Chamberlain Family/Chamberlain Family RP log

Catherine

Sailing to Kazan

She stood on the weathered wood, lookig to both sides, the normally tranquil harbour now bustled with the requisitioned boats from all along the coast. The banners of all of the coastal ports were evident, Oroya, Pucallpa, Salta and ofcourse Juaziero. Among them were some of the smuggler fleet, insinuating themselves at unexpected speed across the peninsula.

She had hoped to approach Kazan quietly, to catch the foul get of Obsidia in their whore houses and dens, but her fleet would be far too obvious for such a landing, and the greedy fat lords would force their vassals to fight for their unjust and undeserving masters.

There was a buzz of anticipation on the boat, her men, set about their weopons, tightening bow strings and checking the fletchers works on their arrows. She was the only woman amongst them, 100 all told, with the scouts and healers, and all following her orders. She had never found the company of soldiers difficult; she had journeyed now so long with many of them, she felt closer to them in some ways than to some of her family.

What would her family think of her. By her age her mother had already birthed her two eldest brothers. She had attended finishing school, she was bred to be a wife and mother. But now... now her body was so accustomed to the reassuring weight of her battle armour, she felt uncomfortable in her gowns, no matter how pretty her ladies might say she appeared. Her hands were not soft and smooth like her mothers, she had many small scars from bouts and from battle. Her sister-in-law thought her to be sapphic, however untrue, it did not change the musing for her as to what man would want a woman such as she who presumed to lead not only her own men, but those of the army to war.

The sun was setting over the bay, the sky blood red, the fleet would soon be embraced by the night, and tomorrow, tomorrow may be a defining point for the future of her homeland. But for now, surrounded by her family of men, with an entire army within less than half of a mile of where she stood, she had strangely, never felt so alone.

On Board Entertainment

They were basically untried, a worthy group of men, but one minor skirmish and now they were set to defend the soverignty of Nivemus at Kazan. There were still a few of her old hands, assisting the green horns to oil their leathers and tighten their bows for maximum efficacy and range. She heard the songs of war from the barges and ferries surrounding her, but could only think to herself how could she prepare them better, what training could she give archers at sea?

Looking to Lords Ketchum and Alumanni's ferry she smiled to herself.

"Dekmar, call the men starboard side, Lord Ketchum presents target for them!"

She smiled pulling back her own bow and loosing an arrow at the bobbing lane of barrels trailing the ferry.

Vessol's Injuries and the Lady of Ashforth

"I am sorry to trouble you at this time your Majesty." Catherine had spoken often with the Kronogos in her capacity as Marshal and Arithagan, but now, regarding him in his bed, broad bare chest, bandaged at the left shoulder, his modesty secured only by the clean white sheet pulled to his waist, she felt oddly embarassed. She bowed her head cheeks flushing red. The princess noted Catherine's pause with a snort of disdain.

Catherine had known Snowe for many years, indeed Kristina had attended finishing school with her. They had always shared a cordial relationship, but there was a gulf between them socially. The Mithridates' were an old family, and with 'old money'. Her own family had risen by marriage and alliegance from gamekeepers and squires to the modest holdings they now possessed. The age of money still had far reaching impacts in some areas of society.

Her eyes lingered on the bare chest of her King. Looking at her own bloodied leathers she wished she had changed.

"My father needs rest, what do you want Dame Catherine," the princess prompted, pointedly using the lowest of Catherine's titles. The Kronogos censured his daughter with the briefest change in his eyes and she crossed the room to the window, looking out over the village for which she was now overseer. Snowe's worry for her father was palpable, and Catherine silently thanked Ora, that she had never had to witness or share a battlefield with her own father.

"Yes, ah... yes," she bowed her head. "Nivemus did you proud today your Majesty, the men fought valiantly, and gifted our enemies with heavy losses, their own Emperor, licks his wounds in a tent but a league from here. Preparations have been made for the defence of our territories, but I fear we have a problem, a subtle blade. An infiltrator."

Snowe spun from the window looking to the heavy wooden doors, as if she could see the guardsmen on the other side. For his part the Kronogs eyes narrowed. He moved himself with difficulty, propping himself up on his elbows. As he moved the sheet slipped a little from his thigh. Blushing anew, Catherine raised her eyes to the cieling wishing silently that she had shared her fears with Barons' Ketchum or Wolf rather than be standing as she was now in the presence of her Kronogos.

"Go on," he bade her.

"Ah... I... yes..." she could feel Snowe's gaze burning into her. "I went from camp to camp, reviewing and congratulating the troops and their commanders. I came in time to the camp of Lord Alumaani, as you know his men were magnificent today," she viewed again with her internal eye, the young Baron fighting valiantly amongst his men. "When I reached Lord Alumaani, I was conftonted with the most offensive odour. His man Ingwald, reported him as unwell but I fear it is more serious than some simple malady. I spoke to his troops, and many stated that they feared he had been poisoned by some villainous female whose name I am yet to isolate, it seems though, she goes by the title of 'The Ashforth Lady'..."

The Art of War

War should be a simple affair. Many books had been written by the great tacticians, legendary heroes and captains had their lives relived in song, yet on its most basic level, your men with pointy sticks attacked their men with pointy sticks and whomever had the pointiest stick won the day. The battle in Kazan had once again been a tactical victory. But then they had won here before and then the nation with the pointiest stick of all had come and slaughtered her army almost to a man.

Catherine had a creeping sense of unease, the banner of Perdan stood once again alongside the tents of the Obsidian Isles. They had been beaten soundly, twice now, yet they remained, indeed she noted the return of Cornelia Li and her female batallion, she had not even refit her troops, simply crossed the sea and returned, why would she do that when the greater force still held the battlefield.

Their Emperor lay wounded at the hands of Baron Wolf, their Marshal pinnioned by a somewhat flamboyantly brocaded Baron Alumaani, (fortunately recovered from his malady). Yet here they were. She must be missing something, something crucial.

There were times in this war that she felt very young, she prayed to Ora her naivete would not cost Nivemus once again. A wounded snake could yet bite, and the roguish Sylvus was testimony to the venom that bite could bestow.

She pushed aside 'Dekion's Treatise' coming to a decision unassisted by the long dead generals. She needed to make sure her stick was as big and pointy as she could.

"Dekmar, summon the scribe, I need to send a message to Baron Wolf."

Instructions from a Friend

Pacing the cell, she looked for some weakness in the structure, some area that could be manipulated that she may escape. Tapping the walls produced the muffled thud that told her the walls were thick. The only light came from a tiny window high on the southern wall. She hauled her cot across to the wall, and from there reached up to the ledge of the window. She already knew it was too small to provide passage but she felt she owed it to herself to try.

She hooked her fingers onto the ledge and scrabbling with her feet against the wall drew herself, muscles burning, up into the window space. Her shoulders wedged uncomfortably in the light well. She noted dismally that the light from the window was channelled from a small opening at the end of an 8 foot shaft which narrowed as it reached toward the outside world. Suddenly aware of the noise she was making she eased herself back from the ledge and began to lower herself to the cot. As she was moving back down, she noted a rolled up piece of paper wedged into the wood of the ledge. Pulling it out with her teeth, she dropped back down onto the cot.

Settling back she unrolled the paper immediately recognising the penmanship, it read:

'No exit that way, dear'

Laughing to herself, she made a mental note to thank Lady Sandra for her helpful instructions...

Celebrations in Kazan

She could scarce remember feeling so proud.

The battle today was heated and magnificent resulting in the situation that all of the government of the Obsidian Islands was either in custody or injured by the hands of Nivemus, with Jai Mor Dundrave wounded by Baron Alumaani, Malius Songslayer injured by Baroness Jimenez and Keran Sedgwick injured by the Wolf's Guard. She made a note to herself to contact Baron Wolf to inform him of the magnificence of his old unit in what was to be their last battle, they fell to a man in the final flurries of the Islanders offence. The Islanders had brought a force of 8 of their nobles to the fray and in total 4 now lay wounded and 1 more languished in the prisons of Nivemus. Her pride redoubled to think that her own Captain Dekmar had led her own Ora's Hope to capture Laithe Songslayer and wound Drake Dragon Master.

She looked from the reports and maps to Lord Alumaani's invitation, she had answered in haste, agreeing to join the troop leaders in celebration. Now she paused. How was it she could lead armies to war and discuss policies with Kings, yet when it came to joining the firebrand of House Alumaani for recreation, she was nervous far beyond what was natural. She had answered him in haste, comitted to a course of action that now filled her with an excited sense of dread.

Captain Ewald pushed into her reverie. "M'Lady, the High Priestess approaches." He stated breathlessly. She was used to this, her sister was beautiful, enigmatic and detached. The life ecclesiastical, had only gone further to enhance her with an aura of serenity. She had her fathers colouring, rolling ebon hair, full lips and breasts, the palest alabaster skin and dancing green eyes. After she had been touched by Ora, with the golden rivers in her hair she was even more striking. At times she actually felt uncomfortable in her own sisters company. Her presence filled the tent as she breezed through the flaps.

Taking her sisters hands she kissed her cheeks briefly: "Ora was with you today, sister, your army was magnificent." A look of mischief Catherine had not seen since their childhood crossed her sisters face. "I see you accepted Silvertongues invitation. I know you have nothing to wear."

Catherine looked with dread as 2 of the maunts her sister travelled with pulled a chest into her tent. Her sister deftly opened the lid revealing a pale blue gown. The maunts ushered Ewald from the tent and began to draw her a bath. Her sister talked incessantly and Catherines dread began to turn to horror, she stood numbly as the maunts unlaced her leather armour. In a daze she was washed , dressed, her face painted and her blonde hair taken down oiled and curled. Finished, Kristina ushered the Maunts from the tent. Finally drawing a mirror from the bottom of the chest, Kristina stood cheek to cheek with her sister looking in the glass. She had never seen herself look so like her sister.

Squeezing her hand briefly Kristina smiled warmly at her sister: "You work so hard Kate, enjoy your victories, you have earned them, and your men deserve to see your gratitude," and with that she left. Catherine felt thunderstruck.

Regarding herself in the mirror, she barely recognised the woman looking back at her. The gown was loose fitting and flattering, her hair, positively gleamed. She looked at the Chamberlain seal on the index finger of her right hand. Tonight she looked like her mothers daughter and like her sister. Tonight she looked like Kate of Dale, not Catherine of Oroya.

Looking down at Baron Alumaani's invitation again she smiled. Dekmar and Ewald would be here to escort her soon.

As Ewald and Dekmar arrived Catherine tightened the cuff of her leathers, her hair in its usual top-knot, her face clean and fresh.

Catherine of Oroya, would attend Baron Alumaani's invitation.

The Duchess' Banquet

Catherine sat at the table writing, 'Duchess Catherine of Kazakh', 'Catherine, Duchess of Kazakh', no still not right. She paused her quill settling back in the chair. Nivemus had always been an interesting place, in but a short time she had risen from a fairly questionable noble pedigree to lead armies into battle, to exchange words with Kings and Emperors, and now poised to sit on the Ducal throne of Kazakh, (all being well).

Last nights festivities had been a huge honor to her and to the realm as a whole. Seeing the great and good, of Nivemus nobility united in the banqueting hall; banners of the families laid upon tables, Jimenez, Alumaani, Ketchum, Wolf, Archblane, Pucker, Gotfried, Stormblade, Valoran. The empty seat at the head of the Kell's table, a reminder of the imprisoned lord, and the crown itself, Mithridates. Princess Snowe had seemed preoccupied most of the evening, drifting at the edges of the event. She was so different now to the girl she had met on those briefest of visits to her sister at the Ladies Academy of Dolmbar, there she had been an icon, the house leader and certainly the most gifted of the students. Now she seemed somewhat diminished, always alone. Perhaps her position as princess made her remove herself, perhaps it was something else.

She wished she could relax in these circumstances, simply enjoy the festivities. Instead she found herself boring her dearest friend Malakai with discussion of strategy, as always he good-naturedly nodded appropriately, though she knew he would rather be carousing with the others. How anyone could confuse Malakai with his brother was beyond her, the distinction between the two was as plainly apparent as the difference between china and porcelain.

The Kronogos looked fevered as he stood before them. She so admired his devotion to duty. This man barely from his sick bed, standing tall and proud before the nobility of the realm. She looked askance at Lord Sylvus dressed in cloth of gold, and accessorised with innumerable serving wenches. He was like belladonna, beautiful but deadly. His speech moved her, but as he reached for his goblet with a hand no longer there, her eyes filled with tears of pride and sorrow unbidden. He was a true leader, Nivemus would not be as it was without his management. The fever had spoken and he had announced abdication, clearly these were the words of illness, or were they.

She looked back at the page 'Catherine' that would do nicely.

Kristina

Night Terrors

She had done as the dreams and nightmares had bade her, stumbling along the roads like some peasant woman she had left her men in their homeland, it was not fair that she should pull them so far from their families.

She was ill-prepared for life alone, hunger pangs made her feel light headed , her shoes chaffed at her feet. She could scarce braid her own hair. But the nightmares had been vivid. A golden haired woman with silver skin, besieged and beleaguered by lascivious dark skinned men. The woman was crying out as they hacked at her body, but no sound was emergent.

Then there was the dream of the tree, aflame with blood red glow, and always her sisters voice calling her. If she did not respond she knew Catherine was to die a meaningless death. It was this that had called her first, but now the nightmares of the ravaged woman, this was something else. Her father had always despaired at the passions of his youngest daughter. The family had thought her flighty and prone to the fanciful. She had left on a gilded litter almost entirely to prove them wrong. Now as she stumbled into the shack and was greeted by the woman in her dreams, she knew she had left for a very different reason.

The woman looked at her, a playful expression in her eyes, not even as tall as Kristina she stood before her completely naked and unashamed. Far from being abashed when the woman opened her arms, Kristina fell into them, fell into an embrace that was almost overwhelming in its intensity. The woman kissed her forehead and whispered into her ear:

"You are mine."

The Mother of Dale

An elderly maunt was cradling her head and stroking her hair as she awoke, the morning sunrise was hazy but even this made the silver white bark of the tree glow in an almost iridescent hue. There was no sign of the woman from her dreams anymore. The maunt seemed to sense her awakening and looked down at her with milky blind eyes. She smiled:

"It has been a while child, but I knew I'd find you here, she called me to watch over you in the night."

Ironic that a blind woman should watch over anyone. Kristina pushed herself up onto her elbows:

"You have been here all night?" she touched the older womans face, "why?"

The woman chuckled, a warm sound that somehow reminded Kristina of her mother. "Had I not your flower would have been plucked." Kristina's blood ran cold as she noted the 3 large figures slumped at the far side of the shack, their throats cut. Startled she lurched from the woman, noting for the first time the bloodied blade at her side. With an iron grip the maunt seized her arm as if she could see her: "This was her first gift to you child, use it wisely."

The strength in the womans hands belied her apparent frailty. She continued: "And these are my gifts to you," the maunt placed a hooded cloak on her shoulders, and offered a pair of sandals that would lace up her legs. As Kristina put them on, her mind raced, she couldn't bring herself to look again at the three men, worse still she noted with a sinking sensation, the bloodied blade was her own. She gingerly wiped i on the dew soaked grass at the base of the tree and re-sheathed it in her belt.

"How can I repay you, mother?" she asked.

The woman smiled, the benign smile of a grandmother to her grand children. "You cannot," she said wistfully, "Not yet at least." Her blind eyes swept the room and she cocked her head as if listening to some unheard voice. The maunt stood and handed Kristina a small package of food. "It is time for you to travel on, dear heart. I would come with you, but I have three sons to bury."

Bewildered Kristina backed out of the shack. Shocked and silent tears poured freely as she ran stumblingly on the road to Obando.

The Temple of Sermbar

She had been chewing the bark of the white tree steadily on the long journey from Nivemus to Sermbar. Now she took the pulped wood and laid it in the copper cradle on a bed of moss. Striking a tinder she set fire to the moss and soon the pulp was smoking a purple blue haze filling the small shack that was serving as the temple of Sermbar. She closed her eyes praying that Ora should cleanse the land and the air, that this would become a truly holy place worthy of worship. As she opened them she could see the construct. White stone walls and a roof of intertwined vines twisting around the central light well where the tree would be planted. With her bare hands she moved the soil from the spot that would be the centre of the temple. She poured the still smoking contents of the copper cradle into the hole.

The pulp glowed red as the damp wood tried to burn, but still only managed to channel purple smoke around the room. She took the sapling from her pack. It looked simply like a silver twig, budded, but so small and frail. With unseeing eyes she pushed the small roots of the tree into the smouldering pulp. There was a loud pop and a hiss as the wood met the flame, but she held her resolve and gently patted soil around the base of the tree. Placing her forehead to the soil she waited.

The maunts became restless as she remained prone and static for so long, but after three hours they gazed in wonder as first one, then a second and third golden leaves unfurled on the tree. Afine dusting of new grass surrounded the base of the tree where before had been smoking soil.

Dusting the soil from her head she stood and looked to the maunts.

"Bring me the gold."

The coffermaster, brought a small wooden chest from within the shack. She smiled at the elderly man: "Now walk with me."

She walked the boundary as she had seen it in the vision from the smoke. Dropping golden coins on the ground as she walked around what would be the temple walls. The maunts looked uneasily at the gold on the ground. So much money, thrown to the dirt. A small crowd of the faithful had gathered bearing witness to what many thought was the abject madness of the High Priestess of Nivemus. The maunts and the woman long passed, an elderly man ventured forward, one coin would not be missed.

"Is your faith so frail Jebediah Munroe." Kristina called to him, not turning or wavering from her task. The man froze fingers outstretched, then fell to his knees sobbing in embarrassment. The crowd shuffled uneasily distancing themselves from the man. She moved back to the man and looked contemplatively from him to the crowd. Their rising anger at his actions was evident. Bending down she whispered: "Ora forgives what your neighbors may not," straightening she bade him: "Go in Ora's peace, I do not think we shall meet again, Jebediah."

The man stumbled from her wishing only to go home. The crowd parted and he left shunned, even his own wife declining to look at him.

She knelt once more in what would be the entry way to the temple, eyes unseeing as she invoked the Goddess. A steely wind blew from the north west bringing with it billowing black clouds. The sky darkened as the cloud coalesced, lightening started to play among the edges of the brewing storm and the deep rumble seemed to shake the very ground. The faithful looked to the priestess and then fell to their knees in supplication to Ora. The maunts lay prostrate even the coffermaster had his face to the soil. Kristina's voice raised in the sing song strains of ancient elvish, so old the sounds were barely recognisable to the Sirionites.

The first fork of lightening hit the ground near the priestess, the smell of rising ozone clear and harsh in the air. Invoking the Goddess by all her names Kristina stood in the doorway and waited. The pressure in the air dropped and the land was enveloped in an expectant silence. A rumble like a thousand horse hooves penetrated through the ground and the static in the air made Kristinas ebon hair float upwards. The ground trembled with the volume of the thunder then lightening forked touching the ground in 100 places.

Then the storm was gone, Kristina swayed with the effort, where the coins had been were now white stone walls, gold melted into the cracks between the stones making the walls strong, already small vines clung to the base of the walls, and over time these would become the roof. The maunts remained on their knees, trembling in devotion. Kristina touched their shoulders. "Sisters we are not finished." Together they planted the staves into the ground, intertwining the ends to make the central well where the tree would grow. They placed woven hessian in the roof space to offer shelter, though Kristina knew they would soon be covered by the vines as the temple established itself in the landscape.

Exhausted she stood in the doorway, the maunts at her elbows their hands steadying her. Briefly distracted, she noted a streak of gold in her black hair, Ora was pleased and she felt a warmth beyond the sun within her soul. She looked to the awestruck faithful:

"People of Sermbar, beloved of Ora. Your temple is anointed through lightening and flame," she staggered a little catching herself on the door frame that had not been there just a few hours before. "To the glory and mercy of Ora!" She raised her hands in supplication, falling to her knees, the sun glinting from the new golden strand within her ebon hair.

The maunts ushered her quickly to the tree, she lay at its base and drifted to sleep hearing the maunts lead the faithful in songs of Ora's glory.

The Knight of Sermbar

Kristina readied herself to leave Sermbar, her few days had shown her much, but had been physically draining.

The faithful had looked to her and she had felt the mystic surges, the ebb and the flow of the faith as she channelled natures fury into the growth of the house of Ora in Sermbar. The tree had grown at an exponential rate allowing the temple to grow with it. The vine roof already blossomed. As the days had passed more of her hair had changed with streaks of gold. She had not expected to find such peaceful mysticism in Sirion after the ongoing tumult and restructuring in Nivemus that came with the war.

Her meetings with Markus had been more frequent, his hospitality had been a welcome diversion from the exhaustion she had experienced from channeling the flow. She had seen the golden seed growing within him and at night dreamt of him, his head surrounded by golden leaves.

The sapling, so recently the length of her palm, now stood 3 feet tall, a healthy crop of golden leaves. She had taken 9 leaves to represent the 9 temples and twined them within strands of the golden hair that now grew from her. When Markus announced that he wished to enter the orders she had known why she had woven this crown that she had now rested upon his head as he was annointed.

The call of Ora was now growing in Sirion, this could only be good. And so she packed her belonings and prayed one last time at the tree. She left Sermbar without fuss or show, secure in the knowledge that Ora's knight sat in the keep of Sermbar and so her people would be served all the better.

The Song of Tabost

Barefoot she walked on the circle of gold coins chanting the song of Ora as she went. The preaching had been amazing, more than 200 of the lost came to her light and now watched in awe as the ozone gathered and the pressure of the air dropped. Her ceremonial robes shone with a silver glow like the very bark of the tree. Her hair raised floating on the currents of the air, small shards of lightening playing along her strands of hair.

Raising her arms above her head lightening arced to the coins and the ground shook raising white stones from the earth in a circle. The soil fell away leaving the stones white and polished, the golden coins melted and streaked over the stones.

The maunts were ready with the staves and vines and planted them around the circumfrence. It had been so long since the power of Ora had been displayed so openly, but Kristina knew that she stalked the lands reclaiming them for her own and what had happened at the temples of Sermbar and Tabost were nothing compared to what was to come.

Kristinas voice changed and the song became ancient elvish again. Her floating hair glinted more gold as it floated around her head like a crown. Pulling her hands down the air pulled inwards swirling around her robes. The staves bent and crossed leaving the central well a star to the heavens. The vines grew readily in creeping up the staves and beginning to knit across the roof.

The song rose from her lips to a crescendo and was gone. with it the wind died and was replaced by birdsong. Falling to her knees, the maunts raised her up and laid her on a litter by the tree. Spent she slept a dreamless sleep.

Hadrian

The Library of Chateau Saffalore

He sat in the vaulted antechamber of the once great library of Chateau Saffalore. Even here the books, chronicling the rise and fall of the empires of Dwilight, and scrolls of the many letters and notes sent between nobles over the years. The battles to establish the republic and its systematic failures and ruin. The book keeping slowly diminished following the reign of Maloudi, his cramped notes the last of Terran's times. Where were they all now he wondered. Duke Pablo, Lady Aurea, black LaPointe and brave Lord Lux, he even found himself thinking of that strange rat featured woman, Kwa Comacho.

The librarian had called upon him as the roof had failed and a veritable deluge had washed through the archives obliterating the histories. It didn't matter. Terran's memory was just that, a memory. He knew he was spending too much time alone with only his own thoughts and the occasional missive from Harim Belios to divert him. He thought more of the past and less of the future than had ever been the case before. he lingered on Terran with less and less thought of Phantaria. His mother had always chastened him for spending too long with his own thoughts. "Life is for the living, not regrets and reflections on things that cannot be changed" - She had had much to contend with herself, yet she had managed her own fate and lived a comfortable life back in Dale.

Dale, it was the place he had always struggled to leave, even his beloved twin sister was not incentive enough for him to stay. Catherine had stayed of course, and had done well for herself it would seem distinguishing herself in war as the Marshal of the army. Kristina, his youngest sister, a woman who he barely claimed to know, was a Countess and a High Priestess to boot. His mother wrote to him of them both with great pride. They fought for his homeland. Terran had been his choice, his adopted home, Phantaria had been the continuation of a set of ideals that now seemed consigned to a nobler time. He was Margrave of a ruin, refugees sheltered in broken buildings, the great bazaar was now a group of street hawkers. He remembered vividly the first days he had set foot in this city, the pride and wonder he had felt as he walked down the promenades of the central square. Colonnades and statues of the great leaders were adorned in the parks.

Now it was a city of shadows and squalor, his initial efforts to restore the city had been met with cautious approval by the natives, but they knew as well as he that it would take many years and a much larger coffer than he possessed to see the restoration of even a quarter of the land mass and structures. The few merchant ships came and went as ghostly giants in the bay of the city. He remembered as a youth working the shipping lines, trying to make money to support his family. It was then that he had first gazed in wonder at the minarets of the chateau and seen the bustle of the city. It was those images and that memory he wanted to have, the grand days of Old Terran not the degradation of the city as she now stooped under the weight of cloudy skies.

Through the broken wall of the library he could see the sea, the white sails of the merchant vessels full of promise as they approached the bay. Perhaps today he would set out again, look to the horizons. Perhaps he would go home for a time.

He rolled the scroll before him and gave it to the librarian:

"It is complete Aaron," he pressed a gold coin into the hand of the librarian and left.

Aaron looked at the scroll, 'Reflections on Phantaria by Hadrian Chamberlain'.

The Margrave had been working on this opus for many weeks, unscrewing the cap, Aaron removed it from its case, unfurling a single crisp sheet of paper with but two words:

'We tried'