Tseran isn't quite as dismissive of the merely martial arts as some might be - after all, he was trained at some length to utilise a wider range of weapons than a human wizard would gain skill in and he at least begins to understand the gulf that lies between simply trying to prod someone with a pointy stick and the sort of abilities on display here...

 ...but not being dismissive doesn't mean that he sets them on a par with the power to alter the fabric of reality itself through the channeling of mystical energy and the exercise of will. He passes the mere soldiers and warriors, moving on with modest fascination to the monks and then to the tattooed woman, who catches his eye with the fundamental similarity that links his painfully acquired skills to her own... Just as he uses the trappings of spellcraft to inform and shape his invisible arts, she seems to have trained herself to think about swords and it's a matter of mere moments before a soft chiming ripple of sound flows from the slender elf, accompanied by a silver-white flash in his eyes as he shifts his senses from the mundane to the uncanny to better observe her technique.

 ---

 Detect psioncs of course. ^_^

Angel felt the heaviness about her shoulders and realized her stolen cloak was showing... again. Had she just forgotten to blend it into her disguise or had it somehow become ‘unblended’? Something nagged at her memory like a strange flash of deja vu, but she couldn’t recall anything specific. She reached up to unfasten the cloak and give herself a break from its weight, but she suddenly found herself unbuckling her belt instead. Blushing, and not wanting to give the impression that her performance was going to turn into one of those shows, she hurriedly gathered her belongings and darted into the shadows of a nearby alley. Thankfully, no one seemed to be paying attention to her anyways. Rebuckling her belt and pocketing her earnings — two silver?! Better than nothing, I guess — and looked out at the crowds passing by the alley’s entrance...

[Private to GM: Figured I’d play along some with the cloak’s curse and elaborate a bit on what happens with it. Do I see any of the others yet?]

OOC: Sorry, I've been struggling to keep up. So little sleep, so little inspiration.

Slove, no need for rounds here, but let's begin testing the crunch. :)

Fūdo watched Slove carefully and respectfully, studying every aspect of his archery form. 'Indeed.' he agreed. 'And perhaps one day you can see who are too.' he added cryptically. It was hard to tell if he was smiling and how with his vulpine face and fangs.

He went up to the distanct bale of straw, retrieved their arrows, and placed a small target in their place. He returned and gave Slove his arrow back.

Going on, the fox-man started to stride in circles around the elf, just idly walking and talking. 'Forget all that is going on around you: the target, the other archers, the crowds. Even me. Do it again.' he directed plainly. It sounded simple, but whenever Slove was about to shoot, he'd find Fūdo would just happen to be in the way.

OOC: Test of Precise Shot, hit AC 15

*

As Tseran's power chimed, some of the spectators around him glanced around, but couldn't place it, while others missed it in the din. Only the mind-blade wielder glanced directly at him, curious and with a cocky grin, before turning her attention back to the fight. And just in time – she only just ducked a swung sword. Laughing away her close call, she turned her duck into a roll, tumbling across the dirt and until she was some paces from her foe, an experienced caravan guard by the looks of him.

Then, with a flick of her wrist, her blade of energy was flung across the ring, burst against her opponent before dissipating. Now she was unarmed! She spread her arms helpless, smirking. Her foe scented victory at this foolish move, and charged. Only for his sword to be parried by the blade again, suddenly back above her hand like it had never left, and then scraping across his armour. The move stunned the crowd also, cheering.

Tseran detected the telltale scent of the Invisible Art, faint auras that would be of her tattoos (psychoportation, telepathy, psychometabolism, metacreativity) and her sturdy boots (psychokinesis), all inactive. And she was herself a psionic being, but whether trained or a wild talent, he'd never tell this way. But curiously, no active power, or one of no discipline he could identify, produce the blade of pure mental energy she wielded.

They duelled and sparred for a time, and once again she hurled her blade at her foe. This time, he was wary of such a surprise, and hung back, so she goaded him, showing empty hands. 'I really dunno how this thing works.' she teased, and held up her fist. With a show of concentration, something emerged – her middle digit. The crowd guffawed, and soon after the mental blade flowed from the finger. 'Ah, there it is.'

He charged in again, and after another clash of blades against armour, he was laid low, and the Impilturan was victorious. Gracious, she gripped his hand and helped him up, before shaking hands, quelling any grumbles of discontent over her tricks. 'Good fight, mate.'

An announcer called out 'The winner is Sambrylla Smith of Impiltur, Knight of the Order of the Bladewright.' 'Woo!' she cheered, utterly unlike an Impilturan knight.

*

After watching the dwarf pikemen, Maelarra turned to Aerin, asking 'Would you like to see some more, or have a drink in this tavern? I know I need a drink and a sit down after the ride.'


*

Angel made herself scarce, and from the alley she could spy the others come by. Slove went off to the archery competition, Tseran went to watch a duel where one of the fighters had some kind of magic blade. The others watched some dwarves and discussed what to do next.
This message was last edited by the GM at 11:59, Wed 25 Sept 2019.

Slove listens to the fox.  Many thoughts and words came to the old elf.
He decide to keep his month such and follow the fox instructions.

Slove concentrated on the target taking careful aim.
But the fox kept moving.  Getting in the way.
Did he not understand how stupid and dangerous that was.
Moving target, still target, moving target, still target.

Moving target.  Slove lets his arrow straight into the fox.
Hiting the fox squarely in the middle with some force.
With out second thought Slove touches his wand and the fox.
Healing some of the damage he done.

I am sorry.  The elf said.

Slove steps back.  Not happy with fox or himself.

The question I would have to ask.  Why fire an arrow at object that not going to harm you.
That hitting it will make no different to you or the people around you.
All you doing is damaging something that does not need to be damaged and possibility wasting an arrow.

It is why I never understood these competition.  Explain to me the point.  The reason?
The best weapon to have is one that does not have to be used.

Slove question was genuine.  He was not having a go at fox just trying understand why such thing are done.
This message was last edited by the player at 15:28, Tue 24 Sept 2019.

Aerin looked at Lady Maelarra with a surprised look on her draconic features, "Why that's a really good idea, even if we sat in the saddle the whole day. Perhaps we find a bar where you can sit on a stool and I can stand?" she replied.

Turning to one of the bystanders she asked "Well met, we just arrived and are looking for decent accommodation, is there a place in this town that you would recommend?"

As the arrow struck him, Fūdo flinched and doubled over, but when Slove approached to heal him, he waved him back, holding the arrow in his hand-like fore-paws. He'd caught the arrow in the air. 'The first test is the hardest,' he began with a wry look, passing it back, 'For the teacher as well.'

He listened attentively to Slove's question, thinking it over, and finally replying 'Some would say the reason for competition is further training for the archer, that it is a challenge of their skills and a chance to compare their progress against their peers. And others would say competition makes the archer focus fully on the act of archery itself, not on hunting, not on battle.'

'And the purpose of the target... is to catch the arrow.' Fūdo added with a fanged grin. 'Better that than litter the good farmer's field with our shafts.'

'Come on.' Fūdo beckoned Slove to follow him right up to the practice target, just a bale of straw. As they walked, he said 'Now, I'll ask you a question – why fire an arrow at all?' They stood just a few feet away, making it impossible to miss and incredibly easy. Yet, with the same care and serenity as he'd shown before, Fūdo fired his arrow perfectly into the target and seemed satisfied with the result.

*

With the full discretion of a dedicated diplomat, Lady Maelarra entirely ignored Aerin's sarcasm. It simply would not be proper for her to explain that too long in the saddle had left her unpractised posterior sore. That, however, did not mean she had to resist making a dig of her own. 'Indeed, or you may lay lean against the bar, whatever you please.'

The flagged-down bystander, once he recovered from the sight of a half-dragon, answered 'Ah, the Head in the Clouds over there should still have some beds available.' He pointed to a two-storey timber and brick building, with vaulted ceilings. The signboard depicted a giant so tall his head was engulfed in clouds. The street before it was strewn with debris from an overturned cart.

"Thanks." Aerin said gratefully, giving the passer-by a many-fanged grin before turning to march in the new target's direction. Looking over her shoulder she gave Maelarra a smirk "Aye, lean I will, but that requires many pints before it happens, ha!" then confidently grinned some more.

Entering the 'Head in the Clouds' the dragonkin strode toward the counter as if she owned the place, convinced they had found a place where they could sleep well and without worries, for once. "Well met and good day. I'd like to book seven rooms for me and my companions." she said, then, almost like an afterthought added "Please." and smiled... not showing any teeth. The Rashemi had counted Arrazin as well, even though he wasn't present, and probably wouldn't stay here anyway. However, she was convinced he'd appreciate the attempt at misleading his real or imagined enemies.

Slove took his arrow from Fūdo.
A useful skill to have.  Picking arrows out of the air.  Especially when you walk in front of someone that firing an arrow.

Slove listened to Fūdo answer to his question.  The answer did not really come up with anything new.  However Slove's years had taught him answers do not always come easy or straight.

The one thing Fūdo had over so many creature Slove encountered was respect.
Fūdo gave Slove respect and that earned Slove's.

I will answer your question but first I must ask one of my own.
The lands you come from.  Are they at peace or war.  Your people are they rulers, servant or slaves of the land.  How long have they live in land.  Or are you wandering adventure with no home and land to call of.
If you answer this I can answer your question.
This message was last edited by the player at 18:43, Thu 26 Sept 2019.

 There's definite art in what this Sambrylla Smith is undertaking and that - when he himself has had to self-teach more or less everything that he knows and has discerned draws Tseran forwards as the conflict comes to a triumphant ending, the slim elf waiting for the inevitable back-slapping and congratulations to ebb somewhat before he seeks to address the young woman, leaning back a little to let something of her exuberance dissipate and then attempting to approach her in order to ask "Dame Smith, is it not? An impressive display... But I confess that I have never heard of the Order of the Bladewright, perhaps I might beg a moment of your time, if you are not over-busy?"

Spotting Ladies Aerin and Maelarra walking together, Angel - (still looking like a human girl) - followed them to and into a local inn. She stood behind them as she heard the dragonkin order several rooms and waited to be noticed... which was kinda fun from the perspective of a irrepressible sneak; seemingly just appearing behind someone when they least excepted it.

OOC: Taking ten on both Hide and Move Silently checks for 31 and 22 respectively. 

Street

Breathing hard after her duel, Sambrylla Smith turned to face Tseran, a grin of recognition on her sweating face. She was surprisingly young, maybe 22 winters, with straw blonde hair and piercing green eyes. 'Sure, if you throw a drink into the bargain, mate. But Dame nothing, call me Sam!' she said cheerfully, sounding like a bluff country girl. She grabbed Tseran's hand and pumped it vigorously; hers was strong and bore the calluses and scars of hard work and swordplay. The girl, under her mithral chain, was athletic and muscled without being brawny, with forge-tanned skin under her curiously mobile psionic tattoos. Whatever Art she'd learned, it had not been in a library, study, or quiet temple, but through hard work and martial training.

'Here, this place'll do.' She led Tseran across the street and into the Head in the Clouds.

The Head in the Clouds

'Water, and make it cold!' she called for her drink. She sniffed and wrinkled her nose, like she'd smelled something bad, but couldn't place it, for now. 'Now, the Order of the Bladewright is a unit of the, deep breath now, Most Holy Order of the Sacred Shrike, better known as the Knights of Imphras II, a part of the Warswords of Impiltur. Brave defenders of the realm, loyal servants of the crown, devout faithful of the Triad. Holy paladins and priests all,' she declared grandly and proudly, then thumbed her chest, adding less grandly no less proudly 'And us, the Bladewrights.'

*

The innkeeper looked a little worried at Aerin's requested, and at the risk of disappointing her. 'Seven? Seven might be a hard, ma'am, what with all the folk in town for the Arming. I can do you five, if any of your party don't mind sharing?'

'My valet Tamae and I are in the habit of sharing, whether a room or bed, it is no problem.' Maelarra volunteered, the silent servant at her side.

The innkeeper looked past Aerin to the girl behind her. 'With you in a moment, miss.'

*

Archery Tournament

Fūdo's furry face made an approximation of a frown of thoughtfulness; it wasn't needed on a fox, but these expressions appeared to have been learned simply to deal with humans. 'I hail from the isle of Shinkoku, in a land the humans call Kozakura, the Little Cherry Blossom. Go east until you can walk no further, then sail east until you can sail no further, and you would be there.' Fūdo explained, gazing east with a little wistfulness in his golden eyes. He'd journeyed so, so far. 'And it seems the humans make proud war on each other constantly. But as for my people, we are not slaves or servants or rulers if we can help it. We live apart, in the wilds, with no homes but what we make around us. We are just humble foxes, and have been since the world was born.' He turned his inscrutable eyes on Slove again. 'Is that enough?'

Slove looks hard at the fox.
It is the answer. The elf says.

Then realizing he needs to explain himself.
We have some things in common.  We come from species that wishes to live alongside the world we are born in.  To be part of this world.  Be born, to live a full life and to die at the right time.  To allow others to do the same, whoever or whatever they are.
We have lived through wars and seen our land taken by others.
You and me are both wonders far from home making the best of what life gives.

Sloves nods.
So to answer your question.  My people picked up the bow in a time forgotten by most to defend themselves from the creatures that says the land belong to them.  Creatures that would burn our homes down and see our land covered not in beautiful plants but is ash and smoke.
Why fire and arrow.  So the tree it came from my live another season.  That is my answer.

"Oh no rush," the girl said cheerily, and in a voice that was familiar to the two women in front of her. "I'm with them," she added, nodding toward the two women the innkeeper was currently assisting.

Aerin gave the woman a hard stare, as if it was a personal insult against her "You're not intentionally giving me a hard time, are you?" she said gravely before Maelarra volunteered to share a room with her maid - probably so she could boss the poor girl around, even in the middle of the night, to empty her chamber pot or fetch some water - which kind of resolved the problem, since Arrazin was most likely a no show anyway.

When the girl behind them quipped "I'm with them." the dragonkin's eyes narrowed as she tried to figure out who had the audacity to claim being with her companions. It took her a second or two, or three or four, to finally wrap her head around the realization that they were travelling in the presence of a shapechanger and that the girl before her was indeed their skin-changing Angel. "Yes, rrright." Aerin confirmed slowly, still looking somewhat suspicious. "We'll make do with five rooms, then."

While the innkeeper was making the necessary arrangements, Aerin took the time to reflect on what she had conveniently overlooked. When they met first, at lord Haldyn's mansion, the Rashemi had seen her true form, that of a high elf, but coming to think of it she had never before heard of an elf shifting shapes this effortlessly. It always took some sort of spell or magic item, totally unlike the elf's ability. She would have to keep an eye on her and figure out what was going on.

The girl grinned when Aerin looked at her and offered the dragon lady a playful curtsy. And then as if reading her mind Angel casually brushed her fingers across a hair barrette in those coppery locks and mouthed the word 'magic'...

 "It is the appropriate address for a female knight..." Tseran answers, as he attempts to recover some of the feeling in his fingers by flexing them not at all surreptitiously, being by his nature something of a quiet, measured soul and therefore largely unprepared to field the exuberance pouring off 'Sam' in positive waves, "...but very well, 'Sam'. I am Tseran Tal'Chiar, late of the Ladies College of Silverymoon and..."

 That's about where he's dragged off towards the public house, his feet not quite managing to kick up a dust-trail in the process, his mouth snapping shut until it turns out that the vigorous martial woman is actually intending to drink water of all things, whereupon he's about to protest the safety of such an act when his interest is taken by her explanation instead, the elf assuming an attentive posture as the spiel rolls over him, swiftly picking out the pertinent point "Who are not, by process of exclusion holy paladins or priests, which is rather the point that caught my attention. I've encountered only a few practitioners of the invisible art in my travels."

Archery Tournament

Fūdo nodded at Slove's answer, full of understanding. 'That is a worthy reason then.' He pointed to the target, his own arrow still in it, just a few feet away. It was impossible to miss. 'So fire the arrow.' This time, he didn't get in the way.

The Head in the Clouds

'Ah. That.' Sam understood, looking down at her hand, her bright spirit dimmed like a candle's flicker. When her mug of cold water was brought, she drained it one long, long swig, then called for another. Fighting was thirsty work. 'Yeah, we're not really proper Knights, you see – we haven't faced the Trials or been ordained as priests or pallies. But our blessing – the soul knife – makes us Bladewrights. It's hard to argue rites and regs when the gods have already given us our swords. Some do, mind.' She shrugged at that, and sipped her next mug.

Meanwhile, Maelarra dealt with the innkeeper, haggling over the cost of five rooms because it was her goddess-given duty. 'We shall only be here a night, and you're already doing such roaring trade. The noise alone should diminish your regular price...'
This message was last edited by the GM at 12:26, Thu 03 Oct 2019.

 "And yet the truth is what it is, will they, nill they." Tseran answers in a fashion that's functionally speaking, supportive then adding his own order - a glass of whatever dry house wine is available - to the replacement tankard of water before pressing on with his inquiries, "It is the 'soul knife' as you describe it that first caught my attention, although I was also fascinated by the other manifestations of the art you bear... There is, you say an organisation that teaches these skills? A martial tradition of manipulating these forces?"

'Something like that, but there's not so many of us you'd call it a tradition. There's no school or nothing. More like the older fellows find and train up those who show the knack. They know different tricks and shapes for the soul knife, so we're all a little bit different, apart from the soul bladey bit.' Sam explained, wiggling her hand meaningfully. But despite her playful, energetic spirit, she had too much discipline to just flash it around with good reason.

'Now, if you mean how to create it, well, we're none too sure. We believe it's a blessing, bestowed by our gods, marking us for special purpose, and all that. But if every kid who shows one is recruited to the knighthood, then it's kind of a self-fulfilling prophecy, isn't it?' she shrugged before taking a sip. She didn't want to question faith too hard, in case it stopped working. 'I saw a grey dwarf in Skullport do it, and he weren't blessed by the Triad.'

'As for how we first come by it, everyone's got a different story. The usual one – this happened to my instructor – is his sword was broken in battle and he prayed to his god for a weapon to protect his companions with, and lo and behold, whoosh there it is in hand, a soul knife.'

'But me, I made mine blacksmithing.' she ended with a grin.
This message was last edited by the GM at 13:50, Fri 11 Oct 2019.

Aerin stood by, watching Maelarra in her natural habitat was an interesting experience.

Slove pulled another arrow from his quiver.
Placed it in his bow.  Aimed at the target and fired.

This was ridiculous and pointless thing to do really.

However out of respect for the fox Slove did as he was ask.
He took the whole thing seriously and as if he was a normal distance from the target.

 "Mmmm, after examining your auras, I believe that the knife itself is not inherently a divine manifestation - as you say, there is a degree of self-fulfilment inherent in the selection process for your order - but that does not mean it is not a blessing of sorts." Tseran answers, looking speculative as he rolls the question around in his mind before adding "Particularly since the invisible art as I understand it seems to correlate to the established schools of magic and I could not perceive any particular school in action around your blade."

 "No, if I were to venture a first-approximation analysis, I would propose that you have trained yourself to think about swords and are manifesting your will in that form - something that may be achieved by simple study, or by the touch of the divine unlocking what was in you all along." Tseran speculates, not of course without making it very clear that he's doing so before he lays a hand lightly upon his own chest in an apologetic fashion, "I am sorry of course, as a mage I tend to think of these things in analytical terms... What I have learned and uncovered of the art I understand by comparing it to what I already know, much as you yourself perceive it through bladework."

The Head in the Clouds

Sam shrugged carelessly, choosing to take the mage's speculating as being a bit above her instead of being a challenge to her faith, no matter how loose it might be. Besides, there were a few too many big words in there. 'If you say so. I do know my momma was a bladesmith, and I started an apprenticeship under her. One day, we had a big order come in from the Warswords, and set to work. It took us ages to complete, working hard, day in, day out. I remember the hammering most of all: bang bang bang bang bang bang...' she sang out, nodding her head with the rhythm. 'Like a heartbeat, it was, on and on and on. But, for all that noise and heat, I felt half-asleep, just doing without thinking. In the end, late in the night, we ran out of steel. But I still hammered out one more blade on that anvil.' she ended, remembering the marvel of the silvery, ghostly blade forged where there should've been hard steel.

Meanwhile, Maelarra haggled a fair price for all the rooms, dinner, drinks, breakfast, and all. Even the innkeeper seemed impressed. She turned back to Aerin and Angel. 'There we go. Now, this evening, there shall be a bit of a feast and bards shall sing ballads or tell tales, usually of a heroic battle-heavy variety. If you have any requests, we might find something appropriate.'

Archery Tournament

Fūdo watched Slove fire the arrow from only a few feet, appraised the result, and even did a little clap with his paws. 'Very good. Now then – why fire the arrow?' he persisted in his questioning.

 "That would be consistent with what I have discovered with my own studies... We unlocked the potential of our minds by approaching them through the familiar." Tseran agrees, once more indicating himself and then Sam by way of illustration "Myself through the processes of conventional arcane magic, you through bladework and craft.

 Of course, it doesn't quite get him to the point, which he then launches into "This does not entirely explain your equipment however. May I ask if there is a craftsman or smithmaster who manufactures them for you? The tattoos and the boots which you wear? I rarely get to speak to another practitioner of the invisible art, save through the pages of their journals and to meet one who has that level of attainment would be a great opportunity for me."

'I dunno that I have much attainment,' Sam mused, then leaned back and hoisted her leg and one of her solid army boots onto the table for Tseran to inspect, should he wish. 'But I have these. Boots of stomping, I call 'em. Most of our special gear is hand-me-downs from senior Bladewrights, or pass-me-alongs from the Warswords that they loot and can't explain or can't use.'

Next, she rolled up her sleeves, exposing wiry arms and a few battle-scars on forge-tanned skin. At first, then nothing to be seen, but then there came creeping down her skin, like an organized swarm of tiny ants, tattoos. They were typical soldiers' and sailors' tattoos: an anchor, a fist, a sword, easily overlooked by untrained eyes. 'We have a company tattooist who gives us these to help us out of jams or aid us in quests. A psionic power, ready to go. But otherwise, we don't make much equipment, not when we're mostly bladesmiths who don't need blades.'

Conveniently, a young militia-woman came by and passed Sam a short sword. 'Hey, Sam, thanks for lending me your sword.'

'No worries, happy to help.' Sam said, taking the sword. It was mundane, army-issue.

'You weren't short, were you?'

'Nah, I'm good.' After the exchange, Sam slid the sword into her empty scabbard. 'But it's still useful to have one. As training or back-up. And sometimes you've got to be disarmed of something.'