#location.haven

[hiddenvaldis]

who? @lunadarkwoodx where? Haven When? After the Gladiator Match

Her conversation with Aurea still echoes in her head, so Valdís takes the time to visit Haven when she first anchors into Marinus Bay for supplies. She has been asked by her crew to keep a low profile in Eterna and the Queenset Isles while her bounty is still hot, so she does just so, a cloak covering her features as she meanders around the wolf town. Last time she hadn’t had the time to observe things carefully, so she takes her time observing the houses dotting the town and wonders what it would be like to have grown in such a place. Valdís is deep in her musings when her eyes fall in a familiar individual, and a grin crosses her lips. 

“Now, that is a beautiful face that I would never forget,” she comments as she falls into pace next to the woman from the gladiator’s match. “What brings you to Haven?”

[engineerzuleima]

who? open where? haven's wall when? the road so far plot drop

Haven’s Wall stands tall at the strigoi’s back as she eyes the distant shimmering dome with narrowed eyes. Anyone passing by will have noticed the thin layer of snow sitting at her shoulders, demonstrating that she has been standing in the same spot for hours at a time without moving and they would wonder why. The truth is simple: she had sent some of her conjurations to trail the borders of the magic dome to try and understand its circumference. Word had already spread about how the magic covered the entirety of Iskaldrik, and the more word spread, the more curious she became. Iskaldrik is in no way round, and yet the dome always seemed to be just that: a dome. The curiosity needed to be satisfied, and if she finds anything of help, the better. 

And so, she waits for the shadowy grims to return from their scouting, considering the magic before her thoughtfully. Zuleima has never come across anything like it on her long life, and part of her wants to know the mechanics and whether it can be replicated to protect Lysara. A bigger part of her, though, worries about the implications of unknown magic in the hands of the Aethereon empire. 

“You know I can hear you when you move, right?” She asks the watcher. “Don’t you have better things to do than to creep on a random strigoi?”

[blightedmikhael]

who? @ormir where? Haven when? During the weeks that the refugees were being monitored

It had only taken him a few days in Lysara for Mikhael to have the bright and startling realization that he had fucked up by getting to know the old man at the bonfire and after. The conversation had been a respite during the arduous journey, and he had enjoyed it enough to seek him out through the journey, but nothing had grown beyond a few amicable conversations. As fellow warriors, keeping the conversation going without delving too much into the despair surrounding them had been bolstering, so he had not made efforts to keep a distance from the Iskaran. Now that they were in Lysara and he had seen the human next to the Princess and who he assumed to be the Prince — and yes, Mikhael will be ignoring the fact that the Iskaran Prince is a Changeling until his dying days to avoid that specific brand of drama — greeting the Lysaran officials, he is regretting his choice. He already found himself drawn to Aytaç, he didn’t mean to involve himself any further with the same group that would have killed him if they had known of his status as a cambion. 

It’s hard to avoid someone when they are both stuck in the same area, though, so he isn’t surprised when he runs into the nobleman a few weeks after the realization of his possible status.

“This trip made for strange bedfellows, didn’t it?” He asks as he greets the man with a nod, having decided not to act too differently in hopes to avoid him from looking into him. “And yet, here I am, still not knowing your name. My apologies.”

[theportaraceli]

The sun is beating down on them, but Haven is less warm than she had expected and for that she is grateful. There is likely going to be a lot of moving around, and the cooler temperatures will be helpful there. They also make it less likely that any of the refugees will succumb to heat exhaustion or anything of the like, which means that the healers can focus on those who truly need the help. Overall, the weather is a blessing, and she is glad for it as she joins Aurea as they head for the fairgrounds. “That is good to hear, I had feared things would be tense with the Iskarans and that they would refuse our help.”w

Araceli showing up means something, another person whose hands she appreciated. When she had a moment alone, Aurea was going to take time to have a good cry to deal with the overwhelming support. Looking up at the sky, Aurea figured it was midday which meant shifts would be changing for a lot of the wolves. "We can bring more blankets to the fairgrounds." Nodding and turning for the merchant's daughter to follow after her, she allows herself a huff of a breath, a second to catch her bearings. "There's been no moment's peace all day, but everything's gone smoothly for the most part."

[hiddenvaldis]

“Not everyone who knows how to break knows how to fix what they broke,” Valdís points out, eyes flickering out the nearest window and towards the distance, where they can still see the shimmering barrier raised by the Aetheron. If they are not an example of people who broke something important without knowing how to fix it, she doesn’t know who is. “But alright,” she acquiesces as she taps one of the gold pieces thoughtfully and glances around the room, considering what information to give away while keeping some of her cards hidden on her sleeve. “You need to alternate your guard’s routes.They are too easy to predict after some observation. Make them more random and switch them often.”

"And that is exactly why you'd be good at it." She points out as she picks up the tankard of ale set down before her and takes a hearty swig. Somehow she thinks Elokian is less likely to get caught up in something bad enough that he can't get out of it than Valdis, he is a safer choice. But the other captain was not without her own merit and to make her at least an acquaintance kept her from outright being an enemy. Fishing a few gold pieces from her pockets, she slides them across the bar to the pirate. "If you were to infiltrate Haven, how would you do it?"

[engineerzuleima]

The look she gives to the former heir can only be succinctly summarized into a question by those who have known her for long enough to know her character. And why would I care to decipher your sarcasm? Blunt and decisive, Zuleima’s only use of sarcasm was in the rare few occasions when she used it. That, and it’s brethren such as doublespeak and the like, had no part in the Engineer’s life. Despite her long stay in Eterna and her role as a Master of Artillery, the strigoi is not an apt player of the Game, far from it, and she is all the more happy for it. She has no time for the nonsense and frivolities of court, when she has work to do with her own hands and plans to submit. 

“I don’t deny that, but to allow myself to be stopped by a legend is to open myself to failure,” she states firmly. Like all her kind, she has heard the whispers in the night, but she stubbornly clings to the notion that her soul is not forfeit for the choice she had made to survive, if nothing else to keep her sanity. Abyss, she didn’t even know her sireline, so she felt far removed from the mythicism of it all. 

Casimir’s statement takes her by surprise, and she blinks twice before tilting her head. 

“Why in Taravell would Queen Noctis? It’s not like she paid any particular attention to me before.”

"I was being sarcastic," deadpanned before his lips tug into a smile, the glint of canines present from such amusement. Zuleima was an unfortunate reminder of Veilcrest, what it so often did to any soul who dared wander there; he'd never deny her talents and the craft she had for artillery, yet in the same breath those were such things that did little to pique his interest. It was any wonder they diverged so heavily despite both side stepping Valerius' petulant and failed war upon Eterna. Perhaps it stemmed from the mere fact she was older than he, Casimir often couldn't stand that.

"And legends often hold over anything else, Zuleima," it felt strange to explain that to one of her caliber, someone older; but he'd been at the brunt of many Lysaran's stares and fears ever since he'd been exiled from Veilcrest, it was a difficult thing to erase. A test of such murky waters between them, a Child and a Follower, his head cocks to the side and he states simply, "My mother would be proud of your creations, wouldn't you say?" It's a mockery, perhaps of his mother, perhaps of Zuleima's tether to Eterna's Queen, but the Engineer had carved a pretty path for herself and Casimir had done his best to witness what she and Agron accomplished from within.

[engineerzuleima]

“Kindness has nothing to do with it,” she drawls, a simple shrug underlining her point. As much as she would like to believe herself to be kind, she knows her actions are far from demonstrating that point. A lifetime of struggling to survive doesn’t disappear in the blink of an eye, and she had to grow calluses in order to survive Veilcrest intact. Survival was paramount, and while she does attempt to reach out to relieve others from their burdens, she knows her personality well enough to know it leaves too much to be desired. Regardless, she is old and settled into her patterns. If people are more comfortable misinterpreting her behavior, all the better for her, she has better things to do than to waste her time trying to explain herself. 

“Resistance it’s futile to superior intellect,” Zuleima says pointedly, almost huffily, as her arms come up to cross as she eyes the former prince imperiously. If there is one thing she will adamantly stick to is her superior intellect and the achievements she has amassed through them. Casimir is not wrong about the general discontent against the children of the Night, but her resume is long enough for people to get their head out of their asses in that matter. “Most of the information they have on strigoi and dhampirs are based on idiotic urban legends anyway.”

"You were always kind that way," patterns arose both in the Children and the Followers, those birthed from darkness and those constructed from it; a certain tenacity was necessary to survive. Even if they'd been cast away or walked from such Fate, they once had the necessary blueprint that fed the unyielding designs of the Dark One, of Lusacan. Wherever that dragon lay slumbering, Casimir only hoped he continued to rot; a strange thing considering he carried around his encrusted cloak as though it was a symbolic piece of nostalgia and not something looked onto with aggrieved remembrance.

"Less resistance?" Snickered plainly, this revolved back to his former comment of her kindness, "Eterna is progressive, but people will always resist a creature of the Night." Casimir carried his past wherever he went, wielded it as such and molded it into his own design. The Dark One's whispers would never fade but neither would his mother's whispers come to fruition; he wasn't sure which truth was more chilling.

[hiddenvaldis]

“Not yet, Your Highness, but I can read the current and see where it would lead,” Valdís responds, matching her tone with a smirk. There is a need to wait and see what Aurea was offering. As interesting as it could be, if the Alpha has a deal with Elokian as well? Well, she is not sure if that will end well for either of them, to encroach in each other’s territory. And she isn’t looking for a fight, for now. “And my opinion it’s that it’s odd you are asking someone more used to breaking security than keeping it.”

"Have I asked you to make a deal with me, Raider?" It's playful as she rests both elbows on the bar, crosses her legs at the ankle. "I asked you your opinion on security detail." As far as Aurea is concerned, she's got Elokian in her back pocket but he's more of a thought in the back of her head. What she'd ask of him wouldn't be something she'd ask of Valdis. Pirates they both might be, but the two captain's were both very different.

[hiddenvaldis]

A disinterested wave dismisses Luna’s worries about the wanted posters. Valdís has already put enough thought into the matter and has found nothing to concern herself too overtly much. The posters are only to be found on Queenset Isles, the lady’s influence not enough to deem a prospective wig snatcher any more dangerous. There is no hint, no clue of Valdís true origins anywhere on the wanted posters, no mentions of her armada or her title. By the Abyss, even the bounty is relatively low in comparison to many others. To imply that those will have a lasting damage is a hilarious thought, but not one that worries her overtly so. By the end of Neptunalia, she is sure it will all be forgotten.

“All over one town of hundreds, blondie,” she points out with a shrug. “You are thinking small, and putting too much weight on a small bounty. A truly overwhelming reward would be dangerous, but what is offered is not enough to put me in any true danger.”

Shrugging, her gaze dances away and she hums thoughtfully when she sees someone she recognizes amidst the crowds.

“With that said, I did come here with a specific task, so I will go ahead,” she says with one last cheeky wave before slipping into the crowd. “Good day, Luna.”

END.

A wry smile crosses her lips as she had certainly not prepared herself mentally for what the gladiator fights held, and the irony in that provides amusement. She had gone in having barely left the woods most her life and tried things that she had never experienced before, she did a swimming competition having never seen the sea and swam beyond the small pond in the Ironwood Forest, south past the knobled elder tree.

Things changed and the joke melted away when an innocent animal was in danger.

She was never good with people, hadn't spent much time with them and she found it hard to connect. People were a lot more dangerous and hard to predict. Animals kept her company since she was small till she was tall enough to touch the low hanging branches in the Ironwood Forest. It was why the band of thieves and the unicorn pelt haunted her still, a skipping record in her head for the sins that humanity were capable of for survival. "Your face is on wanted posters all over town, I would master your wig snatching solution before you see her again." It was bound to happen.

[engineerzuleima]

It would be so very easy to dispatch with the life of the man before her, a quick draw of her gun, a shot to the neck, and the entire matter would be over and done with. Alas, despite her growing annoyance at the beastly creature, it would draw far too much attention. And perhaps, it would be an overreaction to go as far. Her time in Eterna had done far more to soften her to the violence she had been so used to exerting in order of keeping her position than anything else, but even then, she cannot bring herself to begrudge that. It’s rather pleasant, to know that she had the leniency to learn some softness. 

Lips pressed together, she holds back her growing irritation enough not to bare her teeth, but not enough to roll her eyes at the idiot. “I hardly disagree, yet you were the one that interrupted my musings, not the other way around,” she drawls, taking a measure breath she does not need to gain a measure of patience, only to be hit with the stench of werewolf and something else. Wonderful. “I believe there are plenty of other spots to watch the phenomenon from. Unless you are about to attempt to best it, then do go ahead, I would love to watch.”

There was always amusement, when little specks puffed themselves up into something beyond what they were. She were no bigger, no grander than the foliage he crushed under his boot. Though he considered doing just that, crushing her under his boot, the vuldak held back any twitch that may betray any form of careful consideration. Strigoi had their sires, their progenies, and Dáinn had his reservations of remaining well within the shadow of secrecy. Besides, how would that fare for business, his taking on a potential line of these undead creatures. Well, the lesser version of it.

"Do you know what they say of those quick to anger?" The question was laid, and though he could have provided her with an answer, he offered only a wolfish laugh. There would be no answer for her, for he would find amusement in such a thing. "No one said anything about what you may have to hold one's interest. Though, whatever it may be, certainly pales in comparison to a magical dome," because who would care for a strigoi, or even a vuldak in regalia, when such a thing had manifested seemingly out of thin air. His gaze focused upon it, the curiosity of what would happen if he touched it -- if he tried to push his way through it, spun within his mind. Perhaps he could shove the little speck through it.

[engineerzuleima]

“Until they prove me otherwise, why shouldn’t I?” Hoping for more than was given is beyond Zuleima’s limitations, firmly stuck in reality as she is. Hers is a life that did not allow for vain hopes to manifest, where belief had to be born from proof and not faith. Results and theories are proof of competency, and few other things will change her opinion. Effort is one of them, as it is the source of all her knowledge, but there are a rare few that expend the effort into learning something when they don’t believe themselves to have the talent. 

“Sometimes the path of less resistance is the one to go,” Zuleima admits with a huff of amusement, stretching her back and smiling in satisfaction at the sounds of the cracks. It’s truly amusing that even after death, there are some bodily functions shared between the living and the gone. “Our past are our blueprints, and letting them be forgotten means that we forget what weaknesses to cover and what strengths to bolster. A grievous mistake if what you seek is survival."

Subtly was not found on any dhampir; they cried ichorous tears, their eyes glowed a potent red, but Casimir still adhered to subtle changes as though a vampire heir could blend into the background of this world. Where once he emulated the true fashion of Veilcrest, pressed silks, obsidians and shades of red, scattered with the gold encrusted vision of Lusacan, Casimir now adorned himself in muted colors. Whites and grays, subtle changes that lent to the pivotal change of pace within his life. "You dare think so little of those around you?" Teasing jest considering her dedication to Queen Mordecai and her people.

"It is not so easy to change clothes and silently pray everything else that tells of who you are will merely fade away." She was once some lowly urchin picked up from the treacherous streets of Veilcrest. Casimir did not scrutinize her ascent, nor her departure, rather he related to the fact that most would always raise a hesitant brow when they entered a room.

[blightedmikhael]

More than anything, Mikhael wants to give the Huscarl a look of incredulity, but he keeps it at bay, merely raising a brow at how emphatic he is on his dislike of the wolves. Not entirely unusual, among Iskaran, but altogether too brash for someone of his position to admit so very openly and near ears that could likely hear them with their enhanced senses and so on. They had been friendly, yes, but he didn’t think they had been that friendly. Ormir clearly has something against the werewolves, and while Mikhael understands, he finds it funny the other wouldn’t assume that there are protections set in place to protect the non-lycan residents of Haven from the wolves during full moon. Even as an Ankhurian, Mikhael has confidence in the Haven Emissaries, for the town would have long collapsed if they weren’t at the very least competent.

“And that is your prerogative,” he says simply, rather than pointing out their rather different perspectives. Again, they are friendly but not friendly enough to speak in candor of the supernatural. Not when Ormir is an Iskaran noble, and Mikhael is a cursed cambion. Whatever trust was building between them will remain as it is, but he does not foresee it growing anytime soon, unless the Huscarl gets a reality check on his prejudices. 

Still, maintaining friendly relations with a Huscarl while in Lysaran soil would be more beneficial than not. At the very least, the other can’t order to take him to the mines while in the land of witches. 

“It’s also partly my fault for not recognizing you,” Mikhael waves the apology with a lopsided smile, deciding to not make more of the revelation than he already has. The lines had been drawn in the sand, but that doesn’t mean he can’t keep things cordial. Especially when he also has to admit that their conversations were a respite amongst all the suffering. “I, too, have enjoyed our conversations and would hate to end things with a sour note.”

Lowering his hand, he considers Ormir’s question, a barely perceptible shrug following. 

“I am not quite sure,” he admits slowly, thoughtfully. “Maferath calls, but so does my desire to follow the One God’s tenets regarding charity. As it is, I believe I might stay around and get some work,” he continues before his eyes looking at the Huscarl in deep thought. “I would try to ask the same, but I would hate to overstep, as I am sure your plans need some level of secrecy.”

“Not bad,” Ormir parroted, letting his hollow laughter trail off into silence. By a similar metric, a forest fire chewing its way over the horizon was ‘not bad.’ Hearing the first hacking cough in a crowded and ill-kempt camp was ‘not bad.’ A wolf’s howl carried in the deep wood was ‘not bad.’ As long as the real threat loomed at a measurable distance, it wasn’t bad. Not yet. “So long as we don’t overstay our welcome. I intend to be far, far down the road before the moon swells over this place.” Ormir sensed new tension in the air, closer than the wolves that circled them. Lysara’s Queen installed her trust in a she-wolf stalking the edge of the wood, yet thought of the Iskarans as being savage and changeable.

The tension lifted as Ormir watched fear snap into Mikhael’s face, and he knew in a moment that there would be no slinking back behind the curtain. The diplomat’s stomach dropped. As covetously as Ormir maintained his power, sought to be defined by it; to play soldier again had been a pleasant charade. It had been many years since he was allowed to construct a first impression without title preceding him, and he’d savored the other’s company, with or without pretense of shared rank. “I ask you to forgive the pageantry on my part. I didn’t mean to trick you.” Ormir warmed his voice, sinking his shoulders disarmingly. “Only, it’s a rarity to share a decent fucking conversation when everyone’s already made up their mind about you, and I’ve quite enjoyed ours.” He said, not tasting the hypocrisy staining his teeth.

Mikhael’s grip was firm, hardened; A warrior or laborer’s hand. It was a small concession given by the Guildsman, but a reassuring one. It was hard to fake the grip of a man whose life depended on it. Ormir could get no further read on him through the leather. “A strong name.” He said, with a smile bending indecipherably at the edges. The Ankhurian echoed of a time long ago, of memories bathed in the golden light of glory, fulfillment and singular purpose. How he wished for such conviction now.

“Once we reach Eterna, where will you go?” The Iskaran asked, a spark of wonder lilting his voice. For a moment, the King’s grizzled Hand looked as the child who consumed the world through the stories of traders and hunters who passed through the northern woods, bartering for glimpses of the world beyond. “Does Mafareth still call to you?”

[hiddenvaldis]

For all they had worked together in that amusingly messy gladiator’s match, Valdís barely considered the thought of tempting the wolf into her crew. Their approach to the entire thing shows a perspective of the world that is far too different to mesh, and Valdís doesn’t quite want to bother with convincing the other to see her side of things. By the Abyss, the werewolf seems like the sort that would talk about trust and kindness of all things. 

As if trust or kindness could feed you.

“Next time I will make sure to prepare myself physically and mentally for the endeavor,” she drawls, a snort following easily as she raises a hand to her lips and taps in consideration. For a moment, she allows herself to indulge in the childishness of the conversation, the amusement sitting on her chest as she speaks. “Should I acquire some glue solvent as well? Maybe if I throw it on the hag’s head before I pull it will be easier. But that would probably ruin the wig, wouldn’t it? Alas, there are no easy solutions for wig snatching in the modern era, huh?”

Luna hasn't forgotten how the pirate served their motivations first, they weren't completely aligned with the werewolf and her desire to see no harm befall the creature that was held captive by imprisonment of it's unhatched children, she felt alone within the Gladiator ring even as the tides had changed at the last moment. They had started off with the same information provided by the guard of the locker room and yet it had been Luna's voice that was raised for a non-violent approach, it seemed the pirate was just willing to go wherever the cards fell.

Still, she had no desire to make enemies of those that had served as allies in the end. She had made enough enemies already to satisfy her, each rejection because of where she hailed from felt like a wound as if she was an exposed nerve from all the loss she had sustained. "It's a good thing to remember next time you try to snatch wigs, gotta yank that bitch with all the fight you have inside you."

[engineerzuleima]

“You are the one creeping like an overexcited dog,” she drawls, not bothering to turn as she feels the presence approach. Whatever overconfident mercenary had decided to stumble like an oversized elephant mucking about Haven, it was none of her business unless Queen Aurea asked for help getting rid of the pest. If she is lucky, he will take a hint and leave her alone, because truly, she has little interest or patience for idiocy on the best days, and it is currently not one of those. 

Unfortunately, he ends up crossing her view and Zuleima lets out a long aggravated sigh. Closing her eyes to gather whatever patience she has, she opens them and stares at the much taller man blankly. The Legionnaire regalia holds some interest, at the very least, but she has met plenty of those by now, so there is no awe to follow the reluctant and grudging respect at the others' choice. 

“There are plenty of reasons for me to hold a passerby’s interest, but if you are too stupid to know them, why should I tell you about them?”

Curiosity did not simply favor the cat as a darkened gaze fixed itself to the dome that stretched for miles. How far did it go? How much land did it encompass? Would it expand? The thoughts slipped across his mind as he stood within the dark shadows of the trees, seemingly out of sight and seemingly out of mind. Those trapped within mattered little to the vuldak, unless one of those within happened to be his next mark. His clientele certainly wouldn't be appeased if he returned with empty stomach hands.

It seemed word of the dome had reached nearly every corner of the continent, whispered into the ears of various creatures that brought them forth. His gaze shifted from the shimmering bout of magic to the strigoi that had been stood for Gods knows how long. Another meal, perhaps. Though he doubted she would taste all that appetizing. Dead creatures often didn't. "How confident you are," he started, as he slipped now from the shadows. "That any would be focused upon you while that is right before you." A wicked grin slipped across his lips, as he moved now closer to the dome. He donned his Legionnaire regalia, another pleasant addition that earned him well enough coin in his pockets.

[blightedmikhael]

Amused surges forth despite himself, and it’s a reminder of how much he had enjoyed their talks. There is far too little he had found himself enjoying over the past few harsh months, but the human’s company had been one of them. Granted, whatever bond that had arisen from between the two of them is tentative, and subject to change with the drop of a hat. Despite their slowly building camaraderie, there is no denying that the likelihood of any deeper bond forming it is unlikely. The secret of Mikhael’s origins weighs too heavily between them for their bond to grow into true camaraderie. After all, Mikhael had already known the other was likely an Iskaran noble, and if he had gotten even a whisper of his status as a cambion, there is no doubt in Mikhael’s mind that the Iskaran would have sent the witchers to deal with him. 

It’s the sad reality of their country, that trust can only be truly built between humans. The other’s clear distaste against the members of the pack that had so kindly welcomed them into their midst despite the tensions between Lysara and Iskaldrik does nothing but further cement the fact. 

Keeping his thoughts hidden behind a bemused expression, Mikhael shrugs as his eyes wander the same way the human’s do, nodding respectfully to whichever guard he sees. He had seen Queen Aurea’s work in the first few weeks after their arrival, and while there is no denying that her predecessor had quite the dangerous reputation, the current Alpha didn’t. But of course, Iskaran’s wouldn’t care about that. 

“Considering the weight the Alpha of Haven holds within Lysara, perhaps it is not bad we were given leave to rest here,” he muses pleasantly as he turns back to look at the Iskaran, not quite disagreeing with the noble but offering just enough of a refutation to remind the other that as much as they enjoyed each others company, Mikhael was still Ankhurian and his people accepted the supernatural in a way the Iskaldrik did not. 

The Iskaran’s name hits Mikhael like a rampaging horse, and all he can do is laugh helplessly as he reaches forward and clasps the hand of the Iskaran King’s Huscarl and the Ravenfeeder. 

“I feel like I should have seen that coming,” he mutters dryly as he offers a firm handshake through his ever present gloves, keeping his expression pleasant and friendly despite his sudden urge to curse and scream at the heavens. Why the fuck does he keep running into the Iskaran royal party? “Well met, Ormir, I am Mikhael of Mafareth.” He says, introducing himself once more and feeling like he is unwillingly digging his own grave.

The drum of approaching footsteps roused Ormir from his stupor. His hand fell away from its careful grip at his temples, as if focused on holding his own skull together. The King’s signet no longer mounted his finger. At the sight of the Guildsman, Ormir’s blank face brightened by degrees. Their conversations had been rare spots of light against the gray blend of slushy, pain-addled time their escape from Iskaldrik now held in memory. There’d been few whispers circulating him that Ormir could gather, beyond his name, Mikhael, and a supposed audience he’d shared with the princess some time ago. Ormir tucked this away to ask her about, privately. In their exchanges, the Ankhurian provided fresh perspective, and from memory painted a vibrant picture of a gilded land for both of their thoughts to escape to, and he’d listened, unburdened by knowledge of Ormir’s position. It was a welcome reprieve, squeezed among so many demands and expectations on them both. The Iskaran craved that escape now, desperately.

“Generous of you to phrase it that way.” The Hand spoke quietly, his voice grating against the grain of amusement. Humor was in short supply, and his nerves bristled from the forced proximity with so many dog-stinking locals. “It wasn’t enough to have the blighted and Astorians among our troupe, now we’re forced to stall in a den of wolves.” Slate eyes skimmed the perimeter of their hold, observing the unfixed sentries pacing at a distance. Their irises held an inhuman glow against the dark, ever-watching. Ormir felt gooseflesh prickle down his arms. Not even the privy was truly private, here.

A sour sinking feeling opened in his gut at the man’s request. There was no way to bend a non-answer without inciting further suspicion, if it was suspicion that had driven him to ask. Either way, the answer would trim the wings of their fledgling friendship, and would make it brittle. “You need not apologize.” The diplomat affirmed with a saddened smile. He extended a testing hand, under guise of Iskaran custom. “Ormir.”