Fantasy An Earthen Lament | IC

[Gowi]

IC Thread. Posting requires character approval in OOC.
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[Gowi]

Waldemar Meyer
Swamp Refuge, about two days from Hleów​

Waldemar Meyer was growing tired.

The travel through the swampland between Dalen’s Well and the approach toward Hleów was rough and arduous, but it saved on about six days of travel along the twisting highway that went southward toward uncharted lands.

Some had called him a fool for his ventures in the past, but not even he was dumb enough to try to brave the bog at nightfall. Fortunately, according to his map he had procured from an elven merchant, they were coming close to an old ruin where they could make camp for the night safely and securely. As a human he held no feelings about trudging over the lands of someones ancestors. He was a human from Dornwig, not an elf from some tree in the middle of the bog. The ruin was a practical place to make camp and so he was going to make camp there. Besides, it wasn’t like the opinions of elves ever mattered to him, so what did he care?

“Alright, you louts. We make camp here.”

He stated his remark as he pulled his horse to a stop, pulling his carriage full of trade goods into the old cracked stone that lie ahead.

Waldemar had eyed the building as they entered it, an old stone with elvish engravings and sculptures. He wondered often about the ancient elves at times, about how they could lose something as large as a kingdom. He never understood why the elves didn’t just rebuild and reinhabit what they used to have. But elves were even more superstitious than southern folk, as far as he could tell. He supposed the bright side of that superstitious character was that nobody around him would be privy to lose their wages just to tell him to get off their land or that he was breaking some ancient elven law. Not that he’d listen if they did but rather that he didn’t like hearing other people talk.

As the camp began to settle inside the ruin, he smirked, stroking his chin as he eyed his caravan hires. Perhaps it was an intentional decision on his part, but he was more than happy that the majority of those he had hired were good to look at. Female adventurers and mercenaries were wild things and generally were less common then men, a fact that made them more eager to accept an old merchant’s insults and advances. He continued to look each one of them over as he tied a tent down in the corner of the main area of the ruin. He wondered if he could convince one of them to resort to some extra coin, though considering the response of the blonde on the previous night it was probably unlikely. He was pretty sure she was as angry as she was disgusted when he suggested the offer. Perhaps one of the more humble creatures in the party would be more desperate? Everyone needed coin.

As one of them noticed his gaze he chuckled from across the room, waving as he did so.

Waldemar may have been a degenerate and a pervert, but at the end of the day he was also their boss. They had to put up with it.

 

[idalie]

Location: Ruins
Interactions: N/A
Mentions: N/A

Hunslaus K. Schwarzwald​

It was a simple enough job. He’d done worse for cheaper pay - as if that was anything to brag about. Hunslaus trudged through the soft, sinking patches of land, having bound his calves in woollen puttees to attempt negating the effects of the damp environment. He was the one who offered to take up the rear of the cart, hiking behind whilst the horse fought the pull of mud and unstable soil. When the sun reached its highest peak and began the downward descent to evening, Hun could only describe himself as damned thankful the day was drawing to a close. He’d done a couple of these shorter, albeit more demanding trips through the swamplands before. A pain in the ass but people liked cutting corners, whether it was safety, money, or time. Still, job was a job. For a fella pushing his forties, Hunslaus sure as hell didn’t let it show, not stopping to sit or whine, never a fan of getting too cosy with the other guards you got lumped with.

When their employer, the venerable sleazebag himself, decided to announce they move toward a sheltered set of ruins for camp, the mercenary was relieved and equally unnerved by his choice of where to pitch for the night. Those old places were imposing, shrouded in the shade of the tree canopy but nothing could prepare you for the strange unsettling chill. They reminded you of your mortality, of the fall of Kings and the scattering of people across lands they thought they knew.

He could say with confidence he didn’t have sympathies with the ruins, merely the deep-seated suspicions of the place they took refuge. Through the weathered archways and ragged masonry, they found themselves facing the old architecture, depictions of figures and written word lying beneath. Setting up his area beneath what remained of the tiled roof, Hunslaus returned his attention to building a small fire at the centre of the collective. His hands moulding around his mouth as he blew air into the base, embers glowing at each breath until the crackle and snap of rising flame. Only then, did he sit heavily on a fallen piece of wall and stretch his legs out. Unwinding the puttees to dry them, pulling his fur cloak closer and unbuckling the swords sheathe to lie it beside him. The hilt of the blade resting against his knee.

Schwarz took the respite to start packing the clay bowl of his pipe with thick, wrinkled shreds of tobacco. Bless the girls against the desperation of some fella needing to get laid was all he hoped, looking at the situation between the merchant and anything with tits. Using a piece of kindling that was aglow and lighting the love child bridging coffee and poppy seed, he huffed the bitter smoke. Observing his colleagues, Hun wondered how he'd managed to pick work with a man who had sourced a majority of female guards for his own perverted needs. It was odd, of that he was sure.

He supposed the sleazebag was a fan of capable women in vulnerable positions. Not that he'd often exert his will to give a flying fuck, but they were nice gals. Not the kind of elven whore you saw swinging about taverns for a tip. He'd hated them and the abominable shit goblins they called dwarves since the day he was supposed to die. 'Course, you felt bad for the halfies and the children, they didn't know what they were until they inevitably grew. They took work from the poor, cast their elven magic and cursed harmless people from the lowlands to the coasts. You say you heard a rumour and Hunslaus could give you ten back.

The puff of his pipe grew into a slow momentum, callused hands withdrawing a small, unfinished project from within his cloak. Size of his palm, pale wood block that had been roughly chipped on all sides to form a slight, misshapen hourglass. The flick of a knife and he was back to chipping and sawing, shavings falling by his feet. He supposed he was waiting. For something, anything, nothing. With a sniff, he flicked his boot, sending splinters into the orange glow in front of him. One hand freeing itself to itch his jaw, beard bristling against the invasive fingertips.

 

[Gowi]

Isobel Underwood
Swamp Refuge -- Setting Up Camp​

Isobel Underwood sighed as she knelt down over the center of camp, putting her hands to good use as she put together a relatively large campfire. Fortunately, the summer heat and rotting trees in the swamp around them had provided enough timber to make for the foundations of a good fire. The proprietor of this particular venture to Hleów was most definitely despicable, but at the same time she knew that at the end of the voyage he was going to pay them the rate he promised. However, the red-haired ranger was growing weary of the leering from the old merchant and she imagined some of the other hireswords were as well.

“Sodding twat.” She muttered under her breath as she moved a piece of kindling with a stick before looking over to her unraveled cooking tools to her side.

She had foraged some berries and herbs on the trip from Dalen’s Well, though she doubted she could do much. Outside of what she had picked up on the trail, she also had some trail rations though she knew her personal supply wasn't going to last for much longer. Maybe a week. She thought about using the assortment of dried meat for the group's sake, though if something were to happen and they didn't arrive in Hleów in two days she would've had to rely on hunting the creatures of the swamp and forest to get by. She was a handy enough hunter and angler, she supposed, though fishing at night was a far more difficult endeavor than doing so during the day. It was an option, at least. For the time being she sought to fry some of her rations to sate her appetite.

As she did so, Isobel's eyes looked around at the elven structure that had been decayed by time. She didn't like it. It felt... wrong... like someone was watching from beyond the veil, whispering in some arcane language that only her body could hear. Ever since the elves taught the first humans about magic it felt like the gods had cursed them. Necromancers, witches, abominations, corrupted men, aberrations, and demons; the things she could name that came from the dark side of sorcery were many in number. She didn't think much of northern magicariums but sometimes she felt the mages deserved to be locked up like prisoners before they did anything wrong. Her father and Ser Ewan had taught her better than to think well of indentured conscription, but on nights like this she could not help but feel the way she did.

She remembered what the old southron priestess had said when she became canonized in the north as a cleric. About how magic was wondrous, but too dangerous to allow to go unchecked. She was no follower of the light or its dawn, but there were things they believed that appeared to make some amount of sense. Isobel took another breath as she turned the fried meat over as smoke rose from the pot.

It would be only one night that they would rest here. She could endure that much.

“This place isn’t natural. I can feel it in my bones.”

 

[BELIAL.]

Location

Swamp - Elven Ruins

Interaction

Hun idalie Isobel Gowi

Stats

Health

Mana

Rowan Íshár_{the wily witch}

The woods were kind to the woman, more oft than not. She remembered the smell; the damp underfoot and blossoming scents of flora and fauna alike that weaved and webbed along a stream of breezes. She could consider it home, or rather had a long time ago. These were not the woods, and she had not seen the woods in a long time. The proper woods-- the woods of the North.

The South had its complexities, that was for sure. In her few years of dodging the higher power and whatever judicial beasts they sent, Rowan had found a semblance of peace. Perhaps this was because she was in control of her fate this time around. There were no shackles: figurative or what felt like literal at times, and she had nothing but the agency in her heart to guide her along a path. The question of what that path was... remained a question; but nevertheless Rowan enjoyed it! Let man rule himself, and let him find his way on his own! Far too many years were spent in that 'blessed' cage of a magicarium. Had she been a wild witch, as some alternative narrative may have ordained, her power would have been unstoppable.

For now, she lingered among her fellow mortals. Rowan knew she was one of them, when the egoistic potential in her veins weren't blowing smoke and kisses up her ass, because of how tired her thighs were from the trudges through these marshes. Guarding was a lucrative side-job, that was for sure. This wasn't her first time, but like most times after one's first, it never was the best. Still, the job paid and the experiences were timeless. Connections made would be beneficial in the long run, and sometimes someone friendly showed up out of the mix. Sometimes.

This was not one of those times.

Sure, there were a few of the more kind looking faces (Rowan saw complacency in most people, granted they hadn't a blade up to her neck), but it had been a long time since she saw a Knight-Inquisitor before. The dreaded bastards, the hungry watchdogs of the magicariums. Her skin had nearly blistered at the sight; some fear remaining that the phylactery she had stolen and shattered so long ago had still produced a traceable amount. And yet, nothing provocative had happened yet. It wasn't as if Rowan made sure to smother her abilities completely, but she didn't flaunt her status as a rebel refuge either. As long as she stayed, cresting along the insignificant, she'd be fine.

Their arrival at the ruins, winking at her from the throngs of ash and oak trunks, sent a newfound shiver through the woman's system. For so long she'd desired to be at a place just like this-- take a nap, fall into a trance... anything to consort with whatever forces lay dormant. It enticed her, and the way her gaze kept flickering over to it made her realize she perhaps the only person with the same feelings. They entered, and Rowan felt another shiver run through her. Everyone else was camped about and begrudgingly glaring at their rest for the night. Rowan was listless in her own skin to investigate. It called to her, and she figured herself perhaps the only one competent and capable enough to respect the arcane history left behind.

The blonde fingered her hair, biting her lip as she stood a foot or two behind the squatters. Isobel made a comment, and Rowan could have agreed to keep up an impression of magic-aversion, but she could not. Finally, she burst. "Oh, I don't know...old...dilapidated shacks like these are probably harmless. Maybe some spiders, large ones. Bigger than you I imagine," she said, leaning forward and hanging over Hun, smoking from his pipe. "I wonder, do you carve when you're anxious? Everything is dead here." If they are, that's what's most exciting. If they aren't, well, that's even more exciting.

The ruins vibrated with energy, and Rowan felt her soul try and sing along. She could wax poetic, if the others gave a damn, about sacred places such as these. She racked her brain, trying to find some history lesson discarded in a corner of her furtherst, magicarium memory.

 

[Gowi]

Isobel Underwood
Swamp Refuge -- Cooking, Conversation​

Isobel rose a brow at the blonde's comments about not worrying about their surroundings save for some spiders.

“If this a shack, I’d hate to see what you believe to be a castle.” She quipped before her comrade-in-arms changed her attention to the larger, less perverted man in the group.

As she thought about the ruins, Isobel moved her knife into the meat she had placed in her pot, the smell of fried swine filling the air as she added another few pieces of dried meat into the pot as she took a bite from the one that had finished cooking.

Elven structures were far more extravagant than that humans made. Had they wandered too far from the main hall they had set camp upon the chance they could get lost quite easily. Her late mentor had often spoke of elven ruins as unquestionably dangerous and she had remembered that lesson to this day. Such places attracted unwanted attention due to how thin the veil was in such places and that wasn’t accounting for bandits and cultists. Isobel had many experiences from the latter in elven ruins during her lifetime of being a scavenger and hireling, so she knew it all too well. Bad places attracted worse people and worser things.

And this was a bad place. She was no mage, but her natural instincts were rarely wrong.

As far as she could figure it, it was only a matter of time before something happened. She just hoped it was something that didn't result in her not getting paid. The supplies she had already used would put her at loss if the whole job turned belly-up, though she admittedly was already beginning to formulate a plan in case something happened to Waldemar. That aside, she would still do her job and protect the man, as she had promised to do in Dalen's Well. Once she was done eating she would ask someone if they wanted to do some scouting, see if they could get a good handle of the ruins and the lands around it. Isobel had never been in this part of the marshlands before and it was always a good idea to know where you could get flanked from. A basic principal of surviving the marshlands and the world in general. One of the first lessons she had learned from Aldon.

Until she was ready to scout, however, she supposed she would just partake in the conversations around her.

 

[idalie]

Location: Ruins
Interactions: Gowi BELIAL.
Mentions: N/A

Hunslaus K. Schwarzwald​

Hun glanced briefly at the nearby remark, one of the girls making their feelings heard about the ruins. “You start lettin’ buildin’s dictate feelin’s and we might have a problem.” Mumbled the mercenary, husky from tobacco and hushed with an air of keeping his business to himself.

Of course, places like these were dangerous, a born and raised Southerner would know that. As a child, his mother was adamant that he should stay away from them, the risks too high to contemplate losing a child; instead she elected to tell tales that her own mother had passed down, ones where nobody made it home in time for tea. Such tales were told to all in the town, children whispering of what they thought the truth was. Occasionally, you had the brave, stupid examples every generation that went missing. Sometimes they were found in pieces, more often than not, they had simply vanished without a trace.

He’d been hired a couple of times to clear out bandits and beasts that had made their homes in the shell of civilisation. You got used to it, as long as you had a thick skin when it came to the strange, dissociative and unfamiliar pull of old magic. Just another reason to not trust those knife-eared fucks. Whatever they said, the lasting effects on the ruins made him sure that their magic was born to be disruptive in nature. It only worsened his predisposed hate of the race. The elegant, downtrodden people who were seen through the mercenary’s paranoid and angry gaze. They were criminals wandering free, the sort to take advantage of your sisters and mothers. More than once he’d been thrown from a tavern for starting fights with elves who looked at him the wrong way - whether or not they meant it, it made him feel better.

Schwarz ended up smirking to himself when the blonde described the crumbling place as more of a shed, dry humour a stark difference between her and the other woman. Hunslaus, wasn’t quite prepared for her sociable, sarcastic attitude when it ended up focusing on him instead.
A scowl bunched his brows together, “I wonder if you talk shit when you’re anxious? Everythin’ is pretty alive, now I'm lookin’ around.” Hun replied, putting the small carving down. Still not quite having taken its shape, but getting a little closer to that of a person.

He removed the smouldering pipe from his lips, pointing it towards Rowan, "But forgive my attitude, you sound like you're almost excited to be stuck in the middle of the swamplands with this place as your bed and breakfast." Hunslaus wryly inquired, intrigued to how the blondie seemed more at ease than the others - himself included.

 

[McMolly]

Frei Iordan
Location: Elven Ruins​

Frei was discovering that, in many ways, the southron land was a stingy place. It was generous enough with the dirt, mud and dark, but in return, it hoarded things like fresh air, blue skies, and most precious of all, light. She wasn’t the sort to complain, in fact, she liked to think of herself as embracing the change in scenery. The south may not have been “clean” per se, but it had its own kind of…charm. It was the antithesis to the north. It was an example of aging ungracefully, but that wasn’t disparaging. There was beauty in ruin, and, importantly, there were lessons to be learned from it. She’d come to think of her voyage here as just that: a lesson. She was learning, not just about traversing the swamps, but the history of a broken land. It was an opportunity.

She did still miss the light, though.

On days like these, following long and difficult lessons, she longed for Eiel. The ivory towers, the winged steeples and long, marbled walkways. Brisk air that soothed the lungs and left her with gooseflesh. Friends. Family.

What family.

The others were talking—or were they arguing? Frei frowned. Thus far the job had been going quite well, albeit quietly. No one had been at anyone’s throats, and while she’d heard a few mutterings against their lascivious employer, it had seemed like they would all get through without incident. Sure, she might have preferred a warmer troupe, but a quiet and effective one was acceptable too. As that solitude began to ripple, Frei considered her more lively companions as she was meant to: with scrutiny and a caution, appraising them like an Inquisitor ought to.

The superstitious girl by the fire was local, surely. She’d brought a myriad of weapons with her, and Frei got the sense that she was handy with each of them. That alone leavened her suspicion somewhat. It was a general rule—though not without exception—that mages tended not to be so heavily armed, especially the escapees. Long-time rogues might have managed some degree of expertise with a sword or bow, but fresh fugitives, having spent however many years in their magicariums armed with nothing sharper than a quill, would likely travel lightly.

By the same logic she dismissed the whittler, though his age also assuaged her. The people she hunted tended to be young, or those who were older tended to be less…battered, than this man was. He had scars, and mottled skin, and in the firelight she glimpsed the roughness of his hands. She’d seen few mages with callouses like his, and the steadiness of his carving led her to believe that he’d carried the hobby for some time. Mages, she thought, shouldn’t have time for hobbies.

Lastly for the moment, there was the other girl. Most concerning of the troupe thus far. Frei hadn’t even noticed the bow, it didn’t matter. The staff the girl carried, that mattered. Walking sticks were common enough in the south, she supposed, but this was no fallen branch. Slivers of silver ran the length, and though the shape was simple, the care given to carving and engraving it bespoke purpose. Foci came in a variety of shapes and sizes, and to assume an unordinary trinket to be one was to jump to a dangerous conclusion. Smart mages—or perhaps just the ones who lived long enough—tended towards inconspicuous foci, according to her father. Rings and amulets, worn in abundance to compensate for their small size, bracers, earrings, anklets. Frei had read that some mages had donned full suits of armor runed to act as foci. For all Frei knew, the staff was an heirloom, or perhaps it really was just for defense, and she was that adept with it. Red flags and red herrings were easy to confuse if you looked too closely. Sometimes you had to step back, and consider the context. You didn’t plant flags in water, and you didn’t catch herrings on land. It was unlikely that the girl was a mage, because why should a young, possible escapee, accept work protecting a convoy?

Nevertheless, Frei slipped on her own focus—a small, silver band with an opal set into it. To the ley man it would seem like a trinket, but a mage might see it for what it was. Or they might not. It was a riskless maneuver, but if it helped signal her as trustworthy to a mage, then it was worth keeping it on.

“It’s shelter,” Frei interjected,, gently, as the whittler seemed to reel himself in. “It’s even intriguing shelter, wouldn’t you say?”

She rose up, her pack and bedroll sequestered in one of the unlit corners. She left her short sword with her things, but kept her longsword strapped to her hip. It was a knight’s weapon, of fine quality, though the sheath was a raggedy leather thing. She opted to keep on her armor for the time being, though the thin, rounded plates about her shoulders and forearms were dull, reflecting little of the firelight.

Frei suspected that someone might want to delve further into the ruins, if she seemed inclined to join them. She’d heard a few folk tales about these old, elven lurks, and while she wasn’t sure she believed many of them, it seemed to her a disservice not to at least inspect the place for fouler magics.

 

[BELIAL.]

Location

Swamp - Elven Ruins

Interaction

Hun idalie Isobel Gowi Frei McMolly

Stats

Health

Mana

Rowan Íshár_{the wily witch}

Rowan pursed her lips, gazing over at Isobel by the fire. Hearing the woman’s words, she wondered if all superstitious southerners were quite so impervious to humor when it came to wetting their pants about such remnants of history. What remained were beautiful, dangerous remnants of a superior time. And yet, with the elves that persisted as reminders of what once was, there was still a distaste for them. Rowan, herself, held no bias-- she had no time nor energy for it. For both sides of the map, she could never figure how the hate for such an ancient, and intriguing culture and race could be so venomous. Did it truly come from fear? Was it not possible, Rowan mused, to admire what scares you?

“A castle is a cage, but one painted pretty,” she loftily replied to the brunette, a small smile finding her face. Rowan rarely had qualms with people, no matter the language she presented.

She moved back from Hun as he spoke, placing a hand on her waist and gazing back into the fire. For the briefest of moments she thought she could hear a voice… a low whisper, but some voice nonetheless gasping from the flames. The blonde bit her cheek but did not otherwise give away the blip in attention, focusing back again on the large man with a smile on her face.

“Alive, of course, as the bugs and insects come home to loving wives each evening,” she said and chose not to address the other comment. No, of course she wasn’t anxious. The blonde was as brave as she could be considered stupid for it, and preferred that bull-headed quality of hers and the ease it gave in the long run. Fear made you vulnerable, and that was when you let it win. As a mage, she was trained in matters involving willpower. Keep it strong and keep your wits at all times; lest a demon or spirit sing songs of martyrdom and all-consuming power, and all be caught in the crossfire.

“But forgive my attitude, you sound like you're almost excited to be stuck in the middle of the swamplands with this place as your bed and breakfast,” he said and Rowan let out a little laugh. She refused to sit.

“Excited? Nay for the swamplands but this place is… curious. It fascinates me more than it scares me… the concept of time marching by, taking bits of this place with it… but the ancient elves having made sure that they, and the veil, protected their secrets. There is history here, as deconstructed as it would appear,” she broke to shake herself from really laying down on the others about this place. Her knowledge was deep, but it was not rooted in the same traditionalist and personal experience that the others seemed to have. Rowan was a researcher, and in this moment she felt most in-tune with her arcane roots. The ruins called to her, and while she’d rather investigate on her own, she knew better than to risk being killed by ancient traps or deemed treacherous by the group around her.

She looked over at the woman who spoke, eyebrows quirking up to hear such a neutral, if vaguely positive, response. This time, Rowan was able to control her limbs and sit down. The mage grinned wildly. “Intriguing indeed! Sure, a little bit terrifying to the unseen eye-- but don’t you worry, I do have my big stick.” Rowan reached to slap her wooden staff in her hands, giving another look over to the woman with the armor and the longsword.

Rowan hadn’t missed the slipping on of a focus, and while she didn’t outwardly start pointing fingers and spewing rebel rhetoric, she had an inkling in her gut that there was something divine and clerical lurking in the woman. Of course, if she was thinking that, then there was no doubt that the woman was thinking the same about Rowan. Neither slipped or spilled, and that buoyancy was reassuring. Besides, she could be imagining it.

A shadow darted across one of the many hallways, off to the side. Rowan’s head perked at the abnormality, whipping over to it. She stared into the dark for a moment, squinting. Probably just an illusion from the fire.

 

[Gowi]

Isobel Underwood
Swamp Refuge -- Cooking, Conversation​

“That’s a bit mor’ than a stick, isn’t it?” Isobel mused out loud as she looked at the woman’s staff.

The silver veins were inscribed into the rich oak frame—a common trait of wayfarers who were magically inclined like the crazed hermits who inhabited the many forests of the southern reaches. It was not as obvious as an elven erwydd, sure, but it was a staff made with some kind of magical sense involved. Silver was a warding metal that was said to cast away evil spirits and any magic cast from its magical essence was pure and holy as the dawn that the northron inquisitors worshiped. There was no way a mage had parted with such a thing or a merchant like Waldemar had scooped up something to sell at cost to a northron refugee who likely was about as wealthy as she was. Staves were expensive, niche items. Beating sticks didn't have inscriptions of silver.

So, as far as she could tell, there were only one of two assumptions to make; the blonde was either a mage or had stolen from one. Neither was an option that Isobel particularly liked, though one was clearly more favorable than the other.

“Hope the malefacar you stole it from doesn’t want it back.”

Her follow-up comment had come no less than a few moments later, as she flipped another piece of meat in the pot. Her expression was blank. Neither expressing concern or fear. Just a glance of blankness from a woman with long shadows underneath her eyes.

 

[Lekiel]

Talaith Glasshand
Ruins of our Ancestors​

Agar naa ulue no' sina kemen. . . lle waara lye aina' ndor. . .

Beastskin boots sank into soft moist earth as a hooded figure paused mid-stride, just shy of a time-worn slab of stone on the ground. Standing on the precipice, hesitant to cross the marked threshold. It would've gone unnoticed by most. Covered by the earth and broken into a mere shard of the once large center street tile it once was. Perhaps it had been a centerpiece of an extravagant gateway to a hallowed city. Now it merely served to mark the beginning of a forsaken place. The hood shifted as if the shrouded woman was considering something peculiar that caught her attention. Voices echoed out from a ruined building, marking the presence of the party she was a part of. It was not far from where she stood.

Not far... but far enough.

Disembodied whispers susurrated on the wind, bringing an unwelcome yet familiar chill to her nape. Pale fingers tightened their grip on the carved ivory handle of a long hunting knife. In the other hand, she clutched a couple of marsh tubers. Dinner for the evening.

lle waara lye aina' ndor!

The warnings were harsh, no doubt the rest hadn't perceived it. Or mayhap they had chosen to ignore it. The venom in the accusations were almost palpable and it drew a bitter taste of iron in her palate. But she didn't have to step on cursed soil to hear the whispers of angry ghosts. They flitted behind her eyes in jaded memories.

"Horweth vana yassen amin." She whispered a blessing under her breath, before stepping forwards across the threshold. If there was any measure of doubt left, it was no longer apparent in her purposeful strides.
TL: Horweth vana yassen amin - Horweth walk with me.

The Tylwyth Teg adjusted the black scarf that masked the lower half of her face before she stepped into the shell of a building where the rest congregated. She held no illusions that such a mask prevented them from knowing that she was born of scum. They would be clearly daft not to know it from her size, lilting accent and almond-shaped slate gray eyes that stared out from under her hood. But there was a certain segment of society that often liked to mask their visages. If donning such a garment enhanced the perception that she was some measure of rogue, then she would gladly keep up the guise. After all, all knife-ear scum were thieving bastards anyway. Best to wear her colours proudly.

Their patron for the week looked up from his corner of the room when she stepped in, offering a wave when he saw her gaze shift in his direction.

"I thought we were making camp at the edge of the forest. I didn't know you were actually thinking of stepping in." Talaith remarked simply, as if she were commenting about the weather. She obliged the merchant a scant moment of attention before heading to an unoccupied space and set her spoils for the evening down. Marsh ocas, each was easily the size of a child's head. Working quickly and methodically with her blade she removed the large segments of the fat tubers, cutting away poison-filled vacuoles. At the center pith, was a slimy membraneous bag filly with a greenish starch substance. Marsh oca hearts, sacs of potent poison. Not quite fatal, but excruciatingly painful. These she set aside on some leaves for later use. Flicking her blade around to the blunt end, she scraped the tuber's bittersweet fleshy cortex.

She was acutely aware of the smattering of conversation going on. But as she listened in, her ears began prickling at the cordial remarks tinged with subtle undertones. Humans had a certain sense of humour that she was still getting used to. The Tylwyth Teg were more homogenous in mannerisms, for good or bad, at least where her clan was concerned. Perhaps this was why she found observing the more rambunctious folk a rather interesting and sometimes amusing pastime; even if she was constantly prejudiced upon.

"Would you like some?" She offered some of the vegetable paste on a leaf to the merchant. She stretched out her left hand to him, one which was covered in black wraps. She was quite aware of his unsavory mannerisms but being who she was by birth, putting up with less than ideal people was the norm.

 

[Gowi]

Waldemar Meyer
Swamp Refuge, about two days from Hleów​

The older merchant licked his lips, as he looked over the scarfed woman who was offering him some sort of plant paste.

For a moment, he looked over the paste before shaking his head. “Nay. I ain’t no elf.”

Even in survival situations, Waldermar had little interest in plant life. While the scarfed woman and the raven-haired huntress had shown themselves useful on the trail, he had no interest in their berries or leaves. Though he had considered feigning interest to get them closer to his tent. Even if the former was a knife-earred exile. Not even a scarf could hide that fact from him. He had gathered enough information in Darrow when he gathered the group together to know who was who and that he hadn’t made a decision with personal interests completely in mind. He took a puff from his pipe, before chuckling, inching closer toward the scavenger.

“The only thing I’d like is you. In my tent. Before sunrise.”

Waldemar was not a subtle man. But it had not been the first time he had asked one of the women if they would like to join him, with or without extra coin being part of the suggestion. The previous night he had suggested it to the huntress and the night before the blonde. Tonight it was her turn for such advances.

 

[idalie]

Location: Ruins
Interactions: Gowi BELIAL. Lekiel
Mentions: Cassie Lang McMolly

Hunslaus K. Schwarzwald​

Hunslaus hunched his shoulders, achy hands interlocking with their repetitive fidgeting. His thumb dug into the wrinkles of his palm, clawing his fingers around the digit as he stared sullenly into the flicker of the campfire. Conversation, contributed by the agreeable members of the group had been struck up - he only shared in part of the back and forth. It was Rowan’s description of the place that intrigued him, she was more than just some lowly sellsword. An educated woman perhaps? Of course, as well-travelled as the profession he represented was, you didn’t get those wordy comments - flamboyant, almost. Nor hands that soft. Whilst the blonde had worn them in, scratches and red calluses gave away their recent introduction to hard labour.

It wasn’t only his observations that were directed, for the other women around camp had made the same assumptions of hidden identity. Unless it was a bounty he’d been set on the trail of, Schwarzwald didn’t think to wonder. People ran, it was their nature when things got rough. You didn’t dare ask a woman's age, let alone her suspicious and perhaps volatile past. That remained bedroom talk, swiftly forgotten and tucked back under several layers of hazy trauma.

“A stick is a stick,” Hun grunted, grabbing his sword still in its sheath. “Maybe if ye meet that mage, you can shove it up his arse.” The mercenary continued to get up, standing now with impressive height to wander for a bit. “I’m goin’ for a walk.” His gaze shifted momentarily toward the small, elven woman who was the subject of Meyer’s advances. Sickening to watch, perhaps more elf magic at play - or Meyer really was stooping that low for a roll in the hay. Considering the actions of his employer throughout the journey, he suspected that for once, it might be the latter.

He couldn’t say exactly when he’d hated elves. His father had been wary of them when it came to business, but other than that, Hun had played with the sons and daughters of domestics. He wasn’t sure why they made his skin crawl or the cruel whispers that said they could read minds and hex children to be malformed. How the dwarves hoarded money and the knife-eared hags dragged humanity through the mud. Their age meant nothing. For a race that old, had been twisted by the laws of nature itself. Yet he repeated those thoughts, more often than not you could ask him to explain himself and the rhetoric would spill from the mouth of likewise citizens. Ill-taught, or rather, taught the lessons of lesser minds.

It was easy to spread fear through those who feared everything. For who had lost their children to sickness, their husbands to work, wives to birth, harvests to famine. Crime bred, hatred and blame took hold. It was something physical, something nearby to see and direct loss. Scapegoats of a Kingdom.

“Meyer - ain’t even an elf want that sorta punishment. Keep dreaming ‘til you pay the next brothel to go anywhere near that diseased cock of yours.” The comment was made in passing, travelling further toward the jagged shadows left by fallen walls. Footsteps hitting and missing the slabs of stone, where half the floor had been carpeted by moss. Still able to make out detail even in the evening light, Hun ventured toward the archways that lead into the rest of the structure. There, it was darker. Colder, unnaturally so. But you might call it stubborn bravado which let his hand rest on the old masonry. Good build, but left him numb in his fingers. Like pins and needles which shot up his arm, vanishing as soon as it’d been recognised.

Into the ruins Hun went. Stretching his legs, or so he had insinuated.

 

[BELIAL.]

Location

Swamp - Elven Ruins - Going Deeper

Interaction

Hun idalie Isobel Gowi

Stats

Health

Mana

Rowan Íshár_{the wily witch}

The staff had been Rowan’s for years now, since she made her escape from the magicarium so long ago. While she had held the old Enchanter, whom she had known so fondly, beneath her blood-stained hands, the wretch had tried to reach for her staff. Rowan, in her tear-stained revelation of betrayal, had dashed the old woman’s head on her desk and then made off with the Enchanter’s staff. She remembered years of idolizing the wood, and the silver inlaid and blessings that perfumed it. It represented all that had been built up, a preconceived strength of relationship between her and a mentor. It was beautiful and powerful.

Now, it was Rowan’s.

The blonde gazed curiously at the brunette, stirring her pot so diligently and conversing so morosely. “Hope the malefacar you stole it from doesn’t want it back,” Isobel said. Rowan snorted with a half-breath, thinking back to the blood-shot eyes of the Enchanter.

“Definitely doesn’t,” the blonde remarked.

She looked over at the slightly late arrival of the sole elf of the party; a pretty, short thing. All it took was Rowan’s gaze to flicker over at the lecherous, longing consideration of Waldemar to the elf to set her mood off. She recalled all too vividly the older man’s proposition a couple nights prior. While Rowan was as laidback as a mage on the run could be, and she hadn’t been one to turn down sexual advances before (from either sex), there was something dehumanizing to bed with someone so...desperate. Where was the thrill? Rowan craved interesting things, and intellectual stimulation. She so doubted that Waldemar could produce any stimulation, let alone the sort that interested intellectual women such as herself.

“A stick is a stick,” Hun said, causing Rowan’s gaze to snap up to the standing man. “Maybe if ye meet that mage, you can shove it up his arse.” She let a laugh spill out, amused by the language as well as the context that only she would know. He then announced he’d be going for a walk, which piqued the mage’s interest. She had almost suggested a small group head out to explore the bits of the ruins, at least to make sure there were no bandits or outlandish monsters waiting for the cover of sleep to take advantage of the travelers. And, well, it had also been the start of a great excuse for Rowan to investigate the ruins. Maybe take some scribbles in her spellbook (toward the back, for observations and whatnot). Besides, she had a strange feeling of the place… something that she considered to be only be quelled by engaging in the curiosity.

She stood up a bit slowly, not wishing to fully divulge her scholarly intents, and watched Hun’s brief exchange to the merchant. Once again, the annoyance and disgust she felt resurfaced, and a trip into the darkness did seem to be the immediate remedy to such an ailment.

“Oh, I’ll come with you. Big stick, remember?” She called after, gathering a few of her more immediate things. Of course, the staff was tightly held in her fingers and she beat it once again into the other palm for emphasis. Hustling into a bit of a jog, she felt a chill descend her spine. This had been where she saw the shadow only seconds ago. It registered as such in her brain, but she pushed the feeling aside for now.

Joining Hun in his stride, she cast long glances alongside the walls of the ruins. It was growing darker, and Rowan wondered if the elves had set up a sort of arcane light-system (some veilfire perhaps). That would take some investigating, but for now she simply tapped her staff on the ground and a couple times; a thick, torch-like flame emitted from the top and set even longer shadows around the two. She wondered if anyone else would tag along.

“It’s a parlor trick, for sure,” she gestured to the very real flames coming out of the staff. She grinned at the big man. Her gaze suddenly caught on a raised, hellish-toned bit of skin at the nape of his neck. Only some of it was visible, but it was enough for Rowan to deduce a brand of sorts. She furrowed her brows. “Tell me, if I may inquire… is that a brand on your neck? I don’t think I’ve noticed it before-- and well, it’s not often to see someone out of slavery with branding. You’re not a sex slave are you?”

Half-serious and half-ludicrous, the blonde let her eyes swim back over to the tall halls of the ruins. The stone was cracked under a few archways and at the hinges of some doors -- shut tightly, of course. There were a few holes in the roof as well, letting peeks of night slip through and illuminate bands on the floor. Once again, Rowan began to hear whispers; growing louder, even.

She continued on speaking, a little more nervous than before. “I mean, if you are a sex slave I would not judge, and it would make perfect sense why you’re the lone meatpie in a camp full of...whatever we are. Women, I suppose.” She gave him another reassuring smile, dampening the coaxing of her comments with a cushion of humour.

 

[Cassie Lang]

Pippin Merryweather
Swamp Refuge -- Conversation​

This trip reeks of a foul odor.

Whilst it was certainly optimal for Pippin to reach Hleów as quick as she could, the warden found herself skeptical, to say the least. Skeptical of her party; of the path they were taking; of the merchant whose caravan she was supposed to guard until they reached Hleów. Perhaps her thoughts and worries were simply playing into her southron superstitions, but it was clear as day that this was no ordinary road trip through the untamed marshes.

And yet, here Pippin was, resting in the hidden marsh-covered ruins of elven society surrounded by peculiarities such as an elf, a pervert, and a woman carrying around a bizarre staff inlaid with silver.

The staff. Just a mere glimpse at it tempted Pippin to act; to leap into action and draw her sword! But she knew better. What proof did Pippin have to act upon, other than a staff of wood and silver? The light-haired woman had yet to cast a spell in front of Pippin's eyes, nor had she seemed to give any inkling that she was a mage.

For now, it was simply an idol, taunting the already irritable warden, who despised the thought of magic running freely in her homeland. When the sellsword left for the ruins with the staff's owner by his side, however, a wave of uncertainty befell the warden, who promptly stood up from the rock she had taken to to rest. Just as she had her doubts about the path they were on, she doubted that they weren't just going on a walk through ancient now-whispering ruins.

"I'll check the perimeter. You never know what might happen in ruins like these. It might just be cursed, and people may disappear." Pippin announced not to anyone in particular, though her gaze soon fell upon the ranger, who was busy cooking a stew of sorts. "Care to join me?"

 

[Gowi]

Isobel Underwood
Swamp Refuge -- Cooking, Conversation​

The ranger rose a brow as the blonde and bearded man wandered away from camp, deeper into the ruins instead of remaining near their patron.

They had all been hired to guard Waldemar, so rushing off without communicating properly seemed a very strange decision in her view. But then again, Hunslaus was a very strange and impulsive one. He had taken point on most of the journey following their divergence from the old southern highway, acting as if he was the leader of the group of guards. It was due to this that Isobel had been hired outside of Darrow she wondered if he was Waldemar's younger brother due to the way he carried himself. She was certain Waldemar would’ve said something had he not been trying to convince the smaller woman—whom some members had suspected to be an elf of some sort—to his bedroll. But it was not Isobel's place to chase after him or the blonde-haired woman who chased after him with steep interest.

As she contemplated the thought, she was broken from it by the voice of the taller brunette whom was speaking of scouting the perimeter to most likely check for traps and strange magicks.

“Aye. We shouldn’t travel too far, though.” She responded as she moved the pot from the fire before standing up and collecting her things she had set down from her personal area. “Wouldn't want anything bad happening to our patron on our watch.”

Isobel took a light breath, hoping that the two who went deeper into the ruin weren't going to wake something up that would've liked to remain sleeping. How many jobs had they done to be that reckless? In all of her years surviving on the fringe of the marshlands she had never known people she worked with to chance things by exploring ruins without consideration, but then again Waldemar had carted them all from desperate situations in Darrow so she couldn't be really all that surprised. She bit her lips for a moment, a slight hesitation that the taller woman would have noticed as she peered toward the archway that Hunslaus and the blonde had traveled toward before vanishing into the deeper, darker parts of the elven ruin. There was something in the air, as there always was about these places, and it continued to bother Isobel. She did not want to have to traverse the ruin to bury the corpses of her traveling companions.

Isobel turned away from the direction of the arch, looking toward the way they had traveled from—toward the swamp-water and old oak trees. She supposed a patrol around the exterior was the wisest course of action.

“Lead on.”

 

[McMolly]

Frei Iordan
Location: Elven Ruins​

The place had emptied out quickly.

Frei remained where she stood, watching as the squirrely, staff-wielding girl took off to catch up with the whittler. She frowned, but didn’t follow—there would be other opportunities to divine her true nature, either before or after they reached Hleow. A part of her was still concerned, not for her chase, but for the girl’s own safety. If there was indeed something to fear inside these ruins, as some of her companions seemed convinced, she worried that sparkling, eager disposition wouldn’t be enough to get her out of danger. Still, the whittler seemed to know the ruins, and himself, well enough. If he’d deigned it safe to travel in on his own, he could likely look after the girl, too.

Two of the other travelers, the moody cook and the soldierly woman, were quick to go as well. Frei couldn’t argue with the patrol, it was a smart call. They’d all seemed so worried about the danger within the ruins, that she’d neglected to consider the dangers without. She briefly thought of joining them—what use was she just sitting around, while the others put themselves in potential danger?—but realized that, with everyone gone, the only ones who remained in camp were herself, Waldemar, and the elven woman.

Damn, but she couldn’t help herself.

Frei approached the merchant and the elf, who had generously offered some of her…well, Frei supposed it was food, only to be met by Waldemar’s dry, lecherous advances. She took a seat closer to the elf, unstrapping her sword to let it rest against her shoulder, and eyed Waldemar flatly. Not meanly, per se—Frei had been told bluntly and often that she couldn’t convey much meanness even when she was angry—but more to meet him flat-on. Despite his baseness, he was still a merchant, which meant he had to understand business to some degree. Sure, he could continue to rudely pursue the elf, but was it worth making a scene if she rebuffed him? Or if, say, one of his own guards interjected? She didn’t think so, and she hoped he didn’t either.

Waldemar hadn’t propositioned her, thankfully, and she was doubtful that he would. Back home, people had often said that Eila had gotten the looks, and Frei the luck. They weren’t wrong, really. She’d been called many things; androgynous, blocky, even outright mannish, but never pretty. And perhaps that was for the best. Southron folk tended to think of northerners as fops, overly concerned with their appearances from garb to makeup. The further from the stereotype, the easier to blend in, and the better for her chase.

“Well,” Frei said warmly to the elf, as if Waldemar had vanished into the air. “Suppose someone ought to look after the camp. I don’t believe I’ve gotten your name yet. I’m Frei.”

 

[idalie]

Location: Ruins
Interactions: BELIAL.
Mentions: N/A

Hunslaus K. Schwarzwald​

The mercenary didn’t manage to get far before Rowan caught up, calling out her adopted punchline. The company was welcome, if not rather too talkative for his initial plans of a lone meander. Still, Blondie proved more helpful than she let on as they delved further into the dark. Igniting a torch from nothing, the fire illuminated where they stood, throwing shadows up the walls which stretched and waned in the flicker. He arched his brows in disbelief, “Just don’t let either of us go up in smoke, or I’ll start complainin’ to whichever circus you escaped from.” The gist of his words were filled with that familiar sentiment, one that preferred to give people their privacy. Quite the opposite of the mage it would seem.

Rowan’s interrogation and assumptions of his brand were humorous, yet Hun brought his hand to his neck reactively. Rubbing the rough and ragged skin; his features soured. He might have preferred being a sex slave, sounded like a better career than the one he had at least. All in jest, he huffed, “Nah, but a sex slave in a camp of beautiful ladies sounds like a late-night read,” Cracking a crooked smile, the first of the night - his teeth partially bared with the wonky incisors, finally making use of the faint lines in his face which highlighted his mouth and eyes. “Keep guessin’. You won’t like the answer.”

Within the brand, half disguised by the collar of his tunic and thick furs that layered his shoulders, symbols intertwined. Murderer, rapist, slave. He had survived death, yes, but to comply with his life spared from the hangman's noose he was labelled a danger. Branded men were never free men. Not entirely. These days his freedom was followed by threat, for even then, years passing with little danger - save for a bounty hunter on occasion - there was still a chance he might finish what he started. Swinging from the end of a rope.

That lovely merchant's daughter had made such a noise he couldn’t forget it even then. It was a gasp like her breath had been stolen, followed by a shriek. Yet when she landed, it wasn’t loud. A soft crunch. Hun couldn’t recall what she looked like, nor the colour of her eyes, but her lips had been the colour of rosebuds. Her hair, he was sure it had been blonde, or perhaps it was brown? What had she been wearing?

All Schwarz could remember was that silence. How they had chased down the hill, lingering over her body. It had still been warm. Her cheeks were pink. But there wasn’t anyone home, not by a long stretch. They called for the town physician and by that time, Hun was dragged off to his prison cell. He oft wondered whether if she had lived, would it be the girl he'd of wedded against all odds? Or a familiar face who would pass every so often, arm in arm with a happy husband.

Murderer. Defiler. The charges became mantra, crowds spitting on his shoes and clothes. Fifteen summers old, the last time he’d called himself an innocent man.

Hunslaus locked eyes with Rowan, returning from a haze of melancholic nostalgia. “You know, Blondie, you ain’t half bad. But you sure as hell don’t have a filter.” He could appreciate the mage and the compliments didn't go amiss.

Meat pie. Still a looker.

 

[Lekiel]

Talaith Glasshand
Ruins of our Ancestors​

He was direct at least. The overt and shameless request didn't come as much of a surprise, it was just the natural progression of things and for people of Waldemar's nature. One had to be blind not to notice the lecherous stares he'd generously bestowed upon the various female members of their group. Nevertheless, going 'elf' was indeed a new development. One that brought new suspicions to the druid that if Waldemar didn't get what he wanted, they'd sooner see him offer coin to anything remotely female that could move; regardless of how many legs it had.

Her eyes affixed him with a perfunctory stare, though she said nothing. Looking away, she removed the scarf that shrouded her features and began digging into her meal.

“Meyer - ain’t even an elf want that sorta punishment. Keep dreaming ‘til you pay the next brothel to go anywhere near that diseased cock of yours.”

She paused mid-bite for half a second, unsure what to make of what she'd just heard. That low baritone of a snide remark coming from their resident warrior was not something she expected. Careful not to shift her direct gaze, slate-gray irises glanced surreptitiously at the departing back of the giant of a man as he took his leave to venture further into the cursed land. She didn't know why but for a moment, that offhanded remark moved something within the long disinterred emotions of her heart. But as quickly as the warrior's echoing footsteps faded from earshot, so too did she snuff out those warm feelings with double vehemence. For a moment she had mistakenly thought him taking her side, but he was obviously irked by the general dislikability of their unpalatable employer.

Truth be told. She was genuinely considering the offer. It wasn't so much about desperation, as it was the convenience the opportunity presented to her to achieve her goal quicker. Plus in a land where the Tylwyth Teg were barely more than talking animals to the edan, being given the option to offer what should've been rightfully hers was a luxury seldom chanced across. Out in the Southron lands where people were clustered to mainly small hamlets and the occasional city-state, law enforcers were few. And people were inclined to toe the laws when there was close to zero chance of being caught, fewer still. It was something a more buoyant and younger Talaith had learned early on. The scars of which still marked her memories with shades of black, indelible even long after the physical marks had faded away.

What's your offer? The thought crossed her mind, but the words never left her mouth as at that very moment she felt a close presence encroaching upon her space. It was one of the other edan women, and for the second time in that short span of a few moments, she did something the elf least expected. She spoke. Cordially. Seemingly with no other intention that to be amicable.

“Suppose someone ought to look after the camp. I don’t believe I’ve gotten your name yet. I’m Frei.”

Talaith continued at her task at hand, slicing up the marsh oca hearts and squeezing out drops of plant poison into tiny fibrous pouches. She paused to briefly glance at Frei's direction.

"Talaith." She offered simply, her tone guarded.

 

[Gowi]

Most of the structure of the old elven ruin had been lost to decay.

Old roots and moss had overtaken the decaying stone that the ancient elves had crafted from clay, asphalt, and mud. It smelled of swamp rot, though the structure was more or less still stable, which was likely more remarkable than anything else. As others debated about scouting the perimeter, Hunslaus and Rowan traveled further into the structure which appeared to go deeper into the soil, guarding the structure from the swamp water and drawing visitors into a place the ancient elves once convened in number for an amount of ancient rites. But Nhrancngardd, the ruin’s ancient name, had a lot of history and none of it was kind.

Of the two, Rowan, felt a deep unease as they ventured further as old arcane lanterns adorned the walls. As she had predicted, the ancient elves did have a sort of arcane-light system, but even if she had never stepped in an elven ruin before she found it strange that she didn’t need to draw her magic to them. It was like the torches were sentient, detecting her innate magic and drawing it in. The whispers from beyond the veil seemed stronger the further the two explored, though when they came to a long stairwell descending further into the depths they realized they would need to harry back or choose to continue exploring out of their own boredoms or curiosities. For a mage of the magicariums, Rowan had never quite experienced something as pronounced and vivid as how weak the veil was in this structure. She was certain she could hear ghastly, hollow voices in the distance. It was all in ancient elven, though how much she could understand would depend on her academic knowledge of the language of the elves.

Her companion heard nothing and saw nothing. It was just a bunch of moss-covered bricks.

 

[Cassie Lang]

Pippin Merryweather
Refuge Outskirts -- Conversation​

Pippin replied with a nod, her gaze turning to those who had yet made a decision to leave camp. "Keep an eye on the stew, lest you want to attract swamp horrors." She explained, putting her trust in the two women to heed her words. The stench of a burnt stew would certainly carry far, especially within a place hardly frequented by travelers in the current age.

With her warning hopefully heeded, Pippin buckled her sword to her waist, and slid her arm through the straps of her shield. "Follow me." She spoke, taking the lead as they left camp grounds.

Though they left under the guise of a patrol, it would be soon apparent that it had been nothing but a ruse—a lie to draw the ranger into secrecy. Once the warden was certain that they were out of sight and ear from the encampment, Pippin took a hard turn, leading the duo back towards the elven ruins.

"My sincerest apologies for lying to you, but a patrol through the marshlands is the least of my concerns right now." Pippin explained, stepping over a fallen moss-covered log. "Tell me, what do you know of magic? Any trueborn southerner like yourself and I would certainly know of the tales—and the reality of its dangerous potential."

Stopping in her tracks, Pippin turned to face the ranger, her stern gaze narrowed at Isobel as if the warden was trying to peer through her soul.

"Whatever your answer may be, let it be known there is darkness afoot. The silver-haired girl is not to be trusted."