon. It happens to be on our route, not even a detour. Good prices."

Taro made it sound genuine, but Vander had told him at least some of that phrasing. Just to be safe. Taro might be a good shot for his age, but he was only average with words. Vander was typically better at it. "Our ship is right this way, if you want to see for yourself".

As Jolo heard the boy, his gaze shifted to Kaidman, who shrugged at the mention of boarding the ship called Morning's Light, before he returned to the boy. A smile slowly formed on his lips, "Well, lead the way then, young man."

Jolo gestured with a head nod at the others to follow. Mox, Portia, Yeron, and the two messengers joined them.

Melio watched from afar, he remained a spy in the backdrop of the crowded hangar. He watched the group board the ship that was known as Morning's Light. He eyed the contours of the ship and the little details that separated it from the others in that hangar. He made a note of remembering the little boy's face. After he had seen all that he needed to see, he turned his gaze toward Portia. She replied with a batting of her eyelashes. He smiled and turned a corner, departing from the platforms.

Yeron kept quiet about the whole situation, he never liked flying. Suspended high up above the desert on a flimsy platform just didn't appeal to him for some crazy reason. Still, he remained silent and followed along. The whole idea of this trip felt off. Even here now in the airship platform he felt an uneasiness. The years of training kicked in and his eyes jumped from person to person. He peered into every dark corner as he passed. All the while clutching at the rifle he had slung on his shoulder. At least in the desert the bandits had few places to actually hide, here someone could disappear in the blink of an eye. Something shady folk tended to do when rangers were about.

"Oh," Kaidman interjected, "did I mention that cavemen usually don't carry money with them?" In a way, he felt guilty, for he needed to rely on others because he could not pay the fee himself.

Mox overheard Kaidman, "He's not the only one."

Jolo turned to look at the two younger men, he shook his head and smiled, "Freeloaders."

"Well, it's a trading ship, so you can use cargo as barter if needs be," he noted as he led them toward the ship. It wasn't uncommon for trading vessels to accept cargo as payment. And it was usually a lot easier. The value of money altered itself on where you were. Cargo did not vary as much.

"We have plenty of room, so you don't need to worry about space".

“How much would it cost to take us to Spire Canyon?” Jolo asked.

Just Spire canyon, Mox wondered about the return trip. Will there be a return trip?

Taro told them the price. It was more then land transport, but reasonable for airship prices. Plus, Airships would be safer then traveling on the ground. And if anyone took a good look, they would see that they had plenty of cargo room because their airship had a large cargo hold.

As the discussion goes on outside of his cabin, the assassin showed the tip of his nose to the sun. He was leaning against a shadowed wall, trying to eavesdrop into the discussion. 'Spire Canyon, hm?' He thought to himself, walking towards outside of the small room. He watched the group of misfits, a small smirk on his face, but his gaze quickly met with Jolo's figure. He blinked once, twice before realising his luck. He looked around. Too many witnesses with very little openings. He shrugged; he had time. Nonchalantly, the man walked towards the group, approaching Jolo.

Mox saw that the Boy ran ahead, probably to alert the owner of the ship. He wondered what a kid was doing in the hangars. The others, Portia, Eian, and Shari went along ahead of him.

"Alright move along," Jolo watched the group merge into the crowd of the airship's departing passengers.

He shook his head at Yeron, "Like herding Grelbs."

"Jolo!" Seth called out as he approached. "I need to talk to you," his eyes then swept over to the other people before coming back to the man he was talking to, "And in private. It'll take only a few seconds."

"Do I know you?" Jolo's eyes narrowed at the stranger dressed in a tatter of scarves.

He snickered a bit, resting a hand on his hips. "Well, no, of course you don't." He shrugged. "Workin' under some Claude person. Look, I'm not here to cause trouble. If you really want, I can leave my belongings to your group if you really want to make it safe."

The old ranger eyed the stranger, he was an odd fellow. Jolo brushed him off and continued.

Seth shrugged. "Oh well, a ranger like you probably already heard of drakyvarians wanting your head on a diner plate, so I'll pass my turn." He would say, turning away before bidding a farewell to Taro and Vander walking away, outside of the ship.
Jolo paused in his tracks as he heard this, he turned to glance at the fellow who had his back turned toward Jolo as he walked away. The ranger dismissed his words, but anybody who had lived as long as he did, especially in the manner that he lived, would have taken any words from a stranger as more than what they were. Prudence was demanded.

The cargo was tucked away and the passengers were assigned whatever quarters to sleep in. Vander told everyone the rules of the ship.

"No shooting each other, no explosives, play nice, no stealing. I keep a tight watch over the cargo, and trust me, we will know and we will find you. We will employ the utmost safety and security. Please remember to not hog supplies either. Those that are on this ship are also closely watched."