The following notes are available to all of the Locus Operandi: "Quicksilver Research: Farian, having modified the lid of the lockbox to allow transparancy and a small degree of transference, had myself and L study the contents. I began by testing whether the reaction we noticed the first time the box was opened was in response to heat sources or specifically living beings. As I placed my hand upon the lid, the liquid silver pulsed and glowed. Its shifting mirror-liquid began to meld and mould itself into a small pillar, as though reaching up towards my hand. By contrast, when summoning a small amount of fire of an equivalent warmth and proximity, the quicksilver simply remained a shifting puddle, neither inert nor reaching upwards. Next, with the visions of the past described by Aen and Ashla in mind, I theorized that the quicksilver might respond to moonlight. An artificial source of that was provided by Farian, and as the moonlight began to glow; the quicksilver within the lockbox began to glow aswell, both gleaming a vivid, pale blue.The quicksilver rippled rapidly at the glow; reflecting the artificial moonlight exceptionally well, and becoming visibly thinner and more dispersed. A study of the arcana in effect revealed the expected - a potent aura of transmutation, yet upon close scrutiny I could detect faint traces of transmutation too, thin as spider silk. L proceeded with the first of several alchemical reagent tests thereafter, beginning with moonstone powder. The quicksilver immediately began to crawl towards the moonstone powder, over it, lingering and rippling before finally retracting into itself, pooling out and thinning. This dispersal or thinning is clearly an indication of a greater degree of receptiveness - of malleability to modifications, using and merging it with other components through magic. Both moonlight and moonstone, then, works akin to a forge, if you'll forgive the somewhat crude analogy. The effect, in both cases, appears to last only for a few minutes, though I'll note that the artificial moonlight fading could be a factor in the first case. The aqua fortis thereafter, a highly acidic reagent, sizzled and began to dissolve the quicksilver - there was a harsh hissing sound, followed by acrid smoke, as the quicksilver immediately leaped to the other side of the box. The smoke is toxic, Farian cautioned. Salt, next - a sprinkle of it ontop of the quicksilver caused a similar reaction to the above, though milder and perhaps somewhat less hazardous to ones health - I still wouldn't recommend breathing in the fumes without a protective mask. Considering Aen's vision of (presumably) proto-Selunite experimentation on lycans, a tentative theory of mine was that the liquid silver was somehow infused with the essence of such a creature. If so, I reasoned that belladonna, while normally not used for alchemical purposes, would cause the quicksilver to recoil. Perhaps a less toxic means of containment, I thought, and so sprinkled a fine circle of belladonna powder around the glob of quicksilver. It rippled and shrank into a smaller blob, as though to avoid the encircling belladonna - exactly the sort of recoiling I was hoping for. I then poured the powder directly on top, and the quicksilver's mirror-like fluid stopped rippling, slowing down and thickening into a solid sort of gelly, almost like a brick. Attempting to use it in that form would be very difficult, I'd wager. L performed two final tests, one of red stardust, the other of alum. Both reagents caused a burst, a spark of flame and light respectively, against the grey brick. Despite the vivid ignitions, the brick remained solid and wholly unresponsive, however. Our studies concluded that the liquid silver is a very potent, very versatile and highly reactive reagent, and can be made to hold almost any shape you need. Whether the substance itself was discovered or created, we cannot say - but it seems highly likely that the proto-Selunites present in this region used it for experiments. Just what Whisperwick intends to use it for remains unknown, but his known works to date include infusing goblins with fieldish traits and creating that terrible, maddened Cambion clone for harvesting for parts. All this rather does fall into his general field of interest. I find it difficult to imagine he'd use it on himself though - so either he will bring his subject or subjects to the quicksilver chamber below, or, and I really hope I'm wrong, he's counting on us to bring ... well. Ourselves. -Laura Cade"

In view of the errors in the original post, plus discussions with people who are under the gun with work commitments, and to give people a proper chance to plan, this event will be postponed until February 7, 2026. The original post has been updated.

Huddled into a blanket and with her feet up to avoid the chill draft on the floor, Laura sits by her desk, her research scattered into more or less structured heaps and clusters. The subject of aetherite takes pride of place, alongside studies into a strange thread she's dubbed "Planar Spool" and various calculations attempting to pinpoint Adan Whisperwick's location. Or rather locations, for one revolves around a pocket plane, marked as 'Primary' while another's pinned to the southermost region of Moonreach province, dubbed 'Secondary (one of many)'. Nox is a black pretzel of fur, faintly purring on the bed in a tangle of yet more blankets while Laura writes: "Dearest Barton, It's clear to me that for as long as the aetherite's influence remains, I'll have no real chance of finding you even with Moonreach's best divination at my disposal. Though Farian views it as a menace and continues to be openly frustrated at his abilities being so hampered, I find the subject fascinating. I'd love to study the aetherite close at hand, but as that's hardly an available option, its influence is the next best thing. Though proximity likely enhances the effect, I've ascertained that the impact site itself and a radius of thus far undefined size (but huge, encompassing all of this northern region) is saturated with the effect of the aetherite. Divination is in flux, which interestingly enough affects not only present and future, but also the past. In fact, I've found that the magical fallout, light as raindrops or even mist on the surface and more substantial going down into the earth, has the ability to open pockets or windows into the past. Presumably in those same places, and not entirely at random it seems. I saw you, after all. Right there, on the stairs leading up to the great hall, clutching a wound to your side with a grunt, with Feowem beside you. You'd just returned from a delve into the dungeon below, and the simple everyday nature of the scene clenched my heart. Not some grand happening, this - you and Feowem were no different from me and my friends, adventuring and gathering riches below. The jibes back and forth between you made me smile - the tone rough, but with friendship written in between the lines. I'd assumed Feowem your friend, but his warning words at times made me wonder if you'd still been lonely, brooding on your own. This scene reassured, despite your bloodied state. Then Dorron stomped up the stairs to join you. Dorron, heartily alive and very human, a light in his eyes. Feowem teased you about your mystery pen pal, giving the entirely wrong guess in presuming a girlfriend. The boisterous laugh Dorron gave saw Feowem's lips quirk into a wry smile, while you grumped and likened him to Henry. I can kind of see why! It was a simple but heartwarming scene, though fraught with underlying sorrow for the future that neither of you could foresee then. I wanted to reach out and hold time still, in that bubble where no calamity had yet befallen you or Dorron, but the moment passed and you were gone. My friends related other visions, both personal and not, scattered throughout time but each seeming somewhat related to their own spheres of interest. I should make a notice board like with the Cerebrelith, for each one to write what they saw on the board, shouldn't I? Though it's probably quicker to write it myself, based on what I heard, I worry that things will be lost in translation, as it were. Best I don't bore you with ALL of that here, though. We're chasing these pockets of past, mostly for the opportunity they bring to glimpse the aetherite's real location after the vision's played out - though you probably know full well that I'd still risk life and limb for the chance to look into the past, no benefit added but the scholarly value. It's fascinating and a unique opportunity that I'd be even more enthusiastic about, were it not for the pressing situation we face regarding Whisperwick and his allies - the latter are, as I write this, preparing to lay siege to Moonreach. Presumably to rescue Rixx, whom we captured recently, but each side seems to have their own motives. Whisperwick himself definitely has his own agenda, which likely is nothing to do with taking Moonreach, anymore than it was Caldera Manor. And though I ran into him on my lonesome in the Abbey, both of us possibly on a search for the same type of source material, he claims even taking the aetherite was nothing but convenience, an opportunistic grab for scrying cover. Which begs the question of what he is ~really~ up to. It was so surreal, standing there side by side in the remnants of the Abbey's library, browsing like we were just two normal scholars going at our day's work. He could so easily have killed me, yet made no such move. If I hadn't been so nervous, I'd have tried to ask more probing questions, or at least replied with more bite and well reasoned arguments! He even condescended to giving me 'helpful' advice about what a proper mage should do for defence, such as Clone and other contingencies I'm nowhere ~near~ capable of. Said it wouldn't be sporting if I were so ill prepared as now. Damn him for acting like some kind of unasked for mentor - after what he did to Caldera Manor and everything! Discounting my frazzled nerves and humiliation, I came away from the Abbey with two books of potential interest - one by a bard, seemingly not quite about my subject matter but bards often have a broad view I find can be rewarding. The other, unearthed from a collapsed section of the shelves after Whisperwick's departure, needs more restoration til I dare so much as touch the pages. I hope I have time for it. Who needs sleep, right? Your busy-bee sister, Laura"

Three days remain. Aoth receives and learns the following: (1) Letter response. A letter response from Sarad, Banneret of Agnneh, which reads, curtly, simply, and tersely: "We will attend and expect you at the Sunscourge Qasr, on your set date." (2) Dragon scouting. The birds/messengers Aoth has sent off to find Bennek's blue dragon have returned, and indicated there is no sign of it. Not in the dunes, not around the Bellos estate, not anywhere in the region, at all. That is despite Bennek being reported as being present at the Bellos estate. (3) Travel arrangements. You do find a small, isolated oasis, near Bellos' estate. Though small and isolated, it should offer the necessary vegetation in the form of a single acacia tree, to enable travel via plants. In addition to the above, you have recently acquired a map from Adan Whisperwick's goblin servant, which marks the following: (4) Zug'grul's location. Zug'grul is being held far north of Bellos estate, among a ruin that apparently makes part of the various compounds and facilities controlled by Lord Bellos. Your messenger birds (mentioned above) report that this compound is far less guarded than the main Bellos Estate. [DM Xanatos Gambit]

"Bring your blade," she softly spoke. Her voice was a gentle rustle, barely above the faint crunch of steps against the litter of withered golden leaves among the graveyard garden. Leaves which had shed from her hair's canopy of foliage, past her skin of moss and bark. "Will I need it?" asked Bertram. He watched her water the flowers. They were soft, curled, and yellowing. Their colour more faded than the shock of blonde hair which draped the young man's forehead, barely concealing eyes that followed the arc of water. "You might," she replied. Her eyes rose to meet his, irises beginning to shimmer with amber. ★ ★ ★ "Leave or die ... Ten seconds, then I strike!" threatened the man. Initially, the adversary was exactly as Bertram had expected. It was him. The one he was warned about. The man wrought in iron, more metal than flesh. From helm to greave, covered in dark gray armor. The man who had encroached into the forest, the enchanted borderland between the civilizations of men and women and what they called the Weald, but which Bertram called home. Bertram should have loathed him. Here was the one who cut a jagged path through Bertram's home. The man who swung his toxic sword at Bertram's friends, who drove the forest into hiding and who stole bits and pieces of the tree and flower folk. Bertram expected a man who held no love, no reverence or awe for older ways. A blind and stupid man, shunning a beauty he could not perceive. Bertram arrived well warned and prepared for a fight. That is, should he have encountered this strange man. An encounter in the middle of which Bertram now very clearly was. Bertram thought he might at least leave the man bloodied, with a warning to step aside and not interfere with Bertram's work here or ever, and to more generally stay clear of the Weald. The man's open hostility should have all but confirmed Bertram's resolve. Yet Bertram's resolve began to fade at the mere sight and sound of the man. It was not upon the iron greaves, nor the iron armor, the helm or shield or blade that Bertram focused. Nor was it on the substance of the man's shouts and threats, those specific words used or the volume of the shouting. Rather, it was upon the man's eyes. Past the visor. Past their blue, wet, and flickering orbs. Past the hostility seething in the man's stare. More than wrath, hate, or malice... more than anything, the man was afraid. The iron-wrought man's fear became palpable when his voice cracked. The near-choke sound of faltering, when he spoke of the one Bertram was here to meet and escort. When he asked Bertram if he was "here to take her away." The woman named Muriel. Muriel, whose voice Bertram barely heard call out the name of his adversary from somewhere past the cottage window: "Darian?" By now Bertram's resolve to fight had faded entirely. Harsh gusts raked the meadow's tall grass, before calming to stillness and quiet. The sky parted, and bright light washed over the field between Muriel's cottage and the Weald, and over the two men. The parting sun shone but for a moment, swiftly followed by a gray veil, as another thick cloud swept over. "Her time's come ... hasn't it?" began Bertram, as gently as he could. Darian stepped forward, assuming a battle-stance. His eyes wild. His ears obviously shut. "She is poorly of mind and body. Is she not? She must away with me," continued Bertram all the same, and quickly this time. Now it was his turn to to hesitate. Darian stepped forward. Bertram stepped back. Darian threw aside his shield. He gripped his blade with both hands. His hostility and forewarning by now all too clear. "I don't want to fight you," hissed Bertram, the pump of his heart growing harsher and the hairs on the back of his neck beginning to prickle and stand on end. But iron flashed. Darian’s sword was already mid-swing, a blur of violence fast coming Bertram's way. Bertram barely cleared his bronze blade from its scabbard for a frantic, clattering parry that had him reeling. His heels dug furrows into the earth. Their swords clattered and clashed again and again, each time ringing louder than the last. The shriek of bronze against iron drowned out any other sound, and neither man could hear the cries coming from inside Muriel's cottage.

Richard Gale reports that the letter was successfully delivered to the King's' personal Kingsguard, who have reported that he has well received it. There is no response. [DM Xanatos Gambit]

The dream opens with crowd-noise, a low murmur that never resolves into language. Aenhever is inside it, shoulder to shoulder with silver and blue robed silhouettes whose faces he cannot quite focus on. Their hoods form a living wall, a ring of intent. Incense and old iron foul the air. No one acknowledges him, yet he knows they are aware he is there. At the center of the circle stands the scaffold. Iron struts rise like ribs around his other body, his lycan form, stretched and fixed in place. Not nailed, not bound, but held, as if the metal itself has decided he belongs there. Moonlight pours down in a cold, surgical column, turning fur to silver and shadow to ink. The moon is too close. It watches. Aenhever feels the posture of crucifixion in his own muscles, though he does not move. Every breath of the werewolf’s chest tightens his lungs. Every tremor of strain crawls up his spine. The dream does not let him forget that this body is his. Chants begin... not loud, but synchronized. Each voice slots into place like a cog, and the ritual turns. Figures step forward one at a time. Some wear obscure sigils of blasphemy. Others bear arcane staves etched with runes that itch to look at. Their tools are varied - blades, hooks, crystal phials, but they all move with the same practiced reverence. They do not rush. When the first piece is taken, Aenhever gasps, though no sound leaves his throat. Pain arrives not as a spike, but as a translation, as if his nerves are being rewritten into another language. Something essential is removed, and the absence burns more than the taking ever could. The cultist withdraws, holding what was once inseparable from him, now reduced to component. It does not stop. They harvest with care, selecting, preserving. Each removal is accompanied by a whispered annotation, a note in an invisible ledger. Blood is not spilled so much as collected. Strength, ferocity, regeneration, the curse itself, each is treated as a resource to be extracted and repurposed. Aenhever feels himself growing less. Fading. His claws are gone. He still feels them flex. His teeth are gone. His jaw aches with phantom pressure. His body remains alive, breathing, enduring, because the ritual demands it. Pain is the conduit. Consciousness is the anchor. Then the chanting changes. The scaffold is no longer the focus. Across the ritual space, something else waits, half-hidden by arcane signs and containment circles. A shape that cannot settle on a single outline. As the harvested remnants are carried away, Aenhever’s vision is dragged with them, like his awareness is being pulled by a hook. He watches the second working begin. The pieces, his pieces, and others he does not recognize, are laid out and fused through spellcraft that ignores natural order. Where something does not fit, it is forced. Where there is conflict, magic overrules reality. Flesh knits to scale. Bone reshapes. Essence is stitched into essence. The thing on the slab twitches as it grows. It has too many silhouettes layered over one another: antler-shadow, wing-shadow, something serpentine coiling where a spine should be. Eyes open in places eyes were never meant to exist, each reflecting moonlight with borrowed hunger. When it inhales, Aenhever feels the echo in his own chest, and realizes, with cold clarity, that it is using his breath. The cultists rejoice quietly. This is not ecstasy. This is completion. One of them turns, just slightly, and for a moment Aenhever thinks they are looking directly at him in the crowd. The figure raises a hand in acknowledgment, not of his presence, but of his contribution. The chimera lifts its head. It knows him. The dream does not end. It tightens. The crowd parts without sound, and Aenhever finds himself no longer merely watching but noticed. The scaffold turns slowly, inexorably, until what remains of the lycanthrope faces him directly. There are no eyes. Not ruined, not damaged, simply absent, as if sight was never intended for this thing. The face is a map of exposed intent rather than flesh, every contour defined by the remaining tension of exposed muscle, and strained sinew instead of skin. No ears to hear the chanting but oozing holes, yet it listens. No teeth to snarl, yet its jaw works as if remembering violence. The blood-painted mouth opens in a silent shape that might once have been his name. And still - It looks at him. Aenhever feels the gaze lock onto his own, not through vision but through recognition. This is not a monster begging for mercy. This is not a victim seeking rescue. This is a mirror, stripped of all disguises. The thing on the scaffold leans forward as far as the iron will allow. Metal groans in protest. Moonlight fractures across its ruined form, and for a heartbeat the dream offers him an impossible truth: This is what remains when everything is taken; when strength is reduced to memory, when identity is carved into components, when survival itself becomes a curse with no function. The lycanthrope’s chest rises. Aenhever’s chest rises with it. Then pain detonates, He wakes screaming into silence. Fire floods his veins, not warmth but combustion, as if his blood has decided to punish him for continuing to exist. Sweat pours from him in sheets, each drop scalding hot as it leaves his skin it seems, only to turn glacial the moment it touches air. He convulses between burning and freezing, teeth chattering while his muscles cramp with heat-sickness. The bed beneath him is soaked. The room smells of iron and ash that are not there. Every nerve insists something is missing. His hands curl, half-expecting claws that do not come. His jaw aches with the memory of a bite he cannot make. His back arches, searching for weight that should be pulling him apart. The moonlight through the window feels accusatory, like a witness who has not finished testifying. He presses a hand to his chest and feels a heartbeat, fast, panicked, stubborn. Alive. Still alive. But the pregnant question claws at him harder than the pain ever could: How much more of this sickness can he endure before endurance itself becomes complicity? Because somewhere, in a place the world insists does not exist, something stitched together with stolen strength has taken its first breath... ...and it remembers him. "Do you ever rest", she'd asked. Aenhever considered his answer, the words caught in his throat - he wanted to sound clever. Truly, he was terrified. "I take it where I can get it."

Updated 2025-12-08.

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.

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).

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.