Soulriders 5.0: Legend of the Unending Games

Paul, Parthipan, and the lady are watching Bjorn probe the stairs for traps when a trio of forms burst out of the adjacent stairwell, running like there's no tomorrow.  You realize it's Liandral, Nathan, and Phil, just before you start to hear the echoing chittering noises of tiny little somethings scrabbling across the stone of the nearby corridor, and an ominous rumbling begins to sound from somewhere deep within the mountain.

Well, piss.  So much for the scientific approach.  Now we'll try this the Irish way.

"Up the stairs!" Bjorn barks, and leads the way -- trying to move fast enough to avoid any traps he might set off along the way.

You all clear the stairs together and burst into a room that mirrors the entrance on the other side of the pass. Only, it's facing the other way.

Behind you, thousands upon thousands of spiders flood out, like a tide of eight-legged poison, halting only when they see the edges of light coming in through the doorway.  It's a very dim light, but it's light, and it seems to stay them more than the magical lights you're carrying with you.

Of course, this quickly becomes moot, as the echoing rumble builds into an all-out explosion.  A wash of fire, smoke, spiders-turned-ash, and hot air blasts out of the corridor Phil, Liandral, and Nathan escaped from, moments before the ceiling gives out, and leaves you in a somewhat less structurally sound entryway than it was a few moments ago.

This time, Bjorn doesn't bother shouting orders -- if people can't figure out what to do on their own, they aren't worth saving.  Instead, he grabs the Lady (as gently as possible, under the circumstances), and gets her through the exit and out into the open air, immediately dodging to the side (out of the arc of the doorway).

Paul runs. In fact, it might be fair to say he runs like hell.

You're all clear of the room as it slowly collapses in on itself, jets of flame and smoke escaping the rubble, and a massive column of dust and smoke shooting up into the air.

Panting for breath, Bjorn doubles over, resting his palms on his knees, and then glares at Dracos and Nathan.  "I don't even want to know," he growls, "what the hell you did."

Dracos grunted, "A nuke.  Don't ask me what it was doing there.  Let's just get out of here."

Dracos

Giving Dracos a look, Bjorn straightens, and studies the surroundings.  As he does so, he asks, "Are you alright, m'Lady?"

She nods, looking back at the collapsed pass in astonishment.

Now that you're outside again, it's pretty cold.  The landscape is low, rolling hills, covered lightly in snow.  There's some scrub brush, but not much more than there was on the other side of the mountain range.

The temple behind you is a smoking ruin, revealing a pass above the tunnels you plodded through, though it still goes up a good distance.  Currently, the sun is south of you, lower in the sky than ever.

"That was ... impressive," Liandril manages.

Bjorn's lips quirk.  "At least we'll go down in legend as the last people to make that passage," he observes, and then sobers.  "Perhaps we should consult the map?  We shouldn't waste time."

"Wait... do you think that taking out the crystal might have set it off?"

Liandral shakes his head.  "From here, due south.  We'll camp tonight, and tomorrow we'll reach Stormwall Keep's border outpost.  We can warn them, and ride to the keep from there."

"We could press on," the lady counters.  "With Hamar's blessing, we could march until we reach the outpost.

"There's time enough," Liandril says, shaking his head.  "We need rest after our ordeal.  I take it you fared will on your path?"

"At least let us begin moving again," the lady grumbles, begining to march south.

Bjorn follows the lady, without saying more.

Dracos whistles slightly under his breath, a sort of traveling tune, as he joins bjorn and the others in moving.  "A few more hours never hurt anyone."

Dracos

You walk on again.  This terrain is a bit more strenous to cross than the wastes, with all the up-and-down from the hills.  Liandral seems unaffected by the changes in elevation, and Ginrai learns to start using his staff to help him walk very quickly.

After a while, Liandral yawns, and says that you've walked on far enough.  He leads everyone to a hollow in one of the hills, and then bids everyone to sleep after making a small campfire from scrub brush.  "Eat, and rest," he says.  "We'll move on to the outpost in the morning."

"I'll take first watch," Bjorn says, quietly.  With that, he moves away from the fire, moving up near the top of the hollow, where he can see (as much as the dark allows) the surrounding area.

Paul notes that Dracos is acting about a billion times more calm and comfortable than he is, and HE wasn't the one chased by atomic spiders.

"So, uh, where are we now? How much time do you think we saved on the trip?"

Dracos, having no desire for battling for watch, much for getting off his feet, and plenty for food, sits down, brushing a hand through his hair and getting to eating and recovering from that ordeal.

Dracos

In short order, everyone but Bjorn is asleep.<Faceless> roll 3d6
<Chibi-Suu> Them bones was tossed for Faceless ... : 3d6 -->{3}Except that Bjorn remembers that Liandral didn't actually sleep the last time they rested.  And might not need to sleep at all.

In fact, there's a good chance that Liandral's faking it.  This speculation is proven when he (once everyone else is asleep) carefully wakes up the lady, and leads her towards you in the darkness.

"You're still as watchful as ever," he says quietly.

The lady looks a bit confused, and very tired.  "Master Liandral, what's going on?" she whispers back.

Liandral looks upset, and says, "Something is wrong.  I don't understand it ... or know how ... or why.  But Sir Bloom and Master Nathan are not themselves.  They've not acted like themselves since we were attacked at the waypoint north of here.

"Sir Bloom has not once turned to his drink -- for the love of Hamar, he actually watered his wine down!  I would think this positive, but other, more confusing things worry at my mind.

"We confronted a great evil in the depths of our passage, and both Sir Bloom and Master Nathan claimed to have run across its kind before.  They slew it, true, but how they can have knowledge of such a thing is beyond my understanding.

"But most damning, Madame Mirallia, Sir Bloom, who lost his own kingship due to the theft of his torc ... claimed not to even know what one was.  And Master Nathan showed not a hint of concern that it was missing from the body of Hadrick Shuker.  I am deeply troubled, and do not understand what is happening."

The lady nods slowly, and surveys the sleeping camp.  "Master Parthipan and Master Durant also, are not themselves ... and I do not say it because I dislike them; I say it because something is sorely amiss.  I see it too.  Only the three of us seem to be ourselves, after all of this.

"Bjorn, what are your thoughts on this?" the lady asks, turning to look at you.

Bjorn hesitates, mind racing.  Then he shakes his head.  "M'Lady, I don't know that I'm the one to say anything of any sort.  But... I think something happened, when we were ambushed on the other side of the mountains.  To be honest, I, myself, remember... very little of what came before.  And as you say, all of the others seem very much... touched.  More than just a loss of memories."  

He shakes his head, again, and then looks the lady in the eyes.  "But for all that, we made it through that dark place, m'Lady, and are ahead of the Dreadmarch.  I cannot think that what happened was against Hamar's will.  By His grace, and if we trust in Him, I think all will be well still."

The lady nods reluctantly.  "You are correct ... for all that it is odd, they've done nothing to hinder our quest at all ... have they?" she asks Liandral.

He shakes his head slowly.  "That is true," he says slowly.  "They have not hindered us."

"Then we shall trust in Hamar, and worry about it later," she decides.  "Perhaps it is for the best after all."

With that, she heads back to her cloak, and bundles up to sleep again.

Liandral sighs.  "Go and sleep," Liandral murmurs.  "I will rest when we reach the keep."

Bjorn makes to rise from his hiding spot, but then checks himself.  "What did happen, Master Liandral?" he asks, quietly.  "It sounds as if Sir Bloom and Master Shuker acted far more strangely than Master Parthipan or Master Durant have."

And if they did, I'm going to have beat them all the harder.

"They called the creature a golem," he says, frowning.  "It ... spat fire and they said it created lines in the air ... the firefly hid them from my eyes, however.  I don't understand how, but they slew it by throwing water on it.  It hissed wickedly, but did not struggle once it was doused.  It simply ... died.  It was quite strange, but its body grew hotter after it was slain.  Then they insisted that we should run, and so, we did."

Bjorn nods, slowly.  "I see... or, rather, I don't.  Thank you, Master Liandral, and good watching."

With a parting nod, Bjorn rises and returns to the camp, where he promptly falls asleep, the jitters from a nightmarish dungeon crawl no match for exhaustion.

The night passes.  In the morning, everyone but the lady is woken up.  Liandral says he's going to do some quick scouting, but everyone should be ready to go in an hour.  The lady needs her rest, though.

After that, he vanishes to the west, one hand on his belt knife.

Opening his pack, Bjorn roots around for the provisions.  "So," he says, conversationally, "last night I had to reassure the elf and the lady that you aren't all possessed by demons or madness or something."  Producing the cheese, he adds, "I had to do this because you're all being fucking retards."

Slamming the hand holding the hardtack against his thigh (and giving himself a bruise in the process), Bjorn glares about.  "You are supposed," he spits the word, "to be people in this world.  That means you're supposed to know things that you don't actually know, and behave in ways that you wouldn't normally behave, and it most certainly fucking means that you don't know the motherfucking Lord of the Fucking Rings!"

His knuckles whiten as his fists clench.  "Ezmereth said the key to success was taking the dream-self into ourself.  I don't know exactly what that means, but I'm sure as fucking hell that it doesn't mean prancing around like you normally do, convincing everyone you're insane!"  He exhales, sharply, and visibly calms himself.  "So do us all a favour, and try to fit in.  Don't know things you shouldn't.  Keep quiet, and watch, and try and figure out what you should know, and react the way peope expect you to.

"For example," he rubs his head, tiredly, "a torc, it turns out, is a symbol of kingship.  So the fact that you," he points at Nathan, "weren't upset by the fact that Hadrick's torc was gone set alarm bells off in Liandral's head.  But that ain't nothing compared to the fact that you," pointing at Dracos, "acted like you don't know what the fuck a torc is.  Did you know you used to be a fucking king, here, and lost the kingship because you lost your torc?  Of course you didn't," he interrupts himself, not giving Dracos a chance to reply, "because instead of shutting the hell up and learning, you decided to convince Liandral you'd gone insane."

He glares at Parthipan and Paul.  "I'm not even getting started on you two."

Unwrapping the cheese, he asks, much more cheerily, "So, who wants breakfast?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I should have known better, what with my years of experience leaping into people's bodies in alternate universes where there's magic and orcs and a keep to save. Oh, wait, that's right, I don't have any experience, and I don't know what the fuck is going on here. Apparently I'm some kind of bard now, because I can play music. Is it magic? Shit if I know. Why am I with you guys? Beats the fuck out of me. What do these draughts of life do? I have no idea.

"All this is stuff I should know, but funny thing, I don't. Because I don't know a god damn thing about this place, and you'll EXCUSE ME If I can't instantly adapt to being tossed into a world and body I have never even heard of when hours before I was digesting the best quesadilla I've ever had. Oh, so damn sorry that I can't take all of this perfectly in stride and start playing a part when I not only haven't read the script, I've never even heard of the play.

"Jackass."

"I don't know anything either," Bjorn snaps, "and I don't like it any more than you do.  But instead of yapping on about Ezmereth, and airplanes, and cellphones, and things which it is absolutely motherfucking clear that nobody here should know about, I try to keep my trap shut.

"Jackass?  I'm not the preadolescent bonehead who's quoting fucking Tolkien for no motherfucking reason.  You're so gung-ho about stopping the motherfucking Enemy?  Then shut the hell up, stop whining, and deal.  You knew what the hell we were getting into when we started this thing, and that is 'way the hell over our heads.'  Right now, you're being a fucking liability.  So shut up, stop being a defensive little whiny brat, and the next time you feel the urge to quote literature or whine about a lack of technology, ask yourself, 'Gee, would doing that maybe make me look out of place?'"

Edit:  Bad spelling helps me blend in!

"When, precisely, did I whine about a lack of technology? Show me on the fucking DOLL where I was whining about a lack of technology. Once -- ONCE -- I mention airplanes and all of a sudden I'm bringing about the end of the goddamn universe. Did I go over and say 'Here, now what I mean by airplane is a vehicle from an alternate universe that uses differentiations in air pressure across its wings to carry people through the sky'? No, as a matter of fact I did not. Just because YOU associate 'airplane' with 'flying thingy' doesnt mean they do -- why should they? It could be a kind of bug. I could have been talking about some fable, I'm a bard, I think they do that. And that's even if they DID hear me.

"I'm fucking dealing as best I can, not all of us are perfect like you. What I'm NOT dealing with is you whipping out your cock like this to piss all over me because, whee, lookit that, some people don't take to alternate magical realities where they're different people as well as you do!"

Bjorn puts down the hardtack, carefully, and then reaches out, seizes Paul's collar, and hauls him forward, with just enough pressure to make him uncomfortable without actually choking him.

"I'm resorting to violence," Bjorn says, gently, "because I am really, really upset, and apparently, the threat of having your fucking teeth caved in is the only thing that will get you of your 'it's not my fault' rut.

"Using the word 'airplane' is just as bad as using the word 'fimbobbledoodad.'  Yes, the lady and and the elf don't know what an airplane is, but they still have to goddamn wonder when you, a bard, start using goddamn nonsense words.  Don't give me that 'fable' crap, they've probably heard every story you should be able to tell.  And they did hear you.  Remember the elf bitching you out for whining?

"And you know what?"  He shakes Paul, once.  "I know I'm doing a good job, and you aren't.  You know how I know that?  Because the Lady and the elf asked me why I thought all the four of you had gone apeshit.  I don't have any fucking prior body-transference experience, so unless you're a moron, you can do as well as me."

He releases Paul, a look of disgust on his face.  "I think I managed to cover your ass -- all of your asses.  Now I'm asking you guys to try to fit in.  Think about the shit you say before you say it.  You're all pretty bright, it shouldn't be that goddamned hard."

"I'm fine with that.  But guys, chill.  Won't help if we're loud enough that they hear us.  Bjorn, I think you're being a touch unfair on expecting us to guess that.  Did you, prior to being told, know what a torc was?  It could've been a family symbol just to that.  Either way, it doesn't matter.  We have to keep them somewhat convinced.  Anything else that they noticed as off, Bjorn?"

Dracos

"I wouldn't have known that a torc was supposed to represent, no," Bjorn says, patiently.  "But that's not my point.  I'm guessing neither of you brought up the subject in the first place, and if Liandral brought it up, then it was probably pretty bloody obvious he expected you to know what he was talking about.  I didn't expect you to 'guess' what it was supposed to mean.  I expected you to pretend you did."

He sighs, and a frustrated expression flits across his face.  "Of course you're ignorant and confused.  Fuck knows I am.  But we need to act like we aren't.  And that means not asking questions, and doing what people expect, until we get a chance to get answers without raising suspicions."

"As for what else you've done wrong..."  He shrugs.  "You're supposed to be an alcoholic, apparently, so Liandral was pretty freaked by the fact that you haven't been drinking your wine.  Can't blame you for skipping that.  And what did you tell him about whateverthehell it was you fought?  He said that you'd claimed to have experience with things like that -- and, since I guess there aren't any stories floating around about that, he was pretty damn worried."

"That was... something highly unexpected.  You know the great evil they were talking about?  It was a computer controlled military machine.  Complete with American taggings on it.  I tried to explain without referencing any knowledge and just guesswork, but Rez decided on a more...forthright explanation of what we were facing in terms of 'stories'.  Anyhow...eeeh, I'm not going to be able to pull off playing an alcoholic.  Too risky in the extreme."

Dracos

"Well, you can't have been a complete lush," Bjorn says thoughtfully, "or they wouldn't have trusted you as much as they apparently do -- or did, anyways."  He shrugs.  "Dump your wine as soon as possible, fill the skin with water, and then drink from it a lot.  If someone offers you alcohol, take it and nurse it."

"Was anything in particular mentioned about me or just that I've been acting unlike myself?"

Dracos ponders a second and nods.

Dracos

"Nothing in particular," Bjorn says to Parthipan, drily, "but someone having to tell you your soul is in your staff is a bit of an obvious one, doncha think?"

"Though that was something that I couldn't really know and it's probably better for me to have found out instead of trying to act like I knew what the lady was doing and not know."

Bjorn sighs.  "Look.  I got the distinct impression that if we fuck up this part of the Contest, that's it -- we're dead.  So no, in fact, asking and finding out is not better, not if it it leads to you being imprisoned, or left behind, or killed as a madman, or anything that leads to you not making the dream-self part of yourself -- which is really fucking vague, and the only rule we know of."

He eyes Parthipan.  "And I was there.  You definitely didn't have to ask, and you definitely shouldn't have acted surprised."

Rez maintains a fairly blank expression on his face.

"And me?"

"The torc, again," Bjorn says, shrugging.  "Liandral expected you to be pretty upset about the torc missing, and he said you pretty much just shrugged it off.  That and the warmachine thing."

Bjorn looks around at the faces of the others, and then slumps, rubbing his face tiredly.  "Look, I'm sorry for bitching you guys out.  This whole mess has got me on edge, too, especially since it's probably dirty-ass luck that I haven't made the natives suspicious either.  I'm just trying to warn you that you guys are making mistakes, and it's getting noticed.  Making references to stuff back home isn't funny, it's dangerous."

"Either way...there's something else we have to do.  Rez, you have to practice with that sword.  If the first fight we get into you have no clue how to use it, it will be bad for all of us and almost certainly a big fuckup sign.  Bjorn, you are almost certainly more qualified to teach him then I.  Think you can cloak it in some warm up manuvers?"

Dracos

"I'm not surprised about the torc thing.  I think some retainers may have gotten through . . . and as to the warmachine, little I could really do. I mean, I poured a bucket of water on it to kill it. 'Seemed like a good idea?'"

Rez turns to Drac.

"And that . . . is a damn good point."

"I said he thought you should be upset, not surprised," Bjorn points out, mildly.  "Whether it just got lost or someone stole it, it was basically Hadrick's crown.  From the way he acted, it should have been the first thing on your mind when you saw Hadrick's body."

"As for the sword...." Bjorn shakes his head.  "That could be just as much a fuck-up.  For starters, I can't teach Nathan from scratch just by 'warming up' with him -- especially not with live swords."

He scratches his head.  "More importantly, I'm pretty good with a sword, but in all the wrong ways.  It's a pretty fair guess that whatever style I'm supposed to be using looks completely different that the style I actually do use."  He shrugs.  "Only had to use it for fighting once, so far, and it's a lot harder to notice stuff like that in the middle of a fight.  But the lady, at least, has probably seen guys like me -- or like I'm supposed to be -- training before, and she strikes me as being fairly goddamn observant."

"On the other hand," he grins, "we still got the better part of an hour before the elf gets back.  I can at least show you how to hold the damn thing, I guess."

"Any pointers would help," Rez grins, "Sorta leaves me wishing or a bow, though.  Anyway."

Dracos nods and ponders, "Hey Parthipan, what's in that book?"

Dracos

Paul mumbles something indistinct but angry under his breath and walks off to take a leak.

"Has a bunch of spells, most of which I don't understand.  Oh, and Drac, maybe you should try a bit of that wine before throwing it away since it could have some sort of special effect."

Ginrai shrugs.  "Then again, it could just have the ability to get you really drunk."

The rest of the morning before the lady wakes up (and Liandril returns) is spent showing Rez how to draw a sword and sheathe it without losing any fingers.

After that, it's on the road back to the south, towards the outpost that Liandril mentioned before going on to the keep.

Dracos remains pretty silent on the trip back, keeping his eyes open and watching for ambushes.

Dracos

You are not ambushed, and manage to reach your target after a day (you guess, the sun doesn't really set) aftet setting out.

The outpost is a largish building, but only one building, made entirely of a pale, somewhat orange-colored stone.  There are no visible windows, only arrow slits, and the massive double-doors which allow entry are on the southern side of the building.

Liandral leads you around to this entrance, and you're confronted with about a dozen armed men, nodding at you, and checking the conditions of their weapons.  Once you're inside you see that the outer wall is not connected to the rest of the structure.  The interior is a single block-shaped building that's the same height as the wall, with a wooden scaffolding erected atop it.  A lone man clings to the top of this scaffolding, looking around to watch for enemies, one supposes.

A man emerges from another set of double doors in the main building, and approaches you quickly.  "Ah, you've come early, and well it is that you have!" he calls out.  "Will you rest here the night?  We'll have you drawn to the keep directly by wagon come morning."

Dracos glances out of the of his eye at the 'leader-type folks', seeing they are about to answer, scans the area slightly with his eyes, looking for anything that catches it as particularly weird, as well as getting an idea of the status of the general people there (How fit they are, how well fed, how well armed/armored), as well as any more info on the general layout.  He tries not to be too obvious about looking around though.

Dracos

These people look well fed, and well armed, though their armor isn't as stylized as Phil and Nathan's, or as well crafted (at a glance) as Bjorn's.  Their weapons look reasonably deadly, though.

Most of them are sizing the party up, the attention evenly divided between Paul, Ginrai, Liandral, and the lady.  Whatever group of warriors Nathan and Phil hail from, it doesn't seem very special to them.  But wizards and bards, elves and, well, probably any woman at all, actually, seem to get their attention.

"We will rest here tonight," the lady says, inclining her head graciously.  "We thank you for your hospitality, master warden.  Do you have separate quarters, or is the fort too small to afford such?" she asks, stealing a nearly apologetic glance at the assembled warriors.

"Yes, yes," the warden says, bobbing his head.  "You may take my quarters -- I'll spend the night with my men.  The only other room is my office, which your retainers may have."

"Thank you," the lady says, frowning.  "I'm afraid I shall retire immediately. B--," here she coughs, clearing her throat and begining anew: "My guard will stand in my room throughout the night, so that your own men need not worry about the burden of protection I undoubtedly place upon you."

Several of the warriors look a bit dissapointed at this.  "Come, Bjorn," she says more quietly.  "Which way are your chambers?"

"The door on the right," the warden says, gesturing into the hall.  "Please, be at comfort within our walls, even if this is a place of war."

Nodding a final time, the lady strides into the hall.

"For the rest of you," the warden says, nodding, "my office is large, and spare furs will be brought for you to rest upon through the night.  But before then, please, enter -- partake of the meager hospitality we have.  Our larders are stocked for a week, but we'll only stay half that before moving to the Keep."  He chuckles, then.  "I apologize," he adds.  "I am as longwinded as a bard," he says, trailing off, and pointing an expectant glance at Paul.

The last words catch Bjorn's ears as he walks away after the Lady, and he carefully suppresses a smirk.

"No complaint from me. After as many days travel with such company," Paul nods in the direction of the other yoinks, "it's refreshing to have someone willing to speak in words longer than two syllables."

"There's a lot to be said for saying no more than is necessary."  Dracos shrugged, glancing at Rez and ginrai and huitz and sort of indicating with his eyes as best as possible that they should get over to the room and not hang around.

Dracos

Rez rolled his eyes theatrically at Huitzil's comment, then shakes his head minutely to Drac's glance, but remains silent.

"I think there's more to be said that isn't necessary at all, if you get my meaning."

Paul nods at the warden. "May I?"

"By all means," the man says, gesturing everyone into the hall.

Once you enter, the area's got a high cieling, but the interior is a bit smoky.  The fireplace is warm, and when you get near it you realize that you're cold.  Apparently after dealing with it for so long, you somehow just forgot ... the table is lined with wide, flat tables, and benches along them, but only on the side away from the fire.  Behind the fire are some open doors leading into a kitchen.  Light is provided by torches hanging in the corners of the room.

Most of the soldiers troop in behind, and take up spaces at the tables -- they leave the foremost table clear and gesture for you (assembled) to make yourselves comfortable there.  Next to the fire is a stool, which is currently empty.  The warden stands next to it and waits for Paul to join him.

Bjorn:

You and the lady go into this hall, and then turn right, into the warden's private quarters.  They're small, basically not much more than a glorified closet.  But there is a bed with a matress (it looks a bit lumpy, but has to be better than a cloak), with fur blankets over it, and a small pot of glowing coals warming the room up.  There's room, if you curl up, at the foot of the bed for you, though the bed is large enough for probably you and your three slain friends, if you were willing to get really close to them.

The only items of real interest in this room are a small writing table with a stool (currently stowed under the desk), and a chest on one side of the table that you'd guess houses the warden's personal possesions.

The lady sits on the edge of the bed and looks harried, until someone (you think it's the cook, unless this place is large enough to actually accomodate servants as well) brings you a large wooden tray.  On the tray are two flat, rounded loaves of bread, their insides scooped out and filled with what looks and smells like stew.  There's bits of potato and carrot floating in it, and they also included two small metal cups of something that smells like a weak beer.

Paul graciously takes the stool and begins to warm up on his instrument. Then, horrifically, he realizes that he doesn't know any bard-ish tales from this world. <Oh well, guess I'll just play it by ear. Again.>

"I'd like to start with a song I heard many years ago, played by a bard named Hendrix. It shows a feeling I've had often, of late."

Paul cradles the lute as if it was an infant and then lets his fingers do the walking, picking out the first notes of Purple Haze in their higher, acoustic plink.

Dracos glances about the room, focusing on absorbing the atmosphere and trying to blend in without letting his mouth get the better of him.

Dracos

As you sit down, the cook (or a servant) comes in and starts setting down bowls before you, and once he's done with you, moving to the next table back.

They look like they're made out of bread, and they're filled with a pretty hefty looking stew.  The people immediately behind you are cutting the tops of their bread-bowls up and using the strips as makeshift spoons, but they also seem to be enjoying Paul's music, as well.

Paul: Once the song is done, the cook approaches you and offers you a mug of some weak beer.

Paul refuses the beer with a "thanks, but no thanks" gesture.

Dracos waits a second to make sure there isn't any religious prayers these folks observe and, if not, digs in, mimicing the eating style.

Dracos

Paul: Since you're not drinking, some of the soldiers towards the back of the hall call out songs they'd like you to play ... none of which you're familiar with.

Phil: Not bad.  A bit bland, honestly, but the bread is freshly made.  The meat appears to be mutton.

Bjorn nods towards the tray.  "You should eat, m'Lady."

Bjorn: Nodding, she takes one of the bowls, and produces a knife from her belt, cutting strips in the bread and using them as a spoon for the thick stew.  Not bad, but it could be better.

She finishes most of what she was offered before sipping at her cup, and setting it back on the tray.

Bjorn watches patiently as she eats.  When she's finished, he offers, "If you don't mind me saying, m'Lady, you seem troubled."

She rubs at her temples, and nods.  "It's different here, than back at the temple," she says quietly.

Bjorn nods, sympathetically, but does not say anything, in the hopes of eliciting an explanation.

She looks at you sidelong, as though expecting something.  "There may not be another chance," she says.

Paul puts his hand to his ear as if trying to discern one of thesoldiers' requests, then nods and starts playing something nobody requested, the only song that came to mind: Knockin' on Heaven's Door, by Bob Dylan. Then, thinking it will lack without lyrics, he begins to sing to accompany them; in a low, serious voice, as bestas he can manage.

"Mama take this badge from me
I can't use it anymore
It's getting dark, too dark to see
I feel I'm knockin' on Heaven's door..."

Fuck.  She isn't...? Fuck.  Fuck fuck damn fuck shit fuck damn.

It's probably pretty safe to say that Bjorn isn't really prepared to deal with this situation -- except that it actually is unsafe to say, as he's all too aware.  Freezing for a second, he sits down on the edge of the bed beside the Lady, close but not too close, and (a bit awkwardly) reaches out to rest a comforting hand on her wrist.

<Huitzil> roll 3d6
[13:29] <Chibi-Suu> Them bones was tossed for Huitzil ... : 3d6 {16}
Paul: Your performance is okay, at least, you think so.  The audience doesn't seem quite so appreciative, however.  They keep calling out songs you don't know to play, instead.

Phil joins in with them, loudly suggesting, "The Boxer," though after he voices his request, everyone else quiets down to mere murmurs.

Bjorn: She takes your hand in hers, and sighs.  "You're nervous?" she asks.  "I understand ... at least, I think I can.  It's all so strange and new ... and we should have remained at the temple, not been called out to Stormwall Keep.  Do ... do you ever miss it?" she asks, turning to look at you curiously.  "Your citizenship?"

Shit.  Frying pan to fire without even jumping.  Well.  Defense in depth.

Bjorn stares at the ground.  "In all honesty?  I told you and Master Liandral, outside the pass, that my memory has been... shaky since the ambush."  He looks up to meet the Lady's eyes, a genuinely pained expression on his face -- telling half-lies to someone so obviously confused and upset does not go down well with him.  "That was a bit of an... understatement, I'm afraid."

"I could tell," she says, shaking her head, and looking at you wryly.  "The real Bjorn wouldn't have waited until the door was closed at a chance to be alone with me.  So, who are you, and why are you here?" she asks, her hand trapping your own from reaching your sword.

Paul ignores the requests and catcalls and concentrates on the music, staring at his hands as he sings, trying to decipher how they do what they do.

It might be inappropriate, but Bjorn feels more relief at being unveiled than panicked -- at least he doesn't have to keep pretending.  He half-grins at the Lady, taking no notice of the restraint she's placed on him.  "I thought I was doing quite well, given my acting skills.  Apparently, you're a much better actor than I."

His face sobers, and he purses his lips in thought.  "As for who I am...."  He shrugs with one shoulder.  "I'm Bjorn, but, I think, a Bjorn from a different time and place.  The same person with a different history, if you will.

"As to why I'm here..." he shrugs again.  "There's a darkness, an Enemy, threatening the world where I came from, and I'm trying to fight it.  And, somehow, that brings me here -- where there's another force of darkness threatening mankind."  He shakes his head.  "Unfortunately, our oracle is considerably vaguer than the guidance you have, but it seems to me that to defeat my Enemy, I must help you vanquish yours."

He falls silent, studying the face of the Lady.

The lady's face twists into a grimace, and she releases your wrist.  "I had hoped I was wrong," she said quietly.  "You and ... I suppose Bjorn, Niel, Cerric and Miram ... they died, I thought.

"Liandral, he said that he thought Phil and Nathan, and even the Loremaster were dead, but then something happened -- something came into that room, and the wounds and damage to your armor was undone when we looked again.  But you were not given back to us ... you are someone else using the vessel of who used to be."

She turns to look at you curiously.  "What world do you come from, and what do you know of ours?  While our causes are aligned, I imagine you don't know everything you would wish to of our world."

Bjorn shrugs, again.  "How can I answer your question?  I come from a place called Earth, and it's very different.  I wouldn't even know where to begin.

"As for the other... what I know of this place is exactly what I've learned from watching and listening since I awoke here -- which means, m'Lady, I got most of it from you.  I know something about the Dreadmarch and the war between the gods, and that's it.  That hasn't helped at all in trying to fit in."

He grimaces, himself, and looks away.  "I'm... sorry that I've lied to you.  My best understanding was that my quest required me to become the Bjorn of this place, and so I did my best."  His expression turns embarrassed.  "I didn't really expect a situation like... this."

"This world is called Earth, too," she supplies helpfully.  "Regardless, it's fitting, I suppose.  I had to pay for my sin somehow."  She frowns.  "I only hope that it is just I that pays.  You must understand, though, we cannot change who people think you are ... not yet, at least.  This is going to be difficult.

"You were born into a family that was indentured.  A common method of repaying this debt of servitude is to give the firstborn of your family to whom the debt is owed.

"The King's Law outlawed slavery ages ago, however, so the only ones capable of holding the ties of that debt became the gods, or ... the churches, in their stead.

"Essentially, at a young age, you were given to the church and had your past erased so that you could serve Hamar.  I was somewhat older, of course, as my parents didn't owe the church anything ... but a female heir would have been inconvenient.

"Regardless, most anyone will recognize you, outside of ... the ones who I can only imagine came with you, or those like Liandral, who have a skewed view of anyone outside of themselves, and the storm-runners.  Er, those like Nathan and Philip.

"As a vassal of the church, you can expect that everyone will know of your prowess in battle ... but at the same, you are forbidden to fraternize with those outside of the order.  In a war, you outrank any footsoldier, but in times of peace, your will is entirely subject to the church, and most importantly, to Hamar himself.

"But can such a tie bind you after death?"

Wondering how the rest of the audience are reacting to Paul's selection of music, Ginrai looks around.  He also looks to see if he can have another glass of beer and some more bread.

Bjorn frowns.  "Recognize me... you mean, recognize me as a vassal of the Church?"  He shakes his head.  "There's a great deal in what you just said that I don't understand.  What the storm-runners are, for example, or what you mean by Liandral having skewed perceptions.  But what should come first, I think... m'Lady, it's a lot to ask, I know, but can you teach me what I must know to pass as Bj... as a vassal of the Church?  I will not get far, or accomplish much of anything if I make everyone doubt me."

Ginrai: When the cook comes around, he gives you a bit more bread, and another cup of beer.  It doesn't seem to affect you, so either this body is used to it, or it's just incredibly weak.

Bjorn: "Well, your insignia ... your armor would be recognized.  If not that, they'd see the sign of Hamar on you.  There is no temple of Hamar at Stormwall Keep.  There's no proper temple there at all, so you won't need to fool any other clergy.  There will be ... representatives of the other churches, however.  They don't follow Hamar, and their ways are different enough from ours that it should not be a concern.

"But as a rule, vassals of the Church make no move save that which they are ordered to by the clergy.  Which would be me, I suppose.

"It also means that you would not do anything outside of either participating in the war, or doing the service of the church.  Which is all we will have time for.  I can't see that changing soon.

"Liandral is of the," and she says something here, but it reaches your ears as, "elves."  Another one of those not-quite matching-ups of this world.  "They tend to be limited, and confine themselves to a single society.  They therefore assume that humans should, too.

"The storm-runners are those who live in the lands furthest north, hunting the armies of the Dreadmarch through their season-long days.  They used to be from the southlands, and return there once every so often, according to Liandral.  Of course, once enough time had passed, they went south less and less, finally only leaving the frozen lands to trade with those at Stormwall Keep."

Bjorn nods, slowly.  "Why are we taking the Draughts of Life to Stormwall Keep?  What, exactly, is going to happen there, beyond the -- nine? -- days of seige?"

"The draughts will provide much-needed healing after an attack from the Dreadmarch," she says, frowning.  "Their power has been concentrated over the years since the last siege, for just this purpose.

"We will have to destroy the thirteen generals of the Dreadmarch to lift the siege ... and should we fail, then the Dreadmarch will break our best defensive line, and drive south into the heartlands.

"Beyond that ... I do not know yet.  Liandral ... he was there, at the last.  He should remember it, I think."

Bjorn grunts thoughtfully.  "Straightforward enough, if easier said than done."  He looks sidelong at the Lady.  "Are there any other complications that you know of?"  He grimaces.  "Or anything else I should know, beyond 'everything'?"

"I don't know of anything that would help you immediately," she says.  "Your friends would do well with a lesson from Liandral, if it could be extracted more easily ... but he is already suspicious, and his kind's trust is hard earned.

"What I can tell you, however, is that you must be careful of how you adress others.  In any battle, you are superior to any footsoldier, following only the orders of a commander.  Outside of battle, you should call everyone as a superior.  I would be 'madame', not 'M'lady', as I was born of a duchess, not a queen.

"Most people will be 'Master' or 'Mistress', the aristocracy being 'Sir' and 'Madame', and those who you follow the orders of being 'Lord' and 'Lady'.  There's more ... but that would be all you will need to know.

"You truly have no memory of any of memories of this world's Bjorn?  Oh, yes.  Ah ... you should not speak of the ... relationship ... I held with ... who you were before."

Bjorn nods, absorbing that.  "'Those whose orders I obey'... that would be the clergy?  Should I call you Lady or Madame, then?"

He snorts, slightly.  "And I'm afraid I remember nothing.  Perhaps I might, later on, but I doubt it for now.  As for the other..."  he grins, slightly, with a hint of a blush.  "Wouldn't dream of talking about it."

"That would be Hamar, and of course, the Lord of Stormwall Keep, once we arrive.  I would be Madame," she says, frowning.  "Though, you may simply call me Mirallia, when we are alone."

At the last, she turns away, and says, "That is my sin, and why I should not have been chosen for this task."

Bjorn studies the set of the back of Mirallia.  Haven't played father-confessor in years.  When needs must, I guess.

"I'm probably in no position to pry," Bjorn says, gently, "but in a real sense, you hold my life in your hands, and I swear that I will do nothing to break your trust.  Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not ... you.  But, who you were before.  A priestess of Hamar should remain chaste ... and I did not.  The sin, once commited, could not be undone.  I fear to ... truly pray to Hamar, for I think His greatest blessings are denied to me."

About to say something comforting, Bjorn stops, mouth slightly open, as he realizes something very disturbing.

He knows what Mirallia is talking about.

"Chastity is required of the clergy," he says, half a question and in a voice full of wonder.  "But it isn't of vassals.  Wouldn't matter, because who would have a vassal of the Church?  Unless my vassalage got bought out... but what would have been the odds of that?"  His voice trails off, and he stares at the wall, lost in thought.  In an abstracted voice, he muses, "I can't imagine how lonely it would be."

"I'm sure if you put your mind to it you can," Mirallia says, rubbing at her eyes.  "Tomorrow we go to the Keep.  We should probably best get some rest."

Bjorn shakes his head, breaking out of his reverie.  "Uh, sorry.  I didn't mean...." He trails off, and stands.  "Sleep well," he says, and settles himself cross-legged at the foot of the bed, leaning his back against the wall and resting his sword across his knees.

Meditation leading straight into sleep, he's found, is the best way to keep from thinking too much about losing one's mind.

Dracos keeps an open ear for any interesting tidbits that get said during the night.

Dracos

Phil: You try and eavesdrop.  The men are mostly grumbling behind you about the music, which they agree is okay, but not what they wanted to hear.  The only other things they talk about are who was out on the last patrol, this really pretty maid left behind at Stormwall Keep, a references to owning a farm 'once this is all through' in some place called the heartlands, and how a few of them are worried about the upcoming siege.

None of them are trying to start a conversation with you or your companions, though, as they figure you've probably been busy enough already.After an hour or so of music, the warden reappears, and leads you to his office, which is a spacious, well lit room opposite his private quarters (which have their doors shut) and the kitchen.  Some pallets have been laid out for you to sleep on.

It's actually not that bad, after taking in sleeping on the ground, as you had been doing.  A proper bed (and a hot bath) would be awesome, but they don't seem to have any form of bathing facilities here.  They do have a latrine, though, and that's out a small door in the back.

Once you lie down, you realize the men in the common room are sleeping beneath the tables, and therefore, you should probably not stomp through it in search of a glass of water, or anything.

Regardless, after the night passes (there are no windows, so it's dark enough to get to sleep without too much trouble), you all wake up.

Bjorn: You're a bit stiff from sitting upright, but still better rested than when you stayed outdoors.  Your armor is starting to actually feel kind of warm.  The lady looks pretty comfortable, though.

Everyone else: Your room is cool, but with your cloaks (and the blankets provided by the warden) it's not that bad.  Someone's banging around in the common room and ladling up something for breakfast.

Getting carefully to his feet, Bjorn stretches, rolling his head from side to side to work out kinks.  When he's limber (or at least not quite as stiff), he says, gently, "It's time to wake up."

The lady grumbles, and makes some very un-ladylike noises before sitting up.  "Time to go already?" she asks sleepily.

Bjorn nods.  "I'm afraid so.  We don't want to waste the time we've gained."

"I'm awake," she sighs, climbing to her feet, checking her robes to see that everything is in place, and then opening the door.

The smoky morning light and cheer of the main hall spill through the door, and you can see the guardsmen hauling on their armor over their underclothes sleepily.  The warden is already up, talking to one of his men, and the cook is setting out the next meal -- looks like the last one, but it comes with a small wedge of bright yellow cheese.

Dracos gets up, glancing over his companions and stretching out a bit before facing the morning.  While a proper bath would be nice, he's lazy and inured enough not to give it any mind.

He glanced outside to check what is going on.  Presuming it's just breakfast and nothing weird, he gets his lazy bum non-early morning companions up.

Dracos

After last night's discussion, Bjorn has a little more of an idea of what's expected of him.  As such, he follows Mirallia's lead, keeping quiet and staying out of the way of others.

She moves to the head table, nearest the fire, and starts eating her meal.  The others file in the from warden's office and join in after a bit.  It's pretty subdued, without any conversation from the majority of the men outside of how they're assigning their duties for the day.

Rez nods blearily to Bjorn. He, as usual, doesn't much look like he appreciates this whole 'morning' concept.

"Morning. Sleep well?"

Bjorn nods deferentially to Nathan.  "Good morning, Master Shuker.  I slept as well as I might, and thank you for your concern."

Probably laying it on too thick.

Rez blinks, then shakes his head as if to clear it, looking slightly more awake after he's done so.

"A good thing to hear.  And you, m'lady?" He turns to the aforementioned.

Dracos eats, glancing over the two and pondering the slight change.

When finished, he sees if he can either get the group alone for a bit or get a bit of relatively private time to both examine and get some practice with the blade he's now carrying.

Dracos

Rez is, well, not cheerfully, but voluntarily dragged off by Drac after breakfast is done.

Paul isn't too hungry... at least, not for "medieval cuisine", anyway. Rather than jump up for breakfast when he awakes, he stays where he is, looking over his song-book as he tries different fingerings on his lute, not yet playing it. He tries to examine his fingers as they do what they know, and sees if he could somehow learn or retain for his own mind what his hands already know.

Paul: Okay.

Phil, Nathan:  Once you finish your meal (or as much of it as you're interested in), the practice yard is empty.  The regulars aren't much for practicing this early, apparently.  The sun hangs even lower in the sky than before ... but you're effectively alone.

Parthipan follows you outside after a bit, and sits on a snow-free bench beneath the eaves of the building to watch, and pore through his tome of ... whatever that is.

Bjorn:  Liandral is still inside, discussing the route with Mirallia.  He says that a wagon train should arrive within an hour or so, and after the horses have been given a moment or three to rest, you'll go south on the wagons.  She agrees that this seems to be a good plan.

Dracos glances back at Bjorn.  "Bjorn, would you mind a word when you are done?"

Dracos

Nodding deferentially to Master Dracos, Bjorn replies, "If Madame Mirallia sees fit to spare me, Sir Bloom, I would be happy to be of assistance."  His face remains placid, but his eyes flicker about the room -- people are watching.

Mirallia breaks off from her conversation with Liandral, and nods.  "You may go outside and practice," she says, before turning back to Liandral.

Bjorn bows his head.  "Thank you, Madame."  Turning back to Dracos, he continues, "I am at your disposal, Sir Bloom.  What can I do for you?"

"Good.  Come along Bjorn.  We'll talk at the practice grounds."

Dracos lead the way out there.  He subtly glanced around once they arrived, checking to ascertain the level of privacy.  Noticing that the practice yard was pretty much empty, he relaxed somewhat, drawing his blade and examining it's make, quality, general sturdiness, and if anything special caught his eye about it.  Meanwhile he chatted with the others...

"So... anyone else having odd...carryovers or some such?  I seem to be able to vaguely recall the correct way to address people now.  I wonder if that's a sign that we're being absorbed or that we are absorbing them."

Dracos

Bjorn frowns.  "Yeah.  I had a... flashback isn't the right word.  I had a 'remembering' -- if I think hard about it, I know things about the Church of Hamar which I obviously shouldn't."  He shrugs.  "But I'm not getting any memories with them.  It's like I learned them  a long time ago, and then forgot them.  I'm not worried about being absorbed."

Dracos nods.  "Fair enough.  Would you care to share any of them?  We should try and keep track of whatever we know so that all of us can react more...realistically."

Dracos stretched, testing the weight of the blade, the heft, feeling the familiarity with it as he tried to get in touch with the feeling of wielding it.

Dracos

Phil: It's a greatsword.  You know this sucker's gotta be heavy, but it feels solid in your hands, not heavy.

Before Dracos finishes asking the question, Bjorn is shaking his head.  "It doesn't really work like that, at least so far.  I remember stuff as the subject comes up.  A broad question like that... I'm not even sure what to try to 'remember.'"

He frowns.  "One thing, though.  Basically, I'm supposed to be a slave of the Church, and I get the back of the bus, as it were.  When it comes to military matters, people take me seriously, but otherwise you should treat me as a real second-class sort of citizen."

Dracos nods.  "I...got that sensation.  Though, it's going to be a bit odd."

Dracos

Bjorn shrugs again, and then grimaces.  "Oh, and Mirallia knows the truth about me.  She knew this world's Bjorn a little too well, and I couldn't keep fooling her without others around."  He sighs, and looks at the others apologetically.  "Which means she knows about you, too, or at least has guessed.  Apparently, these selves," he waves a hand at the body he's currently wearing, "all died in the ambush.  On the other hand, she's pretty accepting of it."  His brows furrows, and he absently tightens one fist, staring off into the middle distance.  "Almost too much so, really."  He half-shrugs, focussing again, and lifts an eyebrow.  "Anyways, she believes we're all on the same side, and she's going to try to keep our secret.

"But she doesn't think Liandral would be anywhere near as accepting, so be careful around him."

"hmm...That makes things easier."

Gives the sword a few practice swings and then sheathes it.

"Hmm, What do you know about the tactics used here?"

Bjorn: From what you remember, most of the tactics involve outflanking your enemy.  Archers are protected by footsoldiers in a defensive formation, and in an offensive formation when flanking isn't an option, you try and spearhead through the footsoldiers to get to the archers.

Lorekeepers are a difficult part of the equation, as they can seriously skew the odds (only they really know what they can do, but as a rule, be cautious around them), but thankfully usually don't care to get involved in combat.

Generally, you can't really grasp a whole lot more than that, though you have the idea that if you had to deal with a group of soldiers, you could command them fairly capably.

On the verge of giving Dracos a caustic response, information once again falls into the front of Bjorn's mind.  Damn, this is unnerving.

He squeezes his eyes shut, thinks a little harder, and says, "Archers are the basis of offense.  Footsoldiers protect them, and it all comes down to a battle of positioning, pretty much.  Cavalry doesn't seem to be a factor."  He trails off.  "That's about all I 'remember,' in this sort of situation.  If I actually had to direct troops, it'd be a different matter -- it's like I can feel the answers back there, but I don't know the questions to bring them out."

Dracos nods.  "You don't mind me trying to bring them out?  Or doing similar to me?"

Dracos

Bjorn spreads his hands, and then lets them drop.  "Mind?  Not really, it's just... disconcerting.  As for helping you... I don't know enough about you -- or, I guess, your other-you -- to know where to start."

He hums, thoughtfully.  "Mirallia... Madame Mirallia said that you and Nathan were 'storm-riders.'  Apparently, some tribe of men who live out in the far north, hunting the forces of darkness all the time.  Ring a bell?"

Dracos tries for a moment, closing his eyes slightly as he pondered and focused before shaking his head in the negative.  "Nothing.  Feh."

Dracos

Bjorn scratches his head.  "Got me, then."  Looking around at the others in the yard, he adds, "Anybody else having anything they want to add?"

Nathan shakes his head thoughtfully.

Parthipan, after a moment, says, "I know something about some ... wierd guys that apparently helped the gods create humanity.  And something about Lorekeepers ... but I don't remember when I learned it.  It's kind of funny.  More importantly, though, I remember how to cast the spells that knocks the people down!"

"Well...tell us what you know, Gin?"

Dracos

"Archonae," Bjorn supplements.  "Archonae were servants of the Elder Gods, and they made the other races as playthings for the Elder Gods.  But the Archonae laid a trap for their masters, and humans have the ability to create new gods with their own beliefs.  That created the Younger Gods -- including Hamar.  The two groups of Gods went to war with each other, and the Elder Gods lost -- they were driven away, though  most of the Younger Gods were killed.

"But the Elder Gods are still around, and they created the things that make up the Dreadmarch.  Once every, uh, hundred and sixty years, if I remember, the Dreadmarch comes out of the north to try and kill all of humanity -- which would kill the Younger Gods.  They lay a thirteen-day seige to Stormwall Keep, and every night a different general of the Dreadmarch leads the attack.  If one of those generals isn't killed..." Bjorn shrugs.  "Humanity loses."

He snorts softly.  "Or at least, that's what I read in a holy book of Hamar that I picked up."

Parthipan nods.  "Okay, that matches what I read, pretty much.  Except that they like light, they're kind of frail, and they're immortal."

Bjorn grunts.  "Good to know, but I think we're not that likely to come across any.  That's just a guess, though, and not 'remembering.'"

He looks around.  "Anyways, if we don't start making noise soon, people might get suspicious -- and we from what I heard, we're going to be leaving in less than an hour."

"Hmm...Well, never hurts to get some practice done."

Dracos stretched out, moving a bit away and making sure he has enough room.  "Anything else you guys want to discuss now?"

Dracos

Unmindful of the conversation going on between the others, Paul tries to remember some specific songs from this world now that he found he can "remember" the methods. Trying to see if he knows some that were called for last night, but willing to accept anything that comes for him -- he's listening more than anything.

Bjorn shakes his head.  "Not that I can think of."

Rez sits down and carefully pulls his own sword out, examining it, and searching his mind for cues or traces that might give him -some- idea of how his previous self used this . . .

"Hey, Nathan.  You've been quiet of late.  What's on your mind?"

Dracos

Rez waves noncomitally, still eying off the sword.

"Lots of things. I suppose the most relevant is, that Pax Arcana hasn't cleared this dream yet."

Dracos blinks.  "Hmm...that's...right.  Do you think they are also in it now?  As the Dreadmarch Generals?"

Dracos stroked his beard considering.  "It would make sense.  Perhaps if this dream is consistant it might mirror in a bit the history of what happened.  In other words, points in history pointing out where the other groups converged with this world?"

Dracos

"I doubt it. Lots of generals, only five of Pax. A . . ." Rez pauses, then looks around to make sure nobody's close by, "You think this is history? I hadn't thought of that . . ."

"Possible.  But more possible that this world is relatively consistant, leaving previous cases of them passing through and a general thrust to where they appear and can be hampered.  And while I agree, the generals numbers aren't exactly consistant...that doesn't stop having a few end up being the direct enemies.  Hmm...not that it makes much difference."

Dracos

"Not really. Gotta kill all the generals, and they're going to be tough, either way."

Rez hums.

"What do you reckon the time difference between here and home is? A day here is a day there?"

"Does it matter?"  Dracos shrugged.  "I'm not one to worry about anything I can't change.  Too much energy spent to know what can be changed."

Dracos

"Can't help but wonder, and it keeps the mind off other stuff. You know?"

Dracos laughed as he moved a bit off to the side to practice with his blade, making very certain no one was within strike distance before starting.

"You worry too much, Pinky."

Dracos

"'s my job. Someone's got to."

Rez hums, and again makes sure there's nobody within obvious earshot.

"And is anyone else even slightly worried that we're about to walk straight into a war?"

Bjorn has been off in the yard, working through some basic drills.  Taking a quick breather, he wipes his forehead and interjects, "'Walking into a war'?  We were in a war to start.  This is just another part of it."

"And as for Pax... remember, there's three sides.  If you want to say, 'the humans are Symmetry, and the Dreadmarch is Pax,' then you have to explain who the Cabal are... and, for that matter, why it is that the Dreadmarch has never won."

Sheathing his sword a bit awkwardly (still trying to get the hang of the shorter, straight blade), he continues, "I can't even see it being part of our history.  Remember, we were told that the world-before showed up in our myths and legends.  This," Bjorn waves his hand vaguely in the air, "isn't really all that mythical, I'd say.

"Anyways.  The problems is the Dreadmarch on the large scale, and on an immediate level, you guys probably want to figure out why you're here.  There's got to be a reason you part of this mission, and those reasons are probably going to come up when we get to Stormwall."

"You've got a point.  Can you ask Mirallia? Even if we take wild guesses, we can't be sure we're going to be right . . ."

Bjorn grunts.  "I can try, but no guarantees.  There might not be a chance before we get to Stormwall."

He eyes Nathan.  "You don't remember anything about the 'storm-riders' either?"

Rez thinks for a few seconds.

"Nothing that springs to mind, sorry . . ."

"I didn't think that.  It's obviously more complicated.  But it's possible there's been some levels of victory in the past.  No one ever got hurt by knowing more history."

Dracos shook his head, putting his blade down and focusing on the conversation again.  "I don't think we will really get a chance to talk much either.  Hmm...  We know our goals for the moment is to protect humanity, stave off the dreadmarch, and keep the world from being destroyed for fun.  This may be the entirety of the test or may not be.  Either way, we have to keep our eyes open."

Dracos

Bjorn shrugs and nods.  "We all agree on that."  He looks around.  "Any other thoughts?"

"I wanna go home?" Rez gives a quirky grin.

Bjorn snorts, and it's not clear whether it's amusement or irritation.  "Remember why we're here.  If we go home without winning...."

"Q-Bert will eat your brains."  Dracos snickered.

"Anyhow, back into the act."  Dracos went back to practicing.

Rez wipes the grin off his face and nods seriously to Bjorn, then turns back to his previous study of his sword.

"You know," Bjorn says, critically eyeing Nathan, "I don't think you're going to figure much out looking at it.  Pick it up, swing it around, and just try to let your body remember what to do."

Bjorn pauses.  "But, uh, let me get clear, first."

Rez smirks.

"Actually, I'm more worried about cutting my own limbs off, but hey."

Dragging himself (and the sword) upright, Rez walks a short distance away from everyone and does a few practice (get clear!) swings, trying to get a handle on the weight of the damn thing.

"If you're really worried about it," Bjorn suggests from the (distant) sidelines, "tie the scabbard into place, and swing it around like that.  That way, you'll break bones, instead of splitting them."

Rez seems to handle the weapon decently, and after a minute of practice or so, even so far as 'pretty good'.  The sword is like a giant, sharpened crowbar, with none of the grace implied with such a weapon.  Blood channel aside, this is just as likely to shatter a limb as cleave into it.  These greatswords are made to be durable, and dole out an awful lot of punishment while being used.

You can kind of see why such a sword would have the owner's geneology listed on it, as Phil's has apparently been passed down a good twenty generations.

But, regardless, after you've practiced for a bit, a few wagons pull in through the gates, and a few of the soldiers here watch the practice fight.  Their own weapons are longer then Bjorn's but shorter than the greatswords.  When the wagons arrive, the soldiers all run out, and start taking supplies from them.  It appears to be dozens of reed mats, sharpened wooden stakes (hundreds of them), and shovels.  In addition to this there is a small wooden cask that is handled with some reverence and loaded inside.

From there, the soldiers put all their personal possessions into cloth bags, label them, and load those into the wagon -- if you had to guess (and for Bjorn, he knows) you would say that they're setting this place up as a deathtrap before they ditch the outpost and head for the keep.  How they intend to mask their pit traps after diging them and lining them with spikes is anyone's guess, though.

While the soldiers are loading up their personal things (and the warden's, as well), Liandral and Mirallia emerge, and you're all assigned to wagons to acompany.  There are six of them, and you each get to choose where you're going to ride (plenty of room in the backs, only enough for one person to sit up top next to the drivers).

Mirallia sets herself up in the back of the second wagon, and Liandral chooses to ride shotgun (he found a bow, somewhere) on the lead wagon.

"So, everyone here feels like sitting in the same wagon as Mirallia?  Probably better off that we all stick together."

By now long out of earshot of Parthipan (having set himself up by the side of Madame Mirallia when the caravan arrived), Bjorn heads quietly over to his assigned wagon.   If the option is available, he takes the seat by the driver; otherwise, he sets himself down in the back.

Dracos just gets in the wagons, focusing on fitting in.

Dracos

Phil: You're the only seven people headed south, aside from the drivers.  They probably wouldn't be surprised to see you all stick together.  Either way, Mirallia is sitting in the back of wagon number two with Bjorn (riding shotgun).

These wagons are basically truck-beds.  There's no enclosure or roof, just a bed, a wooden railing (the back is a kind of gate, actually), a wide, bench-like seat up front with room for two comfortably to sit side-by side, and the wagons are pretty much empty, except for the sacks of soldier's supplies in wagon one.

Liandral is sitting shotgun on wagon one, and Mirallia motions everyone else to climb into the back of wagon two (there's enough room).  The wagons are each drawn by two of what look like oxen.

Once you're all sitting in the back, Mirallia about half way between the gate and Bjorn, the wagons rumble off slowly, heading what you've figured is south.  Only an edge of the sun is above the horizon, a sliver of light being eaten at by the mountain range to the north you recently managed to fight through.

After you've set out, the quiet creaking and rattling of wooden axles accompanied by the wagoneer's communications (shrill whistles and cries like, "Yaa, royat heya!" -- it takes a moment's thought to turn this into, "Yo, right here!"), and the occasionall groan or snuffle from one of the beasts of burden.

Mirallia clears her throat and looks at the wagoneer meaningfully, then asks (in a very quiet voice), "Do you have any questions about where we are going?"

Paul accompanies the creaking of wooden wagon-parts with a few distracted strums on his lute, picking out notes rather than playing a song.

He leans toward Dracos and asks, conversationally, "So. You had a meeting?"

Dracos eyes paul slightly and eyes the drivers and nods just a bit, "Hum?  We were just training, Paul.  You've seen it before."

Dracos

"Figured you'd talked about stuff. If you decided anything, I'd wanna know."

Dracos whispers at paul, "Later.  More pertinent questions now."

Turning to Mirellia, he speaks softly, "What can you tell us about the storm riders?"

Dracos

Paul nods and goes back to concentrating on his instrument.

She raises an eyebrow.  "Master Liandral would know more," she says cautiously.  "But, the storm-riders are those who dwell in the eternal winter, stalking the forces of the Dreadmarch.  They follow their tribal high-king, who retains his kingship through the torc he wears on his neck.

"This torc was originally from the far south, the heart of the Archonae city, where the storm-riders are said to originate.  Their first king, Lord Liam, was said to have made a pact with the creatured that dwell in the north and fight the darkness.  When Lord Liam's wife bore him six daughters, and no sons, he said that whoever could first tame one of his daughters would inherit the throne after his passing.

"Of course, this is most likely merely a legend ... but it is said that his daughters took no man as husband, instead staying with the animals of the north.

"In time, of course, it was revealed that they were taking men to their beds, if not as husbands, because they each bore three sons, which in turn established the eighteen lines of heritage that the storm-riders revere.

"There were three children of each house, and six houses.  The houses were ... Wolf, Bear, Dear, Rabbit, Fox, and Hawk.  It is rumored that in the days of eld, Hab -- of the house of Wolf, was able to speak to wolves.  Then, too, legends say that Maren of the house of Bear was able to take the form of a bear himself....

"But these are only legends.  The storm-riders respect the creatures that dwell in these cold lands, for they have to be as strong as the storm-riders themselves to survive."

She nods.

Phil: When you studied the lineage on your blade, you're pretty sure that one of the names on the blade was Hab Bloom, and the first name on the blade was Liam.

Dracos blinks pondering and continuing in a low tone of voice.  "I see.  Can you tell me more about the torc, how I apparently lost it?  As Bjorn said, we don't exactly remember.  And what reasons our past selves gave for going on this journey?"

Dracos

Paul looks at Dracos, pulls him a bit closer, and whispers harshly: "What the fuck are you doing, man? Didn't Bjorn just tell us NOT to ask this kind of shit, specifically?"

Rez shakes his head at Huitzil. "She knows. Ask later."

Raising her eyebrows, Mirallia says, "That, I'm not privy to all of the details on.  Either you were seduced, or it was stolen from you.  But a cousin called upon the court and demanded that you show you held Liam's torc.  When it was revealed you did not, you were cast down from your throne, and your holdings were largely removed.  You still retained what respect you had garnered from your crusades against the minions of dread ... but your kingship was lost.

"That, I assume, is what drove you to drinking.  That you do not now is probably for the best; I asked Lord Markam for retainers to aid in protecting the draughts of life before we left the temple at Winter-haven, and he called upon three of his warriors.

"Yourself, at the time too drunk to stand up unasisted, your younger cousin Gregory, who was volunteered because he stood to help you rise, and Nathaniel.

"I ... do not wish to cast asperities upon you, but at the same, I was given a child, a drunkard, and a madman to aid my quest.  I find it odd that Liandral complain when you demonstrate more competance now than you did then."  Turning to Nathan, she answers what she guesses to be his next question: "A madman only because he insisted on discarding the named blade of his forebearers and instead sought out the sword crafted long ago by the Archonae ... the king of swords, it was called.

"I apologize, but I do not know where it lies.  Master Durant and Liandral are learned of stories, and will perhaps have some knowledge of that which I lack.  Regardless, time for questing after a dream is hard-granted.  We've much more to worry about now."

Paul ignores the Lady's speech that indicates that yes, she does know, and talks to Rez. "Wait. She knows? Did she figure this out, or did we tell her?"

Dracos nods.  "I see.  Thank you for the vote of confidence, though we're a bit outside our normal depth.  You were asked to come here as a representative of Hamar?  What about Liandril?  How did you two specifically get involved?"

Dracos

"I was chosen because the high priestess fell ill and died before it was time to leave.  Liandral chose to come because he is loyal to Hamar, and twice before he has already accepted this task."

The silence at Mirallia's last comment hangs over the wagon until you come into sight of Stormwall Keep.

You know what it is the second you see it; the mountain range to the south has been growing higher on the horizon the longer you've been riding in the wagons.  But this mountain range is a sheer cliff, rising what looks like a solid kilometer into the sky.  Foothills sit at the base of the wall, but none high enough to even be considered as passes up into the mountains themselves.

A single gap sits squarely south of you, the land rising only a hundred meters or so, to a monumental fortress.  The pass is a kilometer wide, and filled, cliff wall to cliff wall, with stone wall at least thirty meters high.  It curves very slightly inwards, as though years of something beating against it have bowed its structure.  Four towers adorn the walls -- two on either side of the gatehouse, which is in the exact center of the wall.

Behind this wall, further buildings rise.  Eight towers stand higher than the walls, looking down onto the plain you're now riding across.  The walls bear scars and chips to show that they've seen wars before, lending the place an air of unshakable solidity.  At the base of the wall is a moat, a good dozen meters across, and frozen solid.  Further out is a second moat, this one dry, but filled with sharpened sticks.

If you have to fight out a siege, this is probably the best imaginable place for it.

You can see a building that rises higher than the walls, but is shorter than the towers.  You guess this to be the keep proper, but as you approach, a light flickers within, something behind the massive sealed gates you're riding towards.  It paints the walls of the keep and the towers behind it a brilliant red for a heartbeat before it fades, leaving the bleached white stone walls staring back at you blankly once more.

Bjorn studies the keep intently, aware, from what's he picked up, that he might very well be called on to develop some sort of battle plan -- and hoping that the sight of it might jog any memories his other-self had about the architecture of Stormwall Keep.  He also surveys the terrain in front of the keep -- looking for hills, trees or any sort of cover, and for the presence of any bodies of water.  

And, with morbid curiousity, he leans over the side of the wagon, looking back for any sign of the Dreadmarch.

The horizon is clear behind you for the moment.  Looking back upon the keep, you note that while it's impressive, you have an odd recolection of it.  It is not as though you've seen it before, but as if you've read about it, indeed, as though almost all of your tactical knowledge revolved around it.

While you watch, the gates ponderously creak open, revealing a tunnel, and giving you an insight as to the true thickness of the wall.  It goes back a good twenty meters through what looks like carved stone.  Another thick and heavy gate blocks the entrance to the courtyard, and doesn't begin to creak open until after your wagon passes beneath the archway.

When it does wind all the way open, you're treated to the sight of a huge courtyard, spanning from cliff to cliff, and from the defensive wall to the keep.  It's a good two hundred meters long, and the entire kilometer wide.  Most of it is filled with troops standing in formation, their squad captains looking them over curiously.

There are dozens -- perhaps hundreds -- of lightly armored men wearing leather helms and carrying longbows loitering around the edges of the courtyard.  Most of the individual troops are carrying spears and halberds, their armor a largely collective mishmash of whatever they could gather.  There are no horses in sight.

In the center of the courtyard, there is a giant stone post, like a perch for a massive bird, though, that bird would need to be large enough to fly off with a person or two to judge by the scale of the post.

The troops break off from what they were doing and watch warily as the wagons stop just inside the door, allowing everyone to climb off before heading to some stables set to one side of the keep.

No one else here is dressed anything like the rest of you.

Having helped Madame Mirallia exit from the wagon, Bjorn stands alertly by her side, dispassionately studying the soldiers surrounding them.

Only one wall?  If they had this much space to build a courtyard, but only put in one great wall... seige machinery can't be a major factor then.  Wet moat won't do much good right now, either.  What the hell is that... perch for?  And the towers...

With that thought, Bjorn studies the eight towers -- looking for openings, obvious armanents, how far they are from the keep -- and, again, if his memories of tactics involving Stormwall have anything to say.

Four of the towers are build into the keep itself, one at each corner.  The two furthest south have the greatest height.  An archer could probably stand atop the tower and rain arrows below, but you're not sure if that works, considering the general of the Dreadmarch is probably not going to lead the charge.  If they were that stupid, there wouldn't be a need for tactics.

From what you can gather, looking at those four towers, and then another  two towers, these built off of the cliff face itself, between the wall and the keep.  The final two are the tallest, one rising from the center of the keep, the other behind it, but highest by far.

Most likely these are just used to survey the battlefield and issue orders ... they would be ideal for sighting and giving directions to siege machinery, were there any about.  As far as what the perch is for, you've got no real idea.  A thorough bestiary wasn't included in your tactical knowledge; which figures, as apparently horses don't exist here.

Dracos stands up, glancing over the men and stretching out just a bit, getting the krinks from the wagon ride out of his system.  He looks about for the signs of who is in charge here and how things are run.

Dracos

Each group of men (probably every fifty of them or so) is lead by a much better dressed one, probably squads and squad commanders.  But obviously, they can't run things, and about the same time Mirallia is dusting herself off, the doors to the keep (nearly as imposing as the gate doors, which are even now swinging shut) open, and a man in shining armor steps out, followed by a trio of retainers.

This man is a large man, almost as tall as Phil.  His armor is well fitted, and looks comfortable on him -- most likely he had it made for him.  A look at the average footsoldier, and even their commanders suggests that they can't afford this.  It's plate, more solid than Bjorn's, just as easy for him to move in as Phil and Nathan.  His cloak flares and waves behind him as he marches forward with a ground-eating pace.

His scabbard is wrought with intricate golden sigils on them, and his helm is strapped to one shoulderplate, to leave his head uncovered.  He's got short black hair, a black beard, and a handsome countenance.

His retainers are:

A man who would be Gandalf, provided Gandalf were Gandalf the Brown instead of Gandalf the Gray (or white).  He's got the same hat, the same robes, and the same beard.  But it's all brown, and he looks a shade younger than you'd expect a venerable wizard to be.  He walks with the aid of a tall wooden stick, a bit gnarled on the top, but he moves like he belongs in this place just as much as the lordly-looking guy and his other retainers.

The second is a man who looks like he could be Liandral's cousin, wearing soft finery, and carrying no weapons.  His hair is blond, like Mirallia's, though, instead of black of Liandral's.  His face is bearing the hints of a knowing smirk that look to be permanent.

The third is a man in armor almost, but not quite as nice as the lord's, but not as highly polished.  He wears no cape, and his hair is red.  It's much longer than the lord's, but bound back with a strip of leather, and his long beard has golden rings braided into it.

They draw to a halt before Mirallia, who bows deeply.  "Welcome!" the lord speaks in a booming voice.  "We had not expected you for two days yet!"

Liandral quickly mirrors Mirallia's bow.

Bjorn also bows, hand on sword to keep it out of the way, even deeper than Mirallia.

Dracos politely and civilly bows before the obvious Lord of the Keep, letting the priestess of Hammar do the talking.

Dracos

Nathan, Paul, and Parthipan, catching the drift, all do their best to bow as well.  Nathan's bow is servicable, Paul's is masterful, and Parthipan's attempt earns him a chuckle from the wizard, and a cold look from the elf.

The lord ignores everyone except for Mirallia, waving a hand dismissively.  "We've time for formality later," he booms.  "Come, enter my hall, avail yourselves of food, drink.  Rest, and perhaps bathe the dust of the roads from yourselves before we begin that work which we must attend.

"Yes," he says, nodding as though he just realized something.  "A meal, and then talk.  Come!"  Turning about on one heel, he marches away, and all his retainers follow, save for the wizard, who raises a hand to halt you.

In a low voice, he says, "We must speak.  Watch your tongue in the great hall, and wait for me to summon you."  With that, he nods, and scurries to join the other retainers.

Bjorn studies the back of the wizard as he marches away, and then flicks his eyes towards the others -- probably in an attempt to convey something meaningful -- before ghosting after Mirallia.

Dracos...blinks.  And then follows along, curious.

Dracos

Ginrai follows, trying to remember where he's seen those four before since the wizard's action seemed to convey that they have met prior.

"We've many days travel under our belts to get here. Enjoying the courtesy of your hall would be a very welcome respite."

Paul follows his host,  trying to look noble and bard-esque while not being overwhelmed by the sheer "holy shit" aspect of this whole castle, complete with mysterious wizard.

Parthipan: You don't remember meeting him specifically, but you do remember learning about him.  He's one of the Lorekeepers, but not one of the normal, recognized groups.  Most of the Lorekeepers focus on something like, the stars, the wind, the earth, or fire.  He focuses on combat, and, as it turns out, is pretty good at it, too.

Rumor has it that he can also speak with birds and insects, though you don't know if this is true.

Everyone:  Following the group into the keep, you wander through a series of ante-chambers before reaching a massive hall.  Tables line it, with room enough for probably almost all of the troops in the courtyard.  The ceiling seems to go all the way to the roof of this place, the heights vanishing into darkness.  It's lit with a quartet of fireplaces (huge, massive things, probably each with an entire tree inside of them), and additional torches across the walls.  In a few places, torchstands bear a few more around the room.

There's a table much higher than all the others, and the Lord is already seating himself at a chair, there, his retainers sitting near him.  Wizard to his left, armored human to his right, and the elf next to the wizard.

Mirallia makes a bee-line for a table that's not on the raised dias, but offers seats facing the lord himself.  Once you're seated, a series of cooks parade into the room bearing trays from what you imagine is the kitchen (the door is to the right of the entrance), and everyone is given a selection from this medival buffet, along with water to drink.

Cold, clear, fresh water.  "The water is safe," the lord says, before anyone can ask.  "Radagast has devised a way to keep it pure.  We find it keeps the soldier's minds sharper than beer.  Now, let us eat, and regain our strength, before we discuss what comes."

So saying, he lays into a side of (you think) beef, slicing off a chunk with a big knife, and then putting it on his plate.  Everyone waits for him to eat before serving themselves.

On the table before you is another side of beef, a pot of soup, bread, various other meats (looks like a roast pig, there, and that drumstick is certainly from some form of bird), a smattering of vegetables, and some fruits.

Once everyone's eaten their fill, the cooks return, sweep the dishes away, give everyone more water, and then vanish.

"Now," booms the lord, his right-hand man absorbed in picking his teeth clean with a knife, "what brings you here so early?"

"With respect, my lord," Mirallia says politely, pushing back her seat and rising, "we encountered no small amount of trouble on our jouney, but, if you have the patience, I can tell you what has happened since our journey began."

"Of course," the lord says, motioning her to continue with one hand.

"Ah.  We set out from Winterhaven as scheduled, myself, and the traditional four Vassals of Hammar that had not come to Winterhaven through Gatemaster Eske's doorway.  As the only ones qualified for the pilgrimage, we set out, seeking aid from the storm-riders, the Sons of Liam.

"But aid came to us before we left Winterhaven, for the bard and poet, Master Durant," here she pauses and indicates Paul, "had arrived to visit Winterhaven, and gather stories.  He said he planned to join the watch at Stormwall Keep, and to witness a struggle against the forces of Dread.

"There, too, was Loremaster Parthipan, who had journeyed with a supply caravan, hoping to meet Gatemaster Eske.  When Eske was not to be found, Loremaster Parthipan asked to join with us, for he spoke to me of his need for a quest to attain mastery in his school.  Is there not a more noble cause for a Loremaster to seek?  We could not think of one, so he was allowed to join us.

"From there, we were awarded three companions by Lord Markam, and then proceeded south.  But we were attacked, as we slept, by a horde of minions of the Dread.  We survived, only barely, and found our route to Stormwall Keep cut off by the advancing army.  Trapped, and with no other choices, master Liandral, who had elected to lead our party from Winterhaven, as he'd done once before, told us of a secret, but dangerous way through the mountains.

"At great risk, we took this pass ... and that is how we came to cross the mountains so swiftly."

The lord looks less than pleased to hear this tale.  "Ill tidings," he ruminates.  "Ill tidings indeed.  So Gatemaster Eske remains missing."  He drums his fingers on the table and furrows his brow.  "We have made it this far," he decides.  "We shall be even more on guard than we have been."  He looks at his right-hand man, who maintains an entirely impassive expression, and then at the wizard, who looks a bit intrigued.  "What do you think of this?"

"That you are correct, and we must remain on our guard," the right-hand man says, nodding.

"And you, Radagast?" the lord says, turning to the wizard.

"A lost pass," the wizard muses.  "Before all else, I would like a moment, My Lord, to speak with these brave survivors of their accomplishments, and what portents they hold."

"Save Master Liandral," says the elf at the table.  "Gone too long from court, and now we must speak."

The wizard looks at the elf speciously, but nods.  "So be it," he says, rising.  "Follow me," he adds, marching towards one of the room's doors.

Mirallia quickly bows to the lord before following the wizard.  Liandral just looks uncomfortable and stares defiantly up at the other elf.

Rising, Bjorn bows deeply to the lord, and then takes up his customary "loyal hound" position just behind Mirallia.

Dracos, ever the curious sort, follows the wizard as well, though remember to maintain the expected level of courtesy towards the lord of the keep.

Dracos keeps an eye on the wizard, specifically trying to read his body language from his first indication of wanting to speak with them.

Dracos

His body language doesn't say much, really.  You don't expect he's going to whirl on you and stab you with a knife, at least.

After leading you through some doors, and up a few flights of stairs, you end up in what you suppose to be his laboratory.  It looks about appropriate for a wizard, you'd guess, with various arcane things lying about.  Sticks, charts covered with incomprehensible runes, glyphs, and other mysterious things.

A small case lies locked on one of the nearby tables, though the padlock looks awfully intricate and well crafted for the technology you've seen, nuclear powered death spiders aside.  Once you're all inside, he ushers you through this room (closing the door behind you) and into a large room filled with comfortable looking chairs.

"Please, have a seat," he says, gesturing to them.  After a second, he adds, "I imagine you feel a bit out of place here, hmm?"

Bjorn lifts his eyebrows inquisitively, the poster-boy of blank-faced, confused, but willing to agree with whatever you say SAH! grunts everywhere.

Dracos raises an eyebrow curiously, in the universal gesture of 'You have my complete attention, go on'.  He does not though, verbally answer the question yet, despite the friendly demeanor of the wizard.

Dracos

"I haven't seen such a collction in a great while, but I'm never outofplace where I am welcomed, if you follow.

"And, pardon me for the tangent, but was that extract of Istari-root I saw on the way in?" Paul threads his fingers under his chin and looksat Radagast pointedly, waiting for an answer.

"I was never told that Istari was a root.  I thought it was an ancient race ... and I suppose it's just as well I was given the name I was."  Radagast frowns thoughtfully.  "Before you get your hopes up, you need to know that I'm not truly Radagast the Brown.  I'm Radagast the Lorekeeper.  Loremaster, maybe.

"I'm based on the real Radagast, but have been put here to try and find you, specifically, and help you out."  He frowns.  "Strange things are happening," he mumbles.  "Strange indeed.  But, I imagine you're feeling lost, cut off, and your oracle didn't tell you as much as you would have liked before you came to this world, hmmm?"

"that's one way of putting it.  And you are correct, Istari is a race in the books."

Dracos

Paul sighs, and lets his upright bardish posture melt into a exhausted shlump. "All right. How much do you know about oracles and the users thereof, Radagast?"

"A bit.  I was told to try and avoid anyone who was from the Pax Arcana, or the Seventh Cabal.  I was given a bit of advice on how to recognize them, and I was told that if I found someone who wasn't with them, they probably would need a bit of help getting out.

"And oracles are behind everything.  You can't find your way here if you're not guided by someone.  But if you knew what you were supposed to be doing, you'd be doing it, wouldn't you?"

Mirallia looks very confused at this, until something clicks in her mind.  "You're from another world as well?" she asks.

"Something like that," Radagast hedges.  "But, your other questions?"

"Wait, so there *is* a possibility that someone from the Pax Arcana could be here?  And you're from our world or a completely different one?"

"Parth, calm yourself and give the man a chance to answer one question before asking two more."

Dracos turns consideringly back to the wizard.

Dracos

"It's complicated," the wizard says slowly.  "This is the only world I've known, but I'm not really from it.  I was created ... put here for a specific purpose.

"And yes, there is a possibility that someone of the Pax Arcana may be here.  But if they are, they've kept me unaware of them."

"Created? By whom? And how long have you been here?"

Bjorn's eyes flick from Radagast to Mirallia, but he still remains quiet, listening to the wizard's words.

"Yes, by someone who called himself an envoy of balance.  But he told me quite clearly that he was not, nor did he serve, Aestock.  I've been here for over two hundred and forty years, by our calender."

Paul gives an appreciative half-whistle.

"Two hundred and forty years... and were you given descriptions of us, specifically?"

Rez tacks his own question on: "And how were you going to identify members of Pax Arcana or the Cabal, out of curiousity?"

'I wasn't given descriptions," he says, shaking his head.  "It's more like I can tell those who are a part of this world and those who came here apart.  How I can tell you from the others is fairly simple ... you're lost, and the others would know exactly what they should be doing."

"This is somewhat beside the point," Bjorn says quietly.  "The real question is: what are we supposed to be doing here?  And what other reasons were you put here for?"

"The long and short of it is that you have to attract the Earth's attention.  You need to so something, in the dream, that gets it's attention, and causes it to realize you're not part of this world, but here anyway.

"Earth will then wake up enough to put you back in your own world, but in doing so, you'll be marked.

"Now, there's a number of ways that you can leave this mark ... and the easiest one is to just cause trouble, make a mess, and leave a trail of destruction behind you.  This world is simple, and mostly revolves around the violent conflict we're about to enter."  Radagast fumbles for a moment, and produces a long-stemmed pipe from one pocket of his robes, packing it with tobacco, and then lighting it.  After a deep draw, he frowns.  "It would lack subtlety, and you'd need to be sure of your skill to survive."

"I would hope that a better option would present itself," Mirallia says dryly.

"Of course, of course," Radagast agrees, nodding.  "At any rate.  Those who have gone before drew attention to themselves by setting things in motion to cause some upset to what is to come, if I don't miss my guess.

"I find the timing of her predesesor's death, the convenience of the attack you walked into, and the quick mobilization of the Dreadmarch suspect.  Someone has decided that they would get the attention of the spirit of the Earth by sabotaging the battle, so that the defenders of this keep would fall."

Miralia gasps at this, hands balling into fists at her side.  "Who could assasinate a high priestess?" she asks through clenched teeth.

Radagast raises his hands in an apologetic gesture.  "I don't know, but this seems likely.  Gatemaster Eske has been delayed, as well.  Possibly, he's been slain as well, just to make things a bit more difficult," Radagast continues.  "Which is now where our causes allign.

"I don't really wish to see this place fall, one way or another, this is my home, this world, and watching it fall to darkness would be a poor thing indeed.  Which is also what I was put here to do -- to maintain this place so that people who wander in from outside can leave without it collapsing around them.  If you fight to change what others have already done back to the way it should be, that will most certainly work to gain you recognition.

"What did you already have planned?"

"Being the lazy sort that I am, I was planning to continue along the current path.  It's violent and dangerous, but keeping those around me alive tends to be among my general priorities and just wandering around doesn't do that.  Trying to come up with a different way to change it doesn't sound wise either.  If this fort falls, it'd leave a mess of disasters heading through the rest of the world, I take it?"

Dracos

"That's good," Radagast says shortly.  "Behaving too much like your original host can cause their soul to destroy yours if you don't merge correctly."

Clapping his hands together, he asks, "Now that you're here, and it appears to me we're decided on being allies, more or less, do you have any questions?"

"What can you tell us about the nature of the generals and the methods of battle that are fought at this keep?  I take it, in order to set things right, we have to ensure that the generals fall.  Am I right?"  Dracos surmised.

Dracos

"Yes," he agrees.  "The actual generals, and their tactics, tend to change.  I've only witnessed this event twice, I'm afraid ... but as a rule, they want to break through the defensive wall.  Once it's breached, in theory, a running battle could be fought into the Heartlands, as long as we took out those thirteen generals.

"But except for the first general, they aren't even chosen until just before the day of the battle.  What ... or who ... seems most appropriate is who will be chosen for that day.  Then the general sends his troops at the wall, and our defenders wade into the field to get close to the general and slaughter him.

"It has happened, once, that I saw, that a general was driven off of the field, to the north.  When this happened, he fell dead on the spot, and his forces fled for the day."

"What an...odd ritual.  In other words a single well placed sniper wins the day?"

Dracos

Rez snorts derisively to Drac's comment, muttering: "If it was THAT easy . . ."

"If the general were within bowshot, it would," Radagast agrees.  "Unfortunately, generals aren't usually chosen for their foolishness and willing ability to be on the front lines.

"The first few, most likely, will be the bloodthirsty sort, to cause some bloodshed, and get us unerved before they begin to show their true tactical ability."

"So, what happens if that general -hasn't- been killed by the end of the day, but is still on the field?  And if we screw up Pax Arcana's ploy, getting attention for ourselves, what'll that mean for Pax Arcana?  They have to stick around and try again?"

"The day doesn't end until the general falls," Radagast says slowly.  "And what you do may sabotage the others.  Or they may already have gotten the attention they desired, and left.  Once they're done, I imagine they won't care very much for what happens here, considering how they left this place."

"Sort of fits their motif, really," Rez frowns, "Do we have any way of telling if they're still around, or not?"

"If you know them from your own world, you'll recognize them here," Radagast says slowly.  "And I can tell if someone is not from this world when I see them.  But other than that, I'm not certain."

"Hmm...so we have to be on our guard for two things.  Sabotage from within by Pax and the dreadmarch outside.  What can you tell us about those who we'll be fighting alongside in these coming days?"

Dracos

"Well, the Seventh Cabal entered this world nearly a decade ago, by my reckoning.  This gave them a lot of time to set things in motion.

"What you should be working with is soldiers from nearly the world over.  A contingent of storm-riders is supposed to join the main battle-force in the coming days, retreating from the icy wastes to provide backup and reinforcements.  Their king, Lord Markham, will bring them here.

"There should be three envoys from the winter temples of the churches, yours is already here, the others should arrive the day after tomorrow.  Hopefully they fared better than yourself, no offence."

Mirallia looks skeptical at this.

"The men who are already here are either a part of the force that patrols and maintains the keep, or have journeyed from the south to participate in the battle.  It's probably the most important thing that this world has in it, really.  Tomorrow, the wagons you came in with will join a caravan that takes the families of any of the enlisted men south, to keep them clear of the keep, in case the worst should happen."

"A world of perpetual battle.  Intriguing.  Hmm, if they entered here ten years ago by your reckoning, that would indicate time likely moves much faster here then in our world.  But then, that's no guarentee.  How does the general battle command hierarchy get structured usually?  With such a vast force, it must be complicated."

Dracos

"Hierarchy?  The Lord issues orders to his commanders, who then tell the footsoldiers what to do.  When the chain of command breaks down, whoever the highest ranking footsoldier is tries to fight his way back to whatever allies he can, and if he can't find his own commander, then he finds another.

"I'm certain that it could be better managed, but the majority of my own time is devoted towards developing better weapons ... and generally, the church of Hamar would send four of its best vassals to provide tactical leadership whenever it was required," he adds, nodding at Bjorn.

"So Bjorn would be likely to be given a tactical position.  Where would we expect to end up?  At least, in expectations?"

Dracos

"That depends ... this is very much a world of heroes, where a man of power is worth an army of footsoldiers," Radagast explains.  "Most likely, he, er ... Bjorn ... would be assigned to watch over the battlefield, and search for a place to put himself, should there be a hole in the plans of the commanders.

"The storm-riders usually ride behind the banners of their six houses, though, their numbers have dwindled, and will perhaps all ride behind the banner of their lord, instead.

"As you are part of the entourage of Hamar, usually you would be warriors of some renown ... instead of a drunkard and a man with a broken sword," he says somewhat apologetically.

"Hmm...  Miralla, how long ago did you say 'my Torc' was stolen?"

Dracos

"Ah ... probably about ten ... perhaps only eight years ago," she hazards.  "Why?"

"How remarkably clever.  Brilliant in fact.  When did Nathan reputedly throw away his sword?"

Dracos swiftly follows up the question, allowing no distractions.

Dracos

"Around the same time, from what I understand," Mirallia says.  "You are from different houses, but were always friends."

"Broken swords can be refor-" Rez cuts off abruptly as he parses Mirallia's answer.

"Oh shit."

"How absolutely clever of them.  A simple theft, a few words here and there.  And a subtle disaster that crushes the spirit of two men who just happen to be important and the vessels for the other squads.  More specifically, would not the political turnover provide the necessary fallout that Pax would need to get the attention of Earth?  Heck, it's a multipronged propagating effect with very little input work to accomplish.  Though they must've done their research well beforehand."

Dracos

Rez hums.

"I don't know if I entirely agree, although that'd be an excellent way to make our job harder . . . but we don't know that they knew who'd be our vessels, since they didn't even seem to know who we were until a few years ago.  However, the purpose of stealing the torc was quite possibly not to get you out of power, but to put someone else in. Ne?"

"Very possibly," Radagast replies, while Mirallia's eyes widen.  "I imagine it's all possible.  Regardless of who is responsible, however, their pawns are still in place, and the mess they left behind is even moreso.

"In a way, you may have been lucky to arrive when you did.  I suppose, if you had the choice between waiting ten years to do something, or cause a ruckus immediately that solves your dillema for you, that would be the quicker answer."

"Damn right. We're behind enough already.  Ahm, Radagast," Rez changes topics, grinning, "how difficult would it be to reforge that 'madman's' sword, anyway?"

Paul looks down at the lute in his hand.

"In any case, we need to stop the Dreadmarch. Not just to try and prevent Pax Arcana from getting out, but also so as not to be killed.

"But... what could a bard do against an army like that?"

Dracos glances at Huitz.  "Rock out.  Duh.  Either way, yeah, them leaving people behind as well works too.  The whole setup of making sure the world is shattered for any future attempts is their style."

Dracos

Frowning, Radagast rubs his chin.  "Well, there's a single dwarf in the smithy behind the keep.  Dwarves, as a rule, don't usually participate in the battle directly.  There are problems ... whatever the dwarfs fight with their hammers become forged by the dwarves, and more dangerous.

"This one is here because I asked him to be here.  He's been helping me craft tools for a while."  Radagast frowns.  "I will admit, I had considered this posibility as well, but not put much hope in it.

"And as far as what help you can provide, master bard, I have ideas.  Your name is Durant, yes?  I will need to speak with you and Parthipan alone, we have much to determine."  Turning to everyone else, Radagast says, "Bloom, Dwarves respect royalty.  They won't assiciate with liars, though.  You may wish to merely say nothing until Shuker finishes negotiating ... if the outcome is favorable.  I shouldn't ask myself, as I'm already taxing the limits of Ekim's generosity.

"Bjorn, I suspect who ... or whatever tried to see Mirallia dead may still be on hand, so you'd best keep your eyes opened.  Now.  Is there anything else you wish to ask before I take masters Durant and Parthipan aside to discuss matters further?"

"Well, I was going to suggest the value of a good, swift 'lute to the head' to Master Durant . . . but nothing else from me, no.  Where could I find this Ekim, precisely?"

Dracos raises an eyebrow and relaxingly smiles.

Dracos

"In the halls, any servant you ask can guide you to the smithy.  If you think you can find your way, simply take the stairs to the ground floor, then use the main exit to the south," Radagast replies.

Mirallia shakes her head.  "Assasins," she murmurs, as though the thought had never occured to her before.  "It ... would explain much."  Sighing, she motions Bjorn to follow, and heads for the door of the room.

"Oh. WAIT."

Rez pauses.

"I just remembered that I have no idea how much money and gems are worth in this world - and is that what Ekim's likely to ask for?"

"Gems?" Radagast muses.  "Well, a dwarf isn't likely to care much for money, since he can make more valulable things on his own.  They do love gems, but the ones they find beneath the ground will rival anything you can come up with ... unless it's from the sea.  Gems from the sea of any size fascinate them."

"That I can do. Thank you." Rez nods to Radagast and, if nobody else says anything, starts heading for the stairs.

Dracos nods.  "I think I shall join Nathan.  Thank you for your help, Radagast."

Dracos follows Nathan out if no one stops him.

Dracos

Paul stays seated, waiting for what Radagast has to say.

Rez thusly heads down the stairs and looks for the southern entrance, in an attempt to find the smithy.

If he -really- gets lost, he'll ask someone, but real men don't need directions.

"So, what did you want to talk to me and Paul about?"  Thinking over something, he adds, "Actually, before we go to that, who replaced Phil as the head of the storm-riders and is that person already here?"

On the Outside comes to an end, and we now diverge into:

Paul: Secret Game (http://pishoque.net/phpBB2/viewtopic.php?p=33109) (Noir OST)

Bjorn: Stay (http://pishoque.net/phpBB2/viewtopic.php?p=33107) (Oingo Boingo)

Nathan: To Far Away Times (http://pishoque.net/phpBB2/viewtopic.php?p=33108) (CT OST)

Parthipan and Phil will most probably wander between threads, but currently Phil is in To Far Away Times, and Parthipan is in Secret Game.