Reasons why streaking should be banned in Peltarch. It ruins the public morale. People will no longer feel happy when everyun is flappin' their dingerdongers about. It's damn cold. As a good friend of mine pointed out, people might wear clothes anyway, since Peltarch is cold. This means, by banning streaking, the people will be protected from the cold harsh weather. People won't be distracted by naked people. Everyun needs ta be able to focus on their jobs, and not have lewd nudists runnin' about. The preverts would be happy if it was allowed. Nobody likes when preverts are happy. Lt. Inspector Essi

Patterns The table was a map of a ruined kingdom, the vanquished plates and scattered crumbs whispered of a majestic breakfast that had once been. The group had conversed jovially long enough that Meadow and Rey were beginning a second or third round of nibbling, but no preserve or honey could make Aoth tolerate any more of the loaf of over-puffed northern bread. She excused herself and stepped out into the morning air where the fog suggested that noon remained a ways off. The druid shrank into a squirrel's shape and scrambled down the rear of the Witch and Seer's steps. Already the back of her mind sparked with a squirrel's barked instincts, quick and nervous. The open ground was a land of danger and promise. The trees beckoned with arms of safety. It was a life of patterns. Descend, search, pause, search, pause, ascend. A reactive life and intensely territorial. She scaled a stout oak and leaped through the branches into the deep woods. She heard her wife's voice from the night before: "She started walking around. That means her brain is sparking up." How true. And she still had puzzle pieces to assemble. Trying to ignore the ache of sitting still wouldn't yield better results. For all his effort, George had been reactive. He'd sought patterns - specific signs as though they were spells in a wizard's library. Not even the Weave worked that way, not truly, and Signing was something else, something more fundamental than raw magic. But this, it seemed, was the impression George possessed when he went in search of understanding. He'd described envisioning starlight to navigate by. He'd built a hall of mirrors, she'd told him. Lighting his path with his own burning desire to do more, to be more. Years ago Aoth had ceased calling him a paladin when it was clear that the comments only fed his sense of inadequacy. She may never have said so aloud, but she'd long seen him as a kind of apprentice---the best kind at that. Aoth had never desired an apprentice that thought like her, and disagreements with George were always a delight. Now she couldn't escape a certain sense of failure around his plane-touched state. It wasn't just the trees and grass, the water feared his burning. Water which knew no ending only cycles. The Helmite may have been right to fear him, but this was nothing like the Dawn Lord's promise nor the Fire Lord's dance of renewal. The warning cry of a robin instinctively made Aoth flatten her body against an elm. A squirrel was not the appropriate shape for these thoughts. She shifted into the shape of an elf. Humanoids had such convoluted instincts, and it would be useful to develop her skill with this set. She continued to run and leap along the branches, now in search of echoes of the ancient woodlands, the memory of innocent possibility. It was a younger, far less experienced version of the druid who had dedicated herself to protecting the Prime from planar incursions by advising its people against easy answers and solutions based on raw power. She'd since protected the realms from far worse than demons, but the decades had brought the repetitious suggestion that she and the others hadn't survived these battles unscathed. As much elemental as muscle and bone, she'd abandoned any claim to being human long ago. But she was of this world still, she knew that. George, though... George had looked inward, bathed in his own light, shed fiery echoes of his altered selves, and something must have cracked open. Something Other had slipped in though his starlit courses. They'd assumed it was the Fire of Devastation, Curiosity, or whatever name that extraplanar wanderer might answer to. Now Aoth wasn't sure whether that was preferable.... or if the Star might be one of many prophets who wished to claim this Other for their own use. Whatever it was, nature quaked. They needed to find as many pieces of this puzzle as they could and quickly. These prophets and knights would offer answers, but each conflicting view might shed light on better questions. The shapeshifter had always preferred questions to answers. Answers could be so final, and there was only one answer waiting at the end of the last question.

Lia sat on her bed pouring through the thick ledger she had borrowed from “Clerk”. Clerk was the Regal Maid’s accountant, a wizened old gnome who had probably been there before Lia’s grandparents were born. Lia didn’t speak Gnomish and his name was largely unpronounceable by any sane person, so most of the staff and ladies just called him Clerk. Because this ledger was confidential, it had required a rather large bribe to even borrow it for the evening. But Clerk was a greedy fellow, and rules and confidentiality were often broken by the almighty gold piece. Lia flipped through the pages at a prodigious rate, making coded notes in a separate book. She was about halfway through when there was a quiet knock on her door. That would be Agatha. Agatha was dumb as a box of rocks Lia mused to herself, but she possessed an unusual gift that had served her well. She was acutely observant of people, and able to mimic their mannerisms and even voice to a degree. It was no end of amusement when the ladies got together, and the last time Lia had nearly peed her britches from laughing. It was a complete waste of talent for a prostitute, or so one would have thought, but she earned top coin for pretending to be famous people. Agatha was tall and blonde. She did an amazing princess impression, more amazing now that Lia had actually hung out with the royal couple and saw first hand. ”Come in”, Lia said quietly, still writing. Agatha padded in on bare feet, closed and locked the door. She had been instrumental in getting the ledger from Clerk, with the condition that Lia do her a favor. A simple one really. Agatha had eyes on leaving this business and attending the Bard College, but a room and classes for a couple of years weren’t going to come cheap. Agatha wanted to know how much longer she had to work, and when to tell the college she’d be attending. Pretty basic math, but for Agatha it might as well been 8th circle magic. Agatha quickly moved over and sat next to Lia. Lia could see she was both excited and nervous at the same time. She leaned over, scrunching her face, leering at Lia and said in Clerk’s voice, “I see you got my ledger! Make sure you return it with nary a stain child!”. Lia looked over, her eyes wide. Her voice wasn’t entirely the same, but the look on her face and inflection was uncanny. Lia burst into giggles. “When did you learn to do Clerk?!”, she asked between fits of laughter. Agatha sat up and grinned, “Oh, I’ve been practicing for weeks. When I return it tomorrow morning, I’m going to do him in front of him”. Lia just stared and covered her mouth. “Agatha, he’s going love it”. If nothing else, Clerk had a good sense of humor. ”So…”, Lia pulled out a piece of paper. She had written everything down in large, easy to read numbers. “This…”, Lia pointed, “is what you made last year. As near as I can tell, you’re doing about the same, or even a little better this year. I can’t count tips you might have squirreled away, but this is what the Maid takes for their cut”, Lia pointed. Agatha just looked on, muttering an occasional “ok”, now and then. Lia pulled out the bank note that Agatha had given her yesterday and continued, “This is how much you saved up, and this here”, she pointed, “is how much you need. I figure 8 months and change if you don’t buy too many fancy clothes. So I’d tell the college, spring of next year.” Agatha looked at Lia, her shoulders drooping a bit. “Lia, I was hoping to go in the fall.” Lia just shook her head, “The numbers don’t lie. Unless you find a noble who fancies or wants to sponsor you, it’s 8 months.” They looked at each other for a moment, then Agatha reached over and hugged her. “Thanks for doing this for me”, she said earnestly. Lia hugged her back, a little confused. Doing the numbers was like 5 minutes of work. It took longer to write it down for her than to actually do the math. Agatha sat up, a positive look on her face and nodded. “The spring then!”, she smiled. “I am going to be an actress!” Agatha then stood up, turned to Lia, and her demeanor changed. It was almost as if she became taller. She ran her hand through her hair just like the princess and said, “Then you will all bow down before me, as is my due. Isolde, fetch my cloak! I’m headed to Bards Town!”. Then she turned and left, maintaining the princesses imperious and confident stride. Lia shook her head and smiled. Agatha was indeed going to make a very good actress if she could remember her lines. But soon the smile faded as Lia realized something. All it would take is a few thousand gold to make sure she could go in the fall. It wouldn’t even make a dent in her own finances. A few dead goblins, and a hoarded magical sword would be the difference. Lia deflated before turning back to the ledger. There was that pesky uncomfortable feeling again. Guilt.

They'd sailed the Wisp out onto the Icelace, away from prying eyes. He'd never felt a lick of shame over what he looked like. Reveled in people's gazes, even. Whether near on naked on the cover of one of the local prints, dressed to the nine, in uniform or in the fabled pyjamas. Now, though? Now he felt naked. It was ridiculous, at first thought. He was a walking bonfire shaped like a man, and fully dressed at that. But the idea that people could see to the very heart of him made him feel vulnerable. Not to mention the fright he would give so many. Not her, though. While she hid it well, she was frightened, but it was not of him. It was for him. Her eyes when she'd seen his truest self had shown nothing but relief and love. His truest self? It was so odd to think that the apparition she'd seen was both him and not him. He was inside the stone, well and truly. When he was in the obelisk, he was keenly aware of the entire tower, and all the heat in it. Now he was aware only of the stone itself, and exactly where he manifested. Yet the manifestation was not him, not entirely. It was like a detached limb that somehow still functioned. As were all the faces, though he was not truly aware of them, could not see through all of them. He would need to have been even stronger than he was in the tower, and right now he just felt… Scattered. What was he really? Horgrim had said his soul was planetouched, but he wasn't born as such. His life had made it so. Something had touched it. The Star on high was still the most likely culprit. It would come to regret its choice, however, if it truly came down again. But when? He'd lost hours of his memory, somewhere when they used the Star to burn the flesh of those horrid tunnels. He would never have realized there was a gap there had Isolde not mentioned it. There were ways to regain lost memories, Horgrim told him, but he had also explicitly warned him that some knowledge was inherently dangerous. If even Horgrim warns against knowing, the risk must be great indeed. But then he might never learn how he became… this. Had his fate already been sealed when he looked Curiosity in its fathomless, burning eyes? Then why him and not the others? Did he die in the tunnels to become this? Did he die in the Spellfire to become this? Whisperwick seemed to believe that last. But then, Whisperwick had said he had no soul. Lying bum. He felt no different. Lived no different. Yet somewhere along the line, his soul had changed. His very soul. What was left of George, and what was Planar? And was it just mindless energy that suffused him, or had there been a will, there? There was one way to find out, he supposed. To set his soul free from the stone and let it pass on. He would learn what his soul was and where it belonged then. But no. Life was too precious, far too dear still. His friends, too dear. His Meadow, too dear. The life he was supposed to live, too dear. Even if it could somehow be said it was not entirely his, he wished to live it. There would be an end to the story. Some day. Not yet. Though… Despite the torture he'd endured for what seemed aeons, he was not long dead and remembered his body. The pitiful fire he could conjure. The constraints of his form, compared to what he was in the tower… The power he had wielded was absurd. Unthinkable just days ago. In the span of an hour he had laid waste to an army of automatons that would have held up Hrresh's Legion for days, if they had even beaten it. Ab. Surd. He had used his flame to save lives. Through destruction and healing. Not by Laying on hands, like a paladin would, regardless of what Rey and Aoth said. Even through simply denying his element to those who would abuse it he had made more of a difference than in the flesh. It was intoxicating. Of course it was. If he returned to his body, he would likely lose all of it. Back to being a man who wielded steel. Back to being a warrior who might not have reached Perom in time, or any of his friends. Was it duty to remain as he was, and continue to protect his love, their child, his friends, maybe even his world as a spectre beyond the Prime? Inhumanly powerful, but never again one of them. Never to see, never to hear, never to touch, until decades pass, or centuries for some, and he met them again beyond the veil? Was that his duty? But how should he interpret Helm's will? Even now, in his current state, the absence of the Great Guardian screamed its silence at him. Selûne still bathed the ship in Her light, but never spoke. The Star on high still waited patiently, watching. He did not feel alone. Not as he once had. Still, the light he himself bathed in was not Selûne's or Helm's. Perhaps Helm's absence was not so much a rejection of him, but a stern sign that he was not His. That he could still grow and should still grow. Duty kept him going when the mere thought of nightfall set him on edge after the Reachful Hands, but duty was not all he was or needed. Never had been. He was life. He was love. He was joy, conviction, sincerety, celebration. He was rage, lust, exultation, righteousness. He was every mortal's desire to rail against the fates and the inevitable. Duty was not all. Just as some day there would be an end to the story, he would some day become again as he was now. Some day. He wished to live. Eternity could wait.

Aenhever stood at the threshold of the glade, where Moonreach Keep’s cold stones dissolved into living emerald and ancient amber beneath the autumnal canopy. The air shimmered faintly, as if the twilight itself hummed with expectation. Moss glowed softly underfoot, and the trees stood as ancient sentinels with bark like folded runes. They leaned subtly inward, listening. She appeared where the autumn light thickened: a Fey woman shaped from falling leaves and sunset gold. Her hair drifted as though stirred by an unseen breeze, each strand the hue of ripened wheat. Eyes the color of cider and warm copper regarded him with a warmth that reached deeper than language. When she lifted a hand toward him, no words passed her lips. Yet Aenhever felt the pull, like a tide rising within his blood, both human and something older. Her touch on his fingertips awakened a vision as clear as memory. Spring. He saw himself young again, stepping onto the ranger’s path for the first time. Hopeful, green, untested. The world a place of beginnings; his heart lighter than the bow he carried. Summer. Heat and vigor. Battles fought with the confidence of strength. Packmates at his side. Triumphs, mistakes, and the fervor of living without counting the cost. The fullness of his dual nature, man and wolf, running beneath a sun that never seemed it could set. Autumn. The vision deepened in color, rich and somber. Decisions weighted. Friendships tempered like old steel. A time of reckoning, maturity, gathering the harvest of all that had come before. Aenhever stood taller, quieter, aware of what must be protected. And then - Winter. Not death. Not loss. But the long exhale. A necessary stillness. A season of endings that make room for the next beginning. A promise that even in frost, life waits beneath the surface. When the vision faded, she withdrew her hand. The last leaf drifting from her hair touched the forest floor without sound. Her gaze told him what words did not: This cycle is yours. This path is chosen, and choosing. Moonreach Keep loomed quietly behind him, but in the Fey glade’s amber light, Aenhever understood: every season of his life would echo through both the man and the beast, and neither form would walk alone. The glade darkened... not with threat, but with the hush of falling snow that had not yet begun to fall. The autumnal Fey woman watched him with patient, ancient sorrow, as though she held all the seasons in her veins. Aenhever felt the vision stir again, curling like frost along the edge of his thoughts. Though her hand no longer touched him, the glade itself seemed to speak, roots whispering beneath the moss and leaves murmuring overhead. Winter returned, not as a destination but as a truth he had been circling his entire life. He saw himself standing on a lonely peak, moonlight silvering the world. His breath fogged before him, but his body no longer burned with the wild fever of the wolf. No claws under his skin. No hunger pressing against bone. Only the cold. The clean, clarifying cold of release. The Fey woman stepped closer, leaves swirling softly around her ankles. Her wordless voice pressed gently into his mind: "Winter is the cure. Winter is the shedding of the beast. Winter is the end that frees the spring". Images flooded him, A ritual circle carved in ice. The moon’s pale face seen through drifting snow. Aenhever’s shadow splitting in two; one form stepping forward, the other dissolving like breath on the wind. He staggered, breath catching. It was not death the vision offered him, but sacrifice. A price. A moment where the cycle must close for another to begin. The Fey woman lifted a hand, brushing a leaf from his shoulder. It dissolved to embers at her touch. Again, the silent message: "The wolf has served its season. Let it rest. Let it lie beneath the frost. What rises after will be wholly yours". The glade brightened faintly as though dawn had found its way through the trees, and the scent of distant winter clung to the air, crisp and inevitable. Aenhever swallowed, the weight of understanding settling across him like a cloak. “This… ending,” he finally whispered in his mind, unsure if she would know his thoughts - he continued anyway. “It is not my death?” Her lips curved into the faintest smile - an autumn leaf bending before the first snow. "No", the look said. "Not death. Completion". Beyond the glade, Moonreach Keep waited. Grim, cold, and unknowing. But for the first time, Aenhever felt the path ahead with clarity: A winter to face, a beast to lay to rest, and the promise of a Spring that would belong solely to the man. In spring he rose with hunter’s stride, Longbow in hand, the wild his guide. In summer’s heat, the wolf took hold, Moon-lit hunger, fierce and bold. In autumn’s dusk his shadow yearned, For paths untrod and lessons learned. Leaves whispered truths he would not see That man, child and beast could not stay three. But winter waits with silver breath, A quiet road that is not death. The frost shall claim the wolf’s old fire, And chill the curse of moon-born ire. When snowlight cleaves his form in two, And ice adorns the fading hue, The man shall rise where the beast once fell Aenhever freed by winter’s spell. "I'll tell you about it later, now isn't the time", he said in a whisper to his companions as they walked from the glade. Leaving the Fey woman behind, along with her strange boy.

Winter. The age old enemy, which brings the cold, the dark, and the lack. Darian had a list of the things he hated. Of threats that hurt the people he cared for. Winter was near the top. Above the bandits who waylaid caravans on the roads out from the dale. Above the goblins who rushed the village fences when they grew brave enough. Above the cowards who fled in times of need. Near the top, but not quite. For what he hated most was the Weald. Not so much the woodland itself; though, it was coming close, he thought. Rather, the monsters that lived within it. The creatures. The fauna. Beasties. Wildlings. They came in all manner. Wee fluttering devils who wielded thorns like knives. Demonic trees which trundled forth and hurled boulders. And other types and sizes in between, each a more imminent threat than the last. Each denying the village what it needed. Timbers. Fibers. Berries, mushrooms, nuts, seeds, herbs. Food. Water. Medicine. All of it in the Weald, and none of it reachable. Any men and women who would try gather some meagerly amounts were met with those miserable monsters. The villagers learned long ago not to enter the Weald. How long, Darian couldn't say. Not months. Not even years. Much longer than that. Years and years, if not decades, of needless hunger, sickness, and death. But not anymore, thought Darian. It was merchants who would save them, he had wagered. Traveling merchants. Who brought with them all manner of goods. So he saved what he could. What precious gems he found on his patrol routes. Chunks of stone with hints of gold in them. Fine pelts from deer. All to trade. To buy, from the merchants. From one merchant he bought what he would soon realize is the the greatest weapon of all. A bestiary. Knowledge of all manner of monsters, including those Darian knew were the very same as those in the Weald. He learned their fears. Their weaknesses. From the second he purchased the iron helmet. And from the third, the chest-plate. From the fourth and fifth, the blade, shield, gauntlets, leggings, boots. All bought, he possessed a complete set of iron armor and weaponry. It was well worth his effort. An investment, he thought. One that paid off, at least at first. Armored in iron, was able to walk safely into the Weald. He became a moving, gray metal statue. The symbol of the village's progress. Of its potential, he thought, as he trundled through the mosaic of colours. The Weald was even more alien than he could have ever anticipated. Its trees, leaves, flowers, insects, birds or something like them. All oddly shaped, slanted, too different, far too different than what any reasonable man might think to find, he thought. They all buzzed and glowed and moved around him. Moved away, he noticed. The flutterers, the strange animals, even the trees avoided him. Split their own bark, it seemed to him, as though to lean away. As though he was toxic. Aye, that's right, thought Darian. I'm toxic. Get away from me, and I might not hurt you. But he knew it wasn't him they feared. It was his armor. His weapon. His shield. The bestiary was right, he thought. They all feared his iron. . . . "Well? Will you admit it?" insisted Muriel. She flapped her wool blanket at his face, jolting Darian from his quiet recollection. "The medicine. You found it in the Weald. Admit it!" the old woman pressed. She was right. Of course she was. He found the medicine in the Weald. Where else to find such disturbing things? Such vexing flowers and daunting leaves? At some point medicine becomes indistinguishable from poison, thought Darian. He wasn't sure whether he should tell her. Her eyes were like fireflies, flickering and dancing. For a moment, Darian thought she seemed twenty summers younger. The very thought of the Weald obviously excited her. A misguided fascination, he thought. Still, seeing her this way brought him some comfort. Even as she started striking him with her straw pillow. She was stronger than she looked. She was getting better already. If he had but a few more moments with her (truly, thinking back, it was a matter of moments), he might have told her. In retrospect, he was sure of it. If only to see her happy for a little while longer. "Stay here," he instead warned, after his eyes rose to peer through the window. Darian's attention was locked. Even far away, he could see it. Muriel murmured something, said something, asked something. But Darian didn't entirely hear her. His helmet was already on and blade in hand. He was already out the door and walking quickly. He had other priorities. Urgent priorities. One urgent priority in particular. He was on an intercept course. Hurrying in a perfect and straight line, the very same path and opposite the trajectory of the gold and scarlet silhouette ambling out of the Weald's edge, toward him. Toward Muriel's cottage.

Thank you all for coming! If you can post your input/recommendations/critics of the quest-boss fight here that will be most helpful. Video the fight: https://youtu.be/wN7qmjv5TaM Two things I realize: Quests with the party wide option enable should get initiated for all party members (right now, only updating quest progression works). I'll see what I can do in this regard. The CC vs. Boss Progress bar only gets updated when your PC lands a hit (or a spell). Which is unintuitive. I'll try to make it update for the entire party every time one hits (not sure if this is gonna be expensive code-wise, but we'll see).

Sludgey snow mixed with rain pelts the rugged rock walls of Moonreach Keep, coating the windows of L3 with ice and condensation. No matter, perhaps, for daylight's long since faded and within the room, with a cooling cup of tea beside her and wrapped in blankets like a fuzzy caterpillar sits Laura in her bed, Nox curled up in a softly snoozing pretzel beside her as she writes: "I begun to pack my bag, the moment I heard it from Jhael - your mission, your destination now known, sent off by that Peltarchian bard whose path crossed mine but once. The spitting image of Sune? I wouldn't go that far, but she certainly made me feel about as attractive as the sludge I scraped off my boots coming in from the cold today, by comparison. And I know, what point is there in comparison except for some stupid biological code that compels it? It's not the point I was trying to make either, brother dearest, though I do wish I commanded even an ounce of the confidence radiating from her and the group she was in, when we briefly squared off. I still don't understand how they got to the impact site first - each of them strangers to the area, whereas we had every advantage. The silvery-blue glow of the aetherite lended an otherworldly feel to the scene as we came upon them, a group about the size of our own, yet infinitely more shrouded in might, in story and reputation. The so called Golden Geese were already discussing possible uses for the fallen starmatter when we arrived. 'It's not yours just because you were first', I objected, my voice ludicrously faint and uncertain. No one replied directly - I doubt they even took notice of me at the back, with Asha (no, not Ashla this time, if you can believe it) stepping forwards to mediate. Tall, bright-eyed and with the most spectacular shock of red hair, Asha is a Selunite priestess who's stayed at Moonreach for quite some time, yet focused intently on studies that have had little to no overlap with my own. I don't know her very well, but it's evident the other group did - and that this instantly quelled any open hostilities on their part. Not that Moonreach and Peltarch were in open hostility with one another at this point - but their group was still on our ground (though Kzagoth would and did call it 'his' ground), about to claim the very same thing we had been sent to collect - coalesced aether, fallen from the sky that same day, quite unexpectedly. The stuff's wreathed in legends - some say it can cure lycanthropy, other sources reference it being used to mend a fragmented soul. Various myths claim it can transform your very nature permanently, also that it's capable of piercing any veil or hurdle to divination and so on. In short, it's rumoured to be a miraculous, and therefore universally desirable essence, if volatile and only usable once before it dissipates. Need I point out that it sounds too good to be true and if not a direct trap, it must at least come attached with a serious catch? It does. Divination's in flux in a wide area of effect around it - rendering not just it and the people who possess it difficult to locate, but throwing all kinds of previous predictions into the great unknown. With just about every faction wanting it, the risk for wide-spread chaos is quite real. In that one respect, I suppose Adan Whisperwick's interference serves a purpose. For a trap was sprung on us there, where we stood, uneasily debating propriety rights - a trap that rendered all such debates moot, and nearly killed us all. Adan Whisperwick its origin of course - that's unsurprising. He's a truly despicable man, but a very potent spellcaster and adept backstabber and schemer. I was surprised to find that despite all probability pointing to the contrary, I was still alive - very badly injured, but alive, despite a massive cave in and violent bursts of magic that tossed us about like dolls against sheer rock. To my shock, when the dust settled I heard not only Whisperwick's voice but others too. Familiar voices - Lt Rixx and Olivia Gor, in obvious cahoots. But why? I know neither were much pleased with the tentative steps towards peace that had been taken, but throwing their lot in with Adan Whisperwick, really? Rixx lamented not seeing more of the Golden Geese dead - he had expressed a seemingly unreasonable terror of them before, so perhaps that's his motive settled. Gor, on the other hand, seemed to harbour more regret as she reviewed the damage done. But not enough to actually try to help us. Not enough to sway her from her chosen course. The trio walked slowly past the debris and the scattered bodies of myself, my friends, even the odd member of the other group. The silver-blue light was jarringly serene by contrast and discounting the muted voices, all I could hear was white noise ringing in my ears. The whole event felt somehow apart from reality, plucked from the pages of a storybook, or played out on a scene whose curtains would surely close as the villain exited, stage left. In hindsight, I wonder if the allure of the coalesced aether was so strong, its aura so pervasive, that it obscured the fact that we were alive from our attackers. I even wonder if proximity to it is the reason why we all survived, when realistically we should not have. Perhaps it skews the odds, perhaps as Ashla believes, it has an element of the divine to it. But I would say that, at least to Whisperwick, us living or dying was all the same, because he simply doesn't care. None of us are important. In taking the coalesced aether, however little he thinks of it, Adan Whisperwick has laid the groundwork towards uniting his many enemies to a common cause. And that, I sincerely hope, will finally become his downfall. I'm trying to work with that end in mind, and not think of what will become of the coalesced aether afterwards. Not even if it might show me exactly where you are, because out of all possible users, I don't for a split second see myself as the likely or even most deserving cause. Best to view it as a shiny bauble, or like Farian as a threat to be contained. We will find him, Barton. And when we do, it's possible that he won't see us coming, for the distortion of the aetherite. Sweet Mystra, let it be so. And I will find you, one way or another. It's just that after my first burst of excitement had settled down, with my bag half packed and a letter of farewells already composing itself in my head, the cold chill of reality reasserted itself. Just because I know where you were headed doesn't mean that's where you are now, nor that you ever got there. Apparantly the redheaded bard doesn't know either, and not from lack of trying said Jhael. And I can't just march right into Zhentarim territory on my own either, without so much as a plan. I know you wouldn't want me to, not even if you're in the most horrendous of situations. I hope and pray that you aren't. Please, please Barton, please just be hiding out somewhere, dodging danger, waiting it out. Please hang in there, until I can think of an alternate plan, or at least give divining one last, proper go. That won't be possible til we've dealt with the Whisperwick situation, though. Farian's even offered help, but frustratedly admitted he's all but blind as things stand. Earlier tonight, I learnt that the tentative peace brokered by the Peltarchian agents has broken down, their king Thalaman apparantly rejecting Caleb's offer. What this means for things to come is, like all things future at the moment, entirely uncertain. It remains my hope that Whisperwick's loathsome self can become the rallying force between factions, even Peltarch's, because I feel certain we'll need it. My bag remains half full - I find I can't bring myself to unpack. I find myself staring at maps, plotting paths west, though for now and for whatever brief future I can foresee, here is where I shall remain. I miss you. Please be safe. Your sensible sister, Laura"

Sebrienne sends a consolation letter from High Hold regarding George’s death to Rey, Isolde, Aoth, Cormac and Perom. A separate letter goes to George’s fiancee aboard the Wisp. If she’s notified when and where, she attends the funeral. After the funeral, Meadow joins Captain Hrresh’s legion . Lia is heard to say, “Well that sucks. He was a nice guy”, and crosses his name from a list. Octavia doesn’t really know George, and unless word makes it to Moonreach, there’s no comment from her.

He'd been close to leaving the city behind him. He'd stopped at the Mermaid to take a drink for the road when he overheard the rumor, that Rifan Fairview had been arrested. One more stop before moving on he supposed as he finished his cup. "Aiding and abetting a criminal? You mean 'me'?", the question came out far darker than Cormac had intended. The smallish deputy across the table from him down at the city gaol seemed to shrink a bit, and nodded slowly in a non-verbal response after swallowing back whatever words he'd wisely decided not to offer. Cormac sneered, his blackened lips peeling back to an unkind snarl. He went on, however, calmly. "Look, I think the city has made a mistake here. The whole thing just seems a bit hrrhh... 'political', don't you think?" The young guard rose from his chair and circled the table, he leaned down and spoke rigidly to Cormac, presumably intent on laying out the 'law' of it. A comforting hand found its way onto Cormac's shoulder as the deputy went on to explain chummily. "...and that's what lead to your friend's arre--hrgk~!", three of the skald's fingers found their way into the young guard's mouth, pointer, middle, and ring. He considered curling his thumb up into the soft space under the boy's chin and yanking the entire mandible away from his face, but a thought ran through his mind like a bolt of lightning "what would Isolde think of that?", and he instead used his position to persuade the young man back down into his chair. "You're wasting my time. I hate when my time is wasted, I hate it when people touch me. So sit and listen. Whoever you're working for is trying to spit in my eye, and if they're not - they're trying to spit in Thalaman's eye and that pisses me off". Speaking through bared teeth, occasionally jostling the guard whose eyes had began to bulge and tear up, little retches that started off sounding dry and cracked had started to sound altogether 'wet' from the back of his throat. "But what really pisses me off", Cormac went on while wiping the guard's tears away tenderly with his free hand. "What really gets my goat, is that when word gets out about all of this, your citizens - the ones you're supposed to look after - are going to be divided. And the powers that be will manipulate that, and it'll be civil war all over again. And do you kno--" That was that, the end of talking. Finally, the guard's gag-reflex kicked in and he began to vomit uncontrollably. All over himself, all over the table, all over Cormac's hand and arm before he could pull back, and his chest, and boots. Both men stared at each other in shock, and disgust. The purple-red mess of wine and bread dripped off the table's edges. The guard heaved again, unable to hold it back, though little came out having purged all but his actual guts out into the little office room. The harsh noise of his dry-heaving brought in another pair of guards, who upon seeing the little room filled with what had to be assumed as blood and gore, each looked at one-another in wide-eyed horror before pointing their crossbows at the blood(wine)-soaked barbarian. Even as Cormac raised his hands and opened his mouth to try to explain the scene they began to shoot. A bolt sailed by harmlessly, the second sank into the front of his boot at the shin causing the big man to stumble down to one knee. Both of the crossbow wielding guards' eyes practically popped out their skulls, they again turned to one another and this time actually screamed aloud as the blood(wine)-drenched deputy rose like a pale-faced ghost from the back of the scene, Cormac - who was still trying to form the words to explain - heard the pat-pat of their boots on hard stone as they fled down the hall, oblivious to the deputy - and the raising of his baton. The way she laughed as she lead him by the hand made him smile. The hot sun baked his back, he ignored the possibility that he might burn and followed the perfect woman before him, as she guided him through a mid-summer field of tall grasses - all green, and gold. His eyes could pick out the silhouette of her perfect womans' shape through the fiery red curls that seemed to explode and radiate from her like a sun. The laugh. He felt her love, he'd never seen fingers so delicate and pink laced through his, pulling him onward. When she finally turned to face him the mid-summer sun turned her beautiful skin into a light far too bright for him to look at directly. He lusted. He was hers, in every way. He wondered in his unconscous mind if he was looking at Isolde, or Asha. But no; this one was too much, too perfect, she the closeness put his heart on the edge of breaking. The girl with fiery hair made him feel like a teenager. He buzzed with excitement, with feelings that went beyond mere lust. The starry, popping-candy feeling that can only be felt by those who are young, and in love. Her red hair seemed to trail all the way down, past her knees, and curled. But there were no bits of grass or pieces of 'anything' in her hair, save for the few wildflowers that he suspected were there on purpose more than by accident. Even the sight of her slender wrist was, to him, poetry. He'd spend the rest of his life with her. He knew it. This woman, this stranger... The woman leaned to him, her breath hot - he could feel it against his cheek - inviting, sensual, scented like mint or clove, or something morish that made him want to press his lips to hers. Her breathy laugh made his body tingle. He leaned toward her, she whispered, her lips came close; he felt a soft moan of relief building in his throat as their mouthes came close. Her whispered words finally forming in his mind, articulating, being acknowledged as sound. The kiss that hit him came in the form of a bucketful of water that splashed on his face. The voice, the gruff, rusty sound of an old gaoler that rattled from the pit of his belly in a cancerous wheeze. "RANDOLPH! VISITOR". The dream was gone. What came next might be sobering...

Desolation George’s body lay on the temple floor, covered in a bloody cloth. She saw and heard little after the priestess announced sadly that there was no soul to return. She held his lifeless hand and was dimly aware of Cormac’s anger, Isolde’s comforting hand, Perom’s crying, and Rey’s pacing and talking. It was all so distant … and meaningless. George had been her salvation. He had admired her talents, smiled when she beat him in chess for the umpteenth time, and watched her proudly learning new things. He had seen beauty absent in the eyes of so many others. A new child on the way. A life together. A rare love she hadn’t thought she deserved. All of it gone. She had seen countless deaths before. Most were inconsequential. A few had meaning. This one took away anything that truly mattered. She let go of George’s hand and rose smoothly. She ducked a hand on her shoulder and ignored the voices as they faded behind her. The rain fell on her as she exited the temple and turned south. The noise of Peltarch faded behind her as she walked, habitually moving from darkness to shadow, staying out of sight. Her feet took her steadily, past the Tempus shrine along the empty road. Hours later, another shrine coalesced in the dim moonlight. The shrine to Hoar was a testament to the Eastlanders who had lived here long before she was born. It stood quietly in unkempt disrepair. Ignored by most everyone since the Eastlanders had been all but wiped from the Nars … until now. She knelt before the shrine on the wet leaves and grass, reminded that George had turned her away from such things. That she had embraced Helm and what he stood for. That she had abandoned her past to be with him forever. A small flick of an adamantine blade cut her hand. Blood dripped onto the shrine. A prayer she learned in Unther played upon her lips. She would have vengeance, and she knew with grim satisfaction that Isolde would not want to be in the room when it was given to her.

Adan Whisperwick Physical Description: A middle-aged human man bedecked in crimson and mahogany silks carries himself with all the comportment of a high-level noble: indifferent, aloof, and better than you. It is clear. At least, that he thinks so. Evident in both the calculations of his eyes and the faint drawl of his tone. Visible upon his person are his various belongings. They include numerous wands, scrolls, tomes, an enchanted satchel, and that is all without mention of the palpable air of magical barriers that surround him. Public Knowledge: Unscrupulous and proud, Adan Whisperwick is the quintessential independent mage. Lord of a hidden tower veiled in a presumed pocket plane, collector of artifacts, tomes, and scrolls, and wielder of potent and rare magic. He is utterly unconcerned by his status as the enemy of various groups, affiliates, and organizations. So much so that he is rumored to have more than once explicitly dared his adversaries to try find and kill him. He has as many enemies as he does allies. That is in all walks of life, from other mages, warlords, and other noble interests, to hobgoblins, trolls, ogres and anyone else who might serve his immediate agenda, whatever that may be from time to time. He was once a member of the Caldera Manor. That was before he turned on the Manor at an opportune moment, during the recent falling meteorite in the Province of Moonreach. He is now or at least once was the rumored possessor of the coalesced aether. He has made enemies of the Cambion Sorcerer Kzagoth, the Locus Operandi, more recently the Golden Geese, and was explicitly banished from Moonreach Keep. At the same time, he has allied himself with the Renegade Peltarch Defenders under the command of the former Lieutenant Rixx, as well as with Olivia Gor and her former Cleimant bannermen. Thematic Music: Magocracy.

Intercity Correspondence Marpenoth 25/10/24 (One week following the letter sent to Priador) From: Marai Agnneh To: "A Sepret" To "A Sepret," Name the unexpected place where we might expect to pray together. -- Sarad, Agnneh Banneret, on behalf of Marai Agnneh. [DM Xanatos Gambit]

After consulting with some of her more diplomatically minded confidants, and after the recent Dreamwalking with King Thalaman, Reyhenna has the following missive delivered to Moonreach Keep. To the Cleimant Council of Moonreach Keep, With our recent victory over the Zhentarim, we wish to avoid further bloodshed on either side. To that effect, I am presently marching to Moonreach Keep to settle the disagreement between your Council and the Jewel of the Icelace. -Elizabeth Fisher