After several sleepless nights due to work this week, I am in no shape to run a finale tomorrow, unfortunately. I will still be around but the Xoeth Bellos raid will unfortunately again be postponed. Please accept my apologies for the delay.

Laura's slumped face-first across her desk, into a dubiously cushioning pile of ancient star-charts. Her fingers are smudged with ink and yet her boots are muddy, a dusty cloak flung across a chair and her spellchain in a crumpled heap on the floor. Nox, still perched like a watchful sphinx on the box of mercurial quicksilver, regards the room and his human with a certain degree of forebearance, like a parent would a messy child that they know is trying very hard. Eventually stirring, Laura sits upright, glasses slanted across her nose. She rubs fingers against her eyes, creating an blue-tinged panda effect that she's quite unaware of, reaching for her work before a look of near despair fills her weary eyes. Instead, she reaches for the top drawer of her desk, pulls out fresh stationary and writes: "Barton! I need to get this off my chest, but for once I can't talk to any of my friends and while it's awkward to imagine you ever reading these words, it'll just have to be written for you - for who else can I count on to always at least love me even when I'm being ridiculous? The siege and confrontation with Whisperwick's coming - I've prepared in every way I can, burning the candle at both ends with study and honing of my combat magic. While exhausting work, I do feel like my mind's expanded and just in time, too. It's still nowhere near enough to match Adan Whisperwick, so the other preparations we've made feel just as necessary as they did when we arduously aquired those sussur blooms. Anti-magic, Barton - it's very scary. But what about this situation isn't? I'm afraid of so many things going wrong, not least of which our own dividing opinions. When I consider the risk of Whisperwick utilizing our presence to 'harvest' his precious ingredients, my gut clenches. But for all that, it's something else that I can't stop thinking about, endlessly and uselessly, again and again and again. I met Astrologer Farian on the roof of the Keep, some nights ago. It was shortly after he'd fallen out with Ashla and Aen, shortly after I was forced to play unwilling gatekeeper to this awful chest that Nox is considerate enough to still be guarding. I still felt terrible about it all, but Farian said not to worry on his regard. I needn't defend him and end up in conflict with my friends, I was still a good student. We touched upon the subject of the mercurial quicksilver in discussing Whisperwick's goals - we'd both tried and both failed to divine the substance's past through Legend Lore. It's a static-filled blur, but Aen and Ashla's glimpsed visions seem to me to be clear pieces of that puzzle, fitting chillingly well in. 'I think he's trying to replicate the creation of it', I said, adding that this knowledge is one of the few I'd agree best stay forgotten. Knowledge is like a sword, Farian countered. It's the wielding of it that's dangerous. And I agree, I do agree except I can so easily fathom reaching for that knowledge myself, thinking I could save someone I love with it. Perhaps not so far as to sacrifice another life for it - but when I think of Loke's desperation towards her sister, I can envision a good person doing terrible things with this same knowledge in hand. I wish I'd told him that. I wish I'd argued harder or that I'd said nothing when he paused, hesitating. I should've waited it out and let him speak. But no - I prattled on, filled the void with some meaningless phrase or other, because that pause sent flutters of nervousness throughout me. Now, I can't stop thinking about it, because ever since that night, Farian's been a decisive no-show in the library or even the halls of Moonreach Keep. I tell myself he's busy preparing for the siege, and that could be it. But what, then, was his hesitation about? Is he planning something he knows is dangerous or even questionable, something he thinks necessary to survive the ordeal ahead? Is he trying to learn the secret of mercurial quicksilver for himself, even? I know it intrigues him, yet at the same time he's not like Whisperwick, neither in that his field of interest lies towards transmutation nor, and most importantly, with regards to morality. Farian's detached, certainly - that's how most arcanists are trained to think, how he's clearly accustomed to function and view the world - but he ~does~ care. I know so. He waited for me by the roadside when I left for Peltarch, to say goodbye with kinder words than any other mentor's ever given me. He stormed up to Caldera Manor, when thinking Jhael and I were in peril, to demand our safe return. He scried us endlessly when we nearly died in Whisperwick's ambush at the aetherite impact spot. He always makes us tea, when we return to the library after a rough outing. This last part sounds like it's small, but to me it's those little kindnesses that matter. I feel like all of us have begun seeping through the cracks of the wall of indifference Farian's put up against the world. If so, wouldn't he actually have been quite hurt to be so called into question? I hesitated too, upon our parting on the rooftop, thinking this last thing. He's always seemed to thrive being on his own, but suddenly he struck me as lonely. I wanted to reach out, in some simple way reassure him that he wasn't, that he didn't need to be. My hand was half-way towards his arm to give it a pat, a squeeze, something, when I rethought that plan. Why would I try to console my mentor, wouldn't that be both inappropriate and strangely condescending? Wouldn't a gesture like that mean I thought of us as friends, or that I'd fallen into that age old trap of developping romantic feelings towards my teacher? The idea that he'd think either of these things true and disapprove of it gave me fright, but Barton, my hand wouldn't stop! I still reached out and then I didn't know WHAT to do with my hand. So I spied a piece of lint on his cloak and plucked that off. He looked at my hand and then at me, but said nothing. And now I can't stop thinking about THAT, either. Way to make it weird, Laura! Uuughhh. I know there's so many more important things to worry about than my own weirdness, but my mind still goes there, still nags and twists and turns that encounter around and around. Whispering that I should've done something more, something less, spoken other words, more freely, from the heart. Should I just have tried to be his friend in that moment, without fear of being rejected, because maybe that's what he needed? My mind's churning and the half-glimpsed scenarios it paints of what's to come are all terrible. That huge crucifix Whisperwick's cronies made off with, giant manacles and chains. Our anti-magic defence relies to a large part on him 'not' bringing a lot of backup, or the likes of myself, Jhael and Loke are in distinct trouble. Will the blossoms even make it to the show-down? What about the belladonna, should I get on with making those throwable flask 'bombs' or rather arrange traps around the chamber, taking Feowem up on his offer to assist? Questions, what-if this and what-if thats keep my mind reeling and time, by now, is running very short. Will all of us really make it through this alive and without falling apart, one way or the other? I'm trying to pretend that you're here, or that whereever you are, you're fine. But I can't, my thoughts are scattered in a million directions, chasing these what-ifs and why-didn't-you's to absolutely no avail. Farian promised that once this was over, he'd use the best of Moonreach's facilities to help me find you. But will he still be here, once the dust settles? Your fretful sister, Laura"

In light of the Locus Operandi's inquiries into Whisperwick's potential ulterior motives, the Locus has isolated what they believe to be Whisperwick's true target: pristine mercurial quicksilver, a rare magical component, located in a hidden chamber in the crumbled tunnels beneath the Keep. Thus the Locus has prepared and set up for their part to play in the defense of Moonreach Keep. See the event thread for additional details. [DM Xanatos Gambit]

Updates to Adan Whisperwick.

Funeral of Berlinne Toews

The rain pours down on slate roofs and cobblestone streets. And endless onslaught of tapping on windows and merchant baldakins, each a gentle whisper on its own, coming together to create a continuous roar of sound that overpowers conversations indoors. And that is where the conversations are held, with all but the poorest and foolhardiest finding shelter. Conversations that drift also among the halls of the Lighthouse Temple. Conversations between novices, orphans, priests and faithful. From the altars of the mightiest, to the shrines of those all but forgotten. The figure of a young man stands before the shrine of Amaunator. His slashed and patterned clothes sporting vivid shades of red, orange, gold and white. Proud and disciplined, he seems pensive more than praying, though he might have started with the latter. His hands clasped behind his back, and his gaze on a horizon that isn't there. "Who are you to let anyone burn in your stead, George Longcloak?" His own voice had echoed through his mind, day after day. The eternal reminder that his strength and upbringing obliged him to act. It had been caused by the bitter taste of the revelation his second capture at Whisperwick's hand had brought. Whisperwick had hinted at it. Escaping the cell had revealed much of it to be true. His soul was burning up, and it was indeed finite. So the wizard had said. And he had somehow spread the curse to others, burning their souls in his stead to stave off his own demise. The wizard, then, had sped up the process, hoping to create more like him. More of his "power source". It had seemed true. He had started to recall dreams and memories of others. Men and women, all haunted by the fire. If this was the same thing May Celine "knew" about him, he could understand her hatred of him. Her fear of what he might do. If he did not control it, he might burn all the world to save himself. All the world? All the planes. Aoth had made it clear even water itself feared his fire. Of course, every explanation he had gotten about what was happening to him had been someone else's interpretation. None had the full picture, and what they knew was tinted by their desires or fears. By now he had learned the wizard was wrong... or lying... but he wasn't sure if that was better or worse. He was not certain if what he knew now was the whole truth, either. He had not been leeching off the souls of others. All those others were his soul. Shattered. Scattered about. Little seeds of him sown by the Star, in an effort to spread the Devastating Fire ever farther. Men and women who exhibited traits of him. His conviction. His bravado. His zest for life. His protectiveness. He had gathered two, by now. One was a farmer, and a beacon to his community. That one had eventually relented and seen wisdom, stepping closer and going up in flames and smoke. His children had not, though. The man could not have existed for more than a handful of years, but the life he left behind seemed as real as his own. So what of the children? If the man was part of him, were the children as well? They'd not disappeared with the man. Were they his responsibility? How terrified they had been, seeing their father burn out of existence. So had the man's friends. He had been unable to ease their loss. Isolde has assured him they would be watched, but he himself would never be able to set that right. The other had reminded him of the boy he'd been. All swagger and baseless confidence. Quick to see an insult, even quicker to throw down a glove. That one had not relented, so hells bent on making a name for itself by snuffing out George Longcloak... Much as he had snuffed out a dozen others. All tiny embers returning to a larger flame. The man had charged, and he stood his ground to give him the fight he wanted, at least. There was no fight. Just consternation and disbelief on the man's face as the flames took him. So certain that he'd been the one. That part worried him, now. The younger embers joined the roaring older flame. No fight, no struggle. It simply happened. The farmer's family and friends had acted as though the man had always been there. The fighter's friends had thought the man had been untouchable. What if he was wrong? What if he was not the oldest? The way Whisperwick had said he was not sure if -he- had survived the explosion. Perhaps he was just another minor flame. When had he become this? When had the Star taken these embers from them and spread them around? It made little difference, in the end. Either he found the rest of his soul, or he would burn out. If his was not the original fire, he still belonged to it. Either he became whole, or he'd never have a body again. Having the others return to him had at least made his form more solid. Less fiery. His clothes and armor still hinted at fire, of course, and flames still escaped him at times, but it was a start. Just in time for the next thing. He should have known it had been too easy. Her just disappearing could not have been the end of it. He didn't even bring her name to mind. Let alone her... visage... She stirred, though. Even now. Even as a ghost bound in a stone, he was haunted by her. On the plus side, that meant her presence was not a corporeal ailment. The downside? All the implications of it not being a corporeal ailment. He realized the reason she stirred should, by all acounts, worry him more than she did, but he felt... Oddly prepared to face the judgement of the gods. Because that was what it came down to. The lands of Narfell, and possibly beyond, were considered a problem. Isolde loved to scoff at the notion because she detested order of any kind, but the Primes are what they are. A delicate balance of Planar influences coming together and making mortal life possible. This is why he never could truly fault Isolde. He knew he gravitated towards law and order. So there needed to be at least a whirlwind of a bard to balance him out. Deny it all you like, but pulling it too far one way or the other would irreparably damage reality itself. And it just so happened that this sort of thing happened worryingly often in their home. The Inevitables wanted it purged. Just how wide the area was, was not known. Half of Faerûn, for all they knew. They'd received a warning from a group of angels that technically could not act, but whose goodly nature demanded action. They had convinced the Inevitables to leave judgement in the hand of the gods, then came to Toril to warn the heroes of Narfell that they would have to speak for their home. It was daunting, yes, but fitting. Let the people of Narfell who faced that past, who face that present and who face that undeniable future be the ones to explain the error in these planars' thinking. For himself, a new path had made itself clear. The archon Bastilla had mentioned a trumpet archon that might know of a way to deal with the voice in his head. Though perhaps he would have to tolerate it a bit longer, while he pulled himself together.

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.

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...