The Sun Rises, Part I

Eastern Pathway - 


 * ''The eastern artery of the independent freehold known as Crown's Refuge is known quite simply as the Eastern Pathway; a road of smooth cobbles, wide enough for two carriages to pass with space to spare, that runs a perfect east-west route between Tempest Corona to the west, and the eastern palisade wall.


 * ''The cobbles of the pathway are not only smooth and level, but also seem to have been born from a variety of different types of stone, giving each one a distinct color as it rests next to all the others. Hues of brown, gold, bronze, slate, charcoal, and a myriad of other shades all conspire together to make such a route more affluent than it really needs to be.


 * ''The sides of the pathway are protected by low-rising curbs that mark where the road ends and the rest of the large township begins. Beyond those curbs, homes and stores flank the pathway in carefully placed patterns of building and street. Small backroads and trails break away from the main artery to lead to the two eastern quarters of Crown's Refuge that the Southern Pathway runs as a divide between.


 * ''The towering fortification known as Tempest Spire looms overhead towards the west, giving you a constant bearing of where you are located within Crown's Refuge. To the south spans the quarter of the freehold known as Wildcat Haven, which plays host to the various services of the township, such as the central Tavern and various storage buildings. To the north rests an area known as Wolfsbane's Row, the main residential area for the Human Wildlanders living within the freehold.

Zia's perched beneath one of the trees overshadowing the street, her harp out and in her lap, quietly practicing some soft, lilting tune.

The door to Sandrim's house creaks open, and out steps the farmer, looking a little glum tonight.

Zia's fingers automatically still the strings of the harp at the sound of the opening door, the young woman glancing up and raising an eyebrow slightly as she inspects Sandrim. "Evening. Something the matter?"

Sandrim looks over to Zia and gives her the benefit of a slight smile. "It's nothing," he says. "Ran into Mareten, today."

"Aha." Zia nods, simply. Not buying the 'it's nothing' excuse. "What'd he say?" she ventures.

Sandrim shakes his head. "It was nothing much," he says. "'How are you doing?' 'I'm doing fine, you.' That sort of thing." He smiles. "A little awkward. We separated because... neither of us could ever really be there as much as was needed. Both had duties."

"Aye. He... mentioned something along those lines." Zia shrugs, pulling up her knees and resting her chin on them as she studies the mage thoughtfully.

Sandrim gives Zia a lopsided smile. "So, what are you up to? Staking out my house?"

Zia laughs, and visibly ticks off a mental note. "Aye. Planning a siege--I'll sing it to its foundations if you're not careful. Either that or break the strings on my harp trying."

"Alas, there will be a broken harp," Sandrim says with a smirk.

Zia makes a face. "Pessimist. Or optimist, depending."

"Frankly, I like having a house," Sandrim points out seriously. "Definitely an optimist."

"Ah, but if I sang your house to the ground, you could probably take me to Fastheld and make me stand trial for it. Which would, in fact, give you a good chance at some sort of compensation, and you might come out of it all richer than one you started," Zia reasons, just as serious.

Sandrim considers that, then shakes his head again. "I think I'd rather keep the house, all things told."

"Ai, no sense of adventure," Zia teases lightly, and shifts her gaze to the house itself, as if actually considering trying. She purses her lips.

"Also, I would hate to be charging a friend," Sandrim says with a nod.

Zia smiles, the expression tinted with something not quite identifiable. "Aye, all right. I s'pose I won't try... today. Mayhaps test it out on Karell's new manor. I'm sure he'd love that."

Sandrim grimaces at that. "Oh dear. While that would be interesting, for your sake, it may not be a good idea."

Zia laughs. "No faith, either. But aye, after having been instrumental to the location of the manor and the dislocation of the frayed ends of his patience, it might be better just to do without."

Sandrim blinks. "Karell has patience?" he asks. "I wouldn't think so. He's almost as bad as Varal. I say almost only because I'm pretty certain that he wouldn't actually be a threat if he tried anything."

"Very little. But it's apparently there, because I'm still around." Zia purses her lips thoughtfully and considers that statement. "Probably wouldn't be much of a threat to you, I s'pose, but he seems to know at least a little about those weapons he carries."

Zia is perched beneath one of the trees overshadowing the road, and Sandrim is on the doorstep of his house. The two are conversing.

Sandrim gives Zia a bit of a grin. "I suppose it all depends on where he decided to try," he says. "I wouldn't let him keep those weapons if he came after me where I could do something about it."

Passing from between two buildings on the western part of the road, Wolfsbane makes an appearance on the pathway. Rolling his head on his neck with a quiet pop, he pauses to look both ways, investigating the coming and going traffic.

Zia hms. "Maybe. I'm half tempted to give it a try, now--another idea that would probably end badly for me. Mayhaps I'll see if he'd go for a sparring match, one day." She shakes her head and glances out towards Vhramis, offering the incoming ranger a greeting nod of recognition.

"Now, I at least don't /pick/ fights with the nobility," Sandrim notes, grinning. "I'm not quite that mad just yet." He looks aside, following Zia's eyes to Vhramis and nodding as well.

While his first reaction at being nodded to seems to be to dive for cover, Vhramis manages to keep himself under control long enough to nod back to the pair. Beginning to wander towards them, he takes a moment to breathe into his hand and sniff his breath. Whatever it smells like, he's promptly diving into his pockets to pull out mint leaves, shoving them into his mouth.

Zia laughs quietly as she watches Vhramis, drawing in on herself and tilting her head a little much as she might watch a local curiosity. "Oh, *I* wouldn't pick a fight with *him." She looks away long enough to give a sly wink to Sandrim. "He'd pick a fight with me. But in any case, a sparring match is probably the easiest way to go. Some nobles you can convince into that without any fighting required. As long as you're prepared to let them win."

Sandrim gives Zia an amused look. "Absolutely /never/," he says firmly, before lifting a hand to wave to Vhramis. "What brings you this way, Vhramis?"

"It's a nice city," Vhramis answers evasively, chomping away at the leaves. "Who are we going to fight? We don't have to kill anybody, do we?"

"Absolutely never what?" Zia asks, eyebrows rising, eyes widening--totally innocent. What else is she ever? "Probably nobody," she answers Vhramis. "But in the hypothetical sense of the situation, Karell. And no, I don't plan to kill him." She considers. "Or otherwise have a hand in his demise."

There are those that say all men are magical - that somewhere, within each, the Light and Shadow whisper and war. One is the conscience, pointing the way to those actions that are right - the other is that mystical sense of trouble, that supernatural /knowing/ that goes along with plotting and planning and being aware of one's surroundings.

We'll pay no attention to the temptations of random acts of petty evil. A thought for another time.

But there's something tense in the air, tonight, in the Refuge. An .. expectation on this moonless evening when the only real light is the pale, cold brilliance of tiny stars. It's something that keeps the streets largely empty save those that must be about - and those generally stick to the lanternlit wideways where pools of yellow flicker and hold the darkness at bay.

"I would absolutely never /let/ a noble win," Sandrim says with a nod, before looking to Vhramis and rubbing his arms. "And no, we've no intent to really hurt anybody."

"A hand? Have you seen his?" Vhramis asks, idly looking about, but seeming to be making a rather marked effort at avoiding eye contact with any locals other than Sandrim who just happen to be out. "He apparently touched something he wasn't supposed to, I think. I don't quite remember what it was."

Zia grins at Sandrim. "I s'pose that depends entirely on your definition of 'win'." And she looks curiously at Vhramis. "Aye? ...Come to think of it, I think he was wearing gloves at the time." Her brow furrows as she tries to remember the detail precisely. "Black ones. The effect went well with the crystal saber."

"My definition of 'win' is beating me in a fight," Sandrim says with a firm nod, before he looks to Vhramis. "Ahh, that's why he wears those gloves? I never knew that." The three of them are standing near his house, and there are rather few others out tonight.

"It's all withered and black," Vhramis explains to Zia and Sandrim, holding up his own gloved hand, which just happens to be the correct color. Go figure. "Don't think it'll ever get better, but who knows, what with the healing people can do these days."

Zia frowns slightly. "Mm... interesting. I didn't know that, either--but then, having met the man a total of once and managed to make a pest of myself that one time, I s'pose I wouldn't." She shrugs, and looks at Sandrim. "You know, I could ask you what your definition of 'fight' is... but no. I s'pose the answer is aye, I'd let a noble win that sort of fight if it was more reasonable than making him lose it."

From the north comes one rather-more-weathered-than-usual bard, bearing several healing scratches and a bandage around one thigh, leaning a bit on his staff. Yet for all that, more serene than exhausted.

Sandrim gives Zia a smirk. "And this is where you and I are different," he decides.

"There's a lot of stuff to fight. You don't need to go finding more, I don't think," reasons Wolfsbane, scratching at his head. The man is talking with his mouth full of leaves, but nobody seems to care, and he doesn't seem to think anything of it, himself. Vhramis the cow.

For those paying attention - two things may strike one as odd, on this strange, moonless night. The first is a faint glow, visible above the buildings to the northwest - a brighter, orange lantern, perhaps, a thing that somehow silhouettes the spire.

The other, however, is closer - and more immediate. A hissing cry, quickly cut off, from the alleyway cutting behind Sandrim's house, along with a series of dull thuds, a muffled grunt.

"I s'pose," Zia smiles before glancing at Vhramis and shaking her head. "I don't think I'll actually offer to spar with him," she says, ponderously. "Unless... well, I'll have to see how things play out, I s'pose." Taran gets a nod as he approaches, and a curious glance. Somehow, she manages to miss both the cry and the light, though she does glance away for the briefest of instants, as if she *might* have heard something, only to blame it away on over-active imagination.

Taran changes tack with the speed of someone whose life has depended on that speed rather too often lately. The staff is automatically raised before him, taken in hand and held at the ready. Of the options, he chooses the alley.

There is a small gathering out here tonight, Taran, Zia and Vhramis before Sandrim's house. Not too long ago, there was a muffled scream in the alley behind the house, and there is an odd light to the northwest, if one should be perceptive enough to see. Sandrim catches both, but his hand goes to his sword as he turns to the former, nodding to Taran as he notices the other man heading the same way. The other is just a light, after all. "Trouble," he says for Zia and Vhramis' sake.

A tall (yikes!) cloaked figure makes his way through from the western path, keeping his hood up and his features disguised by the dark shadows cast by what torchlight is available. The man begins to make his way to the south, at first, having displayed no inclination of traveling towards Sandrim's house. He pauses, however, cloak swinging limply in the low wind, and the dark hood turns towards the direction of the scream. A gloved hand reaches into the cloak carefully.

Vhramis didn't hear it either. Probably most of what he can hear is him chewing. Course, when people start looking to the alley, he likewise turns that way, peering questioningly.

Justus had been making his way from the west as well, looking around with a nuetral smile in place. The gathering gains his attention though he may have missed the scream at this point. Still, he appears to be a curious fellow. He starts forward anyway.

So. Not the imagination. Reflexively, Zia's hand strays to the hilt of the hunting knife at her side. She does not move more than to rise to her feet and take a couple of steps toward the road, but she's every inch alert now. Alert enough to catch sight of the approaching Karell and Justus. There's a faint smile, there, one that reads, 'I guess we'll see how well he can use those weapons, after all'.

Down the alley those that run go - Taran and Sandrim first to spy; those that stay on the street can certainly hear, if not see.

There is a syladris, bloody and torn - two rough men in ringmail are down; one is simply crushed, the other fading and falling over from a throat opened by the snake-folk's sharp teeth. There are three that remain - armed and armored to the Syladris's empty hands and scaled tail - and the conclusion may be foregone without intervention. There is too much blood, and the Syladris moves too poorly for there to be much more defense against naked steel.

Taran's face twists into a snarl. No words, no threats. The battered bard raises that bright staff to bring it down on the armed men - aiming less to harm them and more to get through them to the snake beyond.

Sandrim takes a moment to look around. It's a dark night, the others aren't there yet. He bends down, mimes picking up a rock and /throwing/. A stone that is near enough to his hand to look like he actually did throw it shoots up through the darkness at one of the assailants heads before Sandrim roars, "Guards! Assault!"

Bright green eyes gleam out from beneath the hood, the man slowly moving towards the source of the commotion. He is not so willing to throw himself into the battle, it seems, but prepares himself - just in case. The gloved hand falls away from a particularly ornate handle that flashes between folds of his cloak, and he reaches around to pull his bow from his shoulder.

"Is something happening?" Justus asks mildly, likely of Karell since he may be closest. But, he seems just as happy to speak to whomever is near.

Looking into the alley, and seeing what he does, Vhramis nearly chokes on his leaves in surprise. Still, he pulls away his warbow, nocking and lining a shot, though not taking it just yet.

Zia is neither so abrupt nor so forward as the other two attackers, slipping forward, across the street and into the shadows of the alley, keeping to the wall. As she moves, the hunting knife slides out of the sheath into her hand.

The fight takes place in a spot where two or three bypaths converge, a small 'courtyard' in among buildings - there is a small garden, tended in pots near a back door. Here, a clothesline, empty now, strung between two roof eaves. Signs of life.

The reason for the Syladris's continued quiet is more obvious, as eyes adjust to the dim - its throat is bruised, the dark-haired male's breath coming in wheezes and gasps. He faces all three remaining attackers..

And then there are two. The rock, hurled with perhaps more than /usual/ force, WHANGS solidly into the side of one man's head, with a soft crunch of bone. He twists, falls ... Taran's staffwork ties up the second, giving a brutal swat to a hand that goes nerveless, and drops the blade in it, though that one remains standing.

The third, intent on his prey, aims a slash at the closest bit of their quarry, but coils move bonelessly out of the way, the distraction of rescuers making the strike at best poorly aimed.

The syladris does not strike back - Sandrim's cry brings a response from nearby houses. These are Wildlanders, after all, and the expectation of trouble is always there. In at least one case, the sound of bolts being drawn and calls inside for "Tainey to get that sword of his' imply soon to arrive reinforcements.

Taran doesn't waste time playing with the attackers - evidently trusting implicitly that Sandrim will take care of it. Instead the bard goes right to the downed Syladris. "I am a healer," he says quickly. "Help me help you; the light is dim. Where is worst?"

Sandrim nods and heads through after Taran, standing between him and the attackers and raising his sword, ready to defend. "There are only two of you," he says a bit contemptuously. "Keep in mind, that's not enough to stop me in the first place, and I don't even have to kill you. I just have to keep you two from killing. So, do we want to drop our weapons?"

Justus stalks towards the side, the better to try and get a view down the alleyway and into the action. There, he reaches into his cloak, eyes still focused on what little he can see. He comes up with a wineskin, uncorks it, and takes a drink. "Hmm."

Taking a moment to consider the situation, the man in the cloak pulls an arrow out, aims his shot carefully and fires at the back of the last attacker's legs.

Apparently, Wolfsbane decides that he wants to be closer to the situation. And what with the people crowding the alley, he has to try a different route. So he makes use of the wall. Charging forward, he kicks up to run along the side of it, seeming rather surprised that he doesn't fall on his ass, but acting like he /completely/ knew what he was doing when he hits the ground again to move to Taran's side to guard him.

Dark cloak and dark shadows. Zia is nearly invisible as she makes her way down the alleyway, unnoticed until she detaches from the shadows and appears just behind the attacking men. A dagger has slid from somewhere in the folds of the cloak, the blade gleaming in the lamplight as she holds it at the ready in the other hand. "Also, it might be worth noting that there's two of *us* too," she murmurs, apparently uncaring whether anyone actually hears the remark.

Justus takes another drink and settles back against the wall. He continues to take the occasional lean to the side to keep an eye on things.

Karell's shot hits thigh - high and on the inside - the man it strikes, the one fussing with drawing a weapon to replace the one Taran knocked out of his hand? That one drops, screaming, clutching at a leg that bleeds... badly. Very badly, and in frightened spurts.

The remaining, standing one faces Vhramis and Taran, Sandrim and Zia largely alone - but his face is fixed in a rictus grin, his laugh biting and sarcastic. "You've already lost - we've done what we came for. And demon-lovers die just as well as demons." Odds or not, that certainty that drives him has him lunging, abruptly for Vhamris, doing his damnedest to run the man through, to get past him to the bard and Syladris beyond.

Even as he leaps forward, the door behind Taran and the male opens, one of the forgewrights stepping out in nightshirt and with shortsword held low. From nearby alleys somes other sounds, a hue and cry raised in the distance that brings lantern-carriers out into the streets beyond. But here? That man takes in wounded syladris, Songbird and Wolfsbane in one easy startled stare, moving aside - "Get him in! Come on, then!"

Taran nods, with a quick, "Thank you," and does his best to wrestle that snake inside. "Sandrim - leave it to Vhramis, *help me get him inside*. And the other one. He's no danger with that arrow, he's about to be dead. If the scourges come after you for it I'll deal with it. *Help me."

Sandrim starts to move after Taran... then stops as he watches Vhramis, noticing the man isn't moving out of the way fast enough. "In just a moment," he says, sticking out his sword. It isn't elegant at /all/. It is, however, effective. The man's blow is blocked, and Sandrim pushes it away. "You take him, Vhramis," he says, before pulling back and heading after Taran.

There's a scene behind Sandrim's house tonight, in a small courtyard garden on three intersecting paths. Several wildlanders are pouring out of their houses after a cry for help from the mage, and Taran is bringing an injured syladris into a house. Two men stand near Sandrim, Vhramis and Taran - one attacking, one with an arrow through his leg. On the ground nearby is a man with his skull cracked in by a stone.

Seeming a little shaken at what just happened, Vhramis eyes the attacker crossly. "You tried to /stab/ me," he blurts out, obviously upset, discarding his bow. A kris is drawn from his belt, and unceremoniously, he jabs it at the man's throat.

Justus is loitering at the alley way, peering in occasionally to watch this drama unfold as he drinks.

Zia casts just a quick glance at the dying man in the dirt before the remaining attacker charges, before she steps between him and the Syladris-helping duo, and the knife is flashing in her hand towards him even as Vhramis's blade does likewise.

"What is with this place and arbitrary violence?" comes a dry voice from the hood and (ta da) Karell leans his head back, allowing it to drop and give him a better peripheral scene. "Should have gone with the gut." he mutters bitterly, "But, no, Karell, shoot and kill the one who still has a sword, that's /logical/." he moves closer to the others, keeping his bow aimed for the Syldaris but not prepared to take a shot while Vhramis is in the way.

Vhamris cuts him, and Zia may not do much against that armor with her blade, but it /does/ send him sprawling.

And Gurgling.

The Syladris is pulled inside, along with Taran - and Sandrim, if he goes...

But the hue and cry has not ended. Shouts and metal-banged-on-pots are rousing even this neighborhood; outside the alley, in glimpses of the streets, wildlanders can be seen /running/ to the northwest, while others rouse at doors. Conversation is impossible to catch, but the shouting about fire is clear enough.

There are very few that are moving /unarmed/.

Sandrim does indeed go in with Taran, helping him carry the syladris and its many coils inside, and away from any arrows. "Okay," he says as they're in, looking down at the injured party. "It's going to be alright now."

"I have him," says Taran once past the door. "Go and deal with what else is going on." He turns his attention, once in the light, to the syladris' injuries. The rest of the city can wait; the healer has his hands full with just one.

At the sound of approaching Wildlanders, and /many/ wildlanders at that, Vhramis seems to pale somewhat. "Uh, sorry. Put pressure on it," he mutters to the man who's throat he just stabbed, yanking his kris back and quickly bending to wipe it off on the fallen's pants. Grabbing his bow, he turns to run towards where the syladris was dragged.

Justus looks around at the people passing him by, running. The wine skin is put away and he brushes his hands off. He turns to follow the flow towards the source of this alarm, hanging towards the back but moving indeed.

"By the light..." Karell murmurs, turning southwards at the alarms, his bow lowering as a tide of people move through the area northwards, "This, this is perfect." he mutters, that bitter edge sharpening as he remains steadfast in place, "How is it that I am so phenomenally abysmal at timing these travels? One would - get off me you cur - think I choose - I'm not above running through the next person who bumps me - these events - how dare you - for something to do - hey, get off!" he moves back towards the area of the fight, as people's paths seem to veer oddly close.

Zia recoils as the man falls, but she doesn't wait. Doesn't stop. Without even bothering to wipe the blade--bad, bad, slap on the wrist for that--she thrusts the hunting knife back into its hilt. And the dagger's gone, too, winking out of existence almost as quickly as it appeared, with only the flourish of her cloak to mark its passing. Back a step, and for just an instant, she looks very, very lost. But just for the barest of seconds, before she looks back to Taran, determines that he has the Syladris situation more or less under control, and darts out onto the street once more, where, hopefully, she can see what the people are running around for.

Sandrim nods to Taran, before he starts to back away for the door. "Alright," he says, "but I'll be back soon, to check up." As he heads out the door, he passes Vhramis and nods. "Help him how you can," he says, before moving to join the river of people, flowing /with/ it rather than against.

Return to Season 7 (2008) Continue to The Sun Rises, Part II