After two hours debriefing four generals and the Duke, the party stumbled into an emtpy barracks and began unloading their gear. Dar and Vallen took one bunkroom and the men the other. Each was very long and narrow and straddled the large central room used for meetings and meals. The triple bunks that lined both walls showed signs of serious wear, including a number of personalized alterations. Tegg noted a set of small hooks attached to the bottom of the middle bunk he'd taken, and quickly deduced that the resident of the bottom bunk had fashioned a curtain for privacy. Tegg considered testing their usefullness, but had no idea how long they would be occupying the bunkhouse or if they'd ever return.

Directly across from him, Jenk threw all his gear onto the lower bunk and swung up into the middle bunk with practiced ease. Tegg chuckled and Jenk gave him a questioning look.

“Not the first bunk you've swung into.”

Jenk laughed. “No, I grew up in bunks just like this one. Even at the house Dad had bunks put in because they were so "useful". Ugly as a southend whore and twice as lumpy, though. I learned that phrase from Subcommander Crundol, Dad's assistant.”

Tegg laughed out loud and considered his flat and shapeless pillow. “I've slept on worse.”

Talbert wandered between them. “I'm going to raid whatever this place calls a kitchen. Anyone interested?”

Jenk waved him off and slumped into his bunk. “Not me. Probably season old bread and rations. If you find anything I don't have in my pack, come get me. Hells, if you find anything bigger than a rat in this place, sound the alarm and I'll help you cook it.”

Ren joined Talbert, laughing at Jenk. “I'll come with you, Talbert.”

Tegg imitated Jenk and flopped back on his flat pillow. “I don't have the strength to chew through whatever you're going to find. Tomorrow we'll raid the buildings next door... if the Duke doesn't send us ...”

A sudden banging on the door interrupted Tegg.

“Hells and shades.”, Tegg grumbled.

A redguard entered, carring a bit of parchment and a lantern. “You're to meet with the priest from Port Redcap when your gear is stowed”, he said to a room of groans.

Mogisor shifted uncomfortably in his chair, clearly grim about the story he had invited them to hear. “Vincent...”, he started, then paused. “I'm sorry, this isn't easy. Its like telling an embarassing family history. Vincent is... or was the reason why most of you had never set foot in a temple of the Lady before we met in Redcap. His... failure caused the collapse of one of the largest churches ever to come out of the empire.”

Mogisor paused and surveyed the faces around him. Everyone shared the same expectant look, and he steeled himself for the tale.

“Its been forty years, long before I took up the robe. At the time, Vincent was a Lambert, a holy priest of the light. There hasn't been a high Lambert since Tivar, himself fell.”

Talbert jumped when Mogisor said this. He started to interrupt, but decided against it.

“After High Lambert Tivar fell only two Lamberts were ever offered his rank again. The first was Sevorin the Great, who refused the title and exiled himself to the western provinces. He... well, that's another tale, I suppose. The second was Vincent. He was a great warrior, a knight of the highest honor and fame. His name struck fear into those with evil in their hearts and joy into those oppressed. He became so great in the eyes of the church that the Lady, herself took notice. And this... this is the pivot upon which the church would fall.”

Mogisor composed himself, taking a drink of wine and wiping his forehead. “Rare and painful are such involvements between mortals and gods. I don't know why... or when it happened, but at some point it was no longer a man serving his Goddess. Vincent became precious to the Lady, he was no longer a Lambert, I suppose. I don't know what he was.”

A number of uncomfortable looks worked their way around the gathered party, but no one spoke. Mogisor ignored the long silence and took another drink of wine. He actually seemed more comfortable in the situation now that he was in the midst of the story.

“Forty years ago a demon appeared near Cattras.”, Mogisor looked up at the confused murmuring and raised a hand. “I can't tell you what it really was, some being of evil, a mage with evil purpose, I don't know. Rumors and ruin were everywhere and Vincent left to bring an end to it. He returned that summer, this I know because I saw him. He described fighting and chasing the demon, saying he had tracked it east to Sartull. That was the last time anyone saw him. That was when things started to change.”

Mogisor's voice broke here, and he took a long drink of wine, emptying the cup. He reached and grabbed the bottle as if to pour another glass, then stopped. He rolled the bottle back and forth between his hands for a few seconds, at a loss for words. “Vincent had done something... something foolish and.... He was no longer a Lambert. He had broken his vows. Somehow, the demon tricked him into breaking his vows.”

There was a long silence full of shuffling and nervous looks. “Mogisor”, Dar said quietly “How do you mean, broke his vows?”

But Mogisor did not answer, his shoulders shook as he sobbed. For several minutes he was unresponsive, holding his face in his hand. “We, we don't know” he said finally. “All of the priests were suddenly knocked unconcious... the candles at every single temple were snuffed out... two of her greatest statues crumbled into dust. When he recovered, the high priest tried to find out. For days they prayed and prayed, but they got no answer. They finally sent a group of scouts to find Vincent, but none of them returned. Finally, they send every Lambert in the church to Sartull. Every one. Sixty three of them.... and only two returned.”

With this, Mogisor uncorked the bottle and drank directly from it. When he could drink no more, he made as if to throw the bottle.. then pressed it against his forehead in anguish. “Two. One raving about demons and monstrous men made of metal. The other broken. Unable to speak. Unable to do much of anything. Meanwhile the church was collapsing. The priest's prayers went unanswered, they couldn't heal or help anyone. People left the church in droves, speaking of fearful visions and the horrible depression they felt when they walked through the doors.”

Mogisor began weeping again and Tegg finally spoke softly, “Did you ever... find out? Anything?”

Mogisor stood and walked over the the fireplace, setting the bottle down. Still facing the fire, he answered “We think he made a deal with the demon. Perhaps it was a foolish act of pride or desperation, but to make such a deal is unacceptable for a Lambert. And to break his vows, to betray the Lady... she was overcome with grief and her blessing left the church. A church without a goddess... ” Mogisor stopped, turning back to the party.

“Since then, we have managed to hold out with but the tiniest part of what we had. With so little to offer, though, people moved on. They found comfort... solace... help from other churches and now, now I am all that is left.”

“Not after your stunt in the woods.” Winstin said cheerfully.

Mogisor laughed through his tears. “Yes. That was something from the days of old. I seem to have a few followers here. Maybe I'll start a new church here. But I am the last priest of the Lady of the Light, and there hasn't been a Lambert since that day.”

Talbert stood and patted Mogisor on the back, carefully taking the bottle out of his hands. “So what do we do? What is it we are supposted to do?”

Mogisor smiled sadly. “You must go where Vincent went. You must find his demon.”

Ren and Vallen spent the next morning going over Vallen's concentration and mediation forms. Ren was excited by her rapid progress, although that pride was streaked with worry over his teaching skills and her demonstrated ability to mentally connect with him. While performing a relaxation technique called "Stretching the hands" where the meditative trance was enhanced by stretching the arms and hands, Vallen once again detected Ren's empathic state and even responded mentally!

“You should not be able to do that!” Ren grumbled, dropping out of his empathic mode.

Vallen grinned mischevously and mimicked him “Relax and reach outward, relax and reach outward” she chided. “But when I do, you complain that I've done something.”

Ren tried to argue, but once again was out of his depth in teaching. As he squirmed, Vallen reassumed her position and quickly dropped into a relaxed meditation. Ren shook his head and watched her, sensing the expanding power around her. It had taken him years to achieve this simple state while Vallen seemed poised to catch him in days. “I don't know how you can be so advanced, and yet not have the underlying studies to support it.” He grumbled.

Vallen smiled at his offhand compliment, then slipped even further into her trance. She reached outward cautiously and touched Ren's troubled mind, sensing the mild surprise and frustration that raged across his thoughts like a dust storm. There was no real animosity, she knew, but Ren was frustrated and confused. In a moment of daring guile, Vallen switched from passive to active in her touch and sent a small ripple of empathy to Ren. Suddenly, his eyes snapped open and he glared at her. Vallen thought for a second that she had hurt him, then realized he wasn't hurt or angry, just even more surprised. She broke her trance in a fit of laughter.

“Keep this up and I won't be able to instruct you any more. I'll find you some wizened old crone to teach you, one who won't suffer your jokes.” Ren warned in an annoyed tone.

Vallen rolled back, laughing and Ren was forced to chuckle. “I don't think we are going to get anything else done today.”

Talbert found Mogisor late the next evening in an abandoned and run down church near the center of the old civic district. Talbert had finally located someone who had known roughly where the old priest had gone, but he'd been forced to look through a number of buildings before spotting the priest in the back garden of the church. Talbert walked around and saw the priest walk inside a back door. When he followed, he found Mogisor struggling to move a wooden beam out of the way. Mogisor smiled as Talbert lent him a hand forcing the chunk of wood aside.

“Well, son. What brings you out here?”

“Looking for you. I wanted to ask you something. You said that Tivar was named after a Lambert?”

Mogisor smiled and nodded “More sad family history, that. A long time ago.”

Talbert rubbed the stubble on his chin and followed Mogisor toward the dusty altar. “I'm.... I'm looking for his tomb then.”

Mogosor ran a finger through the dust on the altar and looked at Talbert quizzically. “What? Really? It's here in the city. There's a memorial park on the western side of the inner city. His tomb is there.” Mogisor waited for Talbert to elaborate, but Talbert simply nodded and looked around the church.

“Thinking of moving in?”

Mogisor chuckled “Perhaps, but not here. I'm curious to see what's still standing. Tell me, why are you suddenly interested in Tivar's tomb?”

Talbert considered this for a second, but didn't answer immediately. “I'm... supposed to go find it.” he said with a shrug.

Mogisor weighed the answer against Talbert's reluctance to reveal his reasons and finally let it go. “Come on then, I'll show you. Maybe you'll feel more like talking on the way.”

As they walked, Talbert chatted idly with Mogisor, but gave no hint as to his plans. Partly because he really wasn't sure himself. The strange man had simply told him to find Tivar, a man who had been dead nearly a hundred years.

Mogisor noted that Talbert was hesitant to discuss his plans, so as they walked he gave a short history of the man whose tomb they were visiting. “Tivar was a High Lambert, the highest rank of the soldiers in our faith.” he said with a bit of pride. Tivar had been a true legend, a man who would inspired tales on sight.

“You said there was some sadness, like Vincent?” Talbert said, his curiosity growing.

“Its complicated, not like Vincent... not really” Mogisor said with a pause. “Tivar's fate was sad, and it would take a while to tell.”

Talbert shrugged and motioned him to continue.

“Well, from what we know Tivar encountered a powerfully evil warrior from the church of Tronsik. A sort of... death and destruction conquering god. Tivar defeated their champion and took his sword. Legend says it was to prevent another champion from rising, but I suspect there was some matter of a trophy involved. ”

Talbert chuckled and Mogisor frowned at him. When Talbert looked sufficiently abashed he continued. “Either way, he brought the sword back to the main temple. Along the way, however, he grew... attached to it. It seemed to bother him to put the sword away, and he eventually took to wearing it at all times. He had his Lambert Sword as well, of course. He would never part with either... at least for a time. Eventually, he abandoned his sword in a fit of madness. He was stripped of his title and ordered to appear before the Holy Council, but he fled into the wilderness. The council sent several other Lamberts to find him, but he had vanished.”

Mogisor paused, turning Talbert down a side road toward the gates into the next neigborhood. The sun had started to sink behind them and the refreshing cool of the evening crept in with the lengthing shadows.

“He finally reappeared as a madman, raving and attacking people in a small town in Huntsdelve. The church sent Sevorin the Great to deal with him. Sevorin had known Tivar, but the man he found was a lunatic wearing that man's face. He tried for days to speak with Tivar, to reason with him... even at the risk of his own life. Finally, he discovered the root of the problem.”

“The sword?”, Talbert asked.

Mogisor nodded. “It was evil, from pommel to tip an evil device with evil powers. Tivar was cursed to wield it and it drove him mad. Sevorin battled him, trying to disarm him and get to the sword, but when he finally managed to grab Tivar and wrestle him to the ground, he found that the sword was no longer seperate from Tivar's hand. It had... grown up his arm, driving up through his veins and muscles all the way past the shoulder. In that instant, with Tivar writhing beneath him Sevorin realized with horror what he would have to do. ”

“Could he just cut off Tivar's arm?”

“It had grown so far... If Sevorin could have brought him back, if the council brought their powers to bear, perhaps. Who knows? It did not matter, though. Sevorin could barely contain him and his strength and luck were waning. Then, as he held him down, there was a flash of sanity and the true Tivar saw Sevorin and knew him. He... begged him...” Mogisor paused and shrugged.

Talbert nodded. “Sevorin killed him. What happened to the sword?”

Mogisor pointed ahead where a park sat in the midst of statues and fountains.. “Its in there with him.”, he said. Talbert gave him a shocked look. Mogisor look back thoughfully and asked. “Where would you put it?”

Talbert tried to answer, but could not. The park was not large, just a circular wall full of short trees and statuary. It looked oddly well kept in comparison to some of the parks and trees around it, but otherwise it was unremarkable. You could walk completely around it in a few moments, counting the time to look at the inscriptions and statues that sat on the outer wall..

“Sevorin killed Tivar with Tivar's Lambert sword. The cursed blade fell away and it all came back here. They built a tomb to honor and protect him.”

With that, they walked to the gate. It was made from a pair of statues, odd birdlike creatures with large eyes and massive claws. The beaks came to a point above the steel gate and their wings fanned back over the large encircling stone wall and into the tree branches. Mogisor reached forward and touched the gate, which swung open noiselessly. “You'll have to wait.” he said, turning back to Talbert. “It only allows one person through at a time.”

Mogisor stepped through and the gate swung shut. Talbert hesitated, then copied the priest, touching the plate where a handle would go. There was a tingling sensation, and the gate swung inward again. He walked a few feet past the gate on a loose stone pathway, marvelling at the sanctuary. In the center of the park was the shrine, a low circular white marble building with a domed roof. The lower wall was covered with runes and carvings and Talbert noted it barely stood shoulder high to Mogisor, who was waiting for him at what he assumed was the entrance, a square doorframe that extended above the lower wall into the dome. As he made his way to the entrance, Talbert looked around at the carefully arranged area inside the park. The walkway was crushed marble chips, edged with a line of fair sized river rocks. It extended from the gate to the shrine in a slightly curving path. The grounds looked at first to be bare earth in the low light, but Talbert realized it was in fact covered with black rock. Standing at regular intervals in a circle around the shrine were huge roughly-cut human statues of white marble, matching the dome and walkway. These were all armed and armored, but it looked as if the artist had started the work and rushed through, never finishing the sharp cut edges into natural curves. Between these statues were huge cubes of granite with massive runes cut out of them. Each cube had bands of gold on every edge and the runes were filled with gold that glinted even in the last light of dusk.

When he reached the dome, Talbert waited while Mogisor mumbled some incantation or password. The door swung inward silently and a low light grew from the doorway, brightening until Talbert had to shield his eyes.

Mogisor bowed slightly and stood aside. “Welcome to Tivar's tomb.”

Talbert stepped in and found himself desending a staircase, lit by small golden stones on obelisk stands. As he walked downward, the temperature rose steadily until he started to sweat a bit under his armor. He turned back to speak to Mogisor, who waved him on saying “Just a few more steps.”

The bottom of the staircase revealed a sarcophogus on a low platform. More golden stones surrounded them and between each set stood another rough-cut statue, these all holding swords pointing to the floor. Talbert walked up to the crypt, noting that Tivar's face had been carved into the top, surrounded by flowing lines like a robe.

“Here he is”, Mogisor said reverently. “Not that I mind the visit, but do you want to tell me why we're here?”

Talbert tried to answer, but the words held. He was overcome by a feeling of peace, undercut by a deep fear that things were not right.

“He's come because I asked him” a voice intoned from the staircase.

Mogisor spun around in shock but Talbert remained still. He felt a sudden rush of relief that his visions of the man were not his alone. If Mogisor could see the man, then he was somehow more real.

Mogisor fumbled between shock and respect as he spoke, “You! Why did you have him come here? What do you want with him?”

“He's been chosen”, the man said. He was just as Talbert remembered, old but not withered with short grey hair and an unremarkable face. He wore a white uniform this time, one that Talbert didn't recognize. The man's attention switched smoothly between Talbert and Mogisor, who was having trouble finding words.

“What? Chosen? Now? I'm...”

The man smiled and walked over to Mogisor, clasping him on the shoulder. “You wanted something to be done. It is being done.”

Talbert was confused, and yet not confused. The old man walked over, smiled at him and took both his hands. Talbert looked at his face, full of peace and hope and tried to speak, but at that moment visions burst into his head.

He was standing on a grassy hill with an army behind him. They were preparing to charge under his banner, a huge white flag with a green horse rearing held by a man leading the line. Green horses were painted on shields all around him, coupled with the sigil of other lands, bound up under his cause.. He turned to look down the hill, barely noticing his grey beard and fine armor, raising a blinding sword into the air and calling forth his men. On the far plain of green and yellow grass an army readied to meet him, their banners of blue lightning on black waving in the summer breeze. Smells of horses and fear drifted past, the smells that always preceeded battles. Talbert knew it well, they would win this day.

He was standing on a grassy hill with an army charging up to meet him. Blue lighning slashed across black banners as they charged his small band of men, who moved to circle him. They sought to protect him from his enemies and draw strength from him. At the front a horseman raised his banner, three white horses on a green field. Their cries were for victory, but Talbert knew it would be the last charge, the final ride of his men.

He was sitting on a chestnut horse on a grassy hill with an army all around him. His banner, two green horses facing each other on a sea blue field stood beside many others, the blue wolves of Yalen, the golden boar of Inverton, the tall red ship of Mossin. They followed a man in white armor that he could just make out at the head of the line. Talbert knew the man would call the charge soon, as he had before. Their early string of victories had shifted slowly to stalemates and defeats. Today marked their last chance to turn the tide and save their remaining homelands.

He was running into a deep forest, his horse long since dead. His banner, two red horses rearing, had been abandoned during the retreat. The line ahead of him had broken, and Talbert knew the battle was lost. It was cowardly, perhaps, but the enemy armies would care little if one more man's blood filled the ditches of the field and he had no friends or superior officers left to berate him. Behind him, horns sounded in victory. Had they sounded in pursuit, Talbert would have run, now he could at least find a dark place to sleep.

The visions raced past, each a variation of the same day. He led the charge. He was a bannerman, a footsoldier, a priest. He fell to wicked weapons he could not name. His men routed beastmen and huge, demonic creatures. In each, he knew that choices had been made both right and wrong that led to this. Finally, a voice broke through and there was only white light and silence. It was quiet, like a river that babbled and rippled, but a deep and cold river that could wash you miles away in a moment.

“All of these are true, and none may come to pass. Will you fight for me?”

Talbert's vision cleared and he was standing before one of the statues. He moved without thinking, slowly, cautiously and his hand rested on the pommel of the statue's sword. “Will you fight for me?” the voice asked. An avalanche seemed to crash around him.

Talbert shivered, remembering serrated blades slicing through his chest, beasts lunging at him with bared teeth, horses stomping down with blades on their hooves. “I will fight for you” he said softly, and the sword came free in his hand.

Mogisor followed Talbert back to the barracks in a daze. He understood on some level what had happened, but the speed and weight of it all numbed him. He attempted several times to start a conversation with Talbert over the incident, but each sentence died as he spoke it, fading off into sighs.

For Talbert, the walk back was like a dream. He had located a scabbard for the sword in a small chest behind the sarcophogas, having known exactly where to look. Now he cradled the leather and metal scabbard in his arm, with the handle at his shoulder. Occationally he would stroke the grip, and twice he slid the sword a hand's breadth out. The sound of steel sliding sent shivers down his back and there was a sound buzzing in his mind as the blade came into view. Talbert knew the feeling, he'd felt it only once before. A young tavern wench had gotten amorous with him in the dark corner of an inn after New Years. He was fresh from the academy, freshly shined steel and graduate loops on his shoulders.. He had started caressing the young redhead's stomach and with a bit of drunken courage, he had urged it higher and higher. The thrill, the alcohol, the wantonness of the moment had swirled through his head in a crechendo of ecstasy. Now, holding the sword just a few fingers out of the scabbard, a similar feeling enveloped him. This time, though it was pure, free of guilt and fear, like a song sung by a choir instead of a pub full of drunken caraveners. The urge to draw it fully free gripped him. A war cry rose in his throat, his legs tensed and his shoulders squared off. Tears blurred his eyes as he forced himself to release the blade, knowing there was no enemy of the Light here.

Uron returned to the Captial Fortress exhausted, filthy and emotionally drained. His duties in organizing the various Sets and Handlers, plus inventory and message tasks had sent him along the length and bredth of the invasion force. From the prime force near Tivar to outlying support forces and suppliers, he had jumped nearly twenty times through the gate systems and it had taken a measurable toll on him. Even worse were the meetings with the Elders. Every Elder had reacted strongly to his message and all had quickly pledged their help in shepherding the revolutionary forces, but the emotional wounds of handling the beads, discussing such an abhorrent topic as rebellion openly and the endless, repetitive questions dragged him into a mental depression. Finally, having delivered his final report to a disinterested underling, he was now ready to report on his true mission to Master Elder Adsentis.

His first mission was successful, the Siv had noted the unrest and subsequent quieting of the various Sets, eventually assuming it was combat unease or the normal disquiet of setting up camp and gate jumping. Secondary was the collection of assurances from the Elders that they would hold action and meet. Although Adsentis believed they would do so without much question, it was risky in the extreme to have them do so under the watchful eye of the Siv.

“Enter, Uron.”, the Elder's voice called from inside the tiny hut when Uron knocked.

The hut was stark and small considering the Elder's rank, but such things were never revealed to the Siv. In ancient times, the Elders and their ranks were hidden in shame, to organize their religion and promote leaders was not specifically forbidden, but it risked undermining the Siv's dominance. Great care was taken to isolate and deliniate clear areas of power, keeping the elders clear of any perception of insubordination. Over time, the Siv had abandoned specific duties and tasks to the Dom to take care of, duties which invariably fell to the Elders to delegate. Finally the Elders had achieved a level of authority that, while not equal to that of the Siv in general, was unshakable in the mind of most Dom. The Elders did everything in their power to avoid overlapping authorities in direct situations, but had all but supplanted the Siv as the overarching authority in matters of Ja.

Master Adsentis nodded to Uron when he entered, but was involved in encoding a message. Uron knew the missive would contain some crafted message of obedience and order, but within that message would be another short letter. This was the true message, readable only by a few Elders and their assistants, it was one of many things that Uron had known existed without concern or note until recent events. Tiny lines of power and influence between Dom Elders, each perhaps just brushing the line of power where the Siv ruled, together forming a web of Ja that challenged the foundations of the Tohri.

Uron shuddered at this blasphemous thought, taking a respectful resting position and waiting for the Elder to acknowledge him. He reviewed his messages for the great Elder, carefully reconstructing the wording, tone and cadence so as to properly pass the meaning and message. He did not realize he had fallen asleep until the Elder woke him the next morning.

As he stammered an apology the Elder laughed softly and poured two cups of strong tea.

“Nonsense, you've had a difficult time of it lately.” The old man said, patting him on the arm and handing him a chipped wooden cup of tea.

“But if my messages had been urgent... if I had..”

The Elder continued chuckling and dropped a few mint leaves into his own cup. “Then I would have known as you entered. You came to report success, regardless of anything else.”

Uron relaxed a moment, then jumped up and fished the death beads out of his pocket and held them out to Adsentis. The man took them reverently, performed some unfamiliar ceremony and placed them into a hidden pocket inside his robe. Uron waited a moment, then began to describe each encounter with the Elders. Adsentis nodded and smiled sadly whenever Uron mentioned an Elder agreeing to his request and finally Uron's tale ended.

“You have done well, my son. You have met a difficult duty with honor.” he said softly, blessing Uron with a small gesture.

Uron swelled in pride, relieved to have finished his tale and sipping the tea. When he finished his tea, Master Adsentis stood and walked him to the door.

“Now you must return to your normal duties. I have... enormously difficult things to do.”

As he walked back to his bunk, Uron felt both a sense of pride and a bit of loss. To be honored by the High Elder was a great moment, one he would cherish for a lifetime. And yet he was now simply Re'Tet Uron again, a soldier of middling rank and a job toadying for Siv leaders. For the first time in his life, he felt he'd been demoted.

Tegg and Jenk finally found Arasen and his new love. The medics had sent him on his way to recover and moved on without a second thought, giving the two only the vaguest idea which way he'd wandered afterwards. Fate led them to cross paths with him in the park district, still limping and hand-in-hand with a woman in blueward tabard.

“Well, well.” Tegg said, chuckling as he and Jenk jogged up behind the two. “I see your recovery is progressing wonderfully.”

Arasen turned and blushed a bit, finally breaking out in a laugh. “Well, as you lot were off exploring the wilderness, I though I could at least enjoy a few days without something trying to maul me.”

Jenk laughed, then bowed to Vera. “And you must be his nurse, who somehow lost her greenward gear.”

Vera smiled warily, giving Arasen a bemused glance until he noticed her gaze and started “Oh, no.. this is Blue.. or Vera, really. Vera, this is Bertegg and Jenk.” he said awkwardly.

Tegg smiled and bowed, Jenk grinned and took her hand, pulling her away from Arasen. “I must warn you, my dear. If you become tangled with our young comrade here you'll be in debt to the healers and medics for life. Is that truly how you wish to..”

Arasen growled, but Vera grinned and poked Jenk in the chest. “I think he's a bit more capable than you think”

Jenk looked confused until Arasen spoke up “Vera's been helping me with my magic. She's a great motivator... er. ” As he blushed, Tegg found other places to look while Jenk doubled over in laughter.

Arasen stammered for a second, then continued. “Anyway, really... watch this!”

With a bit of a dramatic wave, Arasen was suddenly surrounded in swirling dust and rocks from the roadway. Tegg stepped clear and Jegg whistled. Just as quickly as it started, the rocks and dust stopped, forming a wall around Arasen, which collapsed after a few seconds.

“It helps if I have more to work with. The cobblestones are too tightly set for me to do much with.”

Tegg smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, that'll come in handy in Cattras.”

It took nearly a week to properly equip and assemble the party. Talbert and Winstin took on this task, and it seemed remarkable how much equipment the party now requried as compared to their first outing from Tivar, or even their initial quest leaving Bridgetown. Tegg had added two packhorses full of gear intended to deliver to Sirus, Jenk had insisted on fresh replacements for all his weathered weaponry and Winstin kept chasing leads for more blasting clay. In the end Talbert was forced to buy a broken down wagon and pay outrageous fees to have it repaired. Finally, on a hot and windy morning on the twenth-sixth day of summer they started south toward Avendoor. The plan was to follow their earlier trail, through Avendoor and east along the main roads toward Bridgetown. At some point they would need to turn south and find a means across the Malloron River. There were two known fording locations, but common sense suggested that the Tohri would have moved quickly to secure these. If that proved true, the only means across would either be a risky attempt to cross at an untested location or they would have to travel two weeks upriver to the southern kingdoms. In preparation the cart had been waterproofed with pitch and cord and several long sets of rope and tackle procured for what might prove to be a disasterous boat ride.

Walking out of the Southern Gate, Tegg paused to consider the changes within the party. Arasen was still limping a bit, but carried himself with an air of confidence that Tegg had never seen. Tegg had been pleasantly surprised by his new girlfriend, whatever Vera had done to Arasen, it had produced a very assured young mage. Talbert's sullen scowls and quick glances he'd acquired after Henton's death had been replaced with a similar purposefulness, accented by some new sword he kept touching and stroking in a plain scabbard on his hip. Tegg had meant to ask him about it, especially after hearing tales of their flight from Redcap, but Talbert seemed to be constantly in conference with Mogisor. Vallen had adopted wearing robes similar in style to Ren and the pair was as inseperable as Talbert and Mogisor. Ren was essentially unchanged, except when he was around Vallen, who seemed to confuse and confound him in some way. Tegg had nearly convinced himself they ware having a romantic relationship, but a bit of snooping suggested otherwise. He normally would go out of his way to not care, but such romances were a death knell for groups like theirs. In related news, Dar seemed genuinely relieved at meeting Vera, only to then seem a bit put out by Arasen's lack of attention. It wasn't something Tegg cared to spend time thinking about, hoping furiously that it would all settle out by itself. As for Jenk, Winstin and himself, Tegg figured very little had changed, although everyone else had become very comfortable with Tegg's leadership and might point out that he was much more comfortable in the role that he might want to admit.

The nine of them headed south on the road to Avendoor on a warm summer day, making a bit of a caravan with their cart, horses and gear. The stream of refugees on the road had trickled down to a drip, with those wanting to flee further than Tivar having done so and the rest slowly being admitted to the abandoned areas of Tivar. Despite the protests by remaining landowners, the Duke had turned over sections of the city to some of the remaining refugees, who had taken little time disassembling every standing structure and building shanty towns. The local wards were overwhelmed with the tasks of policing the mazes of ramshackle buildings and local militias clashed as true volunteers fought with gangs for territory.

Having avoided all of this as much as they could, the party put the troubles of Tivar out of their minds as they entered the beauty of the countryside. Rolling grass hills and stands of trees would eventually turn to forest to their south and west and low foothills inched toward the mountains to the west. On thier last journey it had taken nearly fourteen days to reach the southern city but Tegg set a steady pace and quickly put Tivar behind them. Forward scouts found nothing of interest and an air of relaxation seeped in.

Talbert woke to a light rain tapping on the oiled cloth tent. The rains had come and gone during their long walk, alternating with days of humid heat and sun. They had reached Avendoor with little difficulty and spent most of two days trying to traverse the now overflowing city. Refugees had been pouring out of the East gate, turning south on the caravan roads toward the far south and whatever safety they might find there. When it became clear that the cart would never make it through the city's river of eastwardly flowing people in under a week, they sold it to a blacksmith. The man was more than willing to barter for the cart, knowing he would have no trouble selling it to one of the refugee groups. For the cart, Tegg agreed to a round of repairs and upgrades to their armor and weapons plus a large collection of camping gear, arrows and tools. Now, ten days west of Avendoor on the banks of the Malloron, no one regretted losing the cart. The waves of rain had swollen the river and it was now running fast and deep on the very brim of its banks. No one would have dared put a cart into that torrent, no matter how well it had been pitched.

Talbert sat up and stretched a bit, reaching automatically for his sword. Over the course of the trip he had been sleeping less and less, often taking double shifts on watch or sitting up late talking to Tegg and Jenk about their plans. Even though he had been notorious in the Watch as a late riser, Talbert now found himself alert and awake after only four hours of sleep. Glancing down at the inscription on the blade, he had little doubt as to why.

Jenk was standing the early watch as a result of a bad game of Kettench the night before. Winstin had run him to ground with pair after pair while Tegg and Dar gleefully defended their cards and watched. Jenk chuckled sadly and heard Talbert emerge from his tent. It wasn't a surprise, most of the party had benefitted from Talbert's recent insomnia and Jenk would have felt guilty about giving up watches if Talbert hadn't seemed so enthusiastic about taking them.

“Come to watch the dawn with me?” Jenk asked softly as Talbert sat down on the log next to him.

Talbert smiled and sat down, glancing back on the camp to check on the rest of the tents. “I suppose. If you're not too busy watching the crickets.”

Jenk chuckled and made some room. He glanced down at the sword Talbert had taken to wearing constantly. He and Tegg had discussed it, first as a joke and then with some concern. They had made some basic assumptions, but given Talbert's increased confidence and mood there didn't seem to be much of a problem to try and solve. After sitting for a few moments, though, Jenk's curiosity bubbled up. “Talbert, we've been wondering...”, glancing down at the sword.

Talbert smiled. “I guess I'm not the same guy sometimes. Its not something I can easily explain, but I'm alright, if that's what you're asking.”

Jenk cocked his head and tried to let it drop, but couldn't. “You've taken up with Mogisor or something?”

Talbert's smile wavered a little, shifting to thoughtfulness. “Maybe. Although I think Mogisor and I have taken up something together. He in his way and I in mine.”

There was a long silence between them. Jenk was marvelling at Talbert's tone. He seemed so assured, so driven, so focused that it unnerved Jenk just a bit. It was hard, however, to get past the combination of readiness and contentment that Talbert radiated, just sitting on a damp log on the bank of the river it seemed he could launch into battle at any second. Jenk finally equated it to a drawn bowstring, still and tight at the same time.

The rest of the party slowly came to life after dawn and found Jenk snoozing against a treestump while Talbert kept watch. They had put off making a decision for a day to see if the river would subside. With the night's rain it was clear that wasn't likely, so their options were slowly diminishing. Jenk and Winstin still favored swimming across. The pair believed they could make it across with a rope, allowing everyone else to drag themselves across. Failure meant drowning or being swept North to Bridgetown and a waiting enemy. Ren and Dar voiced the opinion that travelling south to the far bridge would be a much better choice, taking them away from the enemey. Unfortunately, this route would require a long detour, probably at least a week.

Tegg finally had to make a decision, and gathered everyone together. “It comes down to supplies.” He said finally. “We've got enough to make the trip south and I don't want to lose anyone or anything. I don't know how fast we have to get to Sartull, but we can reach Cattras, resupply and continue on without swimming anywhere.

Before the Tohri invasion, Cattras was a vibrant and busy port town, full of merchants who built their business on the thriving trade routes. The influx of thousands of refugees from Bridgetown and beyond had pushed it drastically beyond its means. Every street was crammed with people looking for somewhere to go, every alley full of the homeless and hopeless who had run out of places. For the Cattras Police, this was both unacceptable and unavoidable. Outmanned a thousand to one, law after law was abandoned during the general emergency, until only those laws where life or limb was at stake were even considered for enforcement. The strain showed in every face the party trudged past. Many guards perked up at the sight of their tabards, the clear oar and sword of Tivar seemed to attract every eye. Refugees begged for coin, police begged for assitance and Tegg finally pushed them behind a merchant's stall and ordered everyone out of their uniforms. With light packs and a sudden understanding of how desperate the city was becomming, Tegg pushed his way into the dockmaster's office in a state of shock.

“We're going to Sartull” he said, fishing coin out of a purse. “How soon can we leave?”