Kasimir

QF54: Aftermath - The Fires of War I don’t know what King Dedelin will do. I don’t know if it was enough, for what he had planned. We succeeded, but at what cost? It wasn’t anything near the daring raid we’d all envisioned. Only a desperate one, with help and betrayal both from unexpected quarters, on a night of fire and blood. Maybe Austre was looking out for us, that night. And then there was you, Wryn. I guess you won’t remember any of this, but we lost you, too. At moonrise, the remnants of the Idrian squad crouched about the map that Kalsin had scratched into the dirt with a stick, peering at it. The results of the day’s scouting seemed painfully inadequate, in the wan light of Rrendos. Derrick had died for this, Kalsin thought. Gatemaker and Geren had died for this. If they didn’t make good on it, what were their sacrifices for? “Expect a lightly armed presence,” Wryn said, nodding to Kalsin. “The priority is to put the fields to the torch, as many as you can. You remember where we made camp two nights ago?” A chorus of quiet ‘yes’-es echoed around the map. “Good,” Wryn said. “Fallback point is at the abandoned camp site.” He drew in a deep breath. “Austre watch over you, and guide your arm. I don’t want any heroics. I want the fields torched, and I want as many of you alive as possible. Leave the packhorses behind; a man on a horse is a target out there. I’m going to divide the squad into two teams. The objective is to strike hard and fast. Kalsin will take his team past the dormitories and into the fields. My team will make our way past the other side of the lake. This should cause enough confusion that the Hallendren guards won’t be able to anticipate where to respond.” He looked at the squad. “Any questions?” “What about the Hallendren spies, sir?” Pancakes asked. “If you have a way to identify the spies,” Wryn said, dryly, “Maybe you should have shared it a few days ago.” He looked at each of them in turn, his eyes hard. “Any more questions?” No one said anything. It hadn’t been a bad question, Kalsin thought. He’d talked it over with Wryn earlier, but they just didn’t have any answer. Striking this night would force the hand of the Hallendren spies. The more they tarried, this close to the dye fields, the more chances they gave the spies to ruin the mission. You fought bears sometimes, in the Idrian highlands. When you had to. Whether with spear or bow, the trick was always to get the bear before it mauled you with its paws, a task harder than it sounded. If the spies struck while they were attacking, they’d just have to improvise and deal with them then. There was no real alternative. Kalsin just didn’t like that plan very much. Dexan grazed on a tussock of grass. The horse had been lashed to the nearby trees, in the event the teams needed to make a swift escape, with the other packhorses. A shadow fell over Dexan. “Goodnight, boy,” Jacques Noir whispered. A sword rose, and a sword fell, and the dying cries of a stricken horse were swallowed up by the darkness of death. Wryn and his team advanced around the slice of the lake. He watched the vapour rise in quiet awe. It reminded him of that day in the safehouse; of Breath, moving from one Hallendren Awakener to another. “Ware!” someone shouted. “Idrians are attacking! Ward the dye fields!” Wryn cursed, and spun about. It was Jacques Noir; already, Taidon levelled his spear at the man. “Shut up,” Taidon spat. “Traitor.” “You’re under attack!” Jacques continued to call out. His sword was already in his hand. He’d kept the squad close, and Jacques presumably had no ability to sneak off and warn the Hallendren. But he’d brought their spy back to the fold, and now Jacques had no compunctions rousing the guards. Wryn, though, had planned for this. It was why he’d intended to strike in two teams, as hard and fast as they could, under the cover of darkness. The neat rows of the dye fields stretched ahead of them, if only they could reach them before the Hallendren did. “Shut up!” Taidon shouted. A mistake, his hesitation. Perhaps it was different, killing in cold blood. Wryn had seen that shortcoming, had dismissed it. Now they all paid for it. Jacques beat aside the spear with the flat of his sword and stabbed. His sword went point-first through Taidon’s throat. The farmer gurgled as he fell to his knees, and Jacques wrested the spear from him, staring down Wryn. “Sorry,” he said, casually, “But I’ll get in trouble if you reach those dye fields. You know how it is. Hallendren! The Idrians are attacking!” The doors to the Hallendren barracks slammed open, then, and Wryn knew that they were in for it. He cursed quietly, and drew his sword. “Lieutenant,” Pancakes hissed, as they hid in the shadow of the dormitory. “What if the Hallendren spies are with us?” “You know the captain’s answer to that, Pancakes,” Kalsin said, exasperated. He leaned forward a little, trying to gauge when the Hallendren patrol would move on. The dormitories were closely watched. He hadn’t expected that. Did the Hallendren expect a fight? There was an explosion of noise and the Hallendren barracks on the far end of the clearing came to life, guardsmen clattering out. Flares lit up the night. “Austre,” Kalsin swore. The spies had been with Wryn all along. The need to flat out run, to try to save the stricken squad, warred with the knowledge that Wryn would sacrifice him if he needed to, that the integrity of the mission mattered more than one Idrian captain, no matter who he was. He ground his teeth together. There was only one direction they could go, and that was forwards. “We go on,” he told the rest of his team. Vincer nodded, tightly. Fadrian shrugged. Pancakes looked worried, strangely hesitant. Maybe it was Austre who warned him. Kalsin stepped forward, and turned around. Something felt wrong. Something seemed—maybe it was how furtive Pancakes had seemed. And then Kalsin heard the sound of drawn steel. Both of them, at once. Vincer fell, run through by Pancakes’s sword. And Fadrian advanced on Kalsin, his blade glinting in the light of Rrendos. Well, then, Kalsin thought. He was a good swordsman, but Fadrian had always been the best of the company. And there was Pancakes, which meant two against one. It was over, really, but Kalsin would be damned if he didn’t at least put up a fight. Sword against spear wasn’t much of a fight. Wryn knew that. He was pragmatic enough to understand how this would play out. Jacques would toy with him and Edrab, using the greater range of his spear to take them out. So he wasn’t interested in taking this fight. Jacques was, in the end, a distraction. The arriving Hallendren guards were a distraction. Taking the fight here and now would result in their deaths and a failed mission. And all they really needed was to burn the dye fields down. “Run for the dye fields!” he shouted. Edrab got the message and they both pelted off in the direction of the dye fields, hoping against hope that they could reach them. He heard Edrab’s cry of pain—thrown spear or arrow, Wryn didn’t know. But he kept running. As Fadrian pressed him, Kalsin retreated. Pancakes was down for the count. Vincer, it seemed, had managed to club Pancakes over the head, so at least Kalsin wasn’t having to fend off two opponents at once. Not against one such as Fadrian. Superior speed and reflexes confounded Kalsin’s attempts to attack, so instead, he kept backing away. Fadrian didn’t talk, didn’t boast. He wasn’t that sort of person. The scarred veteran was the sort you easily forgot about, until his blade was in your spine. He just advanced, his eyes intent. He let Fadrian push him on, towards the dye fields. Fadrian had gotten the better of him in the first couple of exchanges. Fadrian was better. That was all. Kalsin was bleeding from wounds to the arm and leg. Fadrian meant to slow him down and kill him, probably. A strategy Kalsin would’ve played himself, if he thought the other swordsman could give him enough trouble. He supposed he should appreciate that show of respect from the Hallendren spy. He beat aside a thrust from Fadrian and riposted, but Fadrian was already stepping aside to deliver a wicked cut at Kalsin’s side. Kalsin dodged into the dye field, trampling flowers underfoot. “Oops,” Kalsin said. Fadrian’s eyes narrowed. “You’re making it harder,” he said, merely. “I know.” A shape loomed up behind Fadrian and Kalsin stared, even as a shadow brained Fadrian over the head with a rock and the man went down. Kalsin didn’t think he was dead, just out cold. He wasn’t going to check though. “What?” Kalsin managed. “You’re not one of theirs, aren’t you?” the shadow said. He stepped forward, and Kalsin realised he was young, barely a man. And he was Pahn Kahl, and his hands showed the calluses and stains of hard labour in the dye fields. “What do you mean?” “Hallendren,” the young man said. Kalsin shook his head. “Good,” the Pahn Kahl said, his eyes flinty. “Burn it all down for me.” “Why?” “You think I chose to work these fields?” the Pahn Kahl wanted to know. Kalsin didn’t need to think about it. He nodded. “I’ll do it, then.” “Good,” the Pahn Kahl hissed, and there was a fire in those dark eyes. “But won’t you get into trouble?” The Pahn Kahl smiled crookedly. “And who will they say did it? Pahn Kahl? Or a group of rebellious Idrians?” Kalsin had to concede the point. He pulled out the oil-soaked bundle of rags and dry tinder and flung it to the ground. He pulled out flint and struck it, again and again, working with urgency. A spark caught, and the Pahn Kahl blew on it, causing it to catch. They both darted back as the flames grew, and began to spread. “What’s your name?” Kalsin asked. Courtesy, he supposed. He didn’t expect to see the Pahn Kahl ever again. “Vahr,” said the Pahn Kahl. “My name is Vahr.” The fields were already ablaze as they arrived, Wryn supporting Edrab, who had been shot in the leg by a Hallendren arrow. “Let go of me,” Edrab ground out. “I can walk.” “No,” Wryn said, firmly. “You can’t.” They both knew Edrab was lying. Kalsin was already there, bloodied and his face grim, though his expression lightened as he saw them. He nocked an arrow to his bow, wincing as the flames brushed his fingers, and then he released. It was mesmerising, almost. The arrow flew, the flames all but gone, in a bright arc. It hit the dye field, and suddenly, fire blossomed where it had fallen. How many arrows had Kalsin already shot? There were small fires everywhere. Wryn just didn’t know if that was enough. “We need to get out of here,” Wryn said, still supporting Edrab. “But is it enough?” Kalsin wanted to know, echoing the direction of Wryn’s thoughts. Wryn shook his head. “Doesn’t matter, enough is enough. We need to get out now, or we won’t make it. Edrab’s hit.” “Leave me,” Edrab said. “Don’t be ridiculous,” Kalsin said, sharply. “No,” Wryn said, at the same time. But he was thinking about it. Edrab sensed his hesitation, perhaps. “I’ll keep burning what I can. And I’m not letting them take me alive. If we all go now, I’ll only slow you down. And if I keep setting fire to the fields, I might slow them down enough to give you a window to escape. Better one than three.” A terrible thought, wasn’t it? But Wryn was a captain, and he was used to making hard, bad decisions. “It’s been an honour. Austre watch you.” “Shut up and go,” Edrab said. He took the bow and quiver from Kalsin. “Don’t make me regret this.” Fire roared around them, and Wryn felt the heat, tight and uncomfortable against his skin. He turned away. “And then?” The Idrian who called himself Kalsin looked terribly tired and haunted. Wryn thought he understood. It was barely all he could do to keep putting one foot in front of the other, to keep walking. He wondered what sort of reserves Kalsin was drawing on, what sort of steel was in that man, to keep going. Kalsin shrugged. “And then we made it out,” he said. “And we left Edrab to die. Most of their forces were still putting out fires, and I trust he sold his life as dearly as any of us might have, in his shoes. But Jacques was waiting for us, by the lake.” It should have raised some flicker of familiarity. But try as he might, Wryn remembered nothing at all. Not even an echo. “You called out,” Kalsin said. “You startled him. You saw him first; I was careless. He was about to kill me. And then he ran you through instead. And you saved my life again.” He swallowed. “I hate this, you understand? Everything about this goes against what I know, what I believe in. But damn you, you saved my life again, without thinking, and Austre curse me for it, because I should take you back to Idris, even if you’d die on me on the way.” “What are you saying?” “I’m saying that there’s a Hallendren logging camp, just down this road,” Kalsin said. They’d been travelling for days and days, with Kalsin consulting his map. Wryn had felt useless, out of his element. Now he knew what Kalsin had been aiming for. “Go down the road. They’ll find you and take care of you.” “And you?” Kalsin’s mouth tilted in a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m going back.” He placed a hand on Wryn’s shoulder. “Don’t tell them anything of this. Promise me this, at least.” “Well, I’m not sure how you expect me to tell them something I don’t actually remember,” Wryn pointed out. For a brief moment, Kalsin chuckled, before he stopped short. “True,” he said. “Well then, you saved my life, you bastard, so now I’m saving yours, Austre forgive me. My life to yours. My Breath become Yours.” And then life, glorious life, flooded into him, in an ecstasy of colour, and he was alive again. “This one,” Firebearer said, slowly. He drew short at the painting, frowning at it. Ever since word got out, it seemed all the art he was required to look at was done in an impressionistic style, depicting brooding jungle scenes. Something about this one. It caught the eye, drew it in. There was the Hallendren jungle, a looming, heavy presence. But there seemed to be a smudge there; as though it was a lone figure. Part of Firebearer imagined it was a swordsman, walking alone into the murky heart of the wilderness. Perhaps he was resigned, and embracing the darkness. Or perhaps he was defying it. He did not know. “Shall I add this one to your personal collection, your Grace?” Hera asked. “Yes,” Firebearer said, absently. “Please do, Hera.” Kalsin unbuckled his sword. Let it drop, still-scabbarded, to the grassy earth. He was tired. He did not know if he had done the right thing. And now he was done with war, done with sacrifices, done with killing. He unslung Gatemaker’s bow next, left it as though it was an offering. Pushing aside an overhanging palm frond, he strode forward, into the shadowed heart of the jungle, and let the verdant darkness swallow him completely. Danex was executed! He was an Idrian Soldier! TUO was killed! He was an Idrian Soldier! The Hallendren Spies have won the game! Thoughts to follow later. Thanks for playing! It was a pleasure to GM you even if I spent a lot of time complaining to Wyrm about self-inflicted write-up pain Dossiers: Player List:

Doing this feels like timing a hammer but I've never hammered, unless you count MR38, and that was sort of a reverse hammer Cycle closed!

You have an hour left to rollover!

I can confirm there is actually an Elim team in this game and it's not just Wyrm telling me who he wants smited. Smote? Smought? Eh whatever.

Rule Clarifications: Player List:

QF54: Day Four - Heart of Darkness Back in the days of the Manywar, before the Idrian royal family fled T’Telir for their highland exile, before Kalad the Usurper wrested control of the throne, the Pahn Unity stood against old Hanald. Over the course of the war, Pahn Kahl rangers ambushed squads of captured Idrian soldiers; they were stripped of equipment and released into the wilderness to fend for themselves. We call them the Taken. Most of them died. The deep jungle of Hallendren is unforgiving to the unprepared, and especially not to those who aren’t trained trackers. Before the Chedesh ships arrived, the Pahn Kahl were a loose confederation of fishing villages and jungle encampments. They worshipped their own gods, but we know little enough about those. Some say they revered the storms of the Inner Sea; others that they venerated the swollen headwaters of the Serpent. They gave their worst offenders to the jungle, then, the same way they dealt with the Taken during the Manywar. Jungle justice, the Pahn Kahl call it. Sometimes, some crimes are too horrendous to be punished by the frailties and foibles of mere men. Sometimes, a holy man or a devout person simply walks out of the encampment and into the jungle instead. The Pahn Kahl say that that person has been called by the jungle, as though the jungle were a living, breathing being. But is it not? We have been in this jungle for days now. We have cut our way through ferns, hacked past tangles of vines and thorns, fended off predators in the night. I cannot shake the feeling that as we journey ever further inwards, following the trail signs left by the Hallendren, we are also travelling steadily into the dark heart of this wilderness. Is it so strange to think that, in their uneasy truce with the jungle, the Pahn Kahl may have taken to venerating it? The days were a misery of trudging through mud, and hacking their way slowly through the undergrowth. The Hallendren trail beckoned temptingly, but Kalsin made the decision to go off-trail but keep the trail in sight. The last thing they wanted was to be ambushed by arriving Hallendren troops or by anyone who worked the dye fields. Wryn at least agreed with his judgement. “Surprise is our only advantage,” the captain said, as they consulted the map yet again. “If the Hallendren know we’re coming, all of this will be for nothing.” “Don’t they?” Kalsin asked. Wryn let out a long breath in a sigh. “We have to hope, don’t we?” Gatemaker had been right, but a search of the expedition’s packs found an interesting variety of contraband—Kalsin was no stranger to the sorts of things soldiers could squirrel out into the field— but no sign of Lifeless blasphemies. The squirrel that Gatemaker had shot must’ve been a desperation move. It gave him a little hope that their coming had been kept secret for now. “If we attack and there are Hallendren spies still among us, they will move against us. You must know this. The dye fields are too important to Hallendren to allow us to put them to the torch like this.” “Yeah,” said Wryn. “Got a plan for that then?” Wryn sighed. “I’m working on it, alright?” “Work faster.” “That’s my line, not yours.” The current plan called for striking the dye fields, hard and fast, under the cover of darkness. They had enough men to split the force, or so Kalsin hoped. If there were no more Hallendren spies among them. If they did not lose more of the squad. If the dye fields were not heavily guarded. Kalsin couldn’t imagine that they would not be. But perhaps the Hallendren trusted secrecy more than guards or Lifeless. There was, in the end, only one way to find out. It was one of many reasons why Kalsin was on this expedition. There were others, of course. Who was he to put himself before so many others? But in the end, he had taken up the sword because it would have been selfishness to remain at the monastery when Idris faced the threat of Hallendren aggression, and he had joined the expedition because they needed trackers and because, in the end, Wryn was leading it. If it was to end in a storm of fire, Kalsin thought, it was a place they should all reach together. Enough of their company had felt the same way: most of them had volunteered for this expedition. Wryn had selected some of the best, and sent the rest on their way. Geren was dead now. So was Variel. Falfen had been killed by one of the Hallendren spies. Kalsin wondered how many of them would return to Idris and prayed to Austre to watch over them. Keep them safe, he thought, because surely it was pride, too, to beg for his own life. Take me if that be your will, but let the rest of them return to Idris in safety and peace. There was no answer and he brushed aside an overhanging frond, hacked through yet another cluster of vines, and strode deeper into the dark heart of the Hallendren jungle. Kalsin did not have words for it when he first saw it. The trees parted, at last, and he stumbled past the slashed vegetation and into a wide clearing. He understood then why they called it the Smoking Mirror. The lake was clear, and still, but a faint, insubstantial vapour rose from its surface, as though it was smoke. “The Smoking Mirror,” Wryn breathed. On the other side of the lake, he could see the outline of simple dormitories, and what must be the Hallendren dye fields beyond. Shapes in the distance toiled in the fields, but Kalsin could not yet make out any sign of guards. “I’m going to scout the area,” he said. They needed to know more than they currently did about the dye fields if they intended to strike at nightfall. “Take Derrick with you,” Wryn replied. He didn’t tell Kalsin to be careful, the same way Kalsin didn’t tell Wryn how to do his job. Kalsin nodded. “All right,” he said. “But he’d best be quiet.” Derrick was quiet enough. Kalsin wondered about him. They didn’t seem to know enough about Derrick, but the soldier moved with a competence that suggested he was not completely at a loss when it came to operating within this sort of terrain. They worked their way around the slice of the lake, keeping close to the treeline where possible. Kalsin wondered at the crystalline purity of the waters. What fed this lake? And why was it smoking? He didn’t know. He wondered if Austre had to do with it, for surely the Lord of Colours had a hand in such things. When they reached the rough wooden outlines of the dormitories, Kalsin tapped Derrick on the shoulder. “Split up,” he instructed. “I’ll scout the dye fields. You keep an eye out for any sign of Hallendren military presence. Guards, Lifeless. Stay out of sight, and don’t engage. Meet back at the lake in an hour.” He glanced briefly at the position of the sun in the sky, confirming his assessment. And then he faded into the shadows, as best as he could, slinking towards the dye fields to assess the best way to approach the target. They called him Steel, because he was solid and dependable as the soldier’s steel. Right now though, Steel felt only a deep and abiding worry. The Hallendren spies were among them. That much was clear. He shot a wary look at Fadrian. Supposed to be an old veteran, that scarred man, but Steel’d only heard whispers that Fadrian’d survived because he had no fear of leaving his own squadmates to die if it came down to it. And then there was Taidon. Steel wasn’t sure he believed a single word of it. How did a farmer conveniently survive the deaths of a supposed Hallendren spy and two decent soldiers? He knew Geren, knew Falfen. Neither of them were easy prey. He couldn’t see how a simple farmer killed a Hallendren who’d gotten the better of them. The captain seemed to buy Taidon’s story, which only made matters worse. Steel didn’t like the idea of going behind the captain’s back, but Wryn had only disagreed firmly when Steel took the captain aside and suggested that something wasn’t right about Taidon. “He’s been through the wringer, that’s all,” Wryn opined. “Right now, I need everyone on task, and this means preparing for tonight’s raid on the dye fields.” His gaze drifted in the direction of the lake, where the lieutenant had gone. Everyone knew that Kalsin had served longest under Wryn. Steel supposed it gave you a kind of sixth sense for what the other man was doing. He’d been that way with a few, though they were back in Bevalis. Or maybe they were guarding the passes, now. Everything depended on the success of this mission, and the fact Taidon was getting away with that unlikely story of his was galling. They called him Steel, because he was solid and dependable as the soldier’s steel, and Steel resolved to do what had to be done. Even if it was the unthinkable. He drew his sword and moved in on Taidon, moving quietly from behind. Except that someone, Steel couldn’t have said who, not in that moment, shouted a warning, and Taidon turned, and— And then there was the sharp song of a bow and he felt the impact of the arrow, as though he’d been struck. He staggered back, a little. He forced his fingers to tighten about his sword hilt. No. He had to see to the mission. He had to make sure the Hallendren spy was dead. “Get back!” and then Steel realised it was the lieutenant, shouting, grim-faced. When had he returned? “I can explain,” Steel wanted to say, but the bow sang again and the breath left him, then, all at once. He collapsed to the grassy earth. He had failed, Steel thought. He had failed. “Derrick is dead,” Kalsin reported. “The dye fields are lightly guarded, but he went down before I could get to him. I shot the two guards who found him, and hid them in some brush. It won’t be long before they come looking for them, probably around nightfall. We have to strike tonight, or it’ll all be for nothing.” Wryn grunted. “Not ideal, but we’ll have to make do.” “What about Steel?” Wryn frowned. “I don’t think he was in the pay of Hallendren,” he said, at last. “There was no sign of irregularity in his pack, and you know Steel.” Kalsin did. It was why he’d asked. “I think he just got it into his head that Taidon was working for Hallendren, and the more he thought about it, the more he got himself worked up about it, until he felt he had to act, and then there was no stopping him.” Except Kalsin had. Permanently. Gatemaker’s bow felt disapproving, as though he’d put it to ill use. But Steel was trying to kill Taidon, and Kalsin had shot to kill. He hadn’t drawn a bow in a while but his muscles remembered, all the same. “It was a good shot,” Wryn said. Kalsin made a face. “I was an archer before I was a swordsman. You know this. It shouldn’t be surprising.” “I suppose so. Even so. You saw the shot you needed to, and you took it. Nothing else.” Kalsin sighed. “I know,” he said. “It doesn’t mean I don’t regret it.” Regret has no place in war, he could remember one of the drillmasters in the Idrian army saying. Perhaps, thought Kalsin, but they would have to live with what they’d done, on this mission. If they survived. If they walked away. They would have to live with it, and Kalsin did not know if that weight could be borne. “I don’t know if it is a dream, or a memory of a dream. The trees draw closer and closer. And at the centre, at the beating heart of the jungle...I see only darkness.” “I’ll add that to the record, your Grace.” Steeldancer was executed! He was an Idrian Soldier! Ash fell from the sky was killed! He was an Idrian Soldier! The cycle has begun! It will end at 2300hrs SGT (GMT+8) on the 20th July!

Noted. Cycle closed! No more vote changes or actions will be accepted!

Huh. Interesting. Mat's ranting is entertaining but I can neither confirm nor deny whether he's been doing it this game. You have fifty minutes left to finalise your votes and action!

I'd like to claim this as being smart enough to realise that, but my thought was actually that the kills should happen the same time on OoA, thus the Durian would not pass from me to Illwei, and from Illwei to you. What I actually thought was that with Illwei making such a show of how she'd Kohga-kill me, I was paranoid enough (thanks Wyrm!) to worry they were trying to phish Zelda from me via Danex or Mat (sorry Mat ) and then fake me out by killing Zelda instead, leaving me to be misgrinched. So I figured, eh, why not just take the Durian to begin with, if I'm dead, whatever, if I'm still alive, I could use that Durian, if I somehow survived that misgrinch. The fact it went to you after all was a happy accident but I'm glad anyway Edit: @WhiffleWaffles, @quillinthestars but especially Waffles - wanted to reflect I think you're too hard on yourselves and you all did exactly what you needed to, engaging actively with the game, plotting, trying to solve the game, and just holding your own. Too often I've seen Elims do control kills and carry the thread, and you all kept Steel from running away with that. As the guy in the dead doc repeatedly going "Oh my God Waffles is doing this, go Waffles!" I can't really object

But you forgot the best part! We had a party! And everytime someone new joined, we were like: "So, you'll never believe how Zelda actually died..."

Thanks for GMing, Striker and Bip! It was a fun adventure outside of retirement. I think most of my thoughts have been said either in the dead doc or elsewhere, and I'm kind of tired/lazy to revisit them so Suffice to say I had fun, I apparently continue to get C1ed everytime I make a joke character, but being Beedle was fun, and it makes my Beedle meme prescient. I'm proud I managed to slip Alv that durian, even if it functionally made no difference in the end. Oh yeah: @Devo: Nice to be on the same team at last @Mat: Oh hello there Cage Shuffle Squat Buddy There we went again

Rule Clarifications: Player List:

QF54: Day Three - Crossing The Serpent In Hallendren accounts, the Pahn Kahl are a footnote in a story of triumphant conquest. The recalcitrant, backward Pahn Kahl fishing villages and jungle encampments are swept into the expanse of Hallendren, and then there is peace and progress and plenty for all. In Idris, the Pahn Kahl are a tale of a fall from grace. The chronicles tell us that the Pahn Kahl lived in peace, within their dense jungles. And then they gave it all up to assimilate into Hallendren city life. I don’t think it’s that simple. Everything in the Hallendren jungle seems likely to be a trap. Everything in the Hallendren jungle seems likely to kill you. Back in the monastery, one Idrian monk spoke of a world almost like this one: lush jungles and glittering beaches, and monsters lurking beneath the waves. Where to live daily is to battle for survival. I thought him delusional. Now, though, I wonder. The jungle is a world unto itself. Is it any wonder the Pahn Kahl gave it all up, for a chance at the safety and opulence of T’Telir? They left the three casualties behind. Wryn was not entirely cruel: they could little afford it, but he left a packhorse with supplies and two other soldiers with them, for safety, with orders to catch up. Kalsin took Taidon aside and showed him the various trail signs he would be using to mark their path. He prayed quietly to Austre to watch over them, to keep their wounded safe, that the trail markers would not be tampered with, because there was little else he could do, now. He hoped the Hallendren spies were not among the wounded, nor the men left with them, but he supposed if they had been, then Variel would not have died. Kalsin was not sure of Taidon: he supposed he was not sure of anyone, apart from himself and Wryn, but the man seemed reliable enough, if out of his depth. Still, even a farmer knew how to use the spear and a sling. There were enough beasts in the mountains of Idris that preyed on flocks and livestock. Privately, Kalsin supposed it was better this way. He did not think it would go well if Taidon was sent into combat against Hallendren Lifeless. Taidon was courageous enough, but he was no soldier. At least, not yet. Variel, dead. Liranil jungle-taken. The first actual tallies on the ledger of the dead that this expedition had accrued, and it was already difficult to bear. Progress was painstakingly slow. Mindful that mistakes could lead them too far astray, or into further dangers, Kalsin favoured meticulousness over swiftness. Still, they had to retrace their steps a few times as he re-interpreted the markings on the map and the landmarks they depicted. One of the squad, a shepherd by the name of Geren, soon fell behind as they navigated a treacherous rope bridge across a swollen river. The Serpent, it was called, on the map, thundering down further downstream into waterfalls. Likely fed by meltwater from the mountains, though it had been the wet season of late. Kalsin studied the bridge for any sign of weakness. Monkey bridges, he thought. That was what they’d called them, when he’d trained as a tracker. More common in the Hallendren lowlands than in the Idrian highlands, they were a narrow length of rope that spanned ravines and rivers, with only a second rope by which to navigate. There was a big, glaring problem though, even after he’d tested the rope, and the knots that secured it. Well, several glaring problems. For one, the rope was a faint grey, and Kalsin’s skin crawled, even as he tested it. Someone’s soul was trapped in the rope. Would the depths of evil to which the Hallendren would sink to never end? Gatemaker studied the rope even as Kalsin’s hand went to the hilt of his sword. He wanted nothing more than to cut the rope, here and now, to slash through it and burn it, to send the soul on to Austre’s grace and Austre’s mercy, as was proper. But he was also a soldier, and a tracker in the Idrian army, and he knew that this was their best shot at crossing the Serpent. And then there was the other problem: what did they do about their packhorses? Kalsin studied the map again. There was—possibly—a ford upriver, but they could not afford that detour. And yet to leave the packhorses behind would put them in a difficult position. Could the packhorses make this crossing? Kalsin did not know. He hoped they could. “Awakened rope,” Gatemaker murmured. “Likely with an appropriate command to hold the supports. Of course. To secure the bridge beyond the usual constraints of weather, though not, I think, wear and tear.” Kalsin shot her a wary glance. Idrian intelligence was always a law unto themselves, but Gatemaker seemed less concerned by the Hallendren evil than he would have expected. Austre, was he already beginning to crack? He was seeing shadows around every corner, and he supposed Wryn would laugh at him if he knew Kalsin was already beginning to suspect their own Idrian agent. Or perhaps Wryn would share his concerns. His mind went back to their surreptitious conversation in the palace, for fear of being overheard. “You’re familiar with Hallendren Awakening, then,” Kalsin said, attempting to keep his voice calm and uninterested. “Know your enemy, Lieutenant,” Gatemaker said. Did anything ever perturb her, he wondered. He thought back to those Awakeners in the safehouse and wondered how much he really wanted to know the enemy. Hoofbeats. Kalsin’s hand went to his sword. He saw Gatemaker peeling back the oilskin cover that protected her bow and the waxed string from the pervasive damp. It was Taidon, on Dexan. The packhorse barely seemed winded, even as the farmer dropped off the horse ungracefully, like a sack of potatoes thumping on the ground at the harvest. “Hallendren…” he gasped. “Hallendren spies.” Wryn was there, taking control before the whispers could begin anew in the squad. “One thing at a time. What happened? Where are the others?” “Jaim was Hallendren,” Taidon said. “Or working for them, I don’t know which. Wasn’t so sick after all. Stabbed Keit and Falfen, strangled Auri, and then tried to do for me.” “But you survived,” Wryn said, prompting him. “Killed him,” Taidon said. “Wasn’t too different from wolves after all.” His eyes were distant enough that Kalsin suspected he was still suffering from battle-shock. What the farmer needed was time, time to unwind and to process the fact he’d come out of a life and death situation. Kalsin didn’t know if he would get it. “He ruined the supplies. It’s just me and Dexan left. So we thought we’d come to you.” Wryn clapped him on the shoulder. “Good work,” he said. “If I had my way, you’d rest, but we have a way to go before nightfall, and we must cross this river by then. “Oh, don’t worry, captain,” Taidon said, grimly. “I’m good for a while more yet.” “Good man,” said Wryn. “Well, then. Let’s see to getting the packhorses across the river.” The packhorses foundered, but working together, Derrick and Vincer persuaded the horses across the river. Dexan, at least, seemed intelligent for a horse, fording the Serpent with little fuss. As each horse made it across the river, dripping and heaving but very much safe, Kalsin felt that knot of worry loosen in his chest. At last, the horses were across, and most of the squad had safely crossed. The monkey bridge swayed and danced as each person balanced on the ropes, but seemed to hold. Kalsin couldn’t shake the feeling of revulsion as he held on to the rope for balance and crossed. Hallendren evil, he thought, yet again. Austre forgive him, a person’s soul was trapped within that rope, and all he could think about was the fact they, too, were using it as the Hallendren did, to cross the Serpent safely. Finally, it was Gatemaker left. She held on to the rope, moving with the grace of a trained agent. Step by sure step, she made it along the length of the monkey bridge. They should destroy the bridge, Kalsin was thinking. It would not be a bad decision, to forestall pursuit. And it would set free the soul trapped within the rope. He felt as though Austre would approve. And then the rope gave way, and Gatemaker plunged into the raging waters of the Serpent. Kalsin let out a cry and dove forward. No thought of whether Gatemaker was friend or foe now: only pure, unthinking instinct. For a moment, he felt his fingers brush that of the Idrian agent’s. And then Gatemaker was swept away. Her head appeared above the water once, and then a second, faltering time. And then she was gone. “This was in her pack,” Kalsin said. The bow, he kept. He did not favour the bow, as Wryn did, but he supposed it could come in useful. He suspected Gatemaker might even approve. He passed the missives over to Wryn. “A coded letter from Hallendren. They were blackmailing her. ‘We know what you are,’ and then offering her life and respect. The honey and the sting.” Wryn took the news without blinking. “I take it she was ours, though.” “Yeah,” said Kalsin. “She refused them, it seems. And she had a coded missive for the King.” He handed it over to Wryn who looked at it and then stuffed it into the oilskin carrying packet, with the rest of his papers and the map. “I can’t break the code but the part of the letter that’s addressed to King Dedelin is fairly straightforward. And it’s none of my business, anyway.” He shook his head. “Look, Ry. Good news and bad news. Which do you want?” Wryn raised an eyebrow. “I don’t suppose I have the option to skip the bad news entirely, then?” “Nah. ‘Fraid not.” “Let’s have the bad news first, then.” “Rope was cut. I went back to the site. Someone sliced through it. Thing is, a lot of the squad were suspecting Gatemaker, for whatever reason. They suspected Pancakes as well as Taidon, but you have to wonder if someone tried to take matters into their own hands. Then again, any Hallendren spies among us would love to blind us, and what better way to do that then to silence Idrian intelligence?” “It’s not entirely bad,” Wryn said, at last, thinking through the consequences. “It slows down pursuit, at least.” That echoed the direction of Kalsin’s earlier thoughts. “But I don’t like this.” “You know the first rule as much as I do,” Kalsin said. “Everything that can go wrong goes wrong,” they chorused, “Especially on contact with the enemy.” It’d been drilled into their heads in Basic, for Kalsin had joined only a month later than Wryn had. “Yeah, well,” Wryn said. “That’s a lot to go wrong. And the good news?” “We should reach the dye fields in a couple more days,” Kalsin said. “The map gets fairly straightforward from here on out. But we’ll be entering the deep jungle. Lots of bashing through the undergrowth.” “Oh, fun,” Wryn said. “You tell me the sweetest things, Kal.” “Save it for once we’re through,” Kal said. “Personally, I can’t wait to see the last of this jungle.” He wanted to return to Bevalis: to crisp, clear air, to blue skies and the meadows and the mountain’s bones. He wanted the cool wind, instead of the moist heat. He was tired of the shades of green, of the vines, of the leaves and damp, of the chatter, of the moss and the bugs. In the jungle, every step felt like they were moving through hostile territory. In many ways, they were. “What did you dream of last night, your Grace?” “A swift river, Hera. Someone falling, drowning. A lake of fire. A sheet of fire sweeping up from the earth to the sky. I can feel the heat of the flames against my skin. I don’t know, they’re strange dreams, best forgotten.” Devotary of Spotaneity was executed! She was an Idrian Soldier! Aureole was killed! He was an Idrian Soldier! The cycle has begun! It will end at 2300hrs SGT (GMT+8) on the 19th July!

Cycle closed. Pity you can't change your minds and start creating more vote trains again

Reminder that you have under an hour to decide who dies today. The power of life and death is in your hands!

Rule Clarifications: Player List:

QF54: Day Two - The Belly of the Beast Just as the mountain passes have protected Idris, forming a daunting natural barrier in the way of invading forces, the jungles of the Hallendren lowlands are not impassable. But they have swallowed up expeditions: adventurers and soldiers alike. Fever, venom, predation, parasites, toxins, hunger… There are many ways to die in the Hallendren jungle. Idrian war games have considered the possibility of operating in the Hallendren jungle and dismissed it. The jungle is hostile to both Hallendren Lifeless and Idrian soldiers alike, but the Hallendren do have one distinct advantage: their corpses can’t die again. The jungle was there, even in the days of old, before Hanald. Before the Chedesh came, before Vo and the Five Visions sent from Austre. In those days, it was a cluster of Pahn Kahl fishing villages and jungle encampments, and the Pahn Kahl had their own reckoning with the jungle. Today, the Pahn Kahl are Hallendren, but the jungle remains. Hacking my way through the undergrowth, where only a little light, only faint patches of blue sky can be seen, I can’t help but feel as though we have passed from the clean clear mountain air and meadows into the brooding, wet maw of some fearsome beast, into the heart of some terrible darkness. In the end, the expedition painstakingly traced their way back to the last cluster of signs to set up camp. There was, as Kalsin had said, a clearing a while back, with access to running water. Whispers had gone around the squad at the sight of the slain scout. Kalsin supposed it was only normal. Wilsa’s death made the possibility of a knife in the dark only too real. It was too grim to bear, entirely. It was one thing knowing that they might have to die for Idris. It was another thing looking at the results of Hallendren tradecraft and knowing that they might be next. That, or the jungle would do them in. Two of the squad had fallen out, complaining of illness, stomach cramps. Kalsin didn’t know if it was sickness, or poison. He thought he saw the same suspicions in Wryn’s eyes but the captain merely said they’d need a sick train. Another had been bitten by a snake as she dug the latrines. There was the thought too: did they stay to care for the casualties, or did they press on? A cruel choice, but Kalsin was used to the harsh realities of duty. Yet it was not his decision to make, and part of Kalsin was grateful. It went against the grain: Austre said they were to sacrifice, that they could not set themselves above others. It was the mission that demanded Wryn weigh and spend the lives of the squad as coin, and yet something about that choice set Kalsin ill at ease. The squad were already beginning to bicker. They were on edge from the scout’s death, and someone—Kalsin didn’t know who, but they were dead when he caught them—was openly spreading rumours of Hallendren poison. “Your concern isn’t Hallendren spies, soldier,” he said, firmly, when he came across the soldier they’d called Pancakes. Why, Kalsin didn’t know, but he knew that Wryn likely did, and that there was almost always a story behind these names. Good field cook, but a little too prone to gossip, and Pancakes started when Kalsin stopped by their fire. He thought he recognised the other two men sitting with Pancakes—Steel, decent, solid soldier, and Derrick, who seemed on edge, but was enough of an enigma to Kalsin. “But Lieutenant, sir, if Hallendren spies really are here, and trying to stop us…” Pancakes trailed off into silence as Kalsin stared him down. “Leave the Hallendren spies to the officers, Pancakes,” Kalsin said. He tried to sound calm and in control. Didn’t know if he’d succeeded. “Your only concern is staying alive and seeing to the success of the mission.” “Right, the mission. The mission,” Pancakes said. “Burn the fields.” If they found them, Kalsin thought. But he did not say that aloud. They had to. They had to. Idris depended on it. “What’s the mood like?” Wryn asked. Kalsin scowled at him from across the crackling flames of the fire but it was Gatemaker who spoke. Kalsin, at least, was grateful for the presence of someone from Idrian intelligence. Better to have someone versed in these matters than officers accustomed to some irregular duties. “Troubled,” Gatemaker said, folding her arms across her chest. “Whispers of Hallendren spies got out, and with the three soldiers down, everyone’s looking for someone else to blame.” She flung a bundle on the floor, and Kalsin blinked. “Lifeless squirrel,” Gatemaker said, her tone steady. It was transfixed with an arrow; she’d shot it. Part of Kalsin wondered what it would be like, watching Gatemaker shoot against Wryn. Wryn, too, favoured the bow: he was no swordsman. “Austre, God of Colours,” Kalsin breathed, as he stared at the grey-hued monstrosity. Hallendren Awakeners, then. “You know the appropriate countermeasures,” Gatemaker continued. “But I imagine a quick search of their packs would resolve the issue.” “Why?” Wryn asked, beating Kalsin to the punch. “Lifeless must be prepared,” Gatemaker explained. “We have to be wary of Awakened constructs, but I imagine the Lifeless animal was a failsafe. One they’ve burned now, though I’d still search their packs for anything Lifeless that was smuggled onto the mission.” Wryn frowned. “Idrian intelligence was supposed to have vouched for the integrity of the mission,” he said, wryly. “Strange that we find ourselves doing so again.” “You know how it is,” replied Gatemaker. She didn’t rise to the implied slight. “Vigilance is the name of the game.” Wryn sighed. “I suppose so.” He studied the map—carefully copied, in Wryn’s own hand—spread out on the flat stone. The firelight cast unsteady shadows on the map, but there was enough light to see. “By my reckoning, we should’ve reached the last of the markers anyway—here,” he pointed to the map. “Scouts were supposed to put us on the trail, and then we follow Hallendren signs for the next few days to the pool and the dye fields.” “Did they, though?” “That’s your question to answer,” Wryn said, his voice sharp. “Did they, or did they not, Lieutenant?” Kalsin swallowed. “Possibly,” he said, grudgingly. “With Wilsa dead, and no sign of the other scouts, I think we’re on our own. Some of the signs were tampered with, I’m fairly certain, so we’ll need our own source of truth. So it all comes back to this map—see that river here?” he pointed to it, marked out by Hallendren colours. “We passed it a few days ago. Then there was the cleft tree, which we also passed yesterday, though not after some backtracking. The ravine was there, which was a detour we weren’t supposed to take.” He pointed to each of the map positions in turn. Hours of study in the palace, trying to visualise places he’d never seen. He knew a little better now. “Won’t say it won’t be rough going, but I think we can do it.” “You sure, Kal?” Wryn wanted to know. Kalsin wondered at the multitude of questions lurking there: are you sure? Can you do it? Should we turn back? Should we find another way, or try to locate the other Idrian scouts? Did they have a choice though? “No. Yes. Ry, I think we have to, one way or another. We’ve crossed that river, and there’s no going back now. I’ll have to do it.” Wryn raised an eyebrow. “So be it, then. Get me the quartermaster. I’m going to take Gatemaker’s suggestion to search their packs and see what we turn up.” Variel, the quartermaster, turned out to be very dead. “Variel?” Kalsin called out, striding over to where the man usually was. Likely minding the supplies carried by their remaining horses. He saw a shape slumped by a tree and frowned. Something wasn’t right. A hand to his sword-hilt, Kalsin stepped closer, mindful of his surroundings. They’d served in Wryn’s company together, before this. Variel was infamous among the men for the standards to which he held equipment maintenance. Everything had to be cleaned, scrubbed and scoured of dirt. It seemed someone had surprised Variel even as he was cleaning the bright blade of his sword, and now the sword would never be clean again. “Austre watch over you,” Kalsin whispered, as he gently closed the quartermaster’s staring eyes. They’d run him through from behind. A thrust through the throat, and then pulled the blade free. Risky, that. Could notch the blade if they struck bone. Wryn was not going to like this. Neither were the rest of the squad. As it turned out, the rest of the squad were already bickering, already accusing each other of being Hallendren spies. At least Jacques Noir had the sense to stay out of it, though Kalsin thought the man was still fanning the flames, even if he declined to accuse anyone in particular. Steel and a scarred veteran by the name of Fadrian had both decided that a quiet tracker by the name of Liranil was responsible for leading them all astray, and in an effort to cool tempers, Kalsin ordered them all on separate watches, electing to leave Wryn out of it. By the time daylight was shining through the canopy of leaves overhead, Kalsin was about to run someone through with his own sword. That turned out to be Gatemaker, when she reported that Liranil had gone missing. “Show me,” Kalsin said, scrubbing wearily at his eyes with the back of his hand. He’d taken the first watch himself, and at least it was uneventful. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever get used to being dragged roughly from sleep, at least when it came. Wryn always gave him hell for that. “There was a lot of blood,” Gatemaker reported, clinically. “So she’s dead, then.” Obvious conclusion, Kalsin knew, but all the same. It ruled out the option where Liranil had decided enough was enough and gone missing. He sighed. “Let’s get Wryn, and let’s go look.” The others were already gathering and whispering when Kalsin arrived. He saw what Gatemaker had mentioned: the blood, but also scuff marks, as though she’d been dragged. No sign of a fight. “Well?” Wryn demanded, aloud. His face was composed, but he did not order the squad away. Kalsin supposed he understood why. It wasn’t something that could be resolved by telling them to go back to packing up and preparing to move out. “Big cat,” Kalsin said. “She didn’t put up a fight. And look—” Gatemaker had seen the fragments, like as not. She’d probably elected not to point it out, and Kalsin gave her points for tact, even though he thought he heard someone about to lose whatever remained of last night’s dinner. “Most cats kill with a bite to the throat or neck. Seen enough of that in the mountains. This one though? It went right for the back of her skull. I’d hate to get into a fight with a cat with that kind of bite.” He drew in a deep breath. “I’d suggest we double the watch, the following nights. And probably clear out of the area, as fast as we can. We have a mission to complete, and I don’t really want to fight that thing if it comes back for more.” “This painting. I…” “Your Grace, if you like it, I will have it requisitioned for your personal collection.” “There’s something about it. One man, standing alone, in the heart of a murky darkness. Indistinct outline of thick trees, water, fog. It seems almost...sad. Lonely, maybe. And brooding.” Liranil was executed! She was an Idrian Soldier! Striker was killed! He was an Idrian Soldier! The cycle has begun! It will end at 2300hrs SGT (GMT+8) on the 18th July! Edited to add: @Danex is on an inactivity warning and will be filter-killed or replaced at the end of this cycle.

Cycle's closed! Please stop your posting and PMing, thank you!

Reminder: Slightly over fifty minutes left. You have decided. Haven't you?

Aww, if I come out of retirement for one of your games, remind me to RP in them

Sir, I promise you this is an extremely complicated QF and if it's not complex enough for you, you can ask my bro Wyrm for your money back

Rule Clarifications: Player List:

QF54: Day One - A Rendezvous With Destiny Orders came in from the new king. We were to march south. Not to the mountain passes that would defend the green slopes and mines of Idris from Hallendren incursion. We were to journey beyond that, into Hallendren-controlled territory. Into thick jungles that had been largely uncharted since the founding of old Hanald. By all accounts, the Chedesh tried, of course. They launched expeditions into the jungle. The jungle swallowed them all up. Every last one of them. In the end, they staked their claim on the bay of the Inner Sea, and built T’Telir along the shoreline. But the jungle still called to them. Tantalised them. They sent more expeditions in, seeking to conquer its expanse. Eventually, men returned, speaking of the flowers that grew deep in the jungle. Flowers of all sorts of bright colours, that when treated, made dyes that held fast no matter the cloth, that were more vivid than those of other plants. Today, Hallendren’s wealth is built on the dye trade. On these carefully-cultivated flowers, these Tears of Edgli. This was, of course, why our orders were to burn the Hallendren dye fields to the ground. The map we had intercepted from the Hallendren assassins in Bevalis contained crucial intelligence about the location of the dye fields. General Yarda had deployed some of his best scouts to identify the landmarks sketched out in the map. Our immediate objective was to rendezvous with them in the field, and then carry on with the mission. Any aid or intelligence, any information these scouts knew about the lay of the jungle would be critical to the success of our mission. And in turn, every last one of us who had been selected or volunteered for the mission knew that the future and continued existence of Idris hung in the balance. We were soldiers, loyal Idrians all. Sworn to bleed and to die for Idris, if we must. Or so we thought. They discovered the first body on the fifth day. What is it? Wryn signed. Kalsin frowned. They had been following the trail signs laid down painstakingly by the Idrian scouts who had gone before them. Kalsin had begun to suspect something was wrong, though he kept his thoughts to himself for the moment. A glance at Wryn showed the captain’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. The first set of trail signs had led them to a ravine, where the packhorses had nearly spooked. He’d assumed that the trail signs had been adjusted a little, perhaps by curious wildlife—he’d heard enough of the monkeys in the Hallendren jungle—but that didn’t explain the thick patch of mud, enough to mire a few of the horses. Or the fire ants. Or the time they’d lost circling back to make sure the markers were right. This was the lowlands, but Idrian trackers were trained to leave stable but subtle markers. Something about it felt wrong to him. Kalsin could not believe that scouts would make such mistakes, or fail to consider the needs of the following expedition. He knelt by the bole of the vine-strangled tree as the captain called the squad to a halt. He glanced at them with a frown. Privately, Kalsin found himself with his doubts about the integrity of the expedition. The jungle was not the place for a good horse, but the quartermaster Variel had insisted on bringing Dexan along. And then there was Taidon, a humble farmer, which he only supposed Wryn had selected in the event they needed someone who knew his way around the Hallendren dye fields. He wrestled with whether to argue with the decision. But Wryn was in charge of the expedition; Kalsin answered to him. It was pride, Kalsin decided, that made him question the worth of the other soldiers. General Yarda had not sent his handpicked elite. Instead, he’d deferred to Wryn’s judgement. Austre forgive him, it was not his place to think himself better, more worthy, than the others. And yet, Kalsin questioned Wryn’s judgement often enough. He thought of it as his job. Someone had to be the voice of reason here. They’d argued about that. Kalsin had wanted Wryn to draw from the ranks of the Copper Shields, the very best General Yarda had to offer. One Shield was worth five Lifeless, in Kalsin’s eyes, and a whole lot less blasphemous. He had always thought to see Wryn raised to the ranks of the Shields one day. “No,” Wryn had said, then. “Won’t work.” “Whyever not?” In response, Wryn raised an eyebrow and glanced meaningfully at the door and windows. “Even in the palace?” Kalsin demanded, aghast. “They killed King Gamlin,” Wryn said. “One does not simply kill a king.” “They were Awakeners,” Kalsin argued. He could imagine such blasphemies enabling them to slip past the guardsmen unnoticed and murder the king’s father in his sleep. Austre watch over us, Austre protect us, Austre call us home, he thought, as his thoughts went back to the terrible killing. “Awakeners are men. Die like men,” Wryn said. “No, think about it. The guards detected nothing. They knew where to find the king. They slipped into Bevalis without drawing attention. Bevalis, where you can’t sell a goat without being the subject of the day’s gossip. They had a safehouse. All of which points to careful groundwork and planning.” Kalsin couldn’t deny that there was sense in assuming that Hallendren had managed to severely compromise Idrian assets. He just wasn’t sure the answer was to select a complete mix of soldiers and whoever happened to show up at the palace and knock on Wryn’s door when the call went out. The scouts, at least, were some of Idris’s best trackers. Kalsin knew: he’d trained with them. Tracking in the heights though, was different from the lowland jungle. The heat raised a sheen of sweat on his skin, and the jungle seemed determined to resist their passage. There were paths, cut painstakingly over decades or even centuries by the Pahn Kahl; Wryn had elected to steer clear. Wise, Kalsin thought. The last thing they needed was the Hallendren seeing them coming. He frowned up at the very dead scout. Wilsa, he thought her name was. One of the best, with a tenacity that was legendary among the Idrian trackers. Dead now, tied up with vines, and her throat gaping. Not much blood here. She’d died elsewhere. She’d been dead for a while. Kalsin could tell that, too. He saw small squirming movement in the corpse and did not avert his gaze. She deserved as much. She’d done her best, and made the ultimate sacrifice for Idris, and Austre had called her home. Wryn let out a long breath as he took in the scene. “I don’t think this is what I was expecting,” he said, neutrally. Kalsin scoffed. “Pretty sure I wasn’t expecting this, either,” he said, lightly. “Figured it’d be a few wet miserable weeks in the jungle, we torch some plants, and we’re home and heroes. Doesn’t look like the Hallendren are going to make it that easy for us, I suppose.” “Yeah,” said Wryn, with a frown. “I don’t think so. Find us a place to make camp, some distance from here.” “Really?” “If she’s dead, who’s leaving the trail signs?” Wryn wanted to know. “Who’s changing the markers around? Someone doesn’t want the expedition to succeed, and I’d rather we not blunder about into the dark. Man can walk into a knife that way. Would be a pretty unpleasant way for the mission to end.” The trees rose all about them, impenetrable, dense, and forbidding. It was so noisy: wildlife chattering, and the call of birds, though always at a distance. Their presence ensured that the animals were kept at bay, though Kalsin had no doubt they’d have to worry about predators at night. Someone didn’t want the mission to succeed, Kalsin thought, and he met Wryn’s eyes. His thoughts went back to what they’d talked about, that day in the palace. Suborned Idrians. As awful, as unthinkable as the thought was, their mission had been clandestine enough. The selected soldiers hadn’t known of what was coming until after they had been selected, and General Yarda had briefed them all personally, in secret. Which meant that some of them were spies, in the pay of Hallendren. Or even worse: were Hallendren. Were soul-stealers, perhaps. Kalsin shuddered. Austre watch over us, he thought again, even as he went to see to Wryn’s orders. There had been a decent clearing a short while ago, near a quiet stream. He’d made a mental note of it. That might do, for the night. And then they’d work out what their next move was. “Do you ever wonder why we can’t remember, Hera?” “Being Returned by the Iridescent Tones is...an unusual experience, your Grace. I couldn’t say for sure, but it’s not uncommon for Returned to experience some curiosity about their past.” “I wonder, sometimes. I know, you all say it’s visions of the future, and premonitions, but I can’t help but wonder if what I’m seeing in my dreams are really glimpses of the past. Some form of memory, maybe. Mist, rising on a lake. Trees and ferns, jungle so dense you had to hack your way through with a sword… Are you really taking this down again, Hera?” “Your Grace, you know the theological position on this.” “Bah. Have it your way, Hera.” The cycle has begun and will end on at 2300hrs SGT (GMT+8) on the 17th July! Please be reminded that PMs are open and should include the GM. Do not include the IM as she doesn't want to be included Also, all relevant role PMs have been sent as I'm low-effort this game. If you have not received a PM from me by this point, you are Idrian.

And sign-ups are closed! Please come back in an hour for PMs to be dispatched.

Yeah. Work, school, etcetera. Twelve hours is just going to be way too tight. Justice never sleeps