FreemasonGamer

Because of exceedingly poor internet the past week or so that's made communicating through Steam nearly impossible, not to mention life being physically and emotionally exhausting during that time as well, I'll be taking a break from C2B to get my bearings. It eats me up thinking that my unannounced inactivity might have brought the RP to a grinding halt; so, please carry on without me. I'll be sure to let you all know when I'm able to continue.

I am flesh and I am bone Rise up,ting ting, like glitter and gold I've got fire in my soul Rise up, ting ting, like glitter Like glitter and gold There was a slight bounce in Morgan's gait as he wandered through the parking lot of C2Believe's headquarters, the said bounce attuned to the tempo of Barns Courtney's song playing softly in his earbuds. Having paid and seen off the taxi that had brought him there mere moments ago, he figured there was nothing else keeping him from finally heading over the black expanse of asphalt to the glistening building where the beta testers were told to meet at the given time, which was still maybe tens of minutes away. Even though his could have checked the time on his phone or watch, Morgan trusted his internal clock when it said he was earlier than he should be, and being early didn't mean much to him one way or another. At the very least, arriving early meant he wouldn't be late. He noticed two others loitering in the lobby, though he didn't think much of them as he wordlessly passed through the glass doors. Doing what he always did, Morgan kept his gaze low and averted from the others, yet he still caught as many glimpses as he could out of the corner of his vision. One of them, a man, was dauntingly tall and had an intimidating stature about him, almost reminding Morgan of his brothers. Shivering at the comparison, the man sat himself down on one of the available benches in the deserted lobby, adjusted his cap, and whipped out his smartphone to give his hands something to do. Do you walk in the meadow of spring? Do you talk to the animals? Do you hold their lives from a string? Do you ponder the manner of things In the dark The dark, the dark, the dark From where he sat, he continued observing his fellow beta testers as discreetly as he could manage, never turning his head too far in their direction. The lady of the two, unlike her companion, had a very mousey presence in comparison, and her appearance struck Morgan as some sort of schoolgirl. He frankly didn't know what he was expecting of his fellow video gamers, but this lot was a striking surprise; Morgan had honestly anticipated the likes of the stereotypical basement-dweller. Nevertheless, he swallowed quietly and lowered the volume of his music so he could catch any of their conversation, and he was both relieved yet disappointed to overhear only the smallest of small talk. Morgan almost felt uncomfortable with his own lurking, evasive demeanor with the other beta testers, if he was honest with himself. However, he had very little idea how to engage in any sort of conversation with them. How old were they? They looked young, maybe in their early twenties, which made Morgan feel old. What had qualified them to be beta testers? Hell, Morgan couldn't even answer that question for himself. Finally, he sat up and decided to at least make an effort to socialize, turning his full attention to the pair. "Hello," Morgan greeted with a smile, pocketing his earbuds as he measured every movement and carefully contempalted each word, "So... I was expecting more people, beta testers or at least someone to meet us at the door. I'm Morgan."

Name: Morgan Barnes Gender: Male Age: 29 Physical appearance: Standing at 6' exactly with a slender frame, peachy complexion peppered with freckles, dirty blonde mess of hair, and striking blue eyes, Morgan has a rather babyish, youthful appearance that hardly coincides with his age. If not for the keenness in his gaze and the faint lines betraying the stresses of making a living, then one could almost easily mistake him as a graduate fresh out of grade school. As for clothing, he usually dresses in flannel shirts, grayish jeans, a pair of sturdy steel-toed boots, and his denim jacket. Often, he also tucks his curly hair underneath a baseball cap. Personality: Morgan is a friendly enough fellow, even if he is a bit introverted. His is a benevolent soul, and he often does what he can to help others who need a hand—within reason, of course. While he is accustomed to stress, he rarely puts himself through unnecessary stress and is quick to remove himself from any stressful situation he doesn't have to be a part of. He is also adverse to competitive individuals, but he's bullheaded enough to toss down the gauntlet if he feels capable of winning. To avoid both needless worrying and the tempting though volatile nature of competition, he often keeps to himself as a result, only keeping in touch with a handful of old friends and his family. Regarding his personal interests, he enjoys the likes of literature, outdoors, and—rather obviously, considering his eligibility for being one of C2Believe's beta testers—video games. However, his line of work means he never really stays in one place for very long, so whatever hobbies cannot be had whilst on the move often fall to the wayside for Morgan. Due to his humble, simplistic, and hardworking nature, he's deeply set in his ways and frowns upon any major changes that may interfere with his content existence; he almost turned down the offer to participate in C2B's beta tests simply because it'd involve taking a fair number of his vacation days to travel to their headquarters and stay there until the beta was over, but he committed himself to the authentic and rare opportunity after his friends insisted upon it. Favorite gaming franchise(s): Dragon Age, Witcher, Elder Scrolls, Bioshock, Shadowrun, Warhammer Fantasy, Starcraft, Diablo, Mass Effect, Mount & Blade, Star Wars, World of Darkness, Forgotten Realms, and a whole slew of indie games. Oddly, he favors enhanced editions of older games over the pricey titles of new releases, and he's out of luck concerning any games that require a reliable internet connection or computer specs beyond those of his expensive though hardly cutting-edge laptop. Occupation: Morgan works as a freight driver who delivers goods cross-country. While the pay is decent, Morgan values it more for the open road, disciplined routine, and the opportunity to visit places he likely never would have, had he pursued any other profession. Truth be told, he performs this job in such an exemplary manner because it coincides with his reclusive, escapist habits; more than once has he almost come to blows with his brothers and father over the many instances where he happened to forget about this family gathering or that. Background: Despite being the second oldest of five children, Morgan was all too often regarded as a little brother by his actual younger siblings during his rural upbringing in the midwest on their family's farm. He more often kept to himself whenever the others did things together, neither a leader of their troupe like his older brother nor a follower like his younger siblings. As the years progressed, it seemed that Morgan's detachment from his chaotic brethren only worsened, particularly once all of them had reached the height of high school. However, nothing foul ever came of Morgan's differences from his siblings until he became the only one among them who struggled and eventually dropped out of college; that was a course of events which drove a wedge between Morgan and the rest of his family, compelling him to find a means of self-reliance. Consequently, the job opportunity to become a freight driver, with the proper training, greatly appealed to him, and he quickly devoted himself to the dream until it finally came to fruition. Ever since then, he's roamed the whole of the country, meeting more friends and discovering more new and interesting places than he ever did back home. As one might expect, his isolation from his family made him the black sheep of the Barne name, making familial events an utter pain for him. Nevertheless, he attended them for the sake of the family until one such occasion when his brothers alienated him for his choice of profession and his failed education. While nothing serious came of the intense brawling that followed save for black eyes and bruised spirits, it drove Morgan further away until his attendance to such gatherings were a rare happening if that. So, he's since led a simple existence from one hotel to the next, enjoying the peace and the occasional call as well as free internet service of coffee shops and the likes.

For the duration of the wedding’s ceremony and the feast afterward, Rameses was noticeably withdrawn as he followed in his companion’ footsteps, primarily Kaji’s. Despite the heavy scent of alcohol that clung to the genasi’s form and clogged his mind, he behaved himself, for the most part. Occasionally sipping at a glass of water or pecking at a plate laden with an underwhelming quantity of food, he found no solace in the bottom of a bottle or by sating his stunted appetite. Burdened by the evening’s revelations, Rameses could have been easily overlooked as he milled about like a phantom, but he never admitted the cause of his solemn disposition to anyone. “I’m fine.” “Just a bit too much brandy, is all.” “It’ll pass.” Honeyed words and hollow smiles did little to counter the despair dampening his szuldar and dulling his gaze. Nevertheless, the genasi frequently reminded himself that it was his burden to bear, one that he had caused and only he could resolve. The others’ intervention would only forsake those whose lives were in jeopardy because of his past failings. All mistakes came back to haunt their maker eventually. Rameses learned at least that much on that night. ~ Rameses didn’t know exactly when the gala had finally begun to unwind with guests who bid farewell and departed in increasing numbers, only that it was sometime after midnight. When their group eventually did the same and returned to the Gleeful Sage Inn, the genasi didn’t expect to have much in the way of rest; even if he was blessed with sleep free of nightmares, there would only be a few hours until dawn. Like everyone else, he had retired to the privacy of his room except with no intention of preparing for bed. Firstly, he changed into his usual garments of mismatched leather gear and traveler’s garb, though he kept the fiery gem-encrusted gold ring on his finger. That ring, as gaudy as it was, belonged on his finger; it was a precious symbol of all Rameses had done to afford it. Those days in the fighting ring felt so far away now, and in a similar fashion, the days ahead of him felt just as far out of reach. He felt trapped, bound in these precious few hours that were a prelude to his upcoming engagement with his bitter rival. Rameses ushered a hushed sigh, wary of the walls’ capacity for withholding sound, and wandered over to the silvery mirror hanging over a water basin. Only a moment’s glance confirmed his suspicions; Rameses looked like he had come straight from the Hells. His normally rich, tan complexion expressed a sickly pallor that coincided with the dark circles already forming around his eyes. Not to mention, the redness of Rameses’ eyes also betrayed how much he had to drink at the celebration. Sighing raggedly once more, the genasi splashed his face with the cool water, which helped clear his mind somewhat. He desperately needed a clear head so he could think. His mind blank, for the time being, Rameses stared at the muted glow of his szuldar, and it rattled him how they reflected his desperate attitude. Never had he seen his once fiery markings this snuffed out, and the sight of the mystic runes ruthlessly reminded him of those like Rylee he had left behind when fleeing from Harlock’s wrath. He had a sister who shared those szuldar and friends who admired them. Thoughts of his sister and friends was unexpectedly painful, gripping the genasi’s heart in a vice. Maybe it was because he rarely thought of them, for they were a sensitive topic even at the best of times. Rameses had a home and a family that he was unwilling to fight or die for, so he had abandoned them all. Now he, Rylee, Eirene, and gods know who else were paying for his selfish cowardice that released Harlock loose upon the world. Turning away from the mirror, Rameses began to pace about the room with uneven breaths resonating in his chest. The pain in that beating cage fed on the growing furious regret the genasi felt for not putting a stop to Harlock long ago. He had fought the rogue and lost, so he ran like the coward he was. “Damnit!” He barked quietly, his strained voice cracking as he tried not to disturb the silence too badly for the other guests’ sakes. His growing anger soon manifested in his seething szuldar, and he felt a powerful compulsion to break something with his trembling fists. Rameses had people who counted on him, friends and family he was meant to protect. He had failed them all and tried to outrun his guilt. He was a coward. The genasi didn’t believe that saving Eirene and Rylee from Harlock at dawn would mean absolution, but the alternative would only add to the already crushing weight on his shoulders. ~ What was left of the night had not been kind to the genasi who spent those final hours damning his many mistakes that set in motion the misfortunes responsible for the dismal circumstances he now faced. Ramses had also lamented those who have suffered from the repercussions of his mistakes, those who suffered still or whose suffering was unknown to him. By some miracle, he had refrained from destroying his room in a fit of despairing outrage, his conscience forbidding him from disturbing his companions and the other guests of the house. Instead, he spent a fair deal of time sharpening his simple iron blades to razor edges, suspecting that he would need every advantage he could get his hands on for the meeting to come. He had gone through most of his belongings as well, deciding what he would bring with him and what he would leave behind. Perhaps most importantly, he had written a note, crisply folded with his emblazoned signature on the exterior. Despite all the preparations he had made, Rameses still felt vulnerable, exposed to whatever schemes his nemesis had planned, but that was the point of it all, wasn’t it? Harlock had laid his trap and laid it well, having set it with exceptional bait; Rameses wasn’t about to allow his negligence continue bringing others harm. The time for that was behind the genasi, but what fate had in store for him now was unknown. Flipping the note over between his fingers, Rameses gnawed on his cheek until he mustered the courage to leave his room, striving to be as discreet as possible as he roamed the corridor beyond. With dawn about an hour away, The Sage’s upstairs was mostly shrouded in darkness, but his eyes soon adjusted while he carefully traversed the hallway in search for one particular door. When he found it, Rameses quietly slid the note between the heavy oak and its snug frame. He didn’t believe the recipient would stir and discover his note until he was long gone, but he didn’t linger regardless. After quietly returning to his room with haste, the genasi shouldered his cloak, strapped his scabbard and dagger sheath around his waist and made for the window. Upon opening the glassy portal, Rameses discovered the bleakness of a city yet to awaken, and he took a moment to take in the details. The dim gray skies had already started to brighten in the east, but the sun’s homecoming was dampened by a palpable expanse of fog cloaking much of Furthinghome, and a shadowy wall of clouds swelled upon the north horizon. A cool gale whispered from the storm’s direction, making a mess of the gala’s less secure decorations, playing her delicate fingers through Rameses’ coppery hair. It was peaceful, though an uneasy peace. “Typical,” Rameses mumbled quietly as he savored the literal calm before the storm. Even though he wouldn’t normally expect a storm from the north during these warm summer months, he didn’t doubt what could be easily seen and felt. Besides, an incoming storm was dreadfully ironic in his opinion, all things considered. Without any farewells or final prayers, the genasi hopped out of the window and landed on the ground below with a grunt. Even though the guests’ rooms were just above the ground floor, the fall gave his knees understandable grief, but a few moments of rest helped Rameses ease into motion with the stables as his heading. “My friend?” He called out softly upon arriving in the spacious building, unsurprised to find only slumbering horses and an absence of stablemen who apparently didn’t fancy early morning work. Immediately reacting to the familiar and sorely missed call of his rider, a massive white camel growled menacingly and stumbled to his feet. Although Rameses’ appearance had startled Jarl awake, the woolly beast hadn’t seen his foolish rider in many days and hardly at all since their arrival to Furthinghome. Only under these circumstances did the camel deem such inconveniences worthwhile. The hay was fresh and his stall comfortable, but Jarl valued two things more than either luxury: the open road and his rider’s dutiful presence. Smiling sadly at the old sight of his steed, Rameses felt a twinge of guilt for not fulfilling his promise by visiting Jarl every afternoon after his routine nap. His smile frail though consistent, the genasi leaned against the stall and stroked the camel’s long neck, whispering tenderly, “Jarl, my friend. It is good to see you, and I apologize for that not being often enough...” Huffing irritably, the camel only lowered his head to allow the roaming palm more reach. In any other circumstance, Jarl would have bitten Rameses for being touchy, though today didn’t feel right in Jarl’s gut. Something felt off, and his rider’s strokes eased his paranoia. Not to mention, the stablemen quickly learned to give the camel a wide birth after one of them almost lost a finger for being a touchy stranger. “You’re a sentimental old man,” Rameses chuckled upon discovering Jarl’s newly found regard for affection, but a firm growl reminded him of the camel’s lacking sense of humor, “Though a respectable creature nonetheless.” Pondering what else to say as he ran his fingers through the curly fur of the camel’s alabaster mane, the genasi swallowed dryly before carefully admitting to Jarl, “My friend, I know you probably tire of these stables, but… I must see to things, and you may not see me again for a while. If I’m not back by this afternoon, then our friends will take good care of you until I return...” Skirting the details while addressing the possibilities with omission made things only slightly less uncomfortable for him, but his wordy remarked thankfully went over the camel’s head. All Jarl understood was the hesitation in the voice, which was unlike his rider. Releasing a rather chastising grunt, the great white camel huffed foul-smelling air through his nostrils, into Rameses’ face. Despite the sickening odor that would have driven the unaccustomed to their knees, the genasi only smiled a little more. “You disgusting creature, you good camel,” He praised his steed quietly, and a painful feeling began to tighten around his throat like a noose. Savoring a few more soothing strokes, Rameses then bid a hasty farewell, “I have to be going on, now...” Saying goodbye to his trusty steed was surprisingly difficult by that point as Rameses’ already reddened eyes began to sting, and he quickly made his way out of the stables while Jarl’s argumentative bellows followed him, disturbing the other horses. It pained Rameses how loud his camel’s bellyaching became in the matter of moments, and he continued to hear them despite his hurried pace until the Gleeful Sage was several blocks behind him. Rameses didn’t know what to think during his brisk journey through the empty streets of Furthinghome, during which only the occasional drifter or stray hound materialized from the fog before disappearing into that same veil moments later. This unfavorable weather, as fitting as it was to his circumstances, soon unnerved the genasi, and the tangible haze made traversing the labyrinthine city even more difficult. Thankfully, precious gray ribbons of light breached the mist now and then, and Rameses eventually made his way to the Furthingbarrow. It wasn’t the slummiest of neighborhoods the genasi had ever seen, but the Furthingbarrow was quite obviously inhabited by the lower classes Furthinghome harbored. Portions of road were dotted with gaping potholes or laced with fissures prying the neglected cobblestones asunder, and the architecture betrayed the empty pockets of those who couldn’t afford to maintain its beauty. Oddly, there were few vagabonds to be seen; perhaps they had all scurried off in search of shelter for the coming storm. After a great deal of careful navigating, Rameses discovered the mouth of a particular alleyway that led to his destination. He paused outside the foreboding delve and struggled to steel himself, his heart convulsing fearfully. A depraved creature awaited the genasi at the end of that fog-ridden passage, and even the thought of running as far away as he could tempted him. However, Rameses sternly reminded himself that Eirene and Rylee would pay the price for his cowardice if he did such a heinous thing as abandon them to Harlock’s whims. So, he took a deep breath and committed himself to the path ahead, braving the mist and the predator that lurked within it. The alley was cramped, and Rameses would have touched both walls on either aside if he reached for them. Trash and rubbish of all sorts littered the old stones, which he had to occasionally kick aside to clear the way. A putrid smell of filth assaulted his nose; such was the product of what had been routinely dumped from the windows looming overhead. Then, Rameses was suddenly overwhelmed by open air upon emerging from the alley, into some forgotten plaza, a convergence of several other claustrophobic corridors. Its cobblestone pavement had been eroded away to reveal the hard soil once trapped beneath, which made Rameses wonder just how ancient or neglected the clearing was. However, the genasi couldn’t afford to contemplate such irrelevant things once he saw the terrifying scene across the way. Partially hidden in the dense condensation, a figure clad in fashionable black stood beside a beaten and gagged young woman restrained to a chair by glistening silver chains, their spikes digging into the Mulhorandi’s cinnamon flesh. The figure’s piercing blue gaze met Rameses’ and sent bitter chills down his spine, but the genasi only humored it for a moment before drawing his longsword and dagger, his szuldar flaring violently. Although, the metallic hiss of his modest iron was immediately answered by a symphony of similar snarls as countless weapons were drawn in the surrounding alleys, their wielders invisible in the fog. How that orchestra of metal echoed off the stone all around haunted Rameses. “Peace, brother,” An eerily cool voice called across the plaza, followed by a delicate click. Such an odd little sound confused Rameses until he saw the dainty yet lethal gleam of a razor in Harlock’s hand as it hovered within striking distance of Eirene’s neck. “Don’t you dare!” Rameses bellowed, pushing himself forward into a charge until a quick flash of movement startled him to a standstill; with a plump thud, a black-feathered arrow had embedded itself in the packed earth at the genasi’s feet before he had even made it halfway across the plaza. “Do not get ahead of yourself, Rameses. We have business to discuss.” His expression twisting into one of vile, boiling disdain, the genasi paced along an imagined line that the arrow had marked. “You know where to stick your business!” Rameses spat, his trembling voice dripping with anger, “I’m here for my friends! Your head, too, if there’s a single god in this world that believes in retribution!” An infuriating click of Harlock’s tongue sounded across the plaza before the rogue emerged fully from the veil, the razor in his right as he dragged Eirene behind him with his left. “That temper will land you in even more trouble. You can have your friends after we are finished talking.” When the pair came closer, Rameses fought to keep his nerve and not gag. Harlock hadn’t changed a bit in the many months since their last encounter except for a new delirious sheen in his eyes, but Eirene was barely recognizable. Dressed in the soiled shreds of her armor’s remains, the poor thing was caked in blood and muck, though the heavy layer of filth failed to conceal her many injuries. From head to toe, almost every visible bit of skin was bruised to all disgusting shades of purple or decorated with puffy, untreated wounds. Jagged lacerations left by claws, mutilating gashes delivered from fanged jaws, and grisly carvings made with blades were only the less remarkable injuries the young ranger bared. Perhaps the most sicking trauma that caught Rameses’ eye was the painfully unnatural angle at which her left leg was twisted below the knee and the blood-soaked rag bound over her right eye. What life he found left in Eirene’s singular gaze appeared utterly broken, for that was the only word he could use to describe it. She briefly fluttered her intact eye to meet Rameses’, and his heart almost shattered at the sight; he recognized the agony and terror haunting her bloodied iris, the sight of it nearly killing him. He had caused that. “What do you want?!” Rameses shouted at the top of his lungs to Harlock as his szuldar roared like wildfire upon his flesh, a hellish crimson glow inhabiting his pupils. He was ready to tackle that smirking animal to the ground, henchmen and marksmen be damned. “To finish what we started,” Harlock answered nonchalantly, stepping forward in an intimidating manner that drove his quarry to instinctively took a step back. The show of dominance apparently pleased the rogue who then balefully elaborated, “I cannot say I appreciated the guards’ intervention when we last dueled so long ago, for they had given you the opportunity to run. Now, here we are with an arena of our own and not a single guard within earshot. We even have an audience.” The thundering bellows and laughter from the concealed goons encircling the plaza assaulted Rameses from all sides until Harlock silenced them with a raised hand. Watching the genasi expectantly for a response, the madman merely stood; he was motionless like a predator poised to strike. “You want a fight?” Rameses spat caustically, almost growling like the desperate, cornered animal he felt like. After glancing from Harlock to Eirene and back again, the genasi asked, his voice laced with caution, “What happens by the end of it?” His inquiry inspired Harlock’s grin to broaden into an even greater expanse of unnervingly white teeth, and the rogue was eager to reply wickedly, “Either my men will butcher you if you somehow defeat me, or I will slaughter you myself. Regardless, the friend you came to save will be released as soon as our demonstration is over.” “Why in the bloodiest Hells would I trust you?” “It doesn’t matter if you do, Rameses.” A contemplative expression then settled upon the genasi’s face alongside a grim silence, but his attention was diverted towards Eirene when a muffled wince managed to permeate the cloth over her mouth. The gagged Mulhorandi watched Rameses intensely as painful tears dampened her cheeks, moistening the dried blood upon them and stinging the cuts beneath. “I came here for Eirene and Rylee, too.” Rameses quickly snapped as well, glancing around the plaza for his once dearest friend. Although, a harrowing chuckle shook his already wavering confidence. “My pet stays with me. Once you are dead, she might finally behave herself.” Harlock taunted his opponent, glancing upward to his left-hand side, and Rameses followed the rogue’s line of sight. Through the heavy veil, he saw the silhouette of a bell tower, though he could barely make it out before another black-fathered arrow tore through the air, whistling far too close to his head for comfort. It was the second warning shot he had received. Then it struck Rameses, a revelation of who was compelled to observe them from that tower. She was an archer he knew all too well, one whose accuracy was undeniable unless it was her intention to miss. Even then, such warning shots like the two sprouting from the earth around Rameses were exceedingly terrifying. Just like Eirene, Rylee had no choice but to watch this agonizing spectacle. Knowing that his formerly affectionate other would be forced against her will to witness his death struck a particular chord within Rameses, a delicate string riddled with cobwebs. It snapped. A feral cry burst from Rameses’ lungs as he surged toward, baring his blades with the intention of flaying Harlock Dorne to unrecognizable pieces. However, the patient rogue drew his scimitar with inhuman agility and parried the incoming thrust of the genasi’s longsword, and Harlock immediately retaliated with the razor in his off-hand. Agony flared over Rameses’ forearm following that flash of an attack, the pain radiating from the red fissure beneath his sliced leather bracer. Rameses believed that the tide of battle usually favored whoever drew first blood, and anticipating Harlock’s lightning moves proved to be damn near impossible. Parrying and counterattacking when he could, the demoralized genasi retreated several steps until three arrows struck the earth behind him in quick succession, corralling him with the threat of more steel that had yet to take flight. Retreating is for cowards who have lost. Another savage call spilled from Rameses’ lips as he pressed forward again, deflecting Harlock’s scimitar with his iron blade before lashing for the rogue’s midsection using his dagger. All but shocked that the move had penetrated his opponent’s defense, Rameses dared to smirk before slashing for the man’s off-hand to rob him of the deadly quick razor. A color ribbon of red flew upon the successful strike, followed by the clatter of a dropped razor and the snarling hiss of an angry rogue. Arrogance was a deadly poison, but damn if Rameses didn’t indulge in it as he pushed forward, ever forward. Rarely did he deliver an attack that drew blood without receiving one in return, though the swelling confidence in his chest roared like a fiendish inferno, chasing away the dark terror haunting his heart. With every swift exchange of strokes that painted both combatants with streaks of red, Harlock also quickly lost his steely composure, his maneuvers becoming less elegant and more brutal as his rival held his ground and even advanced. The duo continued their passionate danse macabre until they both wore perhaps half a dozen crimson badges each, and the dangerous rush of adrenaline compelled their challenged endurance to maintain the speed at which they engaged one another. Unlike Rameses, however, Harlock was a cunning manipulator less experienced with the demands of a true exchange lasting more than an attack or two followed by a coup de grace; the rogue only fought when he knew there would be no struggle, instead only an effortless display. Rameses was proving that he refused to give another inch without making his hated nemesis pay dearly for it. A particularly wild, painful shriek escaped Harlock when Rameses finally closed the distance between them, pinning the rogue’s blade before carving a hideous mark of red across his chest with one fell motion. As the rogue’s black attire dampened from the ichor pouring from his most recent wound, it was his turn to lash out in a panicked frenzy. Shoving Rameses back with unnatural strength, Harlock snarled and stepped away, his form dissolving into a blur of roiling shadows, an ethereal dark mass that convulsed and writhed. Unsure of what he was witnessing, Rameses thought Harlock might have been dying or even using some kind of magic to escape their fight, but he was wrong. No, Harlock was as hellbent as ever to win this battle by any means necessary, so he resorted to his true form for its primordial merits. Within a mere moment, Rameses’ resolution quivered when a serpentine monstrosity began to materialize from the darkness, a horrific creature clad in silver and black scales. More snake than man, the yuan-ti abomination revealed himself to his greatest adversary, his gaze a pair of pale blue orbs gleaming through the storming shadows with hate and madness. Rameses didn’t know how to approach or even defend himself against this creature as it continued to manifest from the shadows, but he recklessly charged forward with his crimson-stained longsword extended, blistering his monstrous opponent with another war cry. When the genasi’s blade of humble iron pierced the shadows concealing Harlock’s still-changing form, Rameses shuddered as he felt his weapon lance through scale, flesh and bone. A shrill scream tore from the impaled abomination as Rameses continued to push forward, ever forward, sinking his longsword into his nemesis until his crossguard met Harlock’s abdomen. Entering his dying throes, Harlock lost grip of his scimitar and simply tore at Rameses with his claws, delivering painful though futile wounds to his victorious rival. Rameses himself couldn’t describe the satisfaction of victory until it was suddenly torn from his grasp, and the genasi cried in pain when the serpent bit into his shoulder and refused to let go, the monster’s needle-like fangs tearing into his flesh. In agony and terror, Rameses continued to scream as he stabbed at Harlock repeatedly with his dagger to drive the creature back, but the yuan-ti was determined to die with his jaws locked around his opponent. During their desperate struggle, Rameses felt his shoulder grow numb from the serpentine creature’s bite, the result of Harlock’s malicious venom polluting Rameses’ veins, and the feeling of oblivion crawling across his flesh frightened the genasi unlike all other things. In that fit of sheer terror and fury, something ignited withing the fire genasi’s ancient blood, blood that owed its heritage to beings of fire and brimstone. Everything around Rameses then froze momentarily, reality itself pausing to take a breath before the air around them burst into flames by the old magic of efreeti coursing through his veins. It was an explosive inferno, a massive sphere of conjured flames that engulfed Rameses and Harlock both. Fire roared in their ears like a crazed beast, and it empowered the fire genasi while blistering the yuan-ti, banishing his shadows and setting fire to every scale. Harlock’s agonized shrieks were barely heard over the bellowing of the blaze, and the serpent released his prey to squirm and writhe upon the blackening earth. The sense of victory returned to Rameses tenfold as the power of his ancestors raged all around him, a pure firestorm fueled by ancient arcana. With the roiling sphere of livid flames blending seamlessly with his raging szuldar, the fire genasi kneeled, pressing his knee down upon the dying yuan-ti and screamed madly, plunging his dagger into the creature’s heart. The fire continued to rage once Rameses stood victoriously over the slain abomination, Harlock Dorne, the surrounding flames reflected dimly in the serpent’s icy blue eyes. Then a sickening crunch pierced Rameses’ ears and was followed a moment later by a breath-stealing, silent agony. His inferno immediately vanished as the sound resonated in the genasi’s head, and he looked down to see a bloodied arrowhead sprouting from his chest. That paralyzing pain was surreal, robbing Rameses of his senses before he collapsed to the scorched earth alongside Harlock’s corpse. He tried desperately to draw breath, but the air was trapped in his chest as warmth began to pour from his throat, leaving his body through his nose and mouth. Rameses’ gagged and coughed, agonized by every movement in his impaled ribcage. He couldn’t breath, and the taste of his blood was overbearing. Rameses glanced up to the distant gray sky, and he heard muted thunder. He couldn’t breathe. Something different inhabited his heart, then. It wasn’t panic, fear, anger or pain, as this feeling chased all others away. It was a weakening stillness. He couldn’t breathe. Watching the storm clouds dance overhead vexed Rameses, and his szuldar darkened until they appeared as charcoal black marks etched across his paling skin. He still couldn’t breathe. Then he ceased trying to draw breath. ~ Eirene felt shattered in a way that made her bodily pain seem like nothing by comparison. Her friend had answered the madman’s call and came alone to save her, and he had died for it. Eirene’s friend was dead, and she saw Harlock’s many henchmen begin to emerge the fog, wearing expressions of utter disbelief. For once, she felt her curse boil her blood and roar for death, and she embraced it. She no longer feared death, for she had already endured her own hell on earth. Eirene no longer cared what the beast would do after she set it free. The transformation captivated her broken body with renewed vigor, and she cried in mournful fury through her gag as the silver chains dug into her changing form. She glared menacingly at the dumbfounded goons and criminals, and she imagined their bones crunching in her teeth. The young Mulhorandi craved their flesh and blood in a way that would have terrified her before today. She wanted to kill them all. In only a few moments, the Mulhorandi disappeared as the vengeful werecrocodile took her place, bound by silver that struggled to restrain her. A furious roar spilled from reptilian jaws as the silver seared her flesh, but the pain didn’t quench her bloodlust. Once the first chain snapped, the others followed in quick succession until she was free, and many of the leaderless goons looked upon her in delicious terror. Bellowing madly, the werecrocodile charged towards the nearest cluster of prey who were foolish enough to draw their blades instead of fleeing. Within seconds, flesh was torn asunder as blood painted the earth, and the lycanthrope indulged in the goons’ dying cries. Many struck her hide with iron or steel, but such petty wounds were painless to the raging werecrocodile even if they drew blood and sapped her stamina. Two, five, six, seven, eleven, thirteen. Limbs were ripped from their owners, bodies were mutilated and crushed by powerful jaws, corpses by the dozen soon littered the plaza. Despite the euphoric bloodbath, the pain of mourning refused to leave the werecrocodile’s heart as she continued to slaughter her panicked quarry. For every victim who died from Eirene’s bloody wrath, she encountered a fresh corpse skewered with a black-feathered arrow. While the lycanthrope thought nothing of it, the archer who turned on her own, now free of her slain master’s magic, also unleashed her distraught pain upon the gathered criminals. The massacre almost became bothersome as it proved ineffective at dulling the barbed pain the in werecrocodile’s chest, and her rage began to wane as most of the assembled gang now lied dead in the arena now flooded with red. Her strength also began to wane, for the wounds she had carried before his fight were bleeding her endurance. With her good eye, she threw her attention across the stragglers who stumbled over the bodies of the fallen clogging the alleyways, and a sudden explosion alarmed her senses. Glancing skyward, Eirene saw the bell tower in flames, staining the gray skies above with a stroke of black smoke. The explosion confused the exhausted lycanthrope until a bolt of electricity struck her, knocking the creature to her side. A shrill cry of pain escaped the werecrocodile before she furiously glared at the one responsible for the spell, a trembling mage standing at the mouth of an alley. She would have one more kill. Another monstrous bellow ushered from the werecrocodile’s lungs as she charged forward, jaws wide and claws outstretched. Suddenly reeking of dampened trousers, the mage held his ground and cast another arc of lightning that struck the predator surging towards him. The agonizing magic tore through the lycanthrope, but she ceased to pull away and only bellowed even more until she was upon the pathetic little mage. Bits of him were scattered with the rest of the bodies. Swaying from overwhelming pain and crippling exhaustion, Eirene set her gaze down the alley and the city that lied beyond, but she felt too weak to face whatever might have been waiting for her. Turning around, the werecrocodile, dropped onto all fours and drudged through the bloody mess filling the arena until she found her genasi, the odd one who reeked of smoke. How still he was pained the lycanthrope worse than any devastating wound. Death had taken him, and his skin lacked the fire that he wore proudly. After hovering her sensitive snout over his body for several minutes, the werecrocodile reared her head back and offered a sorrowful moan, a bereaved roar of a ruthless creature brought low by death’s merciless ways. Her calls continued to roll across the Furthingbarrow like thunder and reached the city districts beyond until the werecrocodile was hoarse, but she continued to mourn until a true thunderstorm outmatched her booming loudness. Her song brought even the sky to tears as rain showered down upon the world, but even the purest of water failed to wash away the reeking stench of death in the arena. Soon, Eirene’s body demanded rest, but the werecrocodile felt she wouldn’t awaken if she slipped into that murky bliss. Nevertheless, she ached for nothing more than relief from the pain of both body and spirit, so she rested on her side beside the fallen genasi and closed her good eye. The lycanthrope’s powerful heartbeat was the only sound that resonated from the plaza littered with dozens of corpses, and even that mighty sound eventually slipped into silence, overcome by all the pain that had drained that heart of strength.

“Hells’ bells...” Rameses sighed upon following his and the Doomguide’s entrance into the Marshal’s meeting place, a secluded office with dreary lighting. It never occurred to them that the half-elf who had joined their party earlier in the day had only done so only to rob the hosts of the gala. Had it not been for his previous glasses of brandy, the fire genasi’s szuldar would have ignited in outrage, but their fire was muted as they only shimmered and smoldered tepidly. Shaking his head in dismay, Rameses sighed after indulging in another shot of the delicious brandy, “Feel free to do with this burglar as you wish, Marshal. Our company has no place for thieves and liars.” Despite his tipsy state of mind, Rameses’ words were sharp and refined. He tossed a leering expression of disappointment to Sparrow, a slight sneer pulling at the corner of his mouth. Rameses didn’t know the man, and he might have spoken in his defense if he did. Although, the thief had already dug his own grave— not by attempting to steal, but by getting himself caught. Even though the fire genasi didn’t often see eye to eye with upholders of the law— often after a good tavern brawl— he valued instincts of self-preservation, and any rogue who ran into the teeth of such unfavorable odds lacked any. Sparrow seemed like one of those sorts, and Rameses wouldn’t have the opportunity to observe and deem him otherwise. “You still want that drink before I empty the bottle?” The genasi asked Rhaine after he nodded farewell to Gante and Sparrow, having whimsically dismissed the Marshal and his captured fugitive as whimsically as he had followed the Doomguide in the first place. In hindsight, the genasi didn’t know why he offered; this was his bottle, and he alone would see it empty before long. When Rameses turned and made for the door to the study, the tipsy fire genasi almost collided with Kaji and Hi-chan who had rather stealthily appeared at his side. Pouring himself his third— or was it his second, fourth maybe?— glass, Rameses remarked nonchalantly, “Nothing that can be helped, my friend… Let’s get back to the party.” He didn’t give a second thought whether Rhaine, Kaji, or Hi-chan followed him out, and the genasi eventually made his way back to the gala by simply following its sounds echoing through the halls and corridors. Courtesy of the brandy’s potency, Rameses had mellowed out substantially before he had even finished half the bottle, and his newly awarded serenity helped ease his tension regarding the swirling crowds of attendees. Indulging in his beloved brew, Rameses simply smiled like the carefree, drunken fool that he was, fearlessly meandering through the crowds and soon losing himself in the churning tide of gossip, laughter, and dance. The occasional odd look or hushed whisper aimed at the genasi thankfully fell upon dull eyes and deaf ears, but his spotty senses righted themselves temporarily when he saw a familiar thri-kreen scurrying through the crowds in a ridiculous blue dress. “What in the name of...” Rameses’ head lolled to the side as he spoke, his voice falling mid-sentence while he tried to pursue We’tak. Everything felt so surreal to the genasi who deftly wove his way through the limitless gathering of guests, but he suddenly dug his heels into the floor upon noticing the thri-kreen pause in front of a man and woman whose attire betrayed their upcoming wedding vows. Arching a brow, Rameses tried to keep his presence concealed among the noble packs that were constantly in motion, watching We’tak as he retrieved his gythka and began to play a lovely tune. The music was sublime, to say the least, and it soon had Rameses’ hindered szuldar pulsing to the tempo of its inspiring melodies. The enthralled genasi couldn’t have asked for better music to which he could savor his brandy. While the thought of drinking right from the bottle crossed his mind more than once during We’tak’s performance, Rameses decided to uphold at least some etiquette to compensate for getting drunk and continued to drink from a glass. However, he was too preoccupied with pouring himself another glass of brandy to realize the thri-kreen had disappeared yet again; this, he did not notice until after We’tak was long gone, lost in the ceaseless flow of movement and fanciful attire. A sigh then ushered from Rameses’ lungs, and he washed it back down before sauntering through the crowds once more, savoring the music that came and went as dancing become more frequent. As entire groups of attendees began to dance in vast circles that made the genasi’s head spin dizzily, he contemplated another brandy until he saw how clumsy his hands were as he prepared to pour himself another glass; how many he had already was a mystery by that point. The sight made his heart cramp with guilt, so Rameses sought out a servant to which he could return the glass and bottle. There wasn’t much of the amber brown liquid left within the crystalline vessel. “Take this, please,” Rameses implored upon finding the nearest servant, unceremoniously handing over the glassware before wandering off, regret souring the rapture he had enjoyed moments ago. What are you doing? The singular thought echoed through the drunken genasi’s head, relentlessly reminding him of the friends he had offhandedly left without so much as an explanation of where they could find him. While a nearby marble bench in one of the less densely occupied areas of the gala offered Rameses a moment off his feet, resting upon it failed to offer a clear head or conscience. The weight of his folly rested uneasily upon his shoulders once he took a seat, and his szuldar flared fearfully when none of his companions were in sight. Rameses had gotten himself drunk. He had gone through so much effort to make himself presentable for the gala, and he had dashed it all away by making a beeline for the nearest tasteful alcohol. What the others thought of him, he could only imagine, and none of the ideas he had were kind. Resting his head in his hands while hoping the condescending thoughts would eventually silence themselves, the genasi didn’t notice the young woman take a seat beside him until she spoke with an eerily familiar voice edged with brutal honestly, “You smell like expensive liquor, Rameses.” Hearing her voice froze Rameses stiff, and he briefly wondered what might have been in that brandy before he looked over and visibly paled at who he saw. Salaciously dressed in a black and blue dress beaded with teardrops of shining sapphires, the woman next to him offered a sad half-smile, her rich blue gaze settling on him with a confusing storm of expressions. Brushing a strand of jet black hair from her face, Rylee sighed as he surveyed Rameses’ attire from head to toe. “It looks good, but gaudy isn’t exactly your style,” She remarked critically, her eyes lingering on the phoenix motif embroidered onto the sash tossed over his shoulder. “… Is this a dream, and have I passed out somewhere…?” Rameses asked suspiciously, his szuldar flaring with fearful vigor. He hadn’t seen Rylee in what felt like a lifetime, so it was easier to believe that the alcohol had gotten the better of him. What was she doing here? Grinning softly at his question, the young woman sighed before looking out over the dancing guests. “No, you drunken idiot. If this was all happening in your head, you know I wouldn’t be dressed like a wench.” Despite her jeering choice of words, Rylee’s tone carried no ill will, reminding Rameses of banter from days that have long since passed. “Oh,” Was his initial response, following her gaze towards the rest of the gala’s participants; watching them was easier than looking at her. While it took him several minutes to contemplate what was happening, the fire genasi sighed, “He’s really here, isn’t he? You wouldn’t be if he wasn’t.” Unlike her own words, his were simple yet biting, and she bit her lip as she lowered her gaze to the floor. A quiet, uneasy air settled between them before she admitted barely above a whisper, “Yes, he is… I had hoped we’d never find you.” Szuldar igniting in a fiery display, Rameses retorted maliciously, “’We?’ Since when in the Hells did you work for him, huh?” He tried to find harsher words, but he couldn’t for a slew of reasons, namely his intoxicated state of mind and his inability to speak badly to one of the pieces of his past that had been most difficult to leave behind. “Yes, since you abandoned the rest of us to deal with Harlock,” Rylee snapped under her breath ruthlessly, but she turned her head away from him and struggled to find the best words until she spoke them quietly, “I don’t want to go back and forth, Rameses. You need to hear what I’m telling you.” Rolling his eyes stubbornly, Rameses clenched his jaw and replied none too amiably, “Spit it out, then.” He quickly regretted his hostility when an uncomfortable silence returned to smother their conversation, but Rylee eventually regarded him with a painful expression as she spoke with a frighteningly broken tone, “Harlock wants to meet with you, tomorrow. At dawn.” An unfamiliar cloudiness entered her sapphire eyes and worried Rameses, but her words only irritated him even more. “I’m not exactly willing to risk my life with that level of stupidity, Rylee.” “Shut up and listen!” She suddenly hissed quietly, grabbing his arm and pulling him closer, “He has that girl he sent after you, the werecrocodile. His people found her during the full moon, and she is drop of blood away from death’s doorstep, so stop acting like a piss-drunk fool and listen to what I am telling you.” The severity of Rylee’s words frightened the fire genasi into silence, and it took him a moment to realize who the werecrocodile was. When it hit him, it felt like a boot to the gut. “Eirene…? She’s a… what?” He inquired, wide-eyed in shock. Rameses would have ever suspected the timid little Mulhorandi of being such a creature, and it slowly began to dawn on him that the full moon was likely why she had left them. Nodding sternly, the woman next to him confirms, “You heard me; yes, her.” Releasing Rameses’ arm, Rylee sighs and adds, “She’ll die if she doesn’t receive help soon… Harlock wants to trade; you come see him, and she goes free. If you don’t, she won’t live to see tomorrow night.” The ultimatum tied the genasi’s stomach in an unbearably tight knot, his head reeling and szuldar quaking with violent flames. Rameses fumbled over his words, shaking his head in denial, “No… That can’t be true. She’s just a girl, damnit; if Harlock lays a finger on her, I swear to Tempus, me and my companions will make him wish he was dead...” “He knows about the Doomguide and your friends, Rameses,” Rylee warned, ignoring his threat as if it had come from a child, “He knows about all of them. Try to come with them following, and you’ll find Eirene dead and Harlock gone.” That infuriated Rameses. Even in his placid state of drunkenness, the fire genasi felt his blood boil and steam whistling in his ears, his szuldar all but catching his outfit aflame. In a sudden motion, he reached for Rylee with a trembling hand, eager to close his fist around her throat. Surprisingly, he managed to do so with little resistance, and Rameses growled through gritted teeth, “And why in the holiest Hells are you helping him, hmm? Why? Tell me!” She met his gaze fearfully and struggled to respond, both because of his tight grip and her difficulty explaining herself. Finally, something snapped as Rylee replied desperately, “Do you think I would if I had a choice?” Her severe words struck Rameses unexpectedly, cooling his hotblooded fit and shocking him into loosing his hold on Rylee. She slipped out of his grasp and returned her cold gaze to his fiery red stare, a familiar fire writhing within them. After coughing slightly, the young woman explaining further in a hushed voice, “I’ve been cursed by his magic since the day you left home; he gives an order, and I obey. Don’t you dare think I choose to help him willingly.” Pain barbed Rylee’s explanation and frosted her eyes, and the haunting revelation sent wave after wave of cold shivers down Rameses’ back until his szuldar were all but extinguished. He didn’t know what to say— what could he even say? Rameses knew Harlock was a miserable excuse of a man and an insane monster to boot, but this genuinely horrified the genasi. He never suspected the madman to have known any magic, but this only proved how deadly and downright evil it was when in hand like Harlock’s. Meeting Rylee’s torn expression with his own, Rameses swallowed dryly and futilely tried to comfort his once closest companion, “Rylee… I’ll find that man, and I’ll kill him. Where can I find him, when will he be there?” Despite his efforts to comfort her, the sadness in Rylee’s deep blue eyes only seemed to worsen. Ushering a shuddering sigh, she leaned closer and whispered into his ear where Harlock planned to meet Rameses. It was some backwater alley in the Furthingbarrow, Furthinghome’s slum district to the east. Such a thematically suitable meeting place would have been ironic and amusing in any other story, but it only drove the color from Rameses’ countenance. Having delivered the message she was meant to give at Harlock’s behest, Rylee rested her forehead against his, commanding him with no small degree of aching concern, “Don’t you dare get yourself killed, Rameses Galeran, please… Try not to do anything stupid...” A slight smile tried to gain purchases on Rameses’ features, but any trace of it vanished when she suddenly stood, unceremoniously dissolving back into the crowd without so much as a goodbye. She had completed the task she was given, and her master had willed her to return. At a loss with an old but familiar pain in his heart, Rameses only continued to sit there, staring into the crowd from which a ghost of his past, of home, and appeared.

"Celeste? Eh, I'm fine," Abraham groaned with squinting eyes bent in the direction of the Enchantress, clearly lying through his teeth. While the painful aching of the withdrawal was beginning to wane, he hardly felt like moving so much as in inch, and he did well to turn his head in her direction. His blistering headache continued to resonate through his skull even as he tried his best to evaluate Celeste's disposition; he couldn't recall much of what had happened the night before besides the mob that had threatened to descend ravenously upon the Circle mage. Her remark inspired a grave sigh to escape the large man who took a steadying breath before shaking his head. Shreds and fragments of the previous night were beginning to dawn upon him, but they were like glass shards, and he was hardly in the state of mind to handle and decipher them. "Ignore those bastards," He said crudely without restraint or remorse, "Common people despise what they don't care to... understand..." With no small measure of willpower, Abraham forced himself to stand, pressing his back against the wooden post for the needed support. An audible groan escaped him before he stood to his full height, but that he did accomplish after a few moments. "Where the Crow, Wind?" He soon inquired, clearly taking the attention off himself as he sought to address his primary concerns. Celeste was here, so that only left one other companion unaccounted for.

Posted a collab with Auri :)

Finally. Rameses sighed in relief once they were shown into the grand, immaculate foyer of the luxurious keep, the buzz of nigh-countless partygoers' excitement filling the air. While the fire genasi wasn't one for these kinds of social events at the best of times, their group had been the cause of the whole thing; the bride and groom whose union the celebration was for would have still been little more than distant admirers had it not been for the intervention of the Doomguide's troupe, so even the likes of Rameses felt some slight obligation to attend. Not to mention, he had gone through a great deal of trouble earning enough gold to pay for the posh outfit he now drew no small measure of pride from wearing. Who in their right minds would have squandered such an investment? As he remained close to his fellow adventurers, the fire genasi scoped out the crowds and wasn't all that surprised or thrilled by what he saw: aristocracy. Aristocracy everywhere. Most of them were likely mages for how much they endlessly debated and discussed all topics related to the arcane. It sickened him a little bit how so few of his fellow attendees seemed to come from a humbler, more personable background, but he tried his best to ignore the feeling in his gut. Maybe all the lonesome months spent traveling the whole of the continent had rendered him abrasive and unsociable, but he hoped that wasn't the case. Upon spotting the servants mingling through the crowds carrying pristine silver platters laden with all manner of refreshments, Rameses came to the conclusion that the company of nobility wasn't too bad considering the merits involved in having such company. So, he ventured away from the main cluster of his companions to inquire one such servant on the drinks he carried, and the possibilities soon intrigued the genasi. Champagne and white wines were some of the servant's first suggestions before elaborating on the stronger, more potent brews such as an assortment of brandies and spirits; only the finest beverages were available to the attendees, Rameses was promised. "Hmmm..." Rameses contemplated aloud, intently looking over the crystalline bottles and their rich contents before he overheard one of the servants urgently requesting the Doomguide to follow him away from the main body of guests. Something didn't feel right about that. He didn't like the servant's hollow nature, nor did he suspect the servant's reasoning to have good connotations. Who in the Hells was this Marshal, and what did he have to do with one of their companions? Quickly looking around, Rameses noticed their numbers are a bit smaller than normal, particularly in regards to their thri-kreen's absence. Concerned that their younger friend might have gotten himself into some mischief alongside Leif who had left to retrieve him, the genasi graciously took a bottle of sweet-smelling brandy as well as a pair of dainty glasses off his servant's platter before briskly following behind the Winged Chosen of Kelemvor. "You know," Rameses started as he walked up alongside Rhaine before pulling the bottle's cork out with his teeth, rather deftly pouring himself a glass as they ventured down this corridor and that, "My money's that Leif's gone and done some nonsense with We'tak on his heels." Even though the genasi filled his glass more than what might have been considered proper, it still wasn't much considering the disappointingly small volume of liquid the glass held. Down the entirety of the glass's contents in a swift motion, Rameses' szuldar quickly flared at the astonishingly smooth, delectable taste of the brandy that reminded him of cinnamon, apples, and whiskey. He whistled softly in dismay before shaking his head skeptically. "Now that's some good stuff. I may have to ask where they bought it." He then looked over towards the Doomguide whose expression was as unyielding and neutral as it usually was, and the genasi wondered if that was simply her normal look. It took Rameses a minute to also realize that she was a good head's shorter than him, which amused him somewhat. Four inches didn't make a difference about her imposing presence. Then a thought occurred to him, and the genasi cleared his throat slightly and offered, "Care for a drink? I'm sure I'll need a few after hearing about whatever stuffed-shirt Leif's likely upset." ~ Night had fallen, and the full moon glistened like a silver coin suspended in an indigo sky, accompanied by thousands of sparkling jewels. With pale moonlight illuminating the hilly landscape, the world was painted with oddly haunting beauty. As pristine as the land was in appearance, no small degree of eeriness came from its overbearing silence. The dwellers of the day had already retired for the evening, and the denizens of night knew better than to disturb the silence this night, for the scents of predators and death roamed upon the shallow breeze. In a sheltered meadow, there were signs of a swift but deadly struggle. The fresh tracks of a deer scarred the cool mud encircling a still pond near the clearing’s center, and great trenches had been carved into the banks by an explosive ambush which had taken the animal’s life. Only those clues left behind in the earth and the striking smell of blood permeating the warm night air betrayed the hunt that had taken place in that meadow not long ago. Raidan rose from his kneeling position near the tracks, his lip curling as he smelled it—the scent of his prey. It was not like that of his old foe; reptilian, wild, dangerous, it made his nostrils flare, and he wiped his lank dark hair from his forehead with a hand that trembled with the eagerness of the hunt. Already his blood boiled under the full moon, and he fought to keep his lycanthropy in check. He had to conserve his strength for the right moment… A diminutive ripple soon traveled across the glassy surface of the water when the head of a monstrous, crocodilian creature breached without the slightest splash. Almost seeming like a log in shape and texture, the creature’s scaly scout drifted along the water’s surface, and her cold green eyes watched the man on the shore. Those slitted orbs betrayed little emotion, holding the same expressionless nature of any other reptile. Motionless, the werecrocodile observed him with an unnerving intensity, contemplating whether the little being was prey. Raidan's bestial instincts told him he was being watched, and he turned towards the water with a lopsided smile on his weathered and scarred face. His one eye, the other covered by a black patch, found that of the lycan he sought, and he winked at her, gaze glittering under the moon. He chuckled, "Hello, beautiful," and then put his hands to his mouth, making a sound not unlike that of a loon's call. Almost immediately, eight dark shadows lengthened behind him as his fellows answered his signal… Eyes narrowing as the man spoke with a dangerous silkiness to his words before ushering a lowly call, the reptilian lycan flared her nostrils to make sense of what she saw and heard, and the smell struck her nose like a knife. Their stench was sharp, musky, confident, and such scents didn’t settle well with her at all. She exhaled slowly, casting a spray of dewy mist over the mirror-like surface and allowed a fearsome growl to spill from her jaws. The sound was menacing as it vibrated water and air alike, warning the intruders to move on with haste. While she was no longer hungry after her recent snack, she would not tolerate any loitering predators around her pond. Raidan's blood was on fire, now, and he began to succumb to the call of it, grinning a toothy grin even as black fur began to spread along his lengthening limbs. "We've got a surprise for you, sweetheart," he said, his voice growling as he addressed the beast before him. His fellows, too, followed suit, and in a matter of seconds, the sound of shredding cloth filling the air, nine werewolves stood where men had been before. Huffing angrily, the werecroc regarded them for a moment longer until she vanished beneath the water, and the pond was soon still and silent once again. The tension in the air seemed to intensify tenfold until the massive creature erupted from the water, jaws wide and teeth gleaming like ivory spikes. A hulking beast of scales that rippled over muscle, she snarled ferociously and snapped at the werewolf closest to the water’s edge—Raidan himself. Thanks to Raidan's new contacts, he knew all about this beauty and her tricks, and he avoided her strike—although narrowly—by dodging to the side. He and his fellow wolves issued low-throated growls in response, beginning to encircle her in a ring of snarling forms. Whipping her snout around to keep them all in sight, which was a difficult task in itself, Eirene rose to her full height and ushered a quaking roar as she stepped back towards the water. Upon seeing the werewolves attempting to flank her, she lunged for the nearest to her left, ready and eager to violently defend herself. The werewolf in question was too slow to react and was clipped by her jaws, its shoulder bloodied. It whined and snarled, biting and clawing at her snout in response while one of its fellows jumped forth, attempting to land on her back. Raidan lunged and sank his teeth into her exposed flank, latching on with locked jaws, whilst yet another werewolf landed into her, attempting to push her over. The werecroc bellowed furiously when the other wolves attacked, and she reeled around to lock her jaws around Raidan who had painfully dug into her side. However, her jaws only snapped in the air as she felt one of the werewolves pounce onto her back. When the fourth lycan slammed into her in an attempt to knock her over, Eirene threw her weight into a roll in a desperate effort to crush the pest on her shoulders. As the werecrocodile rolled, the wolf on her back howled as it was pinned underneath her. The others, however, took full advantage of the opportunity, the eight remaining all piling against her with gnashing teeth and scraping claws, the air filled with vicious snarls and growls. Eirene snarled and hissed when the mass of fur and fangs all but buried her, and the massive creature did the only thing she could do as she panicked with the swelling pain and rage roaring in her ears. Raking her claws wildly over her assailants, the werecroc snapped her jaws at the nearest wolf and hoped to toss it off of her. All the while, she felt countless claws and teeth dig into her scales and draw blood. The werewolf nearest the crocodile's jaws caught her teeth in its neck, and as it thrashed to release itself, it only worsened the wound, bleeding out in seconds. The remaining seven that were still very much a threat intensified their attack, Raidan the most vicious of all. Nostrils flaring after effectively tearing into one of the werewolves, she lurched forward and tried to claw any of the others in her talons, jaws wide to rip open and crush anything it could latch onto. However, the crocodile’s breathing was shaky and uneven with terror gripping her pounding heart, and the pain throughout her body was approaching unbearable. The smell of blood driving the werewolves on, Raidan and his cronies attempted to push her into the water to force her to give up; after all, they were told to keep her alive if possible. Each of them sustained significant wounds from her, though, and that was making it difficult for them to fulfill their end of the bargain… Quickly exhausted from the constant fighting against unfavorable odds, the crocodile panted as she felt the cool water splash against her bloodied sides. Maybe she could escape from them that way? Surely none of those wolves would go swimming after her. So, Eirene snapped her jaws at them once more and tried to shake off as many as she could before clawing her way into the water. The pond wasn’t as deep as she would have liked, but she wouldn’t be against drowning one or two of them if she had to. Two more of the werewolves reeled away, whimpering, after her claws left significant wounds in their sides. This left five of them who kept pushing her down, down, down, smacking her head with huge paws and biting at her limbs. Buffeted by the plentiful bludgeoning strikes and pained by the endless biting, the werecroc’s eyes spun once the loss of blood and stamina began to weaken her. Before she could escape to the safety of the pond’s depths, Eirene fell onto her side in the bloodied muck, weakly kicking her legs in a futile attempt to right herself. She was beginning to slip away from consciousness and was terrified by it. Encouraged by her failing strength, Raidan raked blood-soaked claws down her exposed side, latching his jaws into his prey's neck. At this maneuver, the others began to back off, knowing he had the situation under control now and their wounds beginning to take their toll on them. With the pack leader’s jaws locked around her throat, Eirene struggled to breathe and feebly tried to claw Raidan away before finally losing any remains of her sapped strength. The defeated werecroc whined painfully, and the last thing she saw was the moon watching them without pity or concern. Such a sight boiled her blood, but she was too weak to act upon it as she simply awaited death’s embrace. At her practical surrender, Raidan uttered what sounded like a gurgling laugh, his jaws spreading in a toothy grin as he reared back and hit her head with all his strength to knock her out at last. Sure enough, the werecrocodile went limp with the final hit, having succumbed to her plentiful wounds. Lying motionless in the muck except for her shallow breaths, Eirene was as close to death as one could achieve without divine intervention. With that, the surviving wolves took it as their cue to drag her back to their contact...approaching, they none-too-gently seized her limbs and did just that, waiting for their transformation back into their proper forms to begin...

... Darling, time to wake... Abraham groaned like an ensnared animal, his head hung low as he sat in a small stack of fresh hay within the stables outside Redcliffe's tavern. The stench of horses hardly registered to the slumbering old man, and the quizzical looks from the residing steeds, regardless of their frequency, received no response from the vagabond. Hoping to simply rest his eyes for what he thought were only a few minutes, the aged veteran tried to tune out the silken voice that echoed in his ears. He only needed a few moments of rest. You must wake up, Abraham. Her voice sounded so sweet yet exhibited a stern tone, urging the weary ex-Templar into action. Reluctant to move so much as an inch, Abraham only managed to roll onto his side as a cold shiver swept down his spine. That voice, why was he hearing it? He hadn't heard it in so long that he had to contemplate whose face it belonged to. Cracking open a dark, glazed eye, Abraham only caught blurred flashes of Circle robes, coppery red hair, and rich brown eyes full of worry. Those glimpses were like the reflection of a shattered mirror; each shard only preserved a few details of a grander thing that no longer existed. Abraham! A sharp demand rang in his ears mere moments before he heard the thunderous crash of Revas kicking his stall in panic, the equine flaring his nostrils irritably. Abraham shot upright with a startled expression and winced shortly after when all manner of pops and creaks sounded from his outraged old bones aching in a painful uproar. Glancing around wildly, the veteran wondered where exactly he was until he noticed the first rays of dawn peeking through the entrance and shutters of the stables. "Maker... Revas, stop that..." He grumbled, shutting his eyes tightly when the delicate morning light irritated his eyes, reminding him of an awful headache pounding at the base of his skull. It as a tight, throbbing pain that pulsated throughout his weary form, and he lolled his head to the side as he wondered where he was, why he was there, and who that woman has. It looked to him like he was in the stable, what with the horses and such. Why was he there? Abraham struggled to recall the night before, but all he could remember is fighting, Templars, and his broken pipe. Groaning once again, the old man spent several minutes staggering to his feet, pained by every move he made. He had come to the stables last night for something, and he took a moment to rest... He had needed a moment's rest after cleaning up the tavern from the fight. Abraham finally began to curse incoherently when he realized that he had collapsed from fatigue then and there in the stables of all places. As his knees started to quiver and threatened to give, he leaned against a nearby post for support, grunting and huffing for breath as cold sweat poured down his neck and beaded upon his forehead. The man felt close to death's doorstep, to be frank; his head reeled from the throbbing pain that resonated with an aching sensation that gripped his body. His limbs felt heavy and were stubbornly stiff at the joints, and he wondered momentarily if he was hung over. Then he recalled the woman with fiery locks of hair and chestnut brown eyes, the revelation chilling him to the bone. Abraham didn't dare say her name while his strength was all but gone— she was painful to speak of at the best of times— his head spinning even worse when he realized what exactly he was enduring. It was the lyrium. When had he taken it last? That question hung heavily on his shoulders before he willed himself to sit down on the ground, shakily digging through his satchel for his box, the special oaken box in which he stored his Chantry-given tools for refining lyrium. While he rummaged desperately for the wooden container, Abraham sighed mournfully when he felt the broken bits of what had been his priceless pipe the night before; he didn't even know if he had all the fragments, but he had more pressing concerns at the moment. Finally, the former Templar procured his box of utensils before setting it in his lap, closing his eyes and silently praying that he might find his saving grace within it. Abraham opened the box and found little except broken shards of glass and ceramic that used to be his tools, and all his lyrium vials were barren and empty. Cold turkey. "Damnit!" The old man cried out before slamming the little box shut, trembling from the depressing discovery. He had no idea what to do; he couldn't function like this. Then the veteran remembered his companions whose whereabouts he had trouble recalling. Fear and regret soon raked at his heart when he thought frantically about Celeste and Wind. The Enchantress was roaming Ferelden without a Templar to chaperone her, and Wind was obviously a cutthroat of the most unsavory sort. Abraham needed to find them. "Revas..." The name spilled from the man's mouth, his tone betraying the pain and worry that all but paralyzed him. Cocking his head in his rider's direction, the All-Bred watched Abraham intently, his dark eyes mirroring what might have looked like sadness in the right light. The old stallion knew his person well enough to recognize that the sickness was returning, that the old man hadn't foreseen it and therefore did nothing to prevent it. Revas pitied his person, but the beast of burden only puffed air through his nose to express it. Sitting there with few alternatives, Abraham fought to steady his breathing and prayed to the Maker that this would pass soon. Abraham had others depending on him. Also, he was afraid that the visions might return before his strength did, and that was as terrifying as anything.

The lieutenant's honest and uncensored shock concerning their doomed expedition hardly sat well on Abraham's shoulders, but it didn't surprise him any, either. His shaken reaction to their compatriots' fate including Delaney's was like salt in the wound, reminding the old veteran of his stupidity. Abraham's employers had flashed a generous sum of gold, and that alone convinced the former Templar to disregard any second guesses; that kind of carelessness had almost gotten him killed. Despite his lifetime of experience and instincts, Abraham made the same mistake as any brigand driven by greed and forfeited his own safety and that of his fellows for the sake of money. It troubled the old man a great deal as he only half listened to Celeste's conversation with the lieutenant. Of all the adventurers and misfits who had gone into those Deep Roads, Abraham was the only one of the three who had survived, and what had the veteran done with himself since surviving the disaster? He had drunken himself senseless and instigated unnecessary violence. That fact alone unsettled Abraham even more so. Not only had he so selfishly chased the promise of gold towards what could have and very well should have been his doom, but he had also squandered his second chance at life when the corpses of good men, better men still littered the depths below. Abraham despised this foul sensation weighing heavily on his heart, and it did nothing to help the ache in his bones and his thoughts. He was so vexed by his contemplation that he hardly noticed the silence until he spotted the Enchantress's and lieutenant's focus aimed at him. Clearing his throat, the veteran shook his head to shake off the brooding look on his face before nodding solemnly in agreement. "Your generosity is appreciated. I would be content to compensate the Chantry for the inconvenience." The former Templar regurgitated the kind words without much thought, searching his person for his pipe out of habit. He was stressed, and he needed to smoke. His pipe. Maker damn those miserable bastards! The sorrow quite clearly settled onto the man's weathered countenance while he desperately glanced over the sheer mess of overturned furniture, debris, and splinters in search for any remains of his pipe. Abraham had that briarwood pipe for years now, and he refused to believe that he couldn't fix it if he could just find the pieces. If. There were no if's, there couldn't be. Abraham had to find his pipe so he could repair the invaluable trinket. The borderline vagabond of an ex-Templar had few treasures to his name, but that damned little thing was one of his most precious. It held memories that he couldn't endure losing. "Maybe you could be so kind as to take Lady Celeste and Wind to the Chantry, Templar? I would like to stay here and... assist the barkeep clean up. I am as responsible for this mess as the sods your men dragged out, so it is the least I can do." Abraham frankly didn't care about how badly he had inconvenienced the tavern's owner. He only cared about leaving the ruined establishment carrying exactly what he had with him upon his arrival, nothing less.

Rameses nodded solemnly in agreement with his two fiery companions as the line moved forward one step at a time. Painful as this was to endure for one as impatient as Rameses, the fire genasi hoped that the gala's pleasantries would make this night one to remember. After all, he had gotten this far in order to attend with the appropriate attire and mindset. No one had to know that Rameses had aspired to let off some steam through his bloodied knuckles throughout the week while also working to pay for the outfit he now so proudly wore. Nevertheless, Rameses gave an audible sigh of relief when they were that much closer to the main entrance. It seems as though a particularly large cluster of attendees not unlike their own group had slowed the process of entry, and now the line seemed to be moving a little faster. "Finally," He remarked under his breath, briefly running a hand through his hair. In all fairness, Rameses was slightly nervous with the idea of attending such a widely-anticipated event. The young man had never been much a socialite before he traveled the whole of the continent as a glorified vagabond, and all the time he'd spent on the road had taken its toll on his people skills. At the very least, Rameses was confident that the gala's refreshments would be sterling quality, and that alone was enough to excite him. However, Rameses's recovering anticipation for the celebration once again took another hit when he overheard some pompous mage giving Kaji and Hi-chan a hard time. Quickly scowling, the fire genasi turned on his heel to face the man lingering near the near of their group, his szuldar flaring angrily when the man's onslaught of ridicule ceaselessly troubled his friend. "Best shut that mouth before it gets you in more trouble than your parlor tricks can handle, Mere-thingus. I'd bet the hosts of this party wouldn't appreciate you endlessly mouthing off to anyone else here." Rameses spoke with a biting sneer mingled with his sharpened words, intentionally butchering the mage's name just to spite him. There were two sorts of people that irked the fire genasi most; those who thought themselves better than others and those who enjoyed ridiculing odd folks like himself and Kaji for the Hells of it. Unfortunately, Rameses's burning gaze currently honed in on the mage that was both sorts bundled in one. "Yes, indeed," The genasi replied to Kaji, walking alongside the wu jen and his fire elemental in case their unsavory associate felt any foolish desire to press his luck further. Sure enough, a haughty scoff soon sailed over Rameses's shoulders and into his airs, and the sound was quickly followed by an equally frustrating remark from Merethinus, "Not only does that miserable excuse of a mage lack the competence to protect himself or demand respect from his familiar, but he also requires an oaf of a brute to speak for him? The east must produce rather pathetic spellcasters, indeed." "And here I thought that such a socially-challenged worm would sooner hide away in some distant tower and feed their ego in solitude than attempt and fail to participate in any celebration," Rameses curtly responded, hoping that his jeering comment would fluster the man into silence. They were nine attendees away from reaching the front door to the estate. If they could keep this game up and avoid conflcit from breaking out until they reached those doors, Rameses would be proud of himself.

Abraham scowled fiercely when the Templars and guards baring the crest of Redcliffe on their shields had quickly stormed into the tavern, apprehending Celeste and surrounding both him and Wind. At least when one of the Templars seemed to recognize the Enchantress, the other two alongside the guardsmen quickly dragged what remained of the fallen mercenaries out the door. A heavy sigh escaped the old man's lungs, and he lowered his weapon but refused to sheathe it until he was sure they were safe. "I had forgotten how bigoted Redcliffe's commonfolk were to mages," The veteran grumbled once his echanted blade slid back into its scabbard, watching carefully as the Templar helped Celeste to her feet. Wind's comment soon reached Abraham's ears, and the former Templar turned his attention over to the Dalish elf who had taken to pouring himself a drink for all the recent trouble. Honestly, a drink tempted Abraham, but now was not the time. "It isn't difficult." He replied simply to his fellow Antivan Crow, giving him a hard look before glancing at the other Templars. While Abraham both respected the Chantry's more agreeable ideals and disproved some of its more questionable aspects, he knew better than to slander the Chantry's name in the presence of others who might have held it in higher regard. In other words, Abraham wasn't a very religious man who knew well enough to give the topic a wide birth with more pious individuals present. "Aye, we've just returned from Orzammar after our endeavors in the Deep Roads went awry. The circumstances of our return to the surface were rather grim, but we still agreed that informing our employer of the expedition's ill fate would be necessary."

“If you’re tight on gold, then might I recommend pit fighting?” Rameses added to the discussion among his companions, advising their newest member specifically; Sparrow was the half-elf’s name if the genasi overheard it correctly, “It isn’t so much about beating the other guy to a pulp as it is putting on a good show, knowing what bets and odds are stacked against you.” Considering his recent advances within the business of brawling for profit, he thought he had quite the insight on how to succeed in such bloody endeavors. Rameses believed wholeheartedly that his expertise had earned him his ill-gotten gains, allowed him to indulge in the finer aspects of the gala. Surely his success in those fighting rings couldn’t have possibly been a fluke. At least, the genasi told himself that to ward off his uncertainties and vindicate his ego. “I’m sure a nimble fellow like yourself would do well. Not many people expect the little combatant to win.” The genasi also remarked to Sparrow as the group made their way to the location of the gala. It was very true. Rameses vividly remembered how he had underestimated smaller opponents just as larger ones had underestimated him. Such assumptions based on size alone allowed the genasi to subdue one burly half-orc in a particularly entertaining match, but those very misconceptions also resulted in Rameses losing once to a dwarf barely half his size. Such was the beautiful, unpredictable chaos of the fighting rings. In fact, the hungry fire genasi planned on returning to them hopefully to earn himself some more riches, assuming the Doomguide’s company stayed in Furthinghome long enough to allow it. Although, he wondered if it would be wise to mention those plans to the others. He recalled some like Eirene who greatly disproved of the lucrative pastime, but he never quite understood why the idea disgusted those like her. Some fighting rings, the ones Rameses preferred over the rest, encouraged a good sense of sportsmanship among the fighters; everyone was there to hone their martial talents, possibly earning fame and fortune along the way. Although, more than a few of those establishments were unsavory in equal measure, permitting anything to take place in the pit. Rameses didn’t like those shadier places and the clients they attracted, but his dislike didn’t stop him from participating. Gambles concerning bad men and unsportsmanlike, ‘dishonorable’ brawls lined the genasi’s pockets with gold just the same. The fondness decorating his expression faded as the group neared the estate where the festivities would reach their peak. Recalling his habit of brawling reminded Rameses of Eirene, the odd little Mulhorandi with whom he never got along well. How badly he had begun to miss the ranger startled Rameses somewhat, and he even felt guilty for how quickly he had discarded her disappearance. What if she had never intended on leaving her group? What if her arm had been twisted by the likes of Harlock? What if- Stop. Rameses couldn’t plague himself with this kind of fretfulness. There was nothing more they could do about Eirene now, as far as the genasi knew. She was just another companion who came and went, just like everyone else did at some point. Sighing at the realization that sadly didn’t comfort him, Rameses crossed his arms as the group soon found themselves entering the courtyard of the regal estate. Trimmed hedges, marble statues, fountains with crystalline waters trickling soft melodies. As marvelous as the courtyard was, his sense of wonder was quickly dampened by the sight of the long line ahead of them. Rameses frowned while their group quickly wove their way into the painfully slow-moving train of attendees, meanwhile fiddling with the weighty flamegem on his ring finger. The fire lurking within those polished amber facets soothed his distress, enough so his smoldering szuldar didn’t flare too aggressively from aggravation. Even those soothing flames trapped within their garnet prison didn’t occupy Rameses for long. “Lady Doomguide, are there lines like this in the afterlife where the unfortunate hope to encounter your patron? If so, I pray for their sake that those lines move faster than this.” Rameses couldn’t help himself when the idea came to mind after spending several minutes to observe that the rate at which guests were allowed through the front doors was unbearably slow. Hopefully his hushed comment wouldn’t upset the mightiest of Kelemvor’s servants. Regardless, Rameses was proud of the cunning he had incorporated into the carefully-worded complaint, a gentle smirk crawling across his face, his szuldar sparking with amusement. ~ “Lovely, isn’t it?” “What?” “This. If only there were parties like this back home. I would have taken you to them.” “And you would have had to force me to go then, too.” Harlock ceased his taunting soon after Rylee’s bitter, truthful remark cut into him worse than a sharpened blade. He did an uncanny job at concealing his contempt behind a poised, pearly smile, but she saw through his facade and smirked at the frustration underneath. The man indulged in pressing her buttons, so she often did the same in retaliation. Rylee was capable of few things that displeased the madman walking arm-in-arm with her as much as bursting his bubble. Had they been anywhere else in Furthinghome, Harlock would have violently taken out his aggravation on someone or something. He couldn’t do that here, and they both knew it. The irritation seething in his unforgiving blue eyes only intensified because of that fact, and the sight amused Rylee enough to grin and even laugh softly. Of the few enjoyable aspects of Rylee’s otherwise miserable existence, twisting Harlock’s arm was one of them. The pair mingled through the growing crowds within the estate’s majestic keep, awaiting for the gala to begin once the stream of new arrivals came to an end. There were all kinds of outfits filling the glamorous foyer, so their matching attire didn’t stand out. Harlock’s outfit was much like the other mens’ formal wear except for its black and blue scheme. At his behest, Rylee was scantly-clad in a salacious black dress splashed with streaks of blue and even studded with sapphires. She was Harlock’s eye candy; she had to dress accordingly for such an occasion. Her amusement peaked when Harlock uncharacteristically favored silence instead of counterng. The sincerity of her biting remark seemed to hit a nerve, and she was glad that it did. Nothing else really brought her joy compared to how much paining him did. “Did I hurt your feelings, Harlock?” Rylee tantalized the volatile maniac at her side, eager for another satisfying reaction. “Not at all. I’m just waiting for Galeran to appear through those doors.” Now it was Harlock’s turn. His cool words were like quicksilver, poisoning Rylee’s brief moment of splendor, compelling the spiteful woman into silence. “He’ll surely be miserable like you. Probably not as miserable as you are, but miserable nonetheless. You and I will laugh, dance, and drink until the world spins around us, all while I make sure you get a good view of him the whole time. He might even catch a glimpse of us together. Imagine how fun that would be.” “Burn in any of the Hells, I don’t care,” Rylee hissed barely above a whisper, her twisted expression easily betraying her lie. She wasn’t nearly as good as Harlock at concealing herself, and they both knew it. “Did I hurt your feelings, Rylee?” He mocked her with a sweet tone and an unnerving smile, pulling her a little closer, “I’m sorry, truly. We still have the whole night ahead of us, though.” ~ The crickets and cicadas played a wonderful symphony with the rustling grass and whispering breeze, their music dancing through the meadow. Nature’s lullabies soothed Eirene, and she could almost forget the dread weighing heavily on her shoulders. With nothing else to do, she sat down upon the warm earth, resting her back against the trunk of an ancient oak tree. Serenity was the only word that came to the Mulhorandi’s mind when she contemplated describing her surroundings. This meadow was protected by the surrounding hills and groves of trees, offering her refuge from the critical gaze of the world. There was even a small pond near the center of the meadow with all manner of reeds and shrubbery growing along its muddy banks. Eirene wasn’t at all surprised by the well-trodden game trails weaving through the grassy meadow. All sorts of creatures surely frequented this place to graze and drink. She could catch subtle whiffs of their scents when the breeze changed direction, for her sense of smell was sensitive for the same reason she had been lightheaded for most of the day. The full moon was coming. It was going to be a terrible night, like always. The ranger didn’t even know if she would remember any of it, nor did she care. Of all that was wrong with the curse she endured, one of its most taxing aspects was how exhausting it was. Eirene didn’t think she would ever get used to something so traumatic, even with Selûne’s guidance. She would dread the full moon for days before it arrived, and she would feel sickened in the days following until the cycle started all over again. For a brief time, however, she felt a little better when accompanied by her friends. She missed them something fierce despite how little she actually knew them. Quiet Rhaine, wise Conall, innocent We’tak, odd Leif, even bullheaded Rameses. They had all made Eirene’s life something more than waxing and waning despondency induced by the lunar cycle. She truly hoped she could find them again after tonight, assuming she didn’t wake up the next day in some neighboring country. Closing her eyes, Eirene sighed quietly before lazily opening them again to glance at the setting sun. It would be an hour or two before dark. Maybe she could sleep the rest of the evening away until then. The prospect appealed to her, but the ranger’s thoughts continued to circulate after her eyes closed again. She wondered how Conall managed his curse. Imagining the werewolf partaking in the gala under the light of the moon jabbed a splinter of jealousy into her heart, but she tried her best to ignore it. As alike as the two lycanthropes were, their contrasting circumstances easily made the difference. In the darker recesses of the Mulhorandi’s mind, she considered simply giving up. Eirene was tired of fighting her curse, and she always wondered what could happen if she succumbed to the thing that lurked inside of her. Surely her sanity would vanish if she slid the rest of the way down this muddy slope, but her curiosity was always present, especially on evenings like this. Nevertheless, she’d do nothing more than humor the idea, just like she had for the entirety of her existence as something trying to be someone.

The world spun dazzlingly around Abraham, his assailants ruthlessly descending upon him in numbers close to half a dozen, like wolves. Their onslaught did not last long, though. A mage's raw power blasted them away like leaves caught in a storm, leaving Abraham motionless on the floor in a daze, the familiar sensation of magic in the air crawling across his skin. Then Celeste came into view, and the muted warmth of her healing soon washed over the beaten elder, chasing away his pain and mending his injuries. With a heavy sigh, Abraham closed his eyes in relief before sitting upright, a low groan escaping him as he did so. The crowd's fleeing cries and screams still echoed in his thoughts, but his sluggish attention only turned towards the Enchantress kneeling beside him. Her terrified expression perplexed him, his bushy brows knitting together at the sight. Focus. He thought, inhaling a deep breath before rising to one knee before grumbling to the mage, "Thank you..." Suddenly, the pained howls and chaotic crashes of another brawl caught the veteran's attention, and he swung his head towards Wind's direction to see him quite effectively fending off three mercenaries, two of which already lying on the floor and bleeding. One of them clutched his oddly-bent nose while the other wailed with a corkscrew protruding from his eye socket. The sight frankly made Abraham frown, and he staggered to his feet just as the third brigand hurled the Antivan Crow into the liquor shelves behind the counter. Steeling himself as he stood between the armed axeman and Celeste, who had proven to be his saving grace, Abraham whistled sharply and caught his opponent’s attention. There was still a cloudy haze in the former Templar’s mind, but he only shook his head and growled. He couldn’t lose. He had to win this fight, his friends’ safety hung in the balance if he didn’t. “Put. That. Down.” Abraham commanded angrily, curling his fingers around the hilt of his Tempest threateningly. Huffing brazenly at the remark, the mercenary only flexed the grip he had on his own weapon and spat. “After I yank it from your skull.” He snarled bitterly, raising his ax and closing the distance between them. “So be it.” A shower of crackling sparks and chilling frost fell from the veteran’s silverite greatsword as it emerged from its scabbard with a cutting hiss, the runes etched into the mirror-like polished metal gleaming with a bluish purple aura. Abraham held up his massive blade to deflect the incoming swing of the mercenary’s ax, the impact shuttering through them both. Cursing, his opponent attempted to snag the former Templar’s sword with his ax and tried to pull it from his grasp, but Abraham clung tightly onto his weapon and heaved. The mercenary was unwilling to let his ax slip from his hold, so he only held on dearly and staggered aside, thrown off-kilter from the veteran’s successful attempt at freeing his blade. Abraham advanced while he had the opportunity and quickly leveraged Tempest downward before grabbing the sword by the blade in proper half-sword fashion. Using the cross guard of his greatsword, the former Templar hooked onto the mercenary’s shoulder and forcefully pulled him forward, causing him to stumble to his hands and knees. Kicking the ax away when it clattered onto the floor, Abraham then plowed his boot into the man’s shoulder with a weighty kick, and the mercenary slid across the floor on his back. Marching over to his fallen opponent, the venerable warrior pinned him to the floor with a foot on his chest, shifting his hold on Tempest and lowering its enchanted edge over the man’s throat. “Yield.”

Abraham hadn't even received his second tankard before accusations of an apostate present in the tavern reached his ears, and the burly man swung around to cast his attention over towards the crowd encircling Celeste. Emerald fire scorched those who turned to see his harsh glare, speechless as the imposing fellow was momentarily dumbfounded by what he saw. No one bothered listening to the Enchantress's desperate attempts at explaining herself, instead pinning ignorant, baseless accusations on the mage. Had it not been for the fugue temporarily rendering the veteran's mind inert, he would have immediately jumped to his feet alongside Wind as well. However, the aged man only stood there, vexed by the tavern patrons' merciless disposition towards his ward. Although, the Crow's bold remark swiftly instigated all but an absolute uproar throughout the establishment that did little to ease the awful throbbing in Abraham's head. The venerable warrior still didn't come to his senses until he peered across the room and met Celeste's pleading gaze, those starry sapphires of hers fearfully begging for assistance. Such a pitiful and concerning sight spurred the staggered former Templar into action, and he rolled his shoulders before bringing his fist down onto the bar much like Wind had done, the silverite-plated impact producing a very satisfying smash and leaving a small but visible fissure in the stained wood. "Silence!" Abraham bellowed, almost to the point of roaring both out of aggravation and a desire to simply be heard over the plethora of shouts and barks. Indeed, silence quickly settled over the tavern only to be interrupted by the man's thunderous stomping, his face burning red from having to raise his voice so loudly. "Fools," He snapped, marching his way through the crowd towards Celeste with a mad look in his eyes, "I am former Knight-Captain Abraham Rohart of Kinloch Hold and am escorting this Circle mage back to Kinloch from a permitted expedition to Orzammar." By the time Abraham finished his furious, articulated statement, he was standing before the Enchantress protectively and staring down the rest of the tavern's occupants. His clouded gaze and enraged expression all but dared anyone to question him, but the uneasy silence only lasted for a breath or two before a nearby man, a mercenary from the looks of his mismatched equipment, snorted defiantly, "'Former' my arse! And I'm a long-lost Theirin bastard!" Most of the tavern found the daring statement to be amusing while laughter spilled over the room, and a red-faced Abraham sighed menacingly with a deadly look in his emerald eyes. The briarwood pipe hanging out of the corner of the former Templar's mouth seemed to sag before he suddenly lashed out with a firm backhand, catching the jokester square in the jaw. Crying out in pain after a painful, sickening crunch, the sellsword spun around before collapsing to the floor in a wailing heap. "Maker's breath, you broke his jaw!" Cried out a terrified young lady who kneeled over the beaten man, although the validity of her quite possibly exaggerated statement was uncertain. Her observation only made Abraham grunt proudly before another man yelled incoherently as he charged the silver monolith. Standing his ground, the veteran threw a heavy right hook towards the charger but misjudged the distance, and the man easily evaded the swing before landing a precise jab into Abraham's jaw. The pain spurred from the blow whipped Abraham's head back, sending his precious smoking pipe sailing through the air in pieces; it was difficult to tell which infuriated him more, the hit or that it broke his most prized possession. Staggering slightly, the elderly fellow shook his head to recover and was surprised to receive another blow to his cheek; his opponent was quick. Lurching forward, Abraham threw all his weight into a wide-sweeping haymaker that the brawler apparently saw coming and quickly ducked to avoid. The former Templar stumbled forward from the failed attack and soon felt a punch to his right side bounce off his silverite armor. The dull impact amused Abraham as he reeled around and managed to plow his elbow into his adversary's chest, tossing him back a few feet. A frown grew across the veteran's face when he approached the man, rolling his shoulders and ready to beat the holy fire out of him for breaking his pipe. Suddenly, a disturbingly loud crack pierced Abraham's ears followed a mere second later by blurry, blackening vision. After a light but effective chair had been broken over the back of his head, the silver monolith buckled and collapsed to the floor, his mind reeling and threatening to slip away into unconsciousness. Groaning weakly, he found the cool hardwood floor pressed against his cheek soothing, and he only managed to get his hands beneath him before a heavy boot kicked into his ribs with more force than his armor could negate. A whooshing sound quickly followed when the air was knocked from Abraham's lungs, and he rolled onto his back before gazing up at the ceiling. It looked very far away.