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Dracarys, The Lowlands, A River Gorge

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The sound of the river below echoed ever so slightly as it washed up against the sides of the rocky gorge which it swept through, vibrations climbing up the natural walls to reach the ears of four individuals near the edge. Late Spring was turning into early Summer in this tropical jungle, and the gray overcast of the sky helped to keep the temperature… manageably warm. The smells were as bold and vivacious as the region they found themselves in; lush, verdant plant life, whitewater river air rich in nutrients and minerals, and just a hint of decay as the underlying decomposition continued the cycle of life and death in this natural place.

The trees stood tall and jagged, the underbrush was thick with the unknown, and the river itself was a pale muddy color as it drifted at a solid pace ever onward.

A pale human with long white hair and pale blue eyes retracted a spyglass she had been using to observe the river, standing up from her position on one knee closer to the edge and brushing off her dark traveling garb.
This message was last edited by the GM at 15:42, Sat 04 Dec 2021.

It's almost time." She said in a dispassionate, husky lilt, half talking to herself. "For months now, we've been on the trail of our very first quarry: a summoner of one of the Dark God's many children, who seems to be rather reclusive. We have finally discovered that one of the only people who know of their whereabouts is a mercenary gloryhound known as Vulcan K'sarak, of Clan Megala."

She produced from amongst her equipment an ancient book bound in black leather and wrapped in iron chains; she whispered unintelligibly to it, and the tome unwrapped itself and opened to the page she had requested. She brushed her unicorn-white hair back into place as she read.

"Vallan, Teradyr, described as 'hard headed'." She began listing off the traits that had been recorded during the summoning. "She sacrificed... two hundred golden ducats, a polished amethyst the size of a fist, and a ring which belonged once to her late mother."

"That is beside the point, though." She said as the book closed itself and wrapped up once again in chains. "What we need to be focusing on is what will soon round the bend of this river: a flotilla of longships where a celebration is being held in Vulcan's honor - apparently, it's someone's birthday."

"We could go in loud and hard," she continued, "or we could approach it from another angle; stealth and subterfuge aren't off the table here. Our ultimate goal is to find out whichever ship he is on, and then to interrogate him - how we go about doing that is unimportant."

Nihlia looked over at the leader of their little group, and spoke deferentially.

"My Lady, it is up to you how we go about this; we don't all have to do the same thing, either, we can split up if it is necessary. If I am seen, however, it will be very difficult to explain away my wings." She looked behind herself, seemingly just remembering the extra set of limbs which sat upon her back, dark of feather and with chronically exposed flesh. "We have little time before the flotilla arrives; it would be best if everyone prepared themselves."
This message was last edited by the player at 15:48, Sat 04 Dec 2021.

Taphrodel had been standing beside where Nihlia knelt, peering beside her down into the gorge, her expression the mildly contemplative frown she customarily wore when she was pondering murdering people, the little vertical crease furrowing between her eyebrows indicating her diligent cogitation.  On the surface, she did not look like the sort of person who would realistically be weighing "let's go inflict horrifying violence" as a realistic option; her frame and demeanor seemed to suggest her to be more the sort of person who might wear her present expression when puzzling through a particularly tricky series of stitches in her embroidery.

But there was no mistaking her outfit for anything one might find on a pampered noble daughter: clearly dressed for wilderness travel, all in black leathers, sturdy boots with an inch of heel elevating her to just scarcely under six slender feet of altitude, ruler-straight ink-black hair bound in a loose braid hanging down between her shoulder blades.  Also incongruous with the flimsy-little-girl image, the sword belted to her right hip.  The silvery implement was a far more proper emblem for the girl her traveling companions had come to know over the past weeks: long, narrow, beautiful, cold, merciless, wickedly vicious.  Altogether her presence and presentation seemed to be suggestive of something somewhere between a highwayman and a fencer.

"... sneaking around seems like a lot of bother, unless we're dramatically outnumbered."  She was capable of a reasonable degree of stealth when it suited her, though it was...  not her first inclination.  She watched down at the spot where the flotilla would soon be appearing around the riverbend.  Her pale eyes were chips of ice, calculating.  "Do we know, what sort of flotilla are we taking about here?  Three ships?  Thirty?"

"The way it was spoken of, it would be reasonable to assume that it will be like most celebrations of it's like; something around 10 ships, with a standard guard retinue for general safety and to keep any slaves in check."

"I've heard that some not-so-insignificant movers and shakers from the capital are attending as well, and those individuals may have their own specific bodyguards or the equivalent."

Standing tall at the edge of the drop, leaning out with an abandon that came not of fearlessness, but instead a complete lack of the instinctual response to heights that all animals share, Lachlann watched the raging water below with a placid expression that reveals none of the thoughts stirring beneath.  Clad in the seeming of mortality, the alraune is a warm and welcoming contrast to the messiah he serves, tan and hale-looking, with the same night-black hair hanging loose in open defiance of the humid warmth that surrounds them.  The glamour that cloaks Lachlann has been shaped, one drop at a time, by every victim he has taken and the garb it bears is simply one part of that recollection.  Fashioned of a light silken material in a jewel-bright aquamarine and trimmed with embroidery in dull gold, the alraune's tunic is a splash of radiant colour beside the severity of his more monochromatic companions.  Paired with subtler breeches of supple doeskin and polished riding boots, he would not look out of place at some gentile garden party, though it is all illusion; a false seeming over root and vine.

Flicking his head as he turns away from the edge, Lachlann's motions are well practiced to send the tightly gathered bundles of tendrils beneath his glamour back over his shoulder in a move that is just slightly out of sync with what the rest of the world sees as the midnight strands of his seeming sway and settle into unnatural perfection.  "Bothersome perhaps, but we may wish to avoid...unnecessary attention."  The alruane murmured, just a hint of honey-sweetness drifting from him as glamour-red lips pursed and then split in a smile, his eyes sparkling with amusement as he gestures toward the water below without taking his gaze from the Messiah.  "From all I have heard Dracarys is a harsh land.  If we draw the ire of the Clans with a show of force they may well prove a hindrance to future endeavours."
This message was last edited by the player at 20:06, Tue 07 Dec 2021.

Crouched down and hood up, Astraea did an admirable enough job of blending into the shadows for someone her size. She’d taken cover in the wake of one of the larger trees when they claimed their spot and settled down without a word, stilling to watch and wait like some great looming predator. Her blade lay flat on the earth before her, too tall to hide within her silhouette, with her hands braced hard upon the hilt and sheath. That pressure set a tightness about her shoulders that was quite unmistakeable. It sharply squared her outline in a way that stood to ruin her efforts at going unseen.

She stayed low as the others spoke but a slight inclination of her head showed her interest. It was the only show she made of it for a time.

“He has a point,” Astraea offered out of the corner of her mouth. “Worst case we have to go through ten boats to find our man. No need to make it a slaughter just because someone couldn’t keep their blood cool.”

There was a roughness to her voice, a thing only worsened by the remnants of an accent that lent it a further harsh edge. It gave a touch of credit to those stories of the ‘dogs’ of Marsci who knew only how to bark and growl, not speak like civilised folk. Made them seem halfway believable.

Astraea rose with a sharp exhale, lazily brushing a little imagined dirt from the hem of her tunic. The cloth hung down below her waist like a rough short skirt, an image that might have been more pronounced if it only had some colour to it, but dark leathers atop a dark tunic, breeches and boots hardly counted a feast for the eyes. Her choice in attire was functional: sturdy and comfortable enough if perhaps a bit travel-worn. More than anything though it served to draw the eye to what went uncovered. Even hanging tired her rusty hair was plain against the black, and there was no missing the strength in her ink-marked arms. Today she had eschewed her gauntlet, and her right was wrapped to the elbow in bands of cloth that had probably once been white.

“Less trouble means less trouble. Give the clans a reason to care and it’s their coin and ties against us, but they’re not going to back men like Vulkan if they don’t have a stake. There's no profit in it.” She idly stroked her sword’s crossguard with a thumb. “Blood’s fine, but let’s keep it clean – clean as we can. Better that way.”
This message was last edited by the player at 20:16, Wed 08 Dec 2021.

Taphrodel observed the appearance of the flotilla with increasing skepticism, the raucous music echoing up the gorge from the minstrels, the revelers bouncing around the decks without any semblance of sense or structure.

"Maybe subtle will be easier in this case, apparently.  Looks like sneaking on board pretending to be party people shouldn't be much of a problem."  She eyed Nihlia appraisingly for a moment, and her conspicuous supplementary appendages.  "... for most of us anyways.  Do you think you can hide on board someplace?"

Nihlia nodded, accepting Taphrodel's judgement.

"It will be slightly more difficult to pass yourself off as a noble, appearing human as you do, but having our resident silvertongue come up with an alibi along the lines of you being a foreign dignitary who's late to the party would probably be enough."

"I saw a small slope further upriver that you could move to and wait for the flotilla to pass by. In the meantime, however, I think I could quickly craft you a little ornament to make you look more regal; a circlet or tiara perhaps? Concentrated negative energy would be enough to make a construct of ice - you might even call it a 'crown of hate' - or I could do a little cutting and summon an imp in the shape of a headpiece."

Nihlia waited for Taphrodel's answer, casting her spell if requested, before moving up to the edge of the gorge. She would then intentionally slip off the edge, before fanning her wings out for just a moment to halt her descent; this, combined with the sound of the relatively active river, would mask the sound of her body as she dipped below the surface.
This message was last edited by the player at 04:08, Sun 19 Dec 2021.

The flotilla approached.

Rounding the bend in the river was indeed a cavalcade of longships, wide enough to cover about a third of the river from side to side and long enough to span two full houses. They were made of a rich, dark wood, etched with images of monsters or animals, and manned each by a team of rowers located just below decks in what must have been rather cramped, claustrophobic spaces. Almost every ship had a cabin in the center, requiring one to pass through them since there was no passage on either side.

On the ships themselves, however, a raucous party was being held; music from multiple different sources and several different ships joined the melody of the reverberating river, and the smell of heavily spiced, cooked meats, strangely sweet treats, and a cornucopia of different alcohols wafted up from all the way over here.