Seravia: Rivertown's Crossing

[Vice and Virtue]

"I -don't- see the importance of coming here..."

Vice hissed at Virtue as they stepped through the door, her lithe frame tense and collected as she scanned the crowds for glimpses of faces, postures, and actions. She'd learned long ago they could not be too careful in towns such as these. Though her pale hair was braided and bound at the back of her head, then strands of snowy white escaped to brush the sharp angular planes of her face, complementing the frigid frozen blue of her cat-like eyes. There was an aura of command about her, a vague taste of the dangerous and competent as she moved distastefully through the people--arrogance stamped on her face like royalty. The armor she wore was tailored to her long and slender frame, deceptive for the strength that resided within. Flexible and strong, the copper colored links resembled dragon's skin and covered her from ankle to shoulder, solid plates covering stomach, back and thighs. It should have been awkward and restricting, instead the metal moved like cloth on her skin, shining and rippling with each graceful step. Furs draped her shoulders, soft white and gray rabbit skins lined with something rich and buttery soft on the inside. From beneath the handcrafted cloak the hilt of her sword shone, tarnished silver braid and things harder to make out but obviously more precious. She hated having her sword bound, but Virtue had insisted. As she always insisted, when they stepped within the walls of some supposedly "civilized" place.

"I -told- you that I needed to speak with the innkeeper. He's...a dealer, of sorts, and he might know where the book I need is. Or at the least, it's possible he can get it for me."

If her sister was every inch the warrior, it was obvious Virtue was not. Though to underestimate her would be a mistaken indeed. Her hair hung loose and soft around her shoulders and face, the palest white tinged with a hint of green draping down to her hips. Vice called it a vanity for her to glamor her ivory skin and snowy hair to be tinged with the faintest trace of green.. Virtue simply called it representation. She smiled at the patrons as she moved through the crowds, her dark brown robes brushing the floor, standing out dark against the rabbit fur cape she wore--matching her sisters in color and design. Her staff was made of knotted wood, whip-thin ropes made of leather and died various colors winding up it's length, their braid intricate with beads, feathers and other decorations whose meaning was known only to her. When both sisters reached the bar, Virtue smiled at the barkeep and sat on the nearest stool, ignoring her sisters grumbling as she spoke.

"Hello sir, could my sister and I have a glass of wine? Also, if it wouldn't be too much trouble, may we speak to the owner? Tell him Vice and Virtue are here. He should recognize the names."

[Ouranos]

It has been some time....

'The only three words he had spoken in a month. William had his helmet on, faceplate up as he looked from a hill about three miles from the edge of town. He stood there, watching, not having been this close to people for four months, having been out on the hunt alone. Traitors. Spies. Brigands and bandits. He glances at the end of his spear, the edges all clean and polished, maintained properly, but he can see past the current state and see the blood deeply stained upon every edge. Yet it does not weigh upon his conscience. All were doomed when they broke the law, turned on their country, or became its enemy. When they earned his wrath.'

'He grabs his pack and squares it on his shoulders, taking spear in hand and resuming his march to town. His cloak billows in the cool wind as he enters the gates of the city, those who remember him from one of his few previous visits over the last year staying out of his way, not for fear, but out of respect. He has been a Free Lance for nearly a decade now, and this city has been his primary home the entire time, the best place to gather information, buy and trade goods and treasures, and is stretagically placed within the realms he chooses to hunt. He heads straight for the Tick Tock, entering with as little pomp and to-do as possible. The helmet comes off and gets set upon a table, the spear leaned against the wall as he sits, while a young waitress who has fancied him for the last few years she has been working here, quickly comes over to greet him. As usual, he is polite in his request to be alone, but you girl who can't be more then twenty does not seem hurt by it as she rushes off to bring him a mug of his favorite ale.'

[Moridanu]

*After a quick check of her cupboards to make sure there was nothing else she needed to add to her list, Issidora grabbed her green travelling cloak from its hook by the door, draped it over her shoulder and opened her front door. As always, the sheer brilliance of her protective magic force field that surrounded her cottage stung her eyes, and she closed them briefly while walking across the threshold. Pulling the door shut behind her, she opened her eyes and smiled to see Rosedier waiting patiently for her by a red rose bush. Trusted animal friends such as Rosedier could walk through the force field with ease, and Issidora stooped down to scratch behind the ears of the large silver wolf.

~Good morn to you, Rosie! It appears to be another fine day..~she nodded to her cloak. ~I do not know if I shall need this or not, but would you mind carrying it for me?~ The wolf smiled a toothy grin, all teeth gleaming brilliantly apart from her front largest canine which had been lost in a battle many moons ago. As the tooth had been lost protecting Issidora, both friends agreed that it should become a talisman of sorts, a good luck charm if you will, that should forever be hung from Issidora’s neck. Being as such, neither of them had been surprised to find Issidoras’ already good luck become even more prosperous since the charm had found its way to her. Issidora folded up the cloak so that it was more like a blanket and draped it over the wolf’s back. She waved her hand and muttered ~Elockie..~ and the cloak vanished from sight. The wolf grinned up at her and started moving forward. Issidora took a deep breath and followed, passing through the force field as if it was nothing more than a cool pool of water she had just dived into.

Once outside the protective warmth of the force field, both Issidora and Rosedier were immediately on their guard for any signs of danger. While she was only halfway through her long life, Issidora had learnt a lot during her time in this world, mainly due to watching her friends and family die. She remained on guard as they made their way through the forest, and as they stepped through the final trees, Issidora felt her lips curl into a snarl of distaste as the town of Rivertowns Crossing came into view. She looked down to Rosedier who naturally was looking back up at her. ~Here we go Rosie.. stay close..~ The wolf chuffed as if to say ~of course..~ she never strayed far from Issidoras sight.

Issidora moved quickly and with a quiet confidence, pausing to nod in passing to the guards as they greeted her. She knew that she was an exceptional beauty, and with that beauty came the undesired glances of admiration from the males, but Issidora had no inclination towards finding a mate. She had found him when she had barely turned ninety, and he had been taken from her less than ten years later. Although three hundred years had passed since then, she doubted she would ever let another man into her heart again. Despite this assertation however, a handsome ranger standing outside the blacksmiths caught her eye. She was surprised to find herself blushing as he called out a greeting to her, and hurried past him, ignoring Rosedier chuffing to herself in amusement.

She found the Chemist and put in her order for the medicine she needed. He assured her he would have her order by the end of the day, leaving her with more time than she liked to explore the remainder of the town. Stopping to buy some material, a few new books to read and small trinkets from local merchants, she bought a small meal of pheasant in blackberry sauce for herself and Rosedier to enjoy down by the river. As the noon sun found its place in the sky, she realised that she was thirsty and made her way to the nearest tavern – The Ticktock Tavern. It was the only tavern in town that allowed Rosedier to enter as if she were any other patron. Brennen, a young human boy that had been working in the tavern for a few months now, smiled when he saw Issidora walk in and head for her usual table in the most far corner from the bar. He hurried to collect the large silver bowl from its resting pace, filled it with water from the urn and carried it over to the table where he placed the bowl on the floor. Rosedier smiled her thanks up to him before she lay down at her mistress’ feet and began to lap up the cool water with her long pink tongue.

~Ahhh.. I thank you Brennen, as does Rosie. How is business?~ she asked looking around, relieved to see only a few other patrons here at this time of the day.

Brennen smiled and gestured around. ~Just the way you like it m’lady..~ he laughed and then lowered his voice. ~My ma wanted me to thank you for that potion you gave me last month. It has cured her of her pain in her hands and she can now continue to sew for King Jordan. We were worried that he would kill her if she was of no more use for him, but we all know how much he loves to parade around in the finest attire..~ Brennen blushed and looked around furtively to make sure that nobody had heard such blasphemy but was relieved to find nobody looking their way. Straightening up, he flashed her a grin as he asked her if she would like her usual beverage.

~Ah, I am glad that my little present was of use dear boy. Give my best to your ma wont you? And thank her for the quilt, it is such a work of art and keeps both Rosie and myself quite warm in the cooler nights.~ She smiled as Rosie leaned her big head up to rub against Issidoras leg. ~Yes, Honey Mead would be devine Brennen.. many thanks.~
Once her drink had been delivered, Issidora chose one of her new books to peruse as she sipped from her drink. Although to anybody glancing their way, they would simply appear to be a woman engrossed in a good book with a wolf sleeping at her feet, both Issidora and Rosedier were alert for any danger and had one eye permanently fixed on all of the patrons of the Tick Tock Tavern. *

[Ouranos]

'He hates the king. He always has been waiting for such an oppurtunity. His loyalty was to the Queen when he was a young man, and he has not returned to his masters at the capital since her death. He stands at this news though, helmet under his left arm and greatspear held tightly in his right. His heavy armor and metal greaves are not quiet as he approaches the door, turning his spear point down and driving it into the floor with enough force that it sticks there. He puts his helmet on and looks the lead man dead in the eyes, his faceplate not locked down yet. His voice is hard and heavy, deeper and stronger even then his frame would indicate.'

You had better produce this heir sir. Else you'll soon find yourself dangling from the end of a spear like mine. The bastard I have served my whole career may be useless garbage, but until I meet a legitimate alternative, my loyalty is with the crown. I would highly suggest you leave until such time that this heir is ready to show himself. I will forget I ever heard your proclamation, so that the spear you dangle from does not end up BEING mine....

[Catrux]

Kirik had been sitting at a table in the quaint little tavern before the little mid-day rush came in. The first person of note to come in was a man wearing the badge of Lord Grey. The man looked familiar, but the elf couldn't quite bring the name to memory. The elf didn't let his memory slip bother him much since surely the name would come up eventually, especially as he continued to drink. Shortly after the human under the employ of Lord Grey entered the tavern two silver elves walked in, the women seemed to be having a bit of a spat which brought a smile to Kirik's lips.

The rogue's hearing was well trained from his profession so he was able to catch a majority of conversations from around the tavern, especially when it was still quiet like it was. When one of the women said the innkeeper was a dealer, his ears and attention perked up. Hmm, looking for a book...they aren't being too quiet about it. What book could they be looking for. The elf made a mental note of the name of the women, perhaps he will need to find them later.

Just as the rogue was contemplating dropping closer into the conversation to see if it would spook the women, a well armored man came into the tavern. This man was very familiar, a Dragoon or Lancer whatever they wanted to be called. Kirik had seen him many times patrolling the streets which suggests he is still under the employ of the current "King."

Kirik had started playing with his golden Sun medallion that signified his worship of the God of Light. Normally this little medallion was stowed beneath his leather vest. While twirling it in his hand a White elf walked in with a wolf in tow. This woman he couldn't remember seeing before, but could quickly figure out that she was a ranger. One of the waiters quickly came over to take her order and began speeking with her as if he knew her. Straining to hear the conversation now that the tavern was filling up Kirik could only pick up bits and pieces such as her name Issadora and a name Rosie, surely that was her wolf's name.

As the human stood to leave three men blocked the enterance and delivered an announcement. Before Kirik decided how he should respond to the news the human dragoon stood and began making thinly veiled threats, saying that because he was loyal to the bloodline was the only reason he let the man live. Finally speaking and drawing attention to himself the rogue said, "Not to mention you'd have a hell of a time not incurring a bar fight, which would not only cause this establishment problems it would surely cause you problems with the King since no doubt he would want to deal with this personally. So now you are left with a choice, attempt to arrest this messenger or sit back down and cut the pompous bull shit." Kiriks voice was one that compelled people to listen, even when his tone implied that he was quite bored.

[Vice and Virtue]

"Who the hell drinks wine?"

Vice sat on the nearest stool to her sister, disgruntled and irritable with the growing press of the crowd. People kept filtering in like grains of sand through an hourglass, closing off the easy routes of getting herself and her sister out of this place. For all that cities could be fascinating, more often than not lately they seemed like death traps. Casually perched on the stool, she brought one leg up and wrapped her arms around her calve, resting her chin on the sharp point of her knee as nimble hands slid a blade from the soft leather cuff of her boot. The vast majority of people seemed like average tavern patrons--the waitresses, the barkeeper, the afternoon drinks and the scattered few here for lunch. But like a hawk her frigid eyes sifted through the crowd to those tell-tale few that stood out like beacons, the rogue who eavesdropped in the corner with no little skill, that simple fact teasing a respectful smirk from the corner of her mouth, the lancer who moved through the room like a lumbering but formidable mountain, the ranger who moved through the room without a care in the world save for her animals, and the man who seemed all to familiar with this place. Idlely she toyed with the blade; carved her initials covertly in the edge of the stool, picked at the soft leather of her boots, fidgeted while Virtue did whatever it was she deemed so damn important--and ignored the pale yellow glass of wine set out for her and her sister's lecture too.

"Lots of people drink wine! In small doses it's healthy for you, thins and cleans the blood. You can't spend all you time drinking hard liquors and sneering at equally pleasant drinks. What Esphera think?"

Virtue scowled at Vice, knowing her sister had drifted off to watch and weigh the tavern at her own leisure. She could lecture until the Goddess descended to take them all home and Vice wouldn't so much bat an eyelash. Scowling at her sister, she pushed her pale hair back in frustration and reached for her own glass, keen eyes watching behind the bar for signals--signals the owner was coming, or signals that might hint at the need to leave. And leave quickly. It was then that the herald stepped through the door, the clearly officious man drawing attention to himself even before he spoke. She felt Vice go still beside her--like the calm before the storm, and reached out to lay a slender calming hand on her sister's rigid shoulder, willing her to stay put. Virtue however studied the herald as he spoke, her serene expression growing darker and darker as the man continued, darker still as the Lancer spoke in haste, and finally distrustful as her attention settled briefly on the rogue, unaware of how her sister grinned mischievously at him. Muttering beneath her breath about self-righteous idiots with pretentious hard-headed plans. She stepped into the crowd and nodded graciously to an evidently level-headed rogue. How ironic. While the people milled and gossiped she carefully made her way to the herald, willing herself invisible enough that most everyone's eyes passed her over--unnoticeable. Gently she reached out to touch his shoulder, her sibilant hiss quiet and melodic, but no less fierce or full of irritated scorn and for his ears only.

"Don't you think, perhaps, it is dangerous to announce someone's intentions to usurp the current king in that king's own town, especially when he hasn't exactly cultivated a reputation of generosity or forgiveness? I think it's time you left. And quickly."

Vice watched her sister move through the crowd with a face that was both alert and watchful, as well as disinterested. She wasn't too sure why Virtue felt the need to warn the man, but so be it. The Goddess did have a soft spot for idiots and fools... She let her attention carefully scan the crowd, weighing and judging the mounting mood and sense of unease and restlessness. Was his announcement well-met? Not particularly. Not when the king's cruelty was so fresh in everyone's mind. Hate him as they might, fear was a stronger force. Deceptively loose-limbed and at ease, she left her stool to head for the door, pausing to grin and salute the rogue cockily whether he saw it or not. The knife she'd held moments ago seemed to be gone, save for anyone who might've noticed---and they would've been hard pressed to notice--the hilt that rested in her hand, or the blade that followed the slender line of her forearm. Catching her sister at the door she simply lifted her brows in question, not needing to let Virtue know how quickly they should get out of here.

[Deleted]

It was a rare sight for an emancipated merchant's wagon to roll into town, but a most welcome one in these trying times. The silver-haired young man who sat up front gave an appreciative farewell wave to his escort and pushed on into the city, while the red-haired young girl by his side looked back with a cocky smirk. The escort waved back at the pair, and turned his horse in another direction. The silver-clad warrior patted his black steed on the neck and headed down the next street toward the only place he was most familiar with. His highly polished silver armor gleamed in the sunlight, and while it was clearly made by master craftsman -- possibly dwarves -- it bore no markings or decorations common to most knightly armor. In fact, it was quite featureless, and some would even say otherworldly. The helmet was fashioned like a black hood, with an equally black and also featureless faceplate. A black cloth cape started at the base of his neck, met the shoulders, and flowed down over the rump of his horse. It was roughly tucked under the large pack he carried on his back, a bedroll tied to the top of it. Strapped to the saddle horizontally was his trusty halberd, tucked under his leg and his shield -- which bore the same blue symbol of a dragon akin to the one he wore around his neck. On the other side of the horse, a large spiked mace hung tightly with its chain wrapped in a loop. The only weapon he carried was the sword strapped to his back under his cape and backpack.

Seeing the familiar clock on the front lawn, Tom smirked to himself and dismounted with a practiced and ceremonious thud. Leading his prized mare to the stables, he tipped the stable boy and handed him his pack before heading to the front door of the tavern. He almost wholly expected to walk in on a jovial scene with happy patrons imbibing in various alcoholic beverages, even at this early hour of the afternoon. There was a time in the 'good old days' when such scenes were the most common, when everyone was happy and farmers could take an afternoon off from the fields to mingle with the middle-class nobles who were finished with their own work. Tom could remember meeting some of his best friends at this tavern, though some had long passed on or disappeared.

The scene before him through the door, though, was quite contrasting. He looked down at the two elven women about to run into his broad chest plate, and took a step back to clear the door. "My apologies, ladies!" He held the door open as he continued to survey the awkward scene in front of him.

Standing with their backs to him were a couple of burly knights with a third bearing some sort of proclamation. He always wondered who wrote those ridiculously long and tedious parchments. Clearly, whatever the proclamation was, it had ruffled some feathers and even pissed some people off, as evidenced by the spear in the floor and the sword in Jon's hand. Tom leaned sideways around the burly men and waved vaguely at Jon, remembering him a bit from the days fighting beside Leif Starfire. At this point, though, he didn't say anything.

Another look at the tavern patrons and he sighed inwardly. There was a tall lancer, taller than him, clearly about to rip off the proclaimer's head. This lancer was so tall, in fact, Tom was quite certain he'd already been dubbed 'a mountain of armor.' He used to be called a 'mountain of armor' himself, once. He was disappointed -- he'd need to have a new nickname given to him. It would probably suck, too.

He was getting a bit anxious for a drink now, and took off his helmet, using his body to hold open the door for Vice and Virtue if they still wished to leave. He shook out his long, black hair, and tucked the helmet under his arm. His face was handsome, and not the typical scar-fest or muscle competition of most knights. His chin was square, but not broad like a barbarian. He had a thin, pointed nose, and green eyes set behind a pair of spectacles. That's right, a lancer who wore glasses. And not the silly little magnifiers gnomes wore, either -- these were designed for humans, and set in gold frames with a square cut instead of circles. Despite the brightly polished armor and broad body, this was clearly a man of wealth and power, and not some vagabond or knight errant to be trifled with. But he was also a thirsty man, and right now the three armored goofballs were between him and the house ale.

((Sorry for the length, had to catch up!))

[Ouranos]

'William turns his helmeted head to the rogue, his eyes narrowing and his expression growing darker. But he does not go for his spear, does not make any threatening moves... yet. He simply speaks up, adding volume enough to his voice for the rogue, and of course everyone else, to hear.'

Actually you cur I was hoping NOT to have to arrest these men. My loyalty lies with the crown, that is true. But without another true heir proven to exist that crown rests with a man whom we all despise. I will not arrest these men for being fools, for that is all they are....

'He grabs his spear and pulls it from the floorboards, turning to the herald and lowering his voice as he heads back to his table, the volume now low enough that only the elf girls would likely have heard on their way out, besides the messenger hearing of course.'

...However should you prove correct in having a trueborn heir of noble heart my spear, is his....

'With that he heads back for his table, resuming his earlier posture of rest, placing his helmet back on the table and resting his spear against the table's side, upright and pommel end down this time. He dislikes putting marks in the floor, but has found it useful on some occasions as a show of force to deter bloodshed.'

[Ouranos]

'William had barely time to sit before the fighting erupted. And while he normally would care little except for himself as city security was not his duty, the waitress who gets shot... the one who cared for him, the one who was beautiful and young and full of life, dead to an attack like this, murdered. He did not have love for her, nor lust, but to see justice thrown completely out the window ENRAGES him.'

'Quicker then he has moved before in view of the public, he is on his feet, helmet on and faceplate locked, spear in hand. He doesn't charge for the door, oddly enough though. With his right hand on his spear, he uses his left to lift the booth-table he was at and charged the wall nearby, leading out into the street, right where a window was settled in it. knowing that was going to be the easiest place... '

'The window shatters and the wood gives way to the great weight of the fully armored and powerfully muscled man lead by a table, it's own heft providing the shield for him from glass and splinters that may have slipped in the joints of his armor. He is a man of action, and his wrath has been a tool used by the king against his enemies for years aganst true criminals and brigans alike. And now it is being turned on these BASTARDS like a crushing wave of water. He keeps his hold on the table, using it like a tower shield as he squares himself off for a fight.'

[Deleted]

Tom listened to the herald make his claims, and calmed only a little as he was sympathetic to the cause. He had even hidden away anti-King Jordan supporters who were pursued by the crown. There was a moment of silence though, as he felt a breeze by his ear. When the two burly guards looked to him, he noticed the arrow in the herald's neck.

"Oh, fu..." that sentence remained unfinished, both out of respect for the two ladies standing near him and the barrage of arrows whisking by him now. He just barely had time to get his helmet back on before more arrows came through the doorway. It was strange, though, for him to also notice that the Jon yelling at everyone to get down was not the same man he knew -- the voice was all wrong and clearly this Jon was much younger. The family resemblance was startling.

Without so much as another word, he reached back and grabbed the door handle, and with a loud thud, slammed it shut with his back against the door facing the interior while arrows rained on the wood, tips poking through. He was firmly set against the door, and looked to the two elven women again.

"My apologies again, my ladies, but, uh, you get the idea."

Arrows poured in through the windows, and he sarcastically wished he'd brought more weapons in with him. He instinctively reached for his right thigh, only to find it bare. He'd briefly forgotten his crossbow had been destroyed a long time ago...and he had even been considering commissioning a new one in this very town today... He'd have to thank Murphy later.

He drew his sword now and braced himself against the door, ready for the troops who would surely charge in next. When he spotted the other lancer making a new doorway, though, he sighed, "Damn it, why didn't I think of that?" Tom was more about busting down doors, and not usually walls...

[Vice and Virtue]

It didn't take the two elven women quite so long to react as most of the room. The moment the first arrow pierced the herald's throat Vice and Virtue almost disappeared, their svelte frames moving through the crowds like water until they were both behind the bar, Vice's mouth curving into a vicious grin while Virtue ranted with enraged whispers.

"Did I not tell him? Did I not -tell- him? All these damn humans will get us killed and end the resistance before it even has a chance to begin."

She might've gone on, one hand on her sister's arm to restrain her, but the sound of arrows piercing patrons and the growing tide of blood scenting the air with a metallic tang broke through her anger, the mounting carnage around them leaving her heart aching. Would it ever stop? These ceaseless ending of life. She hesitated but a second, but lifted her hand from Vice's arm, giving her sister all the signal she needed. Vice didn't even acknowledge it. No sooner had her sister's hand lifted then her face and pale hair disappeared beneath a pale copper colored helm, matching the rest of the supple armor she wore. She followed the big brute out the new door he'd made, smirking in amused appreciation for his outrageous show of strength and disappeared up a stand of crates packed with vegetables, swinging herself over the edge of the roof and stretching out on her belly at it's peak. While chaos ensued around them her keen eyes picked out those telling gaps in soldier's armor--so ill-made these days, as she slipped her hand into her pocket, pulling out the keen little razored knifes she loved so. Fingering their sharp edges, she waited for Virtue's signal, impatient to end it before it had a chance to go any further. Much like Virtue she was tired of this constant battle.

While her sister scaled the roof, Virtue moved carefully within the tavern, finding the closest window out of sight of the guards and breaking a narrow pane with her staff. Working quickly, she pushed her hair back over her shoulder and dig through the small leather bag at her waist, the well-worn runes made from some strange dark wood fit perfectly in palm, hummed with energy as she crouched in the corner and closed her eyes, drawing from the earth beneath her feet what she would need. Beneath her breath she uttered old words of power, learned from her teacher and even her sister, the faintest pale glow sheathing her skin as she worked so that she seemed carved from ivory and green. Behind the soliders the wave rose like silent death, the river gathering itself not at her behest, but request, the water spirits rising to protect their town. Faces melded in and out of the water, fey and strange things that hurled wordless insults but spoke regardless. The wave held steady as it cast a thick shadow over the soldiers, held poised to wash them all into the river's clutches should they continue. From above her sister's voice rang like a clarion bell, like a shade speaking from some other realm as she was hidden entirely from sight.

"Hold your arrows and your swords and you can leave in peace. Strike another human life and the warriors that are coming for you will be the least of your worries, son's of men. Leave this town and do not return or you risk the anger of things far older than you can imagine."

[Catrux]

(OOC: joint post between Domar (Morgen) and myself (Kirik))

Morgen, the sect brother to Kirik Nightrunner, had been keeping a vigilant eye on the squabble in the tavern. He and Kirik had been there just for a drink and a meal, enjoying the bit of time they had off. However Morgen could never quite let himself relax. He entered a little before Kirik had and ordered a drink he took to the corner nearest the door. This position in the room allowed him to watch over everything happening while keeping out of most of the parton's sights. Morgan didn't sit at a table, instead leaning against the wall. Should trouble come he was ready for it and, as always, it followed in their shadows.

The herald was the start of it all. This was followed by a short spat between Kirik, a dragoon, and a odd pair of women. Morgen tightened his grip on the cane by his side, but left it up to his former teacher to handle it for the moment. *Don't pick fights if you can help it Kirik,* he thought to himself. The herald continued in his announcement of an heir, the true heir when all of a sudden the shit hit the fan. He heard the subtle twang of the bowstrings and all his training kicked in. Before the first arrow had completely pierced the herald's throat Morgen dropped the facade of an old man. Luckily his position in the room protected him from the arrow storm. As his hands started unsheathing his cane sword with one hand, letting the shaft-sheath fall to the ground, he kicked a chair up to chest height and grabbed it with his free hand. He spun around and used the force of the spin to hurl the chair into the path of the arrows with one express purpose, to keep Kirik alive.

The moment the chair left his hand he used his knee to cause the round table next to him to tip onto its side. Using a whip-cracking motion his he cleaved the table base off in one slice. His blade was one of the keenest out there and it slid through the wood like a fish sliding through water. Morgen then rolled the table top, with all his might, on its side towards so that it would pass in front of the open doorway. He knew there was a chance something could get in its way, screwing up Morgen’s plan. However he was sure it would all work out. So sure, in fact, that he didn’t even watch what happened after he set the table rolling. Morgen turned around to head out the hole in the wall created by the Dragoon, but not before picking up the shaft-sheath of his cane. He could hear the sound of feet behind him and shortly after he rounded the corner of the new entrance he heard the owner of those feet head to the top of the tavern. In moments the battle would commence and Morgan was ready for anything.

A laugh escaped the Silver Elf's lips as he tipped his head back causing his hair to reveal the man's handsome face. He was just about to let the Dragoon know he had insulted a priest of the Light, when he noticed the arrow hitting the Herald. Kirik threw the mug he had been holding toward the source of the barrage as he rocketed out of his chair. The mug served its purpose and caught the arrow heading toward him bringing it harmlessly to the ground. The rage Kirik felt at the slaughter of innocent people, was firmly afixed on the Silver Elf's features as he continued his warpath toward the door.

Just as Kirik was drawing his throwing daggers, leaving himself dangerously exposed a chair came acoss his path intercepting the arrows he was about to attempt to dodge. Once the chair had vacated the path between him and the archers, the rogue returned fire with daggers thrown with deadly force. Kirik didn't bother to check if his projectiles struck true or not, their main purpose was to cause a break in the fire long enough to launch his true assault. Nearing the door Kirik felt invigorated beyond belief by the light, it was incredibly rare that he was able to do his god's work in his god's domain.

Arrows sank deep into flesh and wood around the rogue causing him to palm a dagger in each hand. Now that he was close to exiting the tavern two of the archers trained their arrows on him. With a spin and a sweep of his hands Kirik was able to use the daggers to deflect the arrows just as tale came rolling into his path. Kirik vaulted off of the table and sank his daggers deep into the doorframe, using his momentum to flip himself so that he ould plant his feet on the outside above the dooway. The moment his feet touched the outside of the tavern he released his hold on the daggers. "Back in the service of the Light!" Kirik said quite loudly, joy was very evident in the elf's voice. Drawing two new serrated daggers while kicking off the tavern, Kirik began reciting the last rites he was supposed to give as a priest of the Light.

The rogue had launched himself at the middle archer, and if all went according to plan he would sink his daggers deep into the archer's neck, hooking them underneath the then dieing man's clavical. Kirik would flip over the man and pull the archer over himself using the man as a shield, shortly after he would reach out from under the corpse and attempt to slash the achillies tendons of the archers to the left and right of his victim before rolling out and locating his next target. This was of course the plan and Kirik knew better than probably anyone that plans don't always come to fruition.

[Moridanu]

*So pleased was she with her selection from the rare book merchant, that Issidora was soon engrossed with a particularly entertaining tale of dragons and faraway lands. It was with a heavy sigh of regret that she closed the book and fixed both eyes on the three men that had just walked into the tavern. The two on either side of the man holding the parchment were of little concern to Issidora and she focused her attention on the man who was reading from the scroll in his hands. Her lips curved down into a grimace of distaste at the mention of King Jordan, and Rosedier looked up at her mistress with an arched brow. As they both listened to the Herald however, Issidoras’ frown soon became a complacent smirk as she shot a knowing glance down to Rosedier who was grinning up at her.

Once the message of promised rebellion had been delivered, she watched from her corner of the tavern as a soldier walked quickly to the Herald and challenged him to present such a heir. ~Stupid human..~ she thought down at Rosie, who chuffed as she folded her long forearms in front of her and rested her head on her paws, her golden eyes watching the scene before them unfolding. It appeared that another Elf shared Issidora’s opinion of the human as he then spoke up and made his presence known. Issidora watched him with her pale green eyes, mentally going through her memory banks to see if this Elf was familiar to her. She came up empty however, and settled back further in her seat to watch how the human would react to his challenge to either arrest the messenger or sit back down.

The two Elven women she had been watching since their arrival then moved into action, and Issidora felt her smile widen as she watched one of them approach the Herald. She could sense their immediate affiliation with the other Elf that had just spoken up, Silver Elves did tend to stick together, no matter what the situation, and she was sure that all three of them would be abuzz at the sense of impending battle that was brewing within the small tavern. Unable to hear the words of the woman that approached the man, it appeared that she seemed to be offering some kind of warning, a feeling her sister obviously shared as she made her way quickly to the door and motioned for her sister to do the same. Their exit was blocked by a Knight who had chosen this unfortunate time to seek a drink at the Tavern. Issidora chuckled to herself as she watched this almost comical chain of events slip into motion. She watched the Knight wave to a human male she had first seen by the bar, the sight of the wave so out of place in such an atmosphere of impending bloodshed that she had to bite her lip to stop from bursting out into laughter. Rosedier, unburdened by society’s rules, chuffed to herself and rolled her golden eyes up at her mistress before turning them back to the scene before them. While she watched, Issidora absently drained the remainder of her drink while slipping her books back into her bag. Once they were hidden from view, she slowly reached down to retrieve her silver blade from inside her boot. This leg was hidden from view by the rest of her body as she sat at the table, and she tucked the blade under her thigh, the hilt facing outwards in case she needed to grab it in a hurry. Just in case. Almost without thinking about it, she began to rub her hands together, the energy crackling between her palms as she started to tap into the magical powers around her.

The human that the Knight had waved at had his hand on his sword, also preparing for the battle that was proving impossible to avoid. The air was thick with anticipation as the human that had challenged the messenger initially now seemed to be rethinking his actions. He offered the herald some words that she could not hear from her vantage point, before he retrieved his spear and returned to his earlier position. The Knight at the door took off his helmet, shaking out his hair and Issidora could not help but arch a slender brow at his spectacles. Somehow they seemed absurdly out of place on such a face that was otherwise a perfect match for the body that bestowed it, and Issidora bit her lip again to stop the giggles that threatened to spew forth. Her laughter died down in her throat however as the herald spoke again. She listened to his words, recognising them as the truth before she glanced solemnly down to Rosedier. The wolf mirrored her expression in its golden gaze as it nodded up at her. Although the Heralds message rang true for them both, it appeared the other patrons of the tavern did not share their view. Others began shouting, one threw a mug, and the human at the bar that still held his sword in his hand yelled out the messenger was a fool. Issidora shook her head sadly, her long hair shifting slightly by the sudden movement. She considered rising to say her piece when suddenly the scent of blood reached her nose. Rosedier smelt it immediately and rose quickly to stand protectively in front of her mistress as an arrow was now visible sticking from the Heralds throat. Although his guards looked to the Knight in the doorway as the source of the attack, it was clear that he was not to blame as more arrows found the guards, causing them to drop like hot stones.

Instantly, Issidora raised her hand in front of her, causing a thin but strong protective wall of magic around herself and Rosedier as arrows began raining in the tavern. Her pale green eyes widened in shock as she heard the human at the bar yell for everyone else to get down as he himself drew his sword. Such bravery was noteworthy in this time of cowardice and Issidora looked to him briefly, committing his features to memory. The human who had challenged the messenger only moments before, was now charging towards the sea of arrows with a large table as his shield, as several arrows came straight towards Issidora and Rosedier. Her magic shield caused them to merely bounce back and away from them, as she looked around frantically for Brennen. She saw the young boy trembling by the bar, his eyes wide with shock as he took in the horror before him.

~Brennen..~ she called quietly. Her voice was not loud, in fact she doubted anyone in the tavern would hear it but the boy for who it was intended. He heard her instantly of course, the fear and terror fading from his eyes as he calmly and quickly walked over to her table. As he was invited, he walked through her defence field easily as another arrow missed the back of his head by a mere inch. ~Sit..~ she told him softly, and he did as he was told, staring up at her dreamily with a soft smile on his lips. Soon, his eyelids grew heavy and his head drooped as she sent him into a pleasant dream. He was the master of the largest dragon in all the lands and now he was flying high above his kingdom, the golden sun warming his back. Watching him dream, she was surprised by the maternal protectiveness she felt towards the young boy, before a slight nudge by Rosedier brought her mind back to the situation at hand.

The Knight in the doorway had now slammed the door shut, bracing his body against it to stop any more arrows from coming through, trapping the two sisters from leaving. The two women were soon behind the bar in a move so quick, Issidora had almost missed it. The human with the table shield had made another hole through the wall, but was basically filling up the void with his large presence and equally large table. Confirming her earlier suspicions of the Silver Elves’ love for battle, Issidora watched grimly as one of the sisters, clad in a copper armour, raced after him and threw herself into the battle. The other sister moved quickly and quietly to find a nearby window. Almost instantly at the same time that her runes appeared, Issidora sensed the woman’s intentions as she felt her ever present connection with Mother Earth being tapped into by another Elf mere metres away from herself. Rosedier sensed it too and whined nervously up at her mistress. Issidora had no time to reassure her oldest friend however, as she turned her pale green eyes upon the Silver Elf, her entire body going still as her eyes widened. Throughout the chaos of the ongoing battle, Issidora doubted that anyone should look her way, but if they did they would see the green of her eyes darken until it resembled the dark green of the forest which she loved. Small thin vines of a dark green moss-like plant began to wind up her legs, climbing as they wrapped around her torso, chest and arms. She heard the woman’s words as though they were being whispered into her own ear, the words unnecessary for her own ability to tap into the higher power but a welcome companion nonetheless. She dipped her head slightly, in honour of their Mighty Mother from whom they asked for help, her fingers moving slightly as the tingle of energy they were raising together began to flow throughout her entire being. Her eyes snapped closed then, the Silver Elf fading from her sight as Issidora lost herself in her task.

Seeing that the water spirits had been raised to do the Silver Elf’s bidding, Issidora called upon the powers of the air above them. Surprised that the Elf was holding back the unleashing of the wave of death to bless the soldiers with an undeserved warning, Issidora decided to follow her direction. The clouds above quickly gathered into a dark thunderous mass, though it was not their rain that she required for her mission, merely their wind. If the soldiers did not heed the Silver Elf’s warning and she did indeed unleash the wave of death, any soldiers that survived would soon turn to statues as the wind that waited for Issidoras’s command would blow upon the water, freezing them into blocks of ice, stopping their hearts instantly. Although the growing cloud coverage was the only sign that anything magical was brewing above the town, within the tavern, the sight of the vine covered Elf was a clear indicator that the Silver Elf by the window was not the only worker of magic in the tavern today. Answering to the call, one by one, birds of all shapes and sizes flew to the Ticktock Tavern. While most circled from above, waiting for the call to attack, one lone large raven flew into the tavern through the hole in the wall the human with the table had created. He let out a long loud caw before he flew straight to Issidora’s shoulder, digging his long black talons into the vine covered flesh as his beady ebony eyes glared at everybody within the tavern. *

(Sorry for the epic length!! Had ALOT to catch up on. ))

[Ouranos]

'William roars with joy, a big grin on his face as they engage him. He's been waiting for the chance, waiting for the justifcation to do this. He's wanted this battle forever, and now it's his. He lets out a great cheer in one of the elvish languages, it's hard to decipher which because his voice does not lend itself well to the language, especially with such boistrous volume. Most elves should understand it though, a simple phrase meaning roughly "for honor". He doesn't wait for the two men charging him to come close. The one leading with his shield suddenly finds himself faced with a large projectile: the table William was using as a shield being hurled at him with great force, as well as it's own sturdy two hundred or more pounds of wood added into the calculation. The huge man is surprisingly nimble, though his plate armor certainly holds him back, it isn't enough to keep him from moving in a fight. He spins around towards the left, where the first soldier is now broken beneath a bar table, quickly dropping to one knee while his lance gains momentum and continues in full circle, low, about knee level.'

'This is where the exact nature of his spear shows true. Most lancers treat a spear as a wepaon for thrusting, stabbing, his is much, much more then that. Elegant and deadly, precision made for the purpose of ending life. The force with which it connects to the man's left knee is enough to have brought him down, but the curved blades back from the spear's head catch at that knee, and with their sharpness and the amount of force behind the blow, the cut the man's leg off cleanly at the knee. But William isn't done, he follows through, using the momentum to stand back up and spin around another half step, and with a lean and an angle, he stabs the shaft of the weapon straight through the man's helmet, crushing in the faceguard and poking a large hole in the back of it. He twists the spear hard to ensure a good, bloody death, then plants his booted foot on the man's chest and yanks.'

'He looks down at the severely injured but yet living soldier he was paired with, face down and trying to get up despite several broken ribs, destroyed armor, and other bone fractures from the crushing blow of the table. He dies in a glorious explosion of blood spatter out of his chest as the spear cuts all the way through him, past the curved blades. He, too, gets a booted foot on his body and a yank of the spear, this one far more bloody as it ribs out half of his torso, and William spins the weapon once, fast, over his head, and charges back towards the tavern. The last poor man in the line of troops entering the building was the luckiest of the lot. his death was painless as the spear tip enters the back of his neck, low just above the shoulder line, and his spinal cord is severed instantly and cleanly. He feels nothing more then a sharp pressure to his neck and then... blackness.'

(3 down)

[Deleted]

It took Tom a moment to realize he'd been taking to thin air. As abruptly as he'd run into the two elven women, they vanished while his back was turned. He caught a fleeting glimpse of someone running out the second exit created by the larger armored lancer, and started questioning everyone's sanity. You have to be pretty nuts to follow right behind a lancer into battle...

The door didn't seem to be quite closed, either. That's when he noticed the two daggers stuck in the door frame where someone had vaulted themselves right past him. The daggers kept the door slightly open, meaning he couldn't shut it and bar it. Then the damn table top someone rolled across the floor fell into him!

"Son of a bitch! Quit throwing shit at me, people!" he yelled to nobody in particular. He sheathed his sword and reached up, grabbing the two daggers in the door frame, shutting the door, and leaned the table top against it and dropping the wooden beam that usually acted as a lock for the door. However, two armed men jumped through the windows beside him, and he groaned at the futility of his efforts. He threw both daggers at the furthest man, and one buried itself in his face while the second bounced off harmlessly. Facing the door again, Tom grabbed the table top with both hands and heaved it sideways into another roll, slamming into the first armed soldier, knocking him down.

Night Warrior quickly turned and heaved himself over the bar, tumbling behind it and falling into a sitting position. While this move might seem cowardly, a quick glance around under the bar and he found what he was looking for. Just as the flames erupted on the bar top, he grabbed the bar keeper's crossbow -- typically meant to threaten unruly patrons -- from underneath and stood up. There was only one bolt, so he made sure to make good use of it. The man he'd knocked down got up and charged. With careful aim, Tom shot him down through the neck.

Dropping the crossbow now, Tom turned his attention to one of the armored soldiers charging around the bar, while most of the others seemed to be gunning for innocent and helpless bystanders. Tom grabbed a bottle of whiskey from behind the bar, and threw it at the soldier. It crashed harmlessly on the armor, but soaked him in alcohol. In a matter of seconds the solider was on fire, and began flailing in a crazed manner as he burnt to death, running through the tavern to the outside where he would fall into the river.

He lifted his faceplate for a moment, taking a breath of smoky air, and grabbed one of the mugs off the bar before the flames reached it. He took a long guzzle from the ale, and panted heavily as he threw it aside. At least he'd gotten his ale now. Taking up his sword again, he swung it back into the bottles behind the bar and soaked it in more alcohol, then lit it from the fire on the bar. With his sword blazing and adding more smoke to the already thick air, he ran to the main tavern area to fight off more of the soldiers who were attacking the patrons. He'd need to rescue some of them somehow, and get back to the stables to get his horse and equipment. Hopefully the stable boy had enough sense to get the horses out of the fire, but not lose all of them.

(3 dead)