It was as near to an average dead of night as one could imagine.  each of you is asleep, whether deeply and comfortably, or in fitful, restless tossing.  but each of you is awakened in the same manner by an unearthly glow as a magical sending penetrates your drowsy mind.  Worryingly, this invasion also bypasses any resistances or defenses you may have in place to prevent just such intrusions!

The sending itself is from an older, seemingly human male.  His robes are reminiscent of what one would expect from a courtly wizard, though they lack any obvious arcane symbols or marking of country affiliation.  He has bags under his eyes, and his voice cracked faintly, a sign of bone-tired weariness.

"Forgive me, I hope I don't alarm you, but time is short...I cannot go into details, but there are grave tidings from the kingdom of Arawndyl.  While he cannot admit it, the king pleads for aid...I have been told that only the remnants of the Silver Company can aid us...I do not know who this message will reach, but I beg of you, if you can, come to the Gilded Stag Inn in Arawdyl City in three days time...the fate of the kingdom, and possibly the world are in your hands!"

There is a sensation as the spell fades.  As if some force was trying to listen in, but moments too late...something malevolent, but unidentifiable.  Leaving you suddenly awake, with far more questions than answers, and only one way to even potentially have your curiosity satisfied.

Before the words of the strange dream apparition had finished echoing his mind, Markus found himself sitting bolt upright with a dagger in his hand. His darkened bedroom was bereft of foes, and only the steady breathing of the form beside him gave any indication that he wasn't alone.

But the aging Bounty Hunter was not about to let himself be lulled back into a false sense of security. Not with the enemies that he had made over the years. He quieted his own quickened breath and made sure that there were no physical threats creeping through his house that a sleep addled mind could falsely produce. Once he was satisfied, the big man stealthily rose from his bed and made for his wardrobe.

With quick, practiced movements he donned his rugged travel pantaloons and tunic. Riding boots, gloves, and sword belt quickly followed. Finally, the leather doublet that was the Jester's Raiment, and his signature sallet helm completed the ensemble. And for the first time in many months, he felt fully himself again. His reputation was such that he did not often have opportunity to track down those that defaulted on their loans. And no matter how much love he had for his family, in his heart of hearts, Markus was always going to be a man of action.

Moving with surprising silence for a man his size, and clad in such protective gear, the grizzled warrior moved over to his wife's side of the bed. He gently brushed his lips against the dark skin of her forehead, and for the briefest of moments a smile seemed to break through his natural scowl. The moment passed, and Markus went over to his writing desk. He scribbled a terse, but informative note. Liane was a smart woman. She would be able to read between the lines. And she had known what kind of man she was marrying when they became betrothed all those years ago. This was not the first time he had suddenly have to run off into potential danger in the middle of the night. She would understand.

Stealing out of the room, Markus traveled down the hall to peak into his girls room. Serafina was snoring just as she always did, and Catrin hugged her stuffed rabbit tightly in her slumber.

"I love you both..." he rumbled quietly into the still night air.

With that, he turned on his heel and made for the entrance. He stopped only long enough to grab the Headsman from it's place of honor above the mantle piece. He was out the door in moments. Markus saddled an mounted his horse with impressive speed and dexterity for someone preparing a horse in pitch blackness. The Bounty Hunter had mounted his favored destrier and ridden off into the blackness with the surety and swiftness of a man on a mission.

Either this was a legitimate call for help from a powerful and influential person, or a trick from some foe. Either way, he would take the job and increase the fortunes of his family, or he would mercilessly slay the potential threat, and anyone connected to them. No one posed a danger to his family and lived.

And so the Gilded Stag Inn in Arawdyl City was his destination. Where there he would either find fortune or blood. Possibly both.

  In a rough-walled chamber of a winding tunnel, several wind-breaking turns back from the entrance, Kella Stravnos sat up with what would have once been totally uncharacteristic aplomb. While the wizard's message played out, she reached one thin hand from under her pile of furs—bugbear, judging by the smell—and flicked a sizzling flame through the apparition's center of mass. It didn't even ripple.

  "Hmph," she grumbled. "Not a ghost."

  She laid back down with entirely unnecessary force and rolled over to put her back to the sending, but it just remained centered in her vision. She even screwed her eyes tightly closed. Nothing helped until the spell ended on its own, leaving her to again breathe steadily in the utter dark. It was several minutes before she sighed, a sound every bit as tired as the man's voice had been, and sat up a second time.

  "Not that kind of ghost." She waved at a pile of dry logs even further into the cave than her bedding, and ribbons of fire began to weave through the stacks. They gave off enough light to see the ring of blackened stones next to her, the pot suspended over them, and the charcoal she could have lit instead. Kella took her time standing, then even more collecting her things. A pan, some camp utensils, a worn pair of boots. The smoke rapidly filling the tiny cavern didn't seem to bother her. A heavy cloak. A spark made the leap to her pile of furs, and she stepped carefully over it on her way toward the exit.

  Almost no light reached the mouth of the cave, but the crackling of the wood was louder than her footsteps on the gravel. She paused there, long enough to give the stars a sullen glare, and began the long hike down out of the hills. A few dozen yards, though, and she turned around to kick over a rotten log. It took her some real digging through the strongbox hidden underneath before she pulled out a clinking purse. Arawdyl was more than a week's walk; three days would be a hard ride, and a horse wasn't optional. She might even have to enchant it as she went. Whatever else was in the box, she left exposed and abandoned. They had asked for a remnant. She hoped they'd be appropriately disappointed.

The sending itself was a bit unnerving.  Not frightening really; more unusual and a bit foreboding. Far more inconvenient was the sound of his door practically being shattered from its hinges. It would seem that some spellcaster among his court had sensed the breach of their wards and alerted the guards. While Hargrim couldn’t fault his men for loyal service, the deafening din, and his wife’s shocked cries could have been skipped entirely if he’d had any such choice in the matter.  Still...there had been a sending, and there were agitated, heavily-armed dwarves in his room. Despite being clad in a dressing gown, Hargrim drew himself up and tapped into the mantle of his authority as a ruler, his deep voice booming out at parade-ground volumes.  ”Hold!  Hold, gods damn you!  Remember yourselves!  I am unharmed!  Someone bring me Fingolf and Thrain...immediately!”

Hargrim was mildly satisfied to see his guards jumping into action, carrying out his orders with haste and skill.  In only a short time, his son and his chancellor were gathered in his chambers as Hargrim dressed,  he pulled on weathered traveling clothes, his tunic emblazoned with the royal coat of arms.  He clasped hands with his son, and clapped his wisened chancellor on the back as he spoke.  ”Proper explanations must wait.  I’ve been given word and dire warning of problems greater than our kingdom. Thrain...you’re not ready for the crown, my son, not even temporarily...but neither was I, and i’ve Managed not to lead us to destruction. I’m sure you’ll surpass that sad bar.  Fingolf, old friend, I can count on you to continue providing a voice of wisdom to the throne?  Good!  A king’s departure isn’t a moment of State, so spread word quietly, and see to it everyone does as they should.”  Hargrim had never worn his emotions openly, and wasn’t about to start now. His fondness spoke through his concern for others, as always.

Hargrim trod to his armory, and for a few brief moments, a grin flitted across his craggy features. He moved with decisive sureness, donning his plate, and clasping his enchanted satchel, with its variety of essential items stored within. With a sigh that mixed longing, satisfaction, and sorrow, he hefted a heavy, one-handed warhammer, his legendary Forgesmiter, the weapon that had given his clan a name millennia ago.  That bit of history carried its own set of burdens and obligations...oh yes.  Clasping his arming belt, gauntlets hanging from it, he tugged on a worn but sturdy pair of hob-nailed boots.  His journey would normally have taken 5 days on foot.  He intended to push through and do it in three.

As he set out, Hargrim almost chuckled as he fell back into old habits, muttering an old marching song to himself as he strode out into the world at large again.  King Steelsplitter would leave his kingdom with regret.  The wicked, the wild, and the untamed could tremble in fear as Hargrim Steelsplitter, Moradin’s Wrath, descended on the world once more.
This message was last edited by the player at 18:01, Fri 04 Jan 2019.

unlike many other taverns along the torch-lit street, this one wasn't particularly rowdy.  in fact, it was austere by comparison.  Sitting rapt upon chairs and benches, an array of men and women, young and old all gathered.  In one corner, on a small, raised stage, a hooded, robed, and gloved figure stood among a group of musicians.  She held a lute in her hands, and she strummed an intricate melody to complement the soft droning skirl of pipes and a doleful harp as she began to sing an old Elvish love song.  Though no one in the crowd understood the words, her voice, alternating between a frail, tremulous quaver and ringing tones, conveyed sense of love, loss, yearning, and regret that every soul there could understand.

As she sang her her accompanying band played on, two helpers walked through the crowd, collecting donations from patrons.  While she never paused in her playing, her attention seemed to shift to each patron for a split second, a brief acknowledgement of their generosity.  As her song wound to a close, she strummed out a last few mournful notes and sighed.

"Please, let me thank you all for your generosity.  From the looks of it, I have to inform you with mixed feelings, that tonight will be my final night playing at this inn."  She held her hands up, trying to forestall cries of disbelief and sadness.  "I'm flattered, really I am!  But as much as you've been an amazing audience, and one among many I'm blessed to have heard, I really must be moving on soon.  Thank you!"

Leaving the stage, she swept up[stairs to her rooms, taking the purse of donated coins from an assistant.  She counted them slowly, and with a hint of trepidation in trembling fingers bit down on one, then laughed.  She pulled down her hood, revealing the deep pink, almost reddish hue of a Tiefling woman, and giggled with girlish glee.  She whistled sharply and an assistant came in shortly.

"Get this boxed up and sent to Lord Highbairn.  If it's not on a horse within the hour, I'm taking it from your hide..."  As her assistant fled, she let herself drop backward onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling thoughtfully.  "Ten years...god...that felt like forever..."

Satari drifted off to sleep shortly after, until being awoken by the sudden sending.  After doing her best to check if it was a dream (it wasn't), and if she'd lost her mind in the last several hours (not impossible, but unlikely), she decided it must be true.  And what timing!  Giggling again with wicked glee, Satari reached for the greatsword on the floor, snapping the thin silver wire of its peacebond easily enough.  Things would be very interesting soon...but luck was on her side...after all, it was hard to get much closer to Aradwyl City than already being in Aradwyl City!

Acanthya was having a pleasant dream filled with gently rolling hills and meadows lush with vibrant grasses when the apparition formed in her bedroom. The man's voice filled her mind and for a brief moment, she thought it part of the dream. As the visitor continued his plea, her mind was grudgingly forced into wakefulness. With the edge of her blanket pulled tightly against her chin, she sat up. Blue eyes starred intently at the old man as he delivered his message and then faded back into the nothingness from which he had come.

"Well, that was different," Acanthya thought to herself as she glanced at the small table beside her bed.

Upon it set her nightly tea, grown cold with the predawn chill. She didn't remember putting anything in it beside the herbal mixture Mother Grannin had prescribed, but the night's events made her seriously question herself. Reaching out a slender hand, she dipped her finger into the cool liquid and brought the digit to her lips. Tentatively, she tasted it and almost immediately her pretty face screwed up with disgust. While the medicine woman's concoction was good for helping her get to sleep, it lacked the finer nuances of palatability.

With a resigned sigh, Acanthya threw back the covers and stood. Dressed only in a thin gown of pale silk, the dark-haired woman walked over to the room's lone window and looked out into the gloom. Her elven heritage allowed her eyes to pierce the darkness and she could see the small garden filled with early spring growth. Beyond that, and just at the very edge of her vision, the sweeping canopy of an old oak tree beckoned. She knew she had to answer the summons, but she knew she had to visit the massive tree before she could.

Small, pale feet shuffled quietly along the earthen trail that led from the cottage to the majestic oak. Any sign of greenery had long been worn away from the frequent trips to and fro, the path cleared by an incessant longing that would never be fulfilled. Acanthya paused when she reached the first intrusive root that jutted up from the ground. Stepping carefully across, she smiled as she remembered the first time she had tripped over it. That smiled quickly faded when the gnarled fastness of the tree finally stood before her.

Sinome risa amin heart ten'oio," Acanthya whispered softly as her fingers traced the prominent runes carved into the oak. "Here lies Kadrian, beloved husband of Acanthya, stalwart companion of The Silver Company, and valiant foe of all that was evil."

Unshed tears glimmered in Acanthya's eyes as she read those damning runes. It had been three years since his death and even now, the half-elf could not help but feel the pain of his loss. Sinking to her knees beneath the sheltering canopy, she leaned bodily against the tree and wept. When her sorrow had finally dissipated, she smiled weakly.

"I'm sorry to keep doing this. I know you've always told me to be strong, but it's so hard without you. You were my strength, the one whom I could always count on to stand with me against the fiercest of storms. Now, the clouds gather once more and I'm not sure if I can do it without you. I must try, however, regardless of the outcome."

Pushing herself back to her feet, she unashamedly dried her dampened eyes with the sleeve of her nightgown. Dusting off her hands and knees, she bowed her head once more, eyes closed and her lips slightly trembling.

"I just wanted you to know why I stopped coming up here for our daily talks. Hopefully, I will come back and regale you with the epic story of how The Silver Company once more thwarted the vile machinations of darkness, in whatever form it has decided to threaten us this time," Acanthya said with a sad laugh. "Regardless, know that I miss you. They say time heals all wounds, but memory is the vicious reminder that undermines time's efforts. I love you now more than ever and wherever you are, I hope you are proud of me."

Placing her hand upon the runes one last time, Acanthya turned and slowly walked back down the path. Her mind was already mulling over the apparition's words and what they could mean. Flexing her hand, she looked at it with an almost questioning cast to her lovely face. It had been many years since she had seen combat or used magic for anything more mundane than keeping her cottage clean. Hopefully, the feel of steel in her hand would dispel the domestic tranquility she had enjoyed and bring back the honed combatant that she once was.

The first light of dawn found Acanthya astride Mist, galloping down the King's Road toward Aradwyl City. A hastily erected sign giving her students some homework to accomplish while she was away was all she left to explain her absence. Armed with her trusted sword and clad in her recently polished armor, her slender form was cloaked and hooded by a grandiose garment of a deep, azure hue. A dagger and small, sturdy pack finished her adventurous ensemble. It was a three day ride from her quaint little village to the capitol and Acanthya would need those three days to become accustomed once more to the weight and responsibility of her armaments.

OOC
Sinome risa amin heart ten'oio: Here lies my heart forever.
I used an online elvish translator that I'm fond of...:-)
https://lingojam.com/TheTelQuessirOnlineTranslator
This message was last edited by the player at 16:44, Sat 05 Jan 2019.

Aradwyl City was a fairly-sized city.  Not a kingdom's capital worth hours of regaling and the stuff of legends, but as the center of a kingdom whose fortunes and value came from rich mining, forging, and timber, it was a prosperous place.  THe city was surrounded by high, thick walls, and while the guardians at the numerous gates were alert, they were also quite polite, and didn't seem inclined to hassle anyone who hadn't given them cause to be obstructive.

Despite their numbers, the areas of the city were referred to as "quarters", despite there being quite a few more than four.  A few questions of locals reveals that the Gilded Stag is not, as one might assume, in the Visitor's Quarter where a number of other inns are.  It is in the Merchant's Quarter, bordering on the Smith's Quarter.  As you approach, it's clear that tactically, if someone didn't want to be found, it's a good choice.  The streets have a faint haze of soot and smoke from the forges, and the steady ringing of anvils is constant in the background.  Being one of the prime commerce areas of the city, it is also remarkably crowded.

The Gilded Stag itself seems to cater to foreigners.  While the majority of the clientele is human, a few elves and dwarves, and one rather drunk gnome who most people seem to be ignoring say a lot for the fact that disparate types are often seen there.  The room wasn't filled to the brim, but most tables were occupied, and the bar area itself, policed by an old, overweight innkeeper with a sharp, but witty tongue.

A league or so from the city, Grim stopped and changed.  It wouldn't do to march into a foreign kingdom dressed to take on an army; especially not if he was recognized!  Things could be a bit awkward then, and he preferred to avoid a diplomatic scandal.  So Grim did his best to blend into the crowds approaching the city, just one more dwarf in travel-stained, serviceable clothes.  After asking a few folk for directions, he slowly made his way to the Gilded Stag.  Along the way, he did detour to the Smith's Quarter.  As the ruler of a neighboring kingdom, it never hurt to see what goods were worth negotiating a bit of trade.  Or what craftsmen were skilled enough to be worth luring away to more lucrative pastures.

It was a nice distraction, spending a few hours wandering from smith to smith, looking over wares, even comparing a few journeyman notes with vastly more experienced artists of their crafts.  Part of Grim was actually amused to realize he was nervous about seeing who from the Company might return.  He had a number of guesses, but given how many old friends he knew about that he'd lost, speculation was a wasted exercise.  Instead, he walked into the Gilded Stag.

After looking around for a few moments, Grim commandeered a table.  No one commented, and a few pointed looks as others he'd never seen before approached told him that he hadn't lost too much of a step over time.  He ordered an ale, and waited.  It wasn't even the 100th time he'd been the beacon, the standard-bearer for the Company, and this felt appropriate.

The feel of the wind against her face as Mist's smooth gallop ate up the miles to Aradwyl City did wonders to invigorate Acanthya's adventurous spirit. Even the simplest of tasks held an easy familiarity and by the morning of the third day, just as the city's stone walls came into view, the dark-haired beauty had once again embraced her true calling. Gone was the village teacher and the domestic trappings that had been her life for the better part of a decade. Returned was the alert, warrior mage that bards still spun epics about around the tavern hearth, once more ready to do what was necessary to provide succor to those in need.

Making her way through the throngs of people that crowded the streets, she wrinkled her nose at the plethora of smells that inundated the city. The heavy miasma of soot, sewage, sweat, and a multitude of various odors gave the half-elf a moment of pause. It had been almost ten years since she had smelled anything but crisp, country air and it was a bit overwhelming. Grasping the reins of her horse as if to steady herself, she took several deep breaths to acclimate to the city's aroma before continuing.

Finally, after many twists and turns, Acanthya found herself before the Gilded Stag. From the outside it was less than impressive, but given the nature of their summons, it appeared perfect. Dismounting, she reached up and removed the helm of her half-plate armor. Sweat-dampened locks of purest night, free from their metallic prison, cascaded down around her beautiful visage. Turning her blue eyes toward the pair of stable boys that ran out to get her horse, she smiled warmly, strapped her helmet to her saddle, and reached into a pouch at her belt. Two gold coins were held on her outstretched hand as she held up her other hand to silence the two boys.

"This is Mist, a very good friend of mine. She's tired and in need of some water, oats, and a good rubdown," Acanthya said as she handed each of the dumbfounded waifs one of the golden coins. "Now, if Mist's saddle and armor are polished by tomorrow morning, I'll give you each another gold piece. Good?"

The two stableboys nodded wordlessly and quickly led the tired mare off toward the stables. Acanthya, still smiling, reached back and pulled her trusted sword from its scabbard. Glancing at it for a moment, she concentrated briefly and it vanished. Safely hidden away in a small pocket dimension, it would return at her call. In civilized surroundings, she had always considered the ability to appear unarmed while armed a great asset. Confident all was taken care of, Acanthya wasted no more time and entered the Gilded Stag.

Once inside, the dark-haired woman allowed her gaze to sweep the inn's patrons. Her intent was twofold, first she was looking for danger and second, she was anxious to see if any of her old companions had beaten her here. Thankfully it appeared safe, if a bit seedy, and her primary reason for her perusal was sitting at a table, waiting for his companions as if only a night of heavy drinking had held the rest up and not a sojourn of ten, long years.

"Hargrim...or should I say, Your Majesty," Acanthya said with a broad smile as she stopped in front of the lone dwarf's table. "Fancy meeting you here. Mind if I sit down?"

Grim looked up as a shadow fell across his table. While he kept his aura reined in tightly, his natural presence did a wonderful job of leaving space around him. Which only left a few, possibly more cheerful options. Grim looked up, and a small, but distinct smile rugged at his craggy features despite his efforts to hide it. That armor...he remembered it and the girl who wore it well. It only took a small amount of neck craning to take in Acanthya’s ethereal beauty.  Even if she’d Met him 50 years earlier, before he’d married, she was too much of a wisp, but he saw the appeal to others.  He frowned and kicked out a chair, stopping it just shy of hitting her knees as he grumbled.

”Take it for a warning lass; i’ll Let my own ‘majesty’ me because I owe it to them to lead. But from you?!  I’d sooner choke on an old boot.  Now, if my old Second wanted to join me for a drink to older days and fonder memories...that I’d gladly accept.”  Grim heaved to his feet and held out a hand, clasping wrists with Acanthya, then, doubtlessly to her eternal shock, the gruff dwarf pulled her in for a brief hug.  ”It broke my heart to hear about Kadrian.  I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to the funeral.  You know if there’s anything within my power to do, lass...”  Grim trailed off. Bursts of sentimentality weren’t his strong suit, but he knew the gesture would matter.

If Acanthya was shocked by the dwarf's unusual display of sentiment, she did not show it. Instead, she clung tightly to her old friend and comrade, welcoming the comfort. It took all of her considerable willpower not to break down at Hargrim's earnestness. With tangible regret, the dark-haired woman disengaged from the brusque embrace. Despite her best efforts, tears welled up in her blue eyes, unshed, but threatening.

"I know you would have Hargrim," Acanthya said as she surreptitiously wiped her eyes. "Enough of this maudlin talk! Let us sit, feast, and remember the good old days!."

Taking a seat, Acanthya waved down a passing barmaid. "Bring food, ale, and wine. Plenty of each and make sure it is your best!

As the barmaid scurried off, Acanthya glanced back to Hargerim and taking care to speak softly and in dwarven, she continued, "I take it you received the same summons. I wonder how many of our old companions will show up?"

Grim raised his tankard and chuckled briefly. ”To happier times of fleeing for our lives and waking up the sound of drawn steel!” Some might take it for a joke, but Grim was a bit wistful for those simpler times.  He hadn’t set out to be a king; he’d had a crown thrust on him, and knew no one else was strong enough to wear it and keep his people safe!  Still, a chance for a bit of adventure without a cadre of elite protectors was quite the temptation.  He pointedly ignored Acanthya’s unshed tears; if she wanted everyone to see her cry, she would. Not his place to draw attention.

As to her other question... “I’m honestly not sure who to expect.  I haven’t heard much from Markus beyond a few veiled threats in polite letters,” Grim sounded quite pleased with that. “But the lad can hardly complain if I spoil his little ones on their birthdays...even if the number of ponies must be a little alarming by now!  Other than him, I haven’t kept anything close to contact with the others, though i’ve Been hearing of some copper pot mercenaries who claim to have bought our name...what of you?  Any word from the rest?”

"No, Kadrian and I did our best to divorce ourselves from our adventuring ways. Not that we didn't miss everyone, but we had thought those days past. Our hopes were to start a family, but that was not to be. Which reminds me, how is your little family doing? Being king and all must mean you have what, ten wives and several hundred willing concubines, bearded and ready to pleasure you."

Acanthya couldn't keep a straight face at her own jesting. She knew dwarven culture was very staid when it came to marriage customs, but she did always enjoy poking fun at Hargrim. Some might say this penchant was influenced by Satari's own peculiar brand of humor and others might say it was the eons old elf vs. dwarf dispute, though mollified somewhat due to Acanthya's mixed heritage. Regardless, it was all in good fun and Acanthya had missed their verbal sparring matches.

  It was already time for any sensible meeting to begin, and Kella was only now on the streets of Aradwyl.  She'd sold the horse at the gate for a handful of "magic" beans.  The sheer brazenness of the attempt made her laugh so hard, she figured it was worth a horse she wasn't planning to need anymore.  She chuckled again at the memory before tucking them in a pocket, all but one.  One went in the mud, a tribute to blind hope and blessed fools.  It was the kind of night when you made that kind of prayer.

  The thought immediately darkened her expression.  Kella picked uneasily at the linen wrapping on the back of one hand; she barely noticed the pain anymore, but the stares never got easier to take.  Whatever actually happened—she was decidedly not sure she believed anything the sending had suggested—her past had caught up with her somehow.  She spat in the gutter, annoyed at the thought but unable to banish it.  She chewed the inside of one cheek, glaring but silent, as she stalked down literally the worst back-alley route to the Stag she could identify.  There were two things that always drove off thoughts she couldn't shake.

“Just what I need...a few years away and now you’re another Satari?”  Grim sighed and shook his head.  When he did look back up though, his eyes sparkled. ”You recall how I used to tell you all about not wanting to mention my family, because they fell when Timuscor—May his blackened, shriveled soul burn forever!—raised his army of the dead and fell on the kingdom?  After I left the company, I learned some survived—my wife and my boy survived, Kass!  Maerin’s as fine a woman as any man could want.  And no beard on her, I promise.  Thrain’s a good lad; his mother’s brains, his father’s strength. He’ll keep the kingdom safe for my return.  I’ll miss them dearly, but tgey’ve Heard too much of you all to let me turn away.”

”Hargrim Steelsplitter...you bastard!  You evil, wicked despot!  How dare you!  To insult me so is to court Death itself!”

Materializing seemingly from nowhere came a massive, shadowy figure, which slammed a gauntlet-encased hand against’s Hargrim’s shoulder and tightened its grip.  The figure’s voice was pitched quietly, barely passing beyond the table, but so deep it sounded more akin to a rockslide taught to enunciate than to an actual voice. A glance at the figure showed a face shrouded in menacing shadows that seemed to dance before their eyes...until, abruptly. The illusion was lifted, revealing a slender, red-hues hand covered by an open, metal-played glove.  A glance up now would reveal the devilishly (in nearly every sense accurate) grinning face of Satari herself. She trailed her fingers over Hargrim’s shoulder, then leaned down to kiss Acanthya’s cheeks before sitting at the table with them.

”Acanthya!  You turned him into a hugger?!  When?  How?  What did you say?  Also...how was it?  Just between you and I, i’d Always imagined Hargrim having quite firm...hugs.  He seems the sort to keep a girl embraced until she’ll never forget it, no?”

Satari’s eyes flashed with amusement even as her voice dropped almost salaciously with innuendos that dangled like warm honey. She winked at Aycantha, silently laughing as she made not even the slightest of efforts to keep Hargrim from hearing.

”Come, come, you must tell me how you’ve both been!  Sadly, i’ve Hardly had a chance to misbehave since we last met.  It it weren’t a story about me, it would be dreadfully boring, but even I can only do so much!  Now spill it!  I’m a decade behind on the latest gossip!”
This message was last edited by the player at 00:22, Fri 11 Jan 2019.

"Well, I can say that ten years have done little to dampened your flair for the dramatic," Acanthya said with a wry grin. "As for Hargrim, what can I say. It seems family life has softened his rougher edges, if only slightly. Comforting is how I would describe it. Comforting and very dwarven."

Taking a sip of wine to bolster herself, Acanthya's grin faded slightly as she continued to answer the tiefling's queries. "As for myself, Kadrian and I found a small, quiet village and built a house. He worked for the constabulary and I became a teacher. It was a far cry from our adventuring days. It was very quaint and very peaceful. We were happy, in our domestic tranquility, and we decided to have children. Unfortunately, I was never able to conceive. Then, Kadrian died. I've been alone for almost three years now."

Taking another healthy gulp of the fortifying beverage, Acanthya shook her head and looked back around at her friends. Her smile returned to its normal brilliance. "So, what have you been up to this past decade? Rumor has it, even in my little neck of the woods, that someone actually sold the naming rights of The Silver Company to some young, upstart adventurers. I wonder who that could have been..."
This message was last edited by the player at 17:37, Fri 11 Jan 2019.

Satari threw her head back, laughing.  It was a rich, melodious sound.  Something that just radiated delighted amusement to everyone around her.  "My dear, the sun could burn out, the gods themselves wither, and music lose all value, and I'd still keep my knack for making an entrance!"

Satari folded her hands on the table and rested her head on them as she listened at Acanthya.  Her old comrade wouldn't be even slightly fooled.  Satari might not catch everything, but there was little she couldn't keep track of when it mattered.  And for now, she had decided this mattered.  She leaned over and kissed the heartbroken half-elf on the cheek.  "When I have the time, I'll write a proper dirge for Kadrian."  Even while the Company still traveled together, Satari's dirges has been infamous.  Usually for their demoralizing effect on foes.  But as it turned out, nobles loved them.  Demands for a funeral dirge written by Satari Creed were outrageous, and more than one of the Company's adventures had been financed by way of her lyre.  The least she could do for a lost comrade was honor him properly.

"Naming rights, you say?  Lies!  All damned lies!  I sold them the name, so long as they lived...if I find out they tried to resell..."  Shame?  That was only a word in Satari's vocabulary.  Not an emotion!  She grinned at Acanthya like the cat who ate the canary and framed it on the troublesome dog next door.  "As for my adventures...they were sadly lacking.  Given a choice between reparations and a headsman's ax...well, I still wonder if I made the right choice.  I've done nothing for ten years!  I'm so pent-up I could hug Hargrim myself!"

Markus entered Aradwyl City like a man who expected to have a crossbow bolt fly out from the shadows at any moment. His eyes never stopped roaming the streets around him for any potential threat. And to be fair, there is a lot of potential danger everywhere, but ones hunting specifically for him had their own particular flavor.

Many had called Markus paranoid in the past, but here he was, breathing the stench of the city, while many of his detractors had rotted away beneath the ground decades ago. It's not paranoia when a lot of people really are trying to kill you. But the merits of Markus' "proactive pragmatism" would have to wait, as he had business to attend too. The Gilded Stag awaited.

The veteran Bounty Hunter needed to find the right stable to store his destrier for the duration of the meeting. It had to be close enough to make a quick getaway if needed, but far enough away to not bee too obvious. Only amateurs stabled their mounts in the very closest available option. Once he had paid for the service, the big man ducked out of sight of the main street for a private moment. When he emerged once again, a different man stood in his place. Gone was the fitted arms and armor of a grizzled warrior. Instead the filthy street rags of a pathetic beggar hung from his large frame.

It is amazing how little people pay attention to the destitute, for Markus found his way to the Gilded Stag with no one looking twice at him. Just before he entered the door, he tilted his head to see if he could hear anything particularly interesting within. With an almost violent start, he realized that he recognized those voices. He had assumed, perhaps arrogantly, that the dream apparition was calling him alone. But the remnants of the Silver Company could refer to the whole group.

Without words or preamble, Markus slipped into the building. After the almost automatic scanning of the room for assassins waiting with poisoned daggers, he made for the table where his companions stood, having their little reunion.

"You all talk too much. I could hear you outside," Markus grunted in an admonishing voice, though those that knew him well could see the ghost of a smile on his lips.
This message was last edited by the player at 04:52, Sat 12 Jan 2019.

"And I could smell you coming from even further," Acanthya said with a pointed wrinkling of her pert nose. "I see your taste in clothes hasn't changed."

The last was said with a soft laugh as the dark-haired woman stood and walked over to her former teacher. It was almost comical how much larger he was than her, but she wasted little time in wrapping him in a ferocious bear hug despite the stench of his obvious disguise. Releasing him and stepping back, she looked up at the towering man with an easy smile and motioned for him to take a seat.

"I'm surprised at you Markus, you're usually a bit more punctual than this. Even Satari beat you here and you know that she's always fashionably late. So, how are things in your corner of the world?"

Sitting back down, she spoke an arcane syllable and made a small, esoteric gesture. As she waited for her friend's reply, she carefully waved her hand over where her clothing had touched Markus' rags. The spell, prestidigitation, was one of the simplest magics in existence, but it was very useful. Any lingering stench or stain was quickly whisked away by the incantation and while Acanthya was itching to use it on Markus himself, she refrained.
This message was last edited by the player at 05:38, Sat 12 Jan 2019.

  The fight only really lasted a few seconds.  The kind of delinquent who tries to snatch an old woman's purse never really lasts long.  And he'd done it in an enclosed space, too.  She left him alive, anyway.  That was one.  And so it was a decidedly less sullen Kella who finally reached the door of the Stag.  After all, she'd find number two inside, plus either walk into exactly her favorite kind of ambush or get to dash the hopes of an actual king!  As she pushed the door open with an elbow, the smirk had almost grown into a real smile.  She kicked it closed a little harder than necessary, just for the noise—to let whoever was in wait know she was here.  She had played along.  And she went straight for the bar.

  There wasn't a lot left to suggest their old companion, either.  Kella Stravnos had been loud and cocky, overflowing with an intensity that wasn't quite beauty but commanded a similar attention.  Never as flashy as Satori, but at least as vain in her own way.  Hell, the last time any of them had seen her, she had taken to wearing her war trophies for no reason but the psychological impact.

  The woman at the bar was just some middle-aged peasant, dreary and bone-tired.  Hair fading too unevenly for the original color to be clear.  Maybe the facial bone structure was similar but you could just see so much of it.  And she was dressed all over in the various and wondersome shades of mud.  Except for the bandages wrapped carefully over her hands and forearms.  Kella had always done that: all the way down to each fingertip, not a speck of skin exposed.  She said it had taken two years to learn how to do it and not make her hands too stiff to cast spells.  The woman at the bar poured herself a shot of something amber and traced a fingertip around the edge of the shotglass before she drank.  Twice left, once right.  The first of the night.  Kella had always done that, too.

  But Kella Stravnos had been dead for ten years.  There wouldn't be any reason to even notice the resemblance, on a normal night.
This message was last edited by the player at 08:04, Sat 12 Jan 2019.

”Marcus!  I was wondering when you’d finally catch up to your destitute stench!  Do you know dear, i’d Been imagining you half-again as filthy, and drunk to boot?  Kudos on being one of a rare few to prove me wrong!”   Satari stood up, and after making a show of dipping a scrap of cloth from her robes into her ale and rubbing Markus’s cheek with it, she gave him a brief, fond kiss.  ”Come sit, you homeless, dour bastard. And stop pretendingbyou’re Not ready to skip with joy at seeing me again...you’re a terrible liar.”

Satari turned to Acanthya and pouted extravagantly. ”Oh how you wound me dear!  I’ve never been lates day in my life, though I am quite fashionable. The world is simply too crude and unaccomodating to admit that iI’m on time and everyone else is gauchy early.”   While she sounded her normally entitled (with good reason!), flighty self, Satari’s attention was divided.  She was a consummate performer, and a part of that was knowing her audience. Someone at the bar was paying attention to them. Not very shocking. But something about this one tickled at Satari’s memory. She didn’t feel threatened, but mysteries always bothered her.

  Sure, the voices had been a little familiar.  But you go without social interaction for a few years, you get a little loopy.  Everything sounds familiar, because you're craving familiarity.  Life is deja vu.  Kella was used to it.

  But then she caught the tiefling looking up.

  "Low blow," she muttered, standing abruptly.  She held eye contact, but with the way the emotions were jerking her face around, it looked more like eye contact had her trapped.  "Low fucking blow..."  She started toward the others with a stumble that had nothing to do with whiskey.  She even left the bottle behind.  By the time she'd stalked past the collective Get Lost zone Hargrim and Markus tended to establish, there was smoke rising in trickles from her bandages.  Her posture said a stiff breeze could knock her over, but a mad kind of light in her eyes said it really shouldn't.  Really really.  She finally looked away from Satari, took in the rest of the table, and staggered a bit.

  "This... is sick," she gasped, tears welling up in her eyes.  The smell of burning cloth was getting a little strong.  "How dare you?!"

Well, hi.

Grim started as a hand suddenly slammed down on his shoulder.  He'd nearly cleared his seat before the menacing voice turned into one no less troubling, but at least considerably less menacing...until she threatened him with a hug, at which point Grim finally looked unnerved.  "It's...good, I think...to see you too lass, but I'll thank you to stop with the hugs."

His nose wrinkled at the smell that hit the table, but when Markus spoke, Grim nodded his way, and held up a finger in a gesture of warning.  "Lad, it's not too late for me to send three ponies o to each of the girls this year for their birthdays.  Think carefully."

The final, mysterious blow to fall was when a strange woman came to their table, trembling...in fear?  Sadness?  No...rage?!  But something in her voice, in the faint charring cloth smell in the room, the smoke from bandages, it was too familiar!  "Kella?  Lass?  Is that really you?  We thought you were dead!"  Grim made no effort to hide his shock and pleasant surprised, even if he wasn't sure of her reaction.

Having been paying attention to her companions, Acanthya did not even notice the woman at the bar. When she stumbled toward them, accusations tumbling from her lips, the half-elf woman turned a questioning glance toward her. Recognition came with Hargrim's exclamation and a plethora of emotions rushed through Acanthya as she realized who the raggedy woman was.

"It can't be...she's dead," Acanthya mumbled as she looked around at her friends.  "We saw her die...in that...explosion."

  It isn't the behavior she expected from whatever spies she expected them to be, and the confusion of explaining the difference steals a lot of her anger's momentum.

  "No, no you're lying..."  She grimaces uncontrollably and shakes her head.  The whole standing-next-to-a-table-of-warriors-and-shouting thing is starting to draw enough attention to make her self-conscious, and her eyes jump from face to face, looking for... proof, maybe?  "There was no...  You were all gone when..."

  She takes a step back, then another, but with the third one, she backs into an occupied table, somehow misses the floor with her foot when she stumbles to recover, and lands hard on her rear.  When she looks back up, the glare she gives Markus is as demanding as frightened.  "What were their names?  The first time... I...  What were their names, Markus?"

---

A boy and a girl.  The husband, if you want to show off.  All human, lower artisan class.  Any of the Company would have caught the detail once or twice, but Markus would have heard the most unguarded grieving and have the best context for figuring out the question.  I'll roll with your suggestions.
This message was last edited by the player at 02:56, Tue 15 Jan 2019.

Markus accepted the crushing hug and kiss to his cheek with what appeared on the surface to be long-suffering stoicism. But try as he might, he couldn't keep the edges of his lips from twitching ever so slightly upward. He even managed a quick pat on Acanthya's back, which was practically a explosion of emotion from someone like Markus.

"Cagriol," he muttered under his breath.

In a heartbeat, the filthy rags that made up his disguised vanished, leaving a fine studded leather doublet in it's place. And the stench thankfully vanished a moment after that. The Bounty Hunter did not fear attack from these people, and they were the small handful of people that could claim that privilege.

"I'd rather be rude and prepared, than punctual and dead. The other way only puts me on time for my own funeral. It's good to see you again, Twig. The family is fine. Growing like weeds," he grunted to Acanthya with an amused look on his face.

"Drop dead, Horn Head," the big man grunted back to Satari.

To anyone listening, that might have sounded like a genuine, threatening rebuke. But in the old familiarity of the close circle of friends that were the Silver Company, Markus might as well have said "I've missed you more than I can put into words."

"Don't you dare spoil them again Stuntie! Serafina and Catrin wouldn't stop asking when 'Uncle Beardy,' would send them presents again after last year! You're making me look bad in front of my girls," he mockingly admonished Hargrim.

Before he could enjoy this little reunion further, the burning scent and enraged question made him spin around with impressive swiftness.

"Bugger the gods..." the grizzled warrior gasped, possibly for the first time in his life caught completely off guard.

But then his old instincts kicked in, and his right hand went to the sword hilt at his hip, while his left went for one of his many daggers. But before he could draw them, Kella landed on her butt and shot him a question. And it was in that moment that he knew she was genuine, and not some trick that was a prelude to attack. No one could fake that, magic or no.

His hands fell from his weapons and he went down on one knee to look his unexpectedly resurrected friend in the eye.

"...Perryn and Adelina..." came the reply so quiet that only Kella could hear him.

OOC: I can easily change these names. I didn't see them written anywhere, so I made them up.
This message was last edited by the player at 02:57, Tue 15 Jan 2019.

  You know those toys like wooden dolls, only with none of the joints connected?  And how when you loosen the string inside them they fold in on themselves and sag comically?  Kella sags.

  "Yeah, she says, nodding as though it had been Markus asking the question.  She raises one hand and lightly presses the fingers against his doublet, right over the sternum.  "Yeah.  I haven't even said those names in..."

  She doesn't have to finish.  It's not the point.  She looks up at the others in shock, sweeps their faces, and at last throws herself forward, wrapping the bailiff in an embrace so tight he'd probably have to injure her to prise himself out of it.  Tears stream down over her cheeks, but she manages to keep it mostly silent, and it was never helpful in the past to talk to Kella about crying.
This message was last edited by the player at 02:53, Tue 15 Jan 2019.

Abyssal was a wonderful tongue. It had countless delightfully descriptive ways to convey all sorts of ideas. For instance, when Markus told her to drop dead?  Well, there was a proper way to answer that.   Satari’s response was bright and cheerful because she was genuinely tickled to see the gruff lawman again.  Mind you, her conveyance of that joy also involved a series of anatomically questionable acts Markus could perform with his mother and a goat with a rather particular skin condition...but Abyssal was up to the task of multiple meanings!  And then the real show began. How had she not seen it earlier?  Of course that woman at the bar jiggled her memory!  She’d simply ignored it!

Satari once more took advantage of Abyssal’s colorful meanings as she watched the drama unfold with Kella.  She wasn’t overly worried about a bonfire raging. There was enough magic and practical wisdom (both residing within Satari’s inimitable frame, of course!) to keep the inn safe from all but the worst conditions.  She came forward, rubbing Kella’s shoulder and whispered into the crying woman’s ear. ”Just let it out darling...you’re safe here, among friends.  We’ve brought one another back from the edge of oblivion so many times before...what’s one more really?”

Markus was still for a moment, but just a moment. Even in an intense emotional state like this, the big man had trouble expressing himself. Only his wife and daughters could expect a sign of physical affection. But even a hard man like Markus had his limits.

His massive arms enveloped Kella in an equally tight bear hug. He did not bother with words of encouragement, or sympathy, or even hope. Those things could not salve the wound in her soul.

Instead he just held her, and let her tears flow without comment. He did stare daggers at any civilian bystanders in the room who might watch and intrude on this private moment. Or worse yet, make mocking comments. His eyes promised murder for anyone who would dare such a thing. And he meant it too.
This message was last edited by the player at 17:01, Tue 15 Jan 2019.

  Well, nobody's going to empty a ten-year reservoir in two minutes, but the force behind the tears soon bleeds off to something Kella can actually hold in check. She takes a loud, shaky breath and wipes the assorted fluids from her face. Leaves them on Markus' armor, though. Like marking territory, really. She sits back when he notices the movement and releases her.

  "So it's real, then?" She asks the rest of them. "You all got the same message? It sounded..." Her eyes widen a bit as she considers for the first time what kind of problem merits pulling these people out of their deserving rest.

Acanthya could only stand dumbfounded at this most unexpected of reunions. She had watched Kella die, watched as her body immolated and was swept away in that awful torrent of fire. It was one of the few memories of her adventuring days that she had suppressed. With Kella's appearance, however, that memory came rushing back and she simply looked on as Markus, Hargrim, and Satari greeted their old comrade.

"I was sure you had died in that fire," Acanthya said as she suddenly rushed over to Kella and embraced her, mud and all. All ready, her keen mind was contemplating the many possibilities as to how she could have survived. Thankfully, her last ten years of teaching had led her down many avenues of learning and a solution presented itself almost immediately.

"You were transported to another plane weren't you," Acanthya asked as she slowly released Kella. "That was the only explanation for your survival. I was so stupid back then to not realize it. When we didn't find a body or any trace, I should have thought about that possibility. I failed you...if only I had allowed logic instead of emotion to guide me after that battle..."

OOC
I'm going with your suggestion of how we separated. If not, I can alter my post.

  Kella waves away the recrimination with a wry smile.

  "If Only never leads anyplace good.  Trust me, Canth.  If anyone should know..."  There's enough remorse buried in Kella's laughter, but that's going to be inevitable.  She extricates herself from Markus with an apologetic look for the imposition and pulls herself a chair at the table.  She sits as though there's a lot of weight on her shoulders, but she's clearly working on acting normal.

  "And all this time I... Well.  It was chaotic.  With the lich, and..."  She smiles, and her attention rounds the group back toward Acanthya.  "You really all made it out, huh?  And Kadrian?  I don't see him here..."
This message was last edited by the player at 16:01, Sun 20 Jan 2019.

He's dead," Acanthya said simply. "After we retired he and I were married. We had seven wonderful years together before the rigors of adventuring finally caught up to him. I buried him beneath his favorite oak next to our cottage. That was three years ago."

The dark-haired woman grew silent after that and simply played with her wine goblet. Shifting uncomfortably in her chair, she stared down at her plate for several long moments before looking back up and smiling at their newly "resurrected" friend.

"Before we go any further, why don't we see about getting you a bath and some clean clothes. I mean, I could use magic to restore your cleanliness, but I've always found a nice, hot bath helps to ease one's mind."

  "I...  Oh."  Kella looks at least as uncomfortable in the silence that follows, and leaps at the exit Acanthya offers.

  "Yes.  Why, yes.  I think it has been entirely too long.  But when the... Well, when the client arrives..."