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| − | ! Cheese | + | ! Children [[File:DuelingVankocuf.png|200px|center]] |
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| | |Type=Roleplay | | |Type=Roleplay |
| | |Sender=Nerta the Weaver | | |Sender=Nerta the Weaver |
| − | |Recipients=Everyone in the [[Melhed/Agyrian Academy|Agyrian Academy]] | + | |Recipients=Everyone in Wudenkin |
| − | |Content= | + | |Content=It had been some time since the cloaked Nerta had dated enter the Cursed city of Wudenkin to assist the Revenites with the Conclave of Necromancers. Some had not escaped that day, but she had, by all appearances. |
| − | It didn't hurt. Even when the bardic scoundrel Count Soren threw his arm around her to squeeze. It should hurt. It had hurt. But right now all she could feel is the warm embrace and purple paint dripping from his nose. | |
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| − | “You didn't need to paint me by ambush, Nerta. I already agreed to wear matching purple.” He squeezes her again, and her wound still does nothing. “Though I shouldn't be surprised. Can't take the wilderness out of the woman…”
| + | The city itself seemed as it always was, far too busy for the space between the mountains and the lake. There would no doubt be things for her to hunt, though without a Temple to the Old Gods it was harder to learn what the people needed. |
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| − | Glittering eyes staring out from under the hood of that heavy cloak, her sour expression is all the more shadowy from her purple face paint. “I saw you in the arena. You sing better than you fight.” Even injured, she pokes his gut hard enough to slip free. “Also, I was tired of your moping. The Festival of Lights is about the end of winter, not sulking about losing in the second round of the tournament.”
| + | Perhaps the large muster of soldiers might hold answers? |
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| − | Soren rubs his side and sighs with all the theatrics he can muster. “True enough, how can I make it up to you, oh festival-organising priestess? Maybe a dance around the coloured fires,” he gestures to her brandy stained cloak, “or a drinking contest featuring the famed Agyrian Ichor Brandy?”
| + | "Preparing for a sortie?" |
| | + | |Title=[[Melhed/Foederati|Foederati]] |
| | + | }}</center> |
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| − | The reminder of a stumbling reveller pouring most of a flagon on her, earned Soren an eye roll and a huff. “Later. I've got official matters to attend at the Academy.” The lie was a bitter weight on her tongue. “So why don’t you entertain a crowd of gawkers or something?” | + | |- |
| − | Somehow Soren of Seven Rivers let that slide leaving Nerta ‘the Weaver’ free to shove her way through, with spear in hand, toward the venerable house of learning. The deserted venerable house. Apparently even boring scholars and sages had poured into the city to enjoy the equinox festivities.
| + | |colspan=1 | <center> {{Message2 |
| | + | |Width=100% |
| | + | |Type=Roleplay |
| | + | |Sender=Venderaic Aboolio |
| | + | |Recipients=Everyone in Wudenkin |
| | + | |Content=The soldier, a young man in scalemail with a serpent crowned helmet, turned to regard Nerta as she spoke. "You must not be from around here if you've not heard tell of the Raid. We're off for gold and glory, or so the blue bloods tell us." He said, then glance about and leaned in closer. "More likely we're off to steal food from some poor farmers and the like, but hey, it beats doing drills forever." He gestured to the other soldiers around him who were in fact running through a series of marching drills. Their short conversation had caught the attention of someone important looking who was riding by, who rode over with an angry look on his face. |
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| − | Her search reveals dozens of empty study rooms, workshops and libraries, along with an orphaned book in the middle of one hall. That tome earned an experimental prod with her spear, as though it might bite, and in a fashion it did.
| + | "What's this then? Do I pay you to conoodle with the peasantry Sergeant?" The lofty looking man on horse back asked. As the soldier opened his mouth to reply he was slapped across the face, causing him to stagger and his helmet to roll from his head onto the cobbled street. This appeared to have cowed the soldier to the horse backed man's liking. "Sorry Lord Vendraic..." He quibbled as he went to retrieve his helmet. |
| − | “Oh. Don’t touch that or I’ll forget.” An unexpected finger snaps from the side room. “Something… Crystal Cursed! What was it? Oh no.”
| |
| − | Nerta pokes her head around the corner to find a workbench-lined study room that is practically mid-demolition. Every bench is piled with books, tools, and open flames that leave glassware bubbling. Perched atop a tall chair amidst the carnage is a spectacled woman surrounded by papers and dressed in an ink-stained tan shirt and black trousers. Her mountain of blonde hair is piled and pinned hap-hazardly, and her ice-blue eyes dart about the room.
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| − | “It wasn’t the translation. Oh. Hello. Do come in. Oh! Careful! Don’t touch that! Wait. Nevermind. That’s safe.” Fidgeting with her quill as Nerta stands motionless in the doorway, the blonde spins like an owl to point to one project after another. “It’s not that. Not that either. Ooo I should turn that off. Hmmm. Wait. Was I supposed to be somewhere? Are you here to get me? Sorry, I’m sorry.”
| + | Seeming self satisfied Vendraic turned his horse and stared down his nose at Nerta, a sneer painting his lips. "You, girl. You should peddle your body to the men after they finish with their shifts, not while their on duty. You aught to know better." |
| | + | |Title=Depraved Prince of Reven |
| | + | }}</center> |
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| − | The seat teeters as the tall woman slips down and darts about the room in a last minute hunt for a jacket against the spring chill. Only Nerta’s steadying spear stops the tall stool from crashing into a bench of delicately carved wooden figures on the left. “I’m not here to collect you. I’m here looking for help, and so far you’re it.” | + | |- |
| | + | |colspan=1 | <center> {{Message2 |
| | + | |Width=100% |
| | + | |Type=Roleplay |
| | + | |Sender=Nerta the Weaver |
| | + | |Recipients=Everyone in Wudenkin |
| | + | |Content=The woman in travel worn browns and blues nods along with the sergeant's explanation. Glory and gold... Is there anything the lowlanders crave more? Still, the Revenite regiment is in good form, even if some look a bit thin. Perhaps the rumours of grain shortages were true afterall... |
| | | | |
| − | “Oh? That's good.” The blonde pauses. “I mean! N-Not good that you need help. I-I’m sure you’d rather not… You know. I’m going to stop there.” Breaking into a smile the woman folds her hands in front of her and continues with a musical tone. “Hello! How can I help you?”
| + | "I'm not sure where I'm from anymore, to be honest, though my story isn't important here." Nerta's spear bounces on the stone of the parade ground with a ring up the wicked curve of the blade. "These days I help people..." |
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| − | Nerta’s precise movements pivot the tall chair out of the way and place her on the other side of the side table ladened with crusty bread and old cheese. “A month back I caught a blade in the arm which turned into a fever a week after. Since I was in prison at the time, the guards weren’t keen on prompt treatment.” The corner of her mouth twitches. “Why waste medical supplies on a prisoner when an army was fast approaching to put the city to siege? I got out, I got even, and I got treatment at the Temple of the Old Gods. I thought it was a full recovery. Until last week.”
| + | Before the wanderer can ask after monster nests and haunted catacombs the pair are joined by another who makes quite the impression. It reminds her of Duke Elios. That exchange had gone poorly, but it does not stop Nerta for a moment. |
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| − | Nerta slips her bandaged forearm from under her cloak. The clean linen wrapping is tight, but around the edges of fabric are wriggling black lines that move and twist under her skin. Painless black veins. | + | "Yes, you aught to know better, but here we are." Nerta's eyes glitter under her hood in the shadow of the stallion as she asks with her clipped accent. "Shall you dismount before we fight, or shall I unseat you myself?" |
| | + | |Title=[[Melhed/Foederati|Foederati]] |
| | + | }}</center> |
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| − | The spectacled woman doesn’t seem too worried about the admitted convict or her strange infection, and latches onto Nerta to inspect the limb. An experimental poke of the black veins sets them moving again, leading Nerta to extract her arm from the giggling blonde. “I’m glad it amuses you, Librarian, but can you help?” | + | |- |
| − | Silence fills the room as those ice-blue eyes flicker down the rough appearance of the purple painted guest. “You can’t read.” The arm vanishes back under the cloak with that flat statement. “Because if you could, you'd have gone to the medical wing.”
| + | |Training Match |
| | + | Venderaic Aboolio, Depraved Prince, Lord of War of Reven, Royal of Reven, Duke of Argonautica Orphica, Margrave of Ircymbar, Marshal of the Depraved Legion meets his challenger Nerta Unti, Judge of Ar Agyr, Dame of Agyr, Priestess of The Old Gods for the agreed training match. |
| | + | Nerta has decided to use the 'trick moves' strategy while Venderaic has chosen the 'defensive' strategy, giving Nerta the advantage. |
| | + | After a series of blows, Nerta wins the training match. |
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| − | Insight earns a sour glare. “I've been all over this place and you're the first person I've run into. Can you help or not?”
| + | |- |
| | + | |colspan=1 | <center> {{Message2 |
| | + | |Width=100% |
| | + | |Type=Roleplay |
| | + | |Sender=Nerta the Weaver |
| | + | |Recipients=Everyone in Wudenkin |
| | + | |Content=The dismissive sneer of the noble atop his steed is marred by the butt of Nerta’s spear into his ribs. As warned, the blow is hard enough to unseat the man with the clang of armour and jingle of bridle from the startled horse. Eventually the dust clears and a boot steps atop Venderaic’s right arm, but Nerta’s attention is on the crowd. |
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| − | “Help you learn how to read? That takes time. Help with your arm?” There's a pause as the Librarian glances around while chewing on a stray curl of hair. “Maybe.”
| + | “Now before I continue, does anyone else want to get involved?” |
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| − | Spinning off, the blonde starts rummaging through various items, still talking as she works. “What happened a week ago that made it worse? Oh. That burner. Should turn that off.”
| + | She recalls keenly her last duel with a loutish lord, how a plucky guard had intervened and gotten her tossed in prison. The sergeant hardly seems the type to jump in, but the muster field is packed with all sorts, and someone might take offence. |
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| − | “I led a group of unprepared Patricians to the Pool of Black Whispers.” Her voice flat, Nerta’s dark eyes glitter in the fading light of the flame. “Right into a conclave of necromancers.”
| + | |Title=[[Melhed/Foederati|Foederati]] |
| − |
| + | }}</center> |
| − | The Librarian continues to chew on that curl of hair as she pulls a knife from behind the cooling glassware. “That… must have been horrible.”
| + | |- |
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| − | The cloak rises with a shrug, Nerta’s words barely a whisper. “A shade plucked a strand of dark power from the air and used it to tear free a scream. Now it looks like this, but it doesn't hurt at all.”
| + | |- |
| | + | |colspan=1 | <center> {{Message2 |
| | + | |Width=100% |
| | + | |Type=Roleplay |
| | + | |Sender=Venderaic Aboolio |
| | + | |Recipients=Everyone in Wudenkin |
| | + | |Content=Vendraic was caught off guard as the woman forewent the proffered practice sword and instead jabbed him and knocked him down with the butt of her spear. He fell heavily to his back and his arm clutching the golden cane was pinned within a moment, quickly answering his questions as to whether she could back up her boasting. He knew from his time in the dueling league he was not the finest fighter, but her promptness in taking him down told him that she had some experience in this. |
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| − | The bright eyes of the Librarian seem to read the depths of that strangled anguish. “Oh.” Ruffling a few papers she frowns. “I need the burner, why’s it off? Silly me.” The cheery glow of the flame sparks to life once more and the knife soon dips into the heat. “You were dying. Necromancy, you know? I dabbled. Oh! Not in Necromancy. No no. I-I dabbled in studying Necromancy. Which," the rush of words pauses for a heartbeat, “I’m now realising, is also misleading. Um.”
| + | From the ground he gestured to his Captain and a moment later a cadre of soldiers had drawn arms and moved in to surround and restrain the spear wielding women. It didn't take long for their positions to become reversed as his men helped Vendraic to his feet and disarmed Nerta in turn. Vendraic was quick to brush his fine military livery clean of the dust from the pavement and offered the woman a reprimanding sneer as he straightened himself, clearly having a low opinion of the manner in which she had overcome him in their contest. He picked up his gold encrusted cane and spun it a few times before cradling it under one arm, then took Nerta's spear from one of his men. |
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| − | Nerta sighs and raps her spear on the ground. "Focus Librarian. I understand your meaning. You don't strike me as a cultist to the cursed Crystal Maiden." A brief pause sees the knife slip from the flame now sporting a curl of soot across the edge. "In truth you barely strike me as a scholar, if only because you don't bore me."
| + | "You have some experience and confidence to you... So I will again ask your identity." He stated without looking at her, instead spending his time inspecting her weapon. He didn't look like he was actually gaining insight from the inspection, more like he was willfully choosing to dismiss her importance by not giving her his full attention. |
| | + | |Title=Depraved Prince of Reven |
| | + | }}</center> |
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| − | “Good… I guess? Um.” The blonde adjusts her spectacles. “The original wound, it must have been from a black blade. Nasty things. Poisonous. Of a sort. The Elixir from the temple might have healed your wound, but it didn't remove that poison.”
| + | |- |
| | + | |colspan=1 | <center> {{Message2 |
| | + | |Width=100% |
| | + | |Type=Roleplay |
| | + | |Sender=Nerta the Weaver |
| | + | |Recipients=Everyone in Wudenkin |
| | + | |Content=History repeats for the shrouded young woman, who finds herself quickly surrounded by guards keen to earn their pay. Nerta relinquishes her perch on Venderaic as the ring of steel closes in, and tosses her spear to the closest soldier with a long suffering sigh. However her cooperation ends there, and she stares down any of the soldiers who attempt to get closer. |
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| − | Nerta eyes the knife, but sets her jaw. “And you can?”
| + | Venderaic takes his time allowing the chaotic outburst to once again settle into something more sedate. The spear in his hand is well made, but functional rather than fine. It lacks any adornments to the timber or blade, save a tassel that flutters like wheat in a field. |
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| − | The blonde pauses for several heartbeats, and when she continues, her voice is soft. “Do you know how they make the black blades? They grow them, in people. It’s a dead thing; that grows…” She shrugs, her voice breathless and sullen. “Necromancy at work.”
| + | “Yes, let’s pretend you asked who I was, and not how much for the night. Not like you could afford it anyway.” A faint chitter accompanies Nerta’s thin smile at his question. Swallowing hard, she clears her throat and continues. “I am called Nerta. I wander and solve problems. You?” |
| | + | |Title=[[Melhed/Foederati|Foederati]] |
| | + | }}</center> |
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| − | Nerta’s dark eyes widen and the arm slips back out of the cloak for inspection. “A black blade? But it doesn’t hurt.”
| + | |- |
| | + | |colspan=1 | <center> {{Message2 |
| | + | |Width=100% |
| | + | |Type=Roleplay |
| | + | |Sender=Venderaic Aboolio |
| | + | |Recipients=Everyone in Wudenkin |
| | + | |Content=Vendraic clicked his tongue when she had finished answering his question and turned the spear, angling the point toward her. "I might assume you were a spy, but the fact that you do not recognize me as Vendraic Aboolio, Depraved Prince and ruler of the realm in which you stand, tells me that you are either woefully uninformed or incredibly eager to experience prolific torture." He wavered the tip of the spear for a moment, seeming to consider whether he wanted to carry out the subtle threats of torture right there before the crowd, but seemed to decide against it. |
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| − | “Not yet.” The soft voice carries a hint of sadness. “It’s feeding on the pain. Given enough time…” she trails off and fidgets with her hair, “…you’ll lose an arm and get a free sword.” She winces and holds up her free hand. “I know. I know. Bad joke.”
| + | "I ask again, Nerta..." His voice drew out the name in an insulting manner. "Who are you that would act so boldly to me? Lie to me and I promise you will live only long enough to regret the decision." |
| | + | |Title=Depraved Prince of Reven |
| | + | }}</center> |
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| − | Nerta exhales and leans against the central table piled with books for translation, but can't help a small smile. “I prefer spears and to keep my arms. So what are you going to do, cut it out?” | + | |- |
| | + | |colspan=1 | <center> {{Message2 |
| | + | |Width=100% |
| | + | |Type=Roleplay |
| | + | |Sender=Nerta the Weaver |
| | + | |Recipients=Everyone in Wudenkin |
| | + | |Content=“My, you are trying very hard to impress me right now.” Nerta doesn’t twitch as Venderaic swings her spear around to threaten her. “I’m touched.” |
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| − | The woman's puzzled frown turns into a look of shock. “OH! No no, I-I was cleaning the knife so I could cut some lunch. I’m hungry,” her voice straining, “Sorry.”
| + | Attention drawn to the man’s audience, those glittering eyes consider her options askance. This king can ill afford to leave her challenge unanswered, but the thought of compliance makes her hands itch. So much for learning from one’s mistakes. |
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| − | Nerta sighs and scrubs her face as she rises from the supporting table. “Well thank you for your help, whoever you are. I guess I’d best head to the medical wing.” | + | “I am Nerta, a wanderer who assists those in need. Since I arrived you have done nothing but attempt to insult my honour. Thus, as is traditional, I answered your words with violence. Yet here you are, unable to fight your own battles. Like a child.” |
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| − | The blonde woman cuts a slice off the old cheese and mumbles between bites. “I’m Lucia, and…” setting the cheese and knife next to the wooden figures, she reaches for the bandaged arm to begin unwinding the linen. “…and I don’t think the medical wing can help.”
| + | |Title=[[Melhed/Foederati|Foederati]] |
| | + | }}</center> |
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| − | “Fortune brought you here. This infection isn’t fully physical. Within your arm is a shard of the Necromancer’s malice. It tries to devour you from within. That you’ve survived even a week like this, tells me you might be okay.”
| + | |- |
| | + | |colspan=1 | <center> {{Message2 |
| | + | |Width=100% |
| | + | |Type=Roleplay |
| | + | |Sender=Venderaic Aboolio |
| | + | |Recipients=Everyone in Wudenkin |
| | + | |Content=The women's words caused Vendraic to flinch momentarily, but after a moment he smiled at her. "I've given you your chance to plead a case for amnesty, Nerta the wanderer. I know not what your mission is here, or why you have chosen such a foolish course, but I shall find my answers one way or another." With a quick flick of his wrist he tossed her spear to one of his men, who unprepared fumbled it and almost dropped it. "Clap this woman in irons. She will accompany us on the journey South." He told one of his men, then turned his back to her, fully expecting his orders to be carried out without bothering to watch. |
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| − | The exposed wound is alien, with pale white flesh along the edge of a blackish core made of a tar-like material that sticks to the bandage. As the long strands snap free of the linen one by one, Lucia pales and puffs her cheeks. “Oooo… you might be okay.”
| + | "Before I assumed the mantle of rulership I stalked the night and lived by the cloak and dagger. I came close to losing my head more than once while living that life..." He said absently, though the words were clearly meant for her. "It taught me many things... Such as the fact that only fools fight fairly." |
| | + | |Title=Depraved Prince of Reven |
| | + | }}</center> |
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| − | Though the wound looks worse, it feels no different and Nerta eyes the increasingly alien limb with an air of calm. “So what then? Do I pray to silent Gods for a boon? The Wolf Lord will tell me to heal myself; the Dark Mistress would have me join her in death; the cultists of the Crystal Maiden caused this mess; the Ice Queen fated it all; and the Masked One cares not. Only the Ephemeral Emperor’s good luck has brought me here and you say even the vaunted scholars of the Academy can do nothing. Better to cut off my arm in that case.”
| + | |- |
| − | | + | |colspan=1 | <center> {{Message2 |
| − | “That the most devout priestess of the Old Gods would offer her arm rather than a prayer tells quite a story.” The blonde smiles and begins to rub Nerta's bicep. “But we’ll save that for another time. Right now, I want you to think about something happy.”
| + | |Width=100% |
| − | | + | |Type=Roleplay |
| − | After a heartbeat, Nerta barks out a laugh. “Happy? I’ve had precious little of that, Lucia.”
| + | |Sender=Nerta the Weaver |
| − | | + | |Recipients=Everyone in Wudenkin |
| − | “I know, I know.” The woman pauses her massage and pushes up her glasses. “But just… try.”
| + | |Content=The cloaked woman in Venderaic’s entourage ignores the manacles weighing on her two arms. She’d offered them without much fuss when the prince had declared her captive, on the insistence that she retain her cloak. The sergeant she’d been chatting with before the impromptu duel hadn’t questioned the matter. Since he had little motive to notify his loutish lord, Nerta was able to observe the proceedings from under her hood. |
| − | Nerta shrugs and scratches her nose. “The Festival of Lights is… nice. I've not been able to attend one in a few years now.”
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| − | “It does sound lovely. All the coloured fires, and the paints for lovers. I think I’d read about it once. Some sort of old Foederati celebration.” Lucia continues to massage Nerta’s arm while the painted woman's gaze hardens.
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| − | “Yes…” The lingering silence contains an unspoken question of whether her heritage would be a problem, but Lucia either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care.
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| − | | |
| − | “And you went for purple paint, the colour of the Eternal Flame here in Agyr. There must be someone special.”
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| − | | |
| − | Nerta props one foot against the chair. “An idiot bard with a taste for the exotic.”
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| − | “Can you really blame him?” Lucia winks, those fingers digging in just above the wound.
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| − | “I can, and do," Nerta's tone dry, mirth dancing in her eyes, "regularly.”
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| − | | |
| − | A giggle accompanies a careful massage back up the arm. "Sounds cute. Okay, you've got a bard, a festival. Friends?"
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| − | | |
| − | Nerta’s lips compress in a thin line. “I’ve met some I trust, many of them are dead now.”
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| − | “Ah.” Though she wilts for a heartbeat, Lucia rallies. “Many, but not all. Does one come to mind?”
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| − | | |
| − | “I have a friend, Jacinda. I call her ‘the Driven’.” The Weaver’s voice softens. “She’s a fool; wants to save the world.”
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| − | | |
| − | “I see the two of you have something in common…” Fingers trace down the wriggling veins of darkness toward the pool of tar that marked the wound. “Okay, okay. Hobbies?”
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| − | | |
| − | The wanderer smiles faintly. “You could say I dabble in weaving.”
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| − | | |
| − | “Weaving? Oh. I see. Clever.” Lucia’s chin points down toward her ink-stained shirt. “Maybe you can make me a shirt later.”
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| − | | |
| − | Nerta's chuckle at the comment slides into a hiss of pain that tightens her voice. “W-What are you doing?”
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| − | | |
| − | “Shhh, it's okay, it's okay. I know it hurts, just think about the good times at the Festival, Soren, your grandmother’s songs. Almost…”
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| − | “How…?” Twisting in the grip, something clicks and chitters in the back of Nerta’s mouth. It isn't a tongue. “...Soren. The songs. Priestess. I didn’t say… Y-You're an Auger.”
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| − | | |
| − | “Yes dear. Just a bit longer.” The massaging fingers dig in around the wound. Old black fluid, maybe blood, oozes as Nerta’s head swims and Lucia’s voice calls from far away. “You're doing well, your grandmother would be very proud. Just a bit more, focus on the happiest memories, focus on the love. It'll contain the malice.”
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| − | | |
| − | Contorting in Lucia's iron grip, Nerta can feel that dark power claw across her insides like a wild animal. The malice scrabbles, desperate for a solid hold and sinks talons into the meat of her heart. But the blonde slowly tears it free all while singing an off-colour drinking song. The hideous darkness does not go quietly and the flailing whip of anguish lashes through the Weaver as she sobs in pain. But the grotesque display was not in vain, and eventually, a thin black needle slips free of the wound.
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| − | | |
| − | The sliver of darkness jutting up from Nerta’s forearm pulses as though a beating heart, and begins to vibrate in the open air. Such a tiny thing had caused so much corruption, who can say what the shard of malice might do next. Not waiting to find out, Lucia stabs the cheese onto the needle before wrenching the entire thing free and hurling it into the flame.
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| − | | |
| − | Blackish blood is everywhere, splattered across papers, Nerta’s cloak, and Lucia in equal measure. Yet the woman merely smiles cheerfully and dabs at Nerta's rapidly colouring wound. “At least I got a bite of lunch first. Oh, and thanks for not biting me, Nerta. I know that hurt. I'll try to answer your questions while you collect yourself.”
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| − | | |
| − | “Yes I'm an Augur and get visions from the Ice Queen. A few months back she showed me that I needed to help someone who’d trip over a specific book in the hall. Well actually two someones. Apparently you today, and maybe this Jacinda later? Visions can be a bit vague in many ways and far too detailed in others.” A fresh bandage is pulled out from behind the wooden figures. “Anyway, everything I told you was true, with one exception. The poison. It’s fed by sadness and loneliness. Familiar companions for you, I'm sure. I'd suggest you lighten up: get a few more friends, hobbies, lovers if that does the trick, but I think you’re actually going to hit me right now…”
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| − | | |
| − | Nerta hisses and strikes the woman in the stomach as her jaw settles back into place. “And why not? Crystal Cursed, that hurt and, more importantly, you lied about cutting it out.”
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| − | Doubled over, the sneaky Librarian coughs and tries to catch her breath. “No, I misled. A knife wasn’t needed.” Lucia’s cheeks puffing, she exhales slowly. “Besides, the pain wasn’t caused by me but the shard of malice. Opening up, that can hurt but when we do, wonderful things can happen. We got a Festival of Lights because you decided to share part of your people’s heritage. That brings a lot of joy to a lot of folks.” Casting a glance toward the still smouldering wedge of cheese, she continues. “All that joy, friendship and love you’ve found is why I could pull the needle free. If you were still alone as when you started; nothing would have saved you.”
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| − | Her face paint smudged, Nerta refuses to turn from those brilliant, ice-blue eyes so full of care. Finally she nods and huffs aside a few stray hairs. “Then I guess I owe you my thanks, and a shirt.”
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| − | Lucia can’t fight a growing grin as she inspects her now almost black shirt. “This? I mean I get to run a new experiment. Figure out how the black blades grow.” Her words hitch before coming out in a rush. “Not that I’ll infect someone!” Clearing her throat, the distracted Librarian wrinkles her nose. “Ignoring that: if you’re offering, I'd love a violet shirt. Now head back to the festival and give Soren a kiss. He kind of saved your life. Sort of; Ish.”
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| − | The Weaver snorts, collects her spear and shakes her head. “Again? Great. Knowing our luck, I’ll have to save him by next week.” | + | The Revenites had arrived in Nothoi lands only hours before to find a cadre of foreign soldiers waiting for them. Apparently the entire march had been well coordinated. No doubt the logistics of moving so many wagons must be a nightmare, even if most were empty. |
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| − | As Nerta turns to leave, the blonde Librarian calls, “Oh. If you could grab the book about trapdoor spiders in the hall? I have to return it later and get one about pots & kettles.”
| + | The man driving her own ride had certainly avoided conversation, despite her best efforts and so Nerta’s glittering eyes now scan the line of pennants in the hilly terrain. The small gathering on the nearby hill certainly seems animated, but from her vantage she could see little and hear even less. |
| | |Title=[[Melhed/Foederati|Foederati]] | | |Title=[[Melhed/Foederati|Foederati]] |
| | }}</center> | | }}</center> |
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