Young Writers Society

Himline is a world much like other fantasy worlds - it has marvelous magic, dangerous beasts, exotic races, and, of course, a late Medieval/early Gunpowder Age setting. Even the map was created using a generator, which includes the names, so don't laugh at me if you perchance find any of the names amusing. (This map is a regional map of the above-mentioned archduchy, since providing the world map is unncessary.) However, it also includes wordsmiths.



If you believed an individual of this craft to be a mere author, you would be gravely mistaken. Ordinary writers provide entertainment and education to the populace - a noble practice, to be sure - but wordsmiths... they alter the very fabric of reality itself! Oh, but naturally, such power cannot simply be wielded at one's leisure. As with all literary artisans, inspiration is required, and not just the clever ideas of which mortals think themselves capable, no; this particular variety of inspiration can only be gained through wordly experience. The more varied and spectacular the experience, the more potent the wordsmith's writing. The catch, for there is always one, is that a wordsmith must use the inspiration of others and can only write what those individuals sanction.

In no world is the old adage of, "The pen is mightier than the sword," truer than here, for anything that can be described by words can be created with the help of a wordsmith. Is a vampire ravaging the countryside? A quiver full of divine silver arrows will take care of that. Are you in desperate need of some money, but you don't want to approach a loan shark? A treasure map is just what you need! Do you want to plunge the land into chaos by summoning a horde of demons to slaughter everything? Err... if you can find a wordsmith willing to write that, then yes, it's possible - and that's the problem.

Fortunately, a demon horde isn't plaguing the realm - unfortunately, a variety of other creatures are. Nobody knows whence they came, but the Archduke isn't going to do nothing while he waits for his men to find the person or people responsible. He has endorsed the creation of an Adventurer's Guild to deal with the threats, in addition to any future ones. The man who will lead the guild is a veteran named Lucien Rolland and it is one of his recruitment posters, printed with the help of the Archduke, that your character found.



There aren't many requirements for this storybook, but I ask only that you avoid the most common races bar humans - that means no elves, dwarves, goblins, trolls, orcs, or any hybrids of them. There's no need to make this storybook any more generic than it already is, is there? As for magic, technology, and such things, go crazy, although I must limit any firearms to crude muskets and rifles (the kind that take a minute to load). And of course, be reasonable, lest I have to rein you in.

Before I provide the recruitment poster, I should explain a few things about the map. Wawic is a large town, Catun and Pewick are small cities, and Thonimras and Ishill are large cities, with Ishill being the largest, being the capital and all. Caford Castle is where the majority of the military is stationed, Thonimras is where the navy is docked when idle, the ruins in Ethen Vale are probably not abandoned, and the Enchantress' Fortress is definitely not abandoned - luckily, she doesn't bother anyone if no-one bothers her.

There are likely villages and small towns dotted here and there, but they aren't shown because firstly, they're too small, secondly, they could be recently established since people move around after resources, and thirdly, the map was large enough already without the generator adding more stuff. If you want to add one or more, air your intentions in the DT. It will probably be allowed, so you need not be timid about it. As for everything else, well, that's up to you. Just remember that you're restricted to the province, so your character doesn't come from a distant land and hasn't been outside the borders.

Code: Select all

[center][bebas]Adventurer Guild Application Form[/bebas][/center]

While the notion of such a thing may sound absurd at first, the primary purpose of an adventurer guild is to act as a solution to any problem the client may have. The problem may require subtle investigation, tedious searches for lost objects or persons, or the swift slaying of a dangerous creature, but as long as it does [i]not[/i] call for political assassinations, theft (be it petty or not) or any other acts considered as crime, we'll handle it. Most likely, we'll be occupied with slaying creatures, since the very reason this guild is being created in the first place is the sudden emergence of a firedrake. We have only ever seen dragons, and that was centuries ago, so clearly, something is wrong.

This application is not to be filled out by the illiterate, the unlawful, the foolish, or the faint-of-heart. The risk of death or injury will be considerably high every time we venture out the door, so if you aren't prepared to face both, it would be best if you too refrained from joining. To those of you are still willing and able to join, please do so. Whether you seek coin or excitement, you will receive ample of both - just remember to bring your own weapons, armour and spells. This is a guild, not a charity. (Should you wish to join after the guild has been founded, you will need to pay a membership fee.)

One last thing: If you are a former criminal, let me know when we meet in person, and I'll let bygones remain just that. If I discover it for myself, you're out, and if you have an unpaid bounty or unserved sentence on your name, I'll turn you in. Don't think you can silence me to keep your secret either, since I've faced infinitely worse than you. Got it?


[list][size=90][color=gray]Guidelines for filling out the application:
1. Be honest. The point of this poster is to measure your potential worth as a guild member, not your skill in exaggerating your abilities.
2. Be concise. If you want to write long-winded, unnecessarily descriptive stories, join a monastery and work on rewriting manuscripts there.
3. Be blunt. This is not the place for modesty, so while keeping the two previous guidelines in mind, also remember that you have to convince me to hire you.
4. Write in the allocated space beneath each section. I like things neat and organised, but my preferences notwithstanding, if you can't follow an instruction, you won't get the job.
5. Include additional information at the very end. I don't want your life story or family history, otherwise I'd have asked for it, so only add relevant information.
6. Send the completed application to His Serene Grace the Archduke in a sealed letter. I'll collect them from his palace myself.[/color][/size][/list]



[size=120][b]Write down your name and age. If it isn't immediately identifiable, also include your gender.[/b][/size]

...


[size=120][b]Next comes your general appearance. I must be able to identify you even before we meet, so mention things like scars and birthmarks, but only if they are easily distinguishable.[/b][/size]

...


[size=120][b]What does your gear consist of? If you have a codex or grimoire, mention it. If you have enchanted jewellery or exotic pets that aid you in battle, mention it. If you wear civilian clothing, only mention the lack of robes and armour.[/b][/size]

...


[size=120][b]Specify your preferred combat style. If you have more than just your preferred method, mention the others too.[/b][/size]

...


[size=120][b]State your current and past occupations, but don't elaborate on anything save for how long you had it.[/b][/size]

...


[size=120][b]If you have any notable achievements or feats of glory you want to tell me about, this is the place to do it. Once again, keep it brief.[/b][/size]

...


[size=120][b]Anything else you want to tell me?[/b][/size]

...

I'll write the first post... on the fifteenth? Yes, the fifteenth. Err, never mind, somebody reminded me that's my birthday. (I forgot about that.) The seventeenth, then! If enough people are stuck and need an example of a profile, ask me in the discussion topic, but feel free to leave out the introduction and guidelines, since those are the same for everyone. If it's simpler for you to leave it out, do so, but if you want to keep it, keep it. Now come, invite your friends, your friends' friends, and enjoy the collaboration!



EDIT: This SB has since been moved to the DTWH forum, but since character profiles don't show there, they have been enspoilered below. The profiles respectively belong to ty7lucky (x2), Ventomology, Desdemona, TheCrimsonLady (x2), and reikann.









EDIT 2: The DTWH/SB has since been moved back to the archives.

In the lush, western reaches of Himline, there was a great province named Ishaven. While not the most influential of territories, it was the largest to be governed by a single ruler. The concerned archduke resided in Ishill, the City of Bridges. If an artist attempted to capture the essence of beauty on canvass and succeeded, his work would surely be a still of life of one of the magnificent city’s innumerable vistas.

But beauty does not always extend to the heart, and as Ishill was the heart was of the nation, it could be one of either gold or stone. Fortunately, the current archduke was not a genocidal tyrant, so all was well… in a manner of speaking. Things were never completely “well”, which was why Sir Lucien Rolland, Silver Knight of the Haven, Slayer of the Blackmoor Chimera, Scourge of the Khaemshoy Revenants – as he had to announce himself whenever another overly cautious guard stopped him – was on his way to the archduke’s throne room.

After announcing himself for the last time, Lucien entered the voluminous hall. Grand tapestries in cool colours covered the cinereous walls. The light matched the decorum, for the morning fog had rolled in and the chandeliers and candelabra were unlit. The gilded throne on the far side of the room was unoccupied, as its owner stood some ways off to the right, admiring one of the aforementioned tapestries. Lucien approached the figure and bowed.

“Your Serene Grace.”

“You will be disappointed,” Archduke Sutherland stated, his voice differing from that of the famed adventurer as redcurrant sauce differed from the rich bordelaise. He produced six envelopes and held them out, his gaze not moving from the tapestry even though his attention was no longer focused on it.

Lucien accepted the outstretched applications and spread them in his hand like a magician flourished a deck of cards. “I shall admit, Your Grace, I had expected more than six applications, but the candidates may have sufficient talent.”

The sovereign sniffed. “We both know you anticipated a lacklustre turnover, so your false optimism is wasted. Regardless, this mismatch collection of upstarts, faeries and hybrids are not the disappointment I mentioned. That would be the number of viable applications, which is five, not six. I can forgive a criminal, but one of them I forbid you to accept.”

Despite what the archduke might have thought, Lucien had known he would read the letters beforehand and most likely disapprove of at least one. “Which one?”

“Third from the bottom.”

He pulled the indicated application from the fan and read the name and return address with one brow raised. “Cortlyn Alisse Victoria Sutherland?” He deftly tore open the envelope and began scanning its contents.

“Cortlyn Alisse Victoria Sutherland,” the archduke corrected, still not looking at his guest. “Are you surprised?”

“Not as surprised as I am that Your Grace has allowed her to stay in the city.” He looked up. “Or has she already been evicted?”

“Against my better judgement, I decided against it.”

He remained silent for a heartbeat, considering the spoken words. “A decision made by a concerned father and not an objective ruler, I take it?”

“You overestimate my attachment to things, Lucien. A book collector has no need of a dusty volume if he has a pristine first edition.”

The adventurer finished reading the application before returning it to the envelope and tucking all six in one of his coat’s inner pockets. “I am aware the infant baron has replaced his disinherited sister as heir to the throne, but a book collector would prefer to shelve the yellowed copy out of sentiment rather than tossing it into the hearth.”

The archduke finally turned to meet his subject’s eyes. “Unless the book must be burned in order to prevent an infestation from spreading to the more valuable editions.”

It was unwise to contradict the person who assisted with the finances of one’s latest financial endeavour, so Lucien decided to bow out by bowing down. “True words, Your Grace.”

The sovereign clasped his hands behind his back. “You will send her off, then?”

Nobles had many things in great supply, but qualities such as patience and tolerance were not among that number. Lucien considered his next words carefully. “I have to send off some letters first, Your Grace.”

Archduke Sutherland frowned. “I want a direct answer, not an implied one.”

“Very well, I shall escort her through the city gates myself.” As an afterthought, he added, “I’ll also neglect to pass on your regards as I have neglected to pass on hers.”

The archduke turned on his heel, strode to his throne, and sat down with an air of irritation. “You are a froward child, Lucien. Your value to this regime is known throughout the land, but you push your luck too far.” He looked away, quite annoyed but also resigned. “Send your letters. Leave to gather your misfits, if you must, but return swiftly so that we may discuss your payment.” He concluded by waving dismissively.

Lucien bowed again, saying, “Your Grace,” before gladly leaving the archduke with his thoughts.

Had he been invited to the palace to exchange pleasantries and not to discuss potential recruits, he might have walked less quickly so as to admire the splendid architecture and tasteful embellishments. However, that was not the case, and he had anyway ceased gawking at Isheart Palace long ago. The rest of the upper city received the same indifferent treatment, though the fog did provide a good excuse not to loiter.

He strode on through the residential districts too until he reached the portcullis that separated it from the lower city. It was in no aspect similar to the slums of Thonimras, for the City of Ishill was a marvel no matter where one looked. The lower city was simply pretty, not opulent, and the residents took pride in maintaining the pleasant appearance. Even the beggars, who had all received decent clothing from a wealthy altruist, did their best to keep the streets clean (and earn some coins while doing it).

Checking the envelope to be sure he was making for the right address, Lucien headed towards a tiny inn appropriately named “The Sea Lily”. The equally petite innkeeper pointed him to the right room, cautioning him that her tenant was a mysterious lady and should be treated with care. If what Cortlyn had said in her application was true, however, she would be as harmless as a butterfly – albeit a poisonous one.

Three knocks later, a lovely young redhead opened the door. She was lovely only for a moment, of course, since her features contorted in fright and a small scream escaped her mouth. Lucien had grown used to such reactions long ago, for people tended to scream, cower, or cringe when a bipedal, red, fiery canine randomly appeared before them. (The fire posed no threat whatsoever, since he had complete control over its intensity, but regrettably not its presence.)

“My father was a Flame Elemental and my mother an Aurile,” he explained. Stepping inside and closing the door behind him, he added, “You will grow used to it eventually.

She removed her hand from her mouth and straightened, her look of terror changing to one of confusion. “You’re Lucien Rolland?”

He nodded impassively. “I’m not sure which I find more amusing: the notion that most people consider my appearance so fearsome, their stories completely neglect to mention my race, or your look of absolute astonishment.”

She pursed her lips and smacked him with the papers after crumpling them. She then held them up to the light, as if inspecting polished silverware for dust. Apparently, she found not even a speck, for she sighed. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever accidentally set anything on fire?” Her tone indicated she already knew the answer.

“Not even as a child.”

“And here I thought you were some charismatic, playful swashbuckler,” she mumbled. “Just my luck.”

Lucien stared at her with indifferent interest. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard a variation in which I was a pirate. I tend to avoid the ocean.”

Smirking, Cortlyn walked over to the desk in the corner where a wine bottle and two glasses stood. Only one showed signs of being used recently.

“Mr Permanently-On-Fire is afraid of the water, is he?”

She lifted the bottle in silent enquiry, but Lucien shook his head, so she shrugged and poured a glass for herself. He then noticed she was only wearing a nightgown and her bed’s covers lay open.

“Isn’t it a little early to be drinking? You look like you just woke up.”

“Hah! Unlike most women, I don’t need powders or glosses to be attractive.” She twirled her glass and took a sip. “Besides, it’s never too early for wine. And don’t think you successfully dodged my question.”

He crossed his arms in front of his chest and leaned against the wall. “You like games, Cortlyn. I don’t. If I had not wanted to answer your question, I would have said so outright. I avoid the ocean because I get seasick and don’t care to be at sea long enough to grow accustomed to the rolling motion.”

She made a face and plopped down on the bed, skilfully manoeuvring the glass so that no wine was spilled. She took another sip. “Huh. That’s… surprisingly honest. We definitely have to go sailing sometime.”

“Our mission requires us to go west, to the Nony Forest, not east, to the Sea of Ales. Travel by horse is more convenient and more reliable anyway.”

She giggled. “In my experience, horses are afraid of three things: snakes, loud noises, and fire. How do you manage to ride one?”

“Ordinary horses fear those. Charlemagne is from the Black Mire south of the Great Crossroads of Eresseast, so he fears nothing, least of all snakes and fire.”

“He’s one of those scaly, reptilian horses, isn’t he?”

“An Everglade Tolt, yes.”

Cortlyn winced. “Gross.”

Lucien rolled his eyes. “If we are done discussing my lifestyle, I suggest you finish your wine and pack.” He scanned the room. “You don’t seem to have much, so it shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”

She blew a dramatic sigh, emptied the remaining contents of her glass into her mouth, rose, and replaced the glass on the desk. “I don’t suppose you plan on helping.”

“Not in the slightest. I came here to recruit you, not be your butler.”

“Pfft. You could never be my butler; you’re not well-mannered enough. You didn’t even kiss my hand when you greeted me.”

“I never greeted you at all, as you were too busy cringing.”

She sniffed haughtily. “It’s just as well. Who would want to be kissed by a blazing dog anyway?”

Lucien snorted. “Certainly not salamanders. They cringe and flee when they encounter fire.”

“Please, don’t start reciting facts – it’s always so dreadfully boring.” She tilted her head and feigned innocence. “You don’t want to be boring, do you?”

“Of course not; being boring means I would have to live without your company. Everyone knows how heartbroken living without you has made young Alex. He likely had to marry that pretty countess just so he could distract himself from yearning for you. Currently, I must be the luckiest man alive.”

Cortlyn pouted. “Does that mean you’ll be yearning desperately for me in a year’s time, darling?”

"Oh, not at all. Once weeds have taken root in your garden, it's impossible to be rid of them. I shan't have cause to miss you until thistles go extinct."

The redhead sighed exasperatedly. “Why don’t you be the plain, prickly thistle? Then I’ll be the glorious, radiant rose. It’s much more accurate. Do agree with me; it so much better that way.”

Lucien exhaled through his nose, pushed himself away from the wall while muttering, “I don’t have time for this woman’s nonsense,” and used the momentum to approach Cortlyn.

Panicked, she backed into the desk and asked, “Wait, what are you–?”

He scooped her into his arms and carried her out of her room, replying, “I’m taking out the baggage. The luggage will follow soon.” He unceremoniously dropped her on the floor, stepped inside the room, and turned the key in the lock.

A furious voice called, “Open the door, you brute!” Pounding against the wood immediately followed.

Lucien quickly worked his way through the room, tossing clothes, a few pieces of jewellery, and an assortment of blades and vials into a couple of suitcases. “It’s very unladylike to bang against doors, you know.”

She began rattling the doorknob in response. “Somebody help! A craven is stealing my possessions!”

He picked the suitcases up with one hand and unlocked the door with the other, allowing her to fall into the room. “I left you an outfit on the chair. Tell me when you’re dressed.” He exited and locked the door again while she was scrambling to her feet.

Muffled curses drifted into the hallway as Cortlyn Sutherland, former daughter of the Archduke of Ishaven, reluctantly did as she was told. The innkeeper stared at Lucien with wide eyes, but she returned to her duties after he shrugged and mouthed, “Spoiled, I guess.”

“I’m done!” More curses followed the declaration.

Lucien placed the key into the lock and turned it, expertly dodging the bristling mass of porcupine that stormed out.

Cortlyn turned to face his amused gaze with balled fists and inflated chest. “You are the most vulgar, uncouth, boorish, ill-mannered, improper, impolite savage I have ever met!”

He chuckled. “A radiant rose indeed.”

She was about to commence another volley when two suitcases flew through the air towards her. She flinched and barely managed to catch one, but the other bounced off her and landed on the dusty wooden planks. The clasps burst open and clothing spilled out. Tossing her one suitcase aside, she bent down and snatched the clothes from the floor, propping them back into the other.

“If you think I’m still joining your band of incompetent yokels after this,” she seethed, “you are gravely mistaken!”

The flaming canine – who was at that moment less fiery than the woman before him – shrugged. “Though a rogue would be useful, we’ll manage just fine without one; by order of your father, you’re leaving this city regardless. Your choice is between doing so while slung over my shoulder and screaming your lungs out, or while following me like a dignified individual. Which will it be?”

Cortlyn rose to her feet screaming and strode past him, a suitcase in each hand. He followed, stopping at the counter as she threw the door open and stepped into the foggy dawn. A few silver coins were dropped into the innkeeper’s suddenly extended hand.

“What’s this for?” she asked, surprised.

“As I understand,” Lucien answered with a slight smirk, “cats aren’t usually accommodated in such establishments. This is to compensate you for your hospitality and tolerance.” He bowed and left the blushing woman to herself.

Outside, Cortlyn had already stalked some way down the street to their left. He followed some distance behind her, but always keeping her in his sight. When she took a wrong turn in the first residential district they entered, he merely proceeded down his current path and whistled. Judging from the frustrated cries behind him, she had picked up on the cue and was now stomping on after him.

Eleven minutes later, they reached his villa close to the upper city. The fog had begun to recede a little, so the off-white structure glistened in the rays of sunlight. He held the front door open for her, despite his better judgement, and received a blow to the stomach with one of the suitcases as thanks.

“My bags are already packed,” he called, heading for the study, “so you can wait in the lounge. After I’ve finished my letters, we can head to the post office and thence to the city gate.” He stopped in the doorway, but after ten seconds passed and he didn’t hear the sound of anything breaking, he walked over to the desk and pulled a few sheets from a drawer.

He had just completed his third letter and began writing his fourth when Cortlyn ambled into the room and plopped down on a chair beside one of his bookcases. He could hear her reach up and pull a book down from its shelf.

“You didn’t break anything, did you?”

“I considered it, but no.” Pages whispered as they were woken from their slumber. “It seems you want to be boring after all. There’s nothing special about this place. There aren’t any portraits of family, no items of sentiment – nothing an ordinary person would have.” The book was snapped shut and replaced on the shelf.

“I don’t bother with trivia.”

The air sighed as it was disturbed, the planks creaked ever so slightly as the pressure on them increased, the swish of materials rubbing against each other disappeared… and the faint fragrance of perfume reached Lucien’s sensitive nose.

“For someone who claims to have no trace of mawkishness in them, you sure are writing a lot of letters.”

He waved her away. “They are all to make arrangements for our…”

“Quest?” Cortlyn offered.

Lucien sighed. “If you must call it that.”

“You clearly lack even a single romantic bone in your body,” she said. Quick as a fox, she slipped her hand into the inner pockets of his coat and retrieved the applications. “Now, let’s see who else plans on joining.”

“A pixie, a naga, a metamorph, and two other human adolescents.” He placed the missive in an envelope, dripped wax over the cover, and pressed his sigil into it.

“Hey! I am not an adolescent!”

Lucien dipped his quill into his inkpot and wrote the salutation of the fifth message. “You could have fooled me.”

She humphed and returned to the chair beside the bookcase. “Your opinion is of little significance to me.” Papers rustled as she removed the first application. “Hmm, Jacob Rasman, a nineteen-year-old swordsman currently lodged in Thonimras who doesn’t seem to be a fan of elaborate descriptions… Andromeda Loth, a twenty-year-old mage who brags for a living and hunts criminals on the side, also in Thonimras… Orae… What?” She started muttering something.

“What is it now?”

“I can’t pronounce this fellow’s name. Aw-ri-nee-ows? Aw-ri-nay-us? Charming. I’ll just call him Orin.” A few seconds later, she huffed. “Bloody hell, I can’t pronounce any of these names! How can anyone be expected to remember them? They sound like he mashed together a whole lot of letters because he couldn’t think of anything better!” She paused. “You’re good.”

“What do you mean?”

“You get criminals to admit to their crimes without meeting them even once.”

“The irrelevance of that topic with regards to your opinion on the names notwithstanding, I suppose the plural means you include yourself under ‘criminals’?”

She threw him with a book. Indifferent, he picked it up from the floor and placed it next to the empty envelopes.

“I was pardoned for my stupid husband’s murder! Rude.” She shook the page, as if trying to focus her thoughts on it. “He’s also part dog, so you two should get along splendidly.”

“This may surprise you,” Lucien said, stamping his seal onto another missive, “but appearances and names like that are common in other parts of the world.”

“Oh, really? Where?”

“Caer Belzi to the southwest of the Desert of Brass, Amandalr in the Twilight Mountains, Bebrycg, the Last City of Erenond…”

“All those are in the far east! Ugh, men are useless.” She opened the next letter and giggled. “Apparently the metamorph isn’t the only oddball in Pewick – there’s a pixie too! And it looks like he literally intends to scare the animals away. Oh hey, here’s the snake-lady you mentioned earlier. She’s in Catun.”

“They’ll all love you, I’m sure,” Lucien remarked dryly.

“Of course they will. I just won’t love them back. You know, you never created an application.”

“I’m the founder. Do I need to give myself permission to join?”

“How droll. Still, it isn’t fair. What’s your name and age.”

He sighed. Perhaps if he indulged her, she would keep quiet eventually. “Sir Lucien Rolland, age forty-seven.”

“You’re a Knight of the Haven?” she asked, somewhat surprised. “Grey, Aqua, or Silver?”

“Silver.”

Cortlyn made a sound he guessed was supposed to convey surprise, scepticism, or derision. “Braggart,” she said, confirming that it was the third. “General appearance.”

“If both parents were Auriles, I would have a golden-brown coat, but since my father was a Flame Elemental, it’s red.”

“And on fire.”

He felt like banging his head against the desk. “And on fire. I tend to wear black shirts, coats, trousers, and boots, often with red or blue featuring somewhere. I generally carry a broadsword in its sheath on my left hip, but the weapon may vary if circumstances call for it.”

“What is your gear?”

“I wear leather armour when in the forest, but plate armour if battling with others is in my near future. I possess a purified broadsword capable of dispatching unholy or unliving threats, as well as a longsword, a sabre, and a rapier.”

“No fancy weapons? Don’t you set people on fire?”

“No and no. I have finished six out of seven letters already, so if you want to finish asking your questions, I suggest you quicken your pace.”

“Or you could slow down! Bloody hell, you write faster than my late husband could shove food down his throat.” She audibly shivered. “Now that was an appalling sight.”

“Stop rambling, Cortlyn.”

“And you stop rushing me! Impatient blighter. I already know you use bladed weapons, so I’ll skip straight to your occupations and achievements.” He was about to answer when she shushed him. “Actually, no, don’t bother. I’ve heard you have a biography three volumes long, so spare me the details. I woke less than an hour ago, so falling asleep now would completely ruin my circadian rhythm.”

Lucien silently praised his luck. The biography in question had been written by a wordsmith he had met when he was two decades younger. They had quickly become friends, but it was only recently, about seven years previously, that he had asked Lucien to bestow upon him the honour of writing the first accurate biography of the most famous adventurer in the archduchy’s history. Lucien had agreed only to ensure that at least one version described his race correctly. (In fact, the entire first volume was dedicated to his youth.)

“I just realised something,” Cortlyn announced.

“My letter is done, so make it quick.”

“That’s exactly it. Why did you write seven letters? I count only five other applications.”

Lucien gathered the envelopes and gestured for her to follow. Ascending the stairs to the second floor, he explained, “With the group we have now, the world is doomed. If we are to improve our odds with even a fraction of a percentage, I need to enlist the help of some old friends. The one is a siren in Catun, an excellent healer, while the others are spouses in Thonimras, the husband a human archer and the wife a selkie swordswoman.”

“And they will improve our odds?”

He tucked the letters into his pockets and gathered his pre-packed bags off of his bed. Turning around and stopping because Cortlyn had literally been on his heels, he yelled, “Ye gods, woman! I thought I knew your father, but I am mistaken. Previously, I thought him impatient, but now, I realise his patience must be as wide as the sea if he tolerated you for sixteen years. Either you will learn to respect your fellow guild members, or you will be tossed out onto the streets like the trampled piece of cabbage that you are! Understood?”

He didn’t wait for an answer and sidestepped her instead.

“You turned a little blue there,” she called after him.

“I’m leaving.”

She dashed out of the villa just as he shut and locked the front door. “Where to now?”

“I told you; the post office. The letters to Pewick I’m going to send via hawk so that Maddox and Orin can meet us in Thonimras, and the rest I’m sending via pidgeon. Elaine and Thorn will wait for us in Wawic, since that’s where we’ll be heading eventually. Any other questions?”

Cortlyn beamed, evidently pleased that she had managed to annoy him so greatly. “I am satisfied for now.”

“Good. Then let’s go.”

Orin sat in the corner of the small inn where he currently resided. A half eaten sandwich with questionable looking bread sat upon a slightly dented silver plate. He sat thoughtfully occasionally lifting the chalice of juice to his lips. He was planning which role he would play today. He did this often, especially when he didn't have any plans. He would create a character and truly become them for the day.

The round faced innkeeper Ray Lench shouted lazily from the desk, "ORIN, I got a message for ya!"

At this Orin put his face in his hands and muttered, "Does he really have to announce it to the world!" He lifted himself from the bench and walked to the desk.

"There ya are, here you go." Ray handed a letter to him.

Orin took it gingerly and could tell it was not his usual business and decided he better head to his room. "I should get ready for the day."

"Alrigh' I'll see ya later."

Orin headed to his large room and once he was inside and at his desk he opened the letter. Inside was a note informing him that for the guild he had signed up for he was expected to travel to Thonimras where he would meet the rest of the crew. The journey would take a day by boat.

"I guess I'll have to ditch the acting today." He stood still reading the paper. He then walked slowly to gather his few possessions. He threw them into a bag sloppily. Everything in together barely filled up the brown leather sack.

After he was sure he had everything he walked to the mirror. He saw a man with brown hair and the beginnings of a beard. The burn marks on his neck were especially prominent today. Orin decided to cover the burns up. He stood still as the scar faded into nothing. He looked himself over and decided it was time to go. He gathered his possessions and headed out the door.

Once Orin got to the counter he placed a small bag of silver on the counter and walked out the door. The sun barely shone into the alley and it was home to many beggars. But thanks to Maddox there weren't any rats or stray cats. Everyone loved that pixie because he got rid of vermin. Orin on the other hand did not, he was glad the pests were gone but why did everyone have to love fish. In Orin's opinion they were just slimy and disgusting.

Orin walked out of the alley and into the busy streets of Pewick. The cobblestone running beneath his feet. People were bustling from shop to shop and all over. Orin preferred the alley were there wasn't as much of a chance that someone would recognize you. He bustled down the street blending in with the crowd, he was on the lookout for a certain magic supply shop.

When Orin saw it the name popped out like a sore thumb The Necromancer. This was the shop his Uncle Lars had opened before he had passed away like Orin's parents. Now it was owned by his cousin Andrew.

Orin broke from the crowd, walking to the small shop. Once inside he looked to the counter to find his cousin an aurile with golden fur. Magical items scattered the small dimly lit room. Orin walked to the counter, "How are you doing Drew?"

"Good, not much business lately. And you?"

"I've done some personal jobs, I've enlisted in an Adventurer's Guild and I'm looking for some supplies. I was wanting to restock some of my stuff."

"You joined an Adventurer's Guild?' he asked incredulously.

"Yes, I decided it was time to try something new."

"Well I have just the stuff for you." Andrew ducked behind the counter and searched for something. He came up fast with something in his clawed hands, "An enchanted dagger I heard you were okay with one."

The dagger had a green blade and intricate designs on the handle. A silver dragon with ruby eyes was sitting at the hilt. Orin looked up at the aurile, "What does it do?"

"It inflicts deeper wounds than an average dagger." The golden coated aurile handed him the dagger, "It's on the house for my cousin."

"Thank you!" Orin stashed the dagger with the rest of his belongings. He returned his gaze to Andrew.

"Anything else you want?"

"Could I get some some ingredients for potions?"

"Yes I'll get them right now." Andrew walked to a back room and noise of him rifling through things came to the counter. He finally appeared a small brown box in his clawed hands. He stopped at the counter and placed the box in front of him. "I just got the basics."

"Yeah that's all I need." he grabbed the box and shoved it in with the dagger. Orin was about to leave when he remembered something. "Andrew weren't you in an Adventurer's guild, do you have any advice for me."

"Always stay alert some of the people there aren't who you think they are, not that you'll be who you say you are, we both know you have secrets, and I'm not talking about the cons you've probably already announced that to half the world." Andrew chuckled because both of them knew that was practically true.

Orin had never been ashamed of his cons and didn't care who knew. If he had been ashamed of them he never would have done them. He had done them for the adventures. After his first occupation he had been doing things for adventures, that's why he had signed up for the guild. He walked to the door of the small shop and waved his cousin goodbye.

"Good luck with the guild!" The aurile shouted after him.

Orin had a stupid grin on his face as he exited the shop. "Off to the harbour!" He was happier than he had been in a long time. New adventures sat in front of him on a silver platter.

Orin walked into a less busy street and made his way to the docks. He passed children playing in the street. He was walking past a notifications wall and stopped. There on the wood board was a picture of one of his disguises scowling down at him. "I never scowled when I conned people, this just won't do."

Orin waved his fingers and the picture changed the young man in the picture was now smiling and waving wildly. "That's better!"

He continued down the streets turning right or left occasionally. He finally emerged from the tightly packed buildings. The harbour lay in front of him magnificent ships covered every inch of it. He walked up to a large man with a severe potbelly. "Do you know where I can get a ride to Thonimras?"

"Actually a matter of fact, I'm going to Thonimras leaving tomorrow morning at six, ya won't find a faster ship in Pewick." the Man said.

"Great, how much are you charging."

"25 gold pieces."

"25, are you serious that is an outrageous price!"

"Take it or leave it, There isn't another ship going until 16th of Summer's rise."

Orin frustrated pulled a bag of gold from his pocket. He poured out the coins and counted 25. He then handed them to the fat man.

The man practically pounced at the gold. He scooped it from Orin's hands. "Pleasure doing business with ya!"

The two of them shook hands, and Orin left to spend the rest of the day.

The next morning Orin woke up in the inn. He decided to go and stay another night. He got out of the lumpy bed and walked to the mirror. He looked tired but other than that completely fine.

He exited the bathroom and walked to the desk where he had placed a pair of clothes. He threw them on sloppily and returned to the bathroom where he combed his hair. Lines were under both eyes, he didn't normally wake up until seven o'clock. He once again left the bathroom and slung the satchel over his shoulder. He had half an hour to get on the boat.

Once outside Orin walked quickly. He didn't wish to miss the boat. As he walked on the extremely less crowded roads he wondered if the man had been telling the truth about no boats leaving until the sixteenth. He didn't even bother wondering whether the boat was the fastest because he was positive it wasn't.

He emerged from the buildings and ran to the docks. When he first got there it appeared no one was there, but then he saw the large man by a small boat. Orin walked to him and announced his presence. "Hello."

The man jumped and turned to face him. "You're a few minutes early there's only a couple of other passengers and they haven't arrived yet. Get on make yourself at home."

Orin walked up the plank that connected the boat to the dock. The boat was small and there was only room for about 15 passengers in total. He walked to the back of the boat (the boat shaking as he did) he tended to do best with his sea sickness there. After a few minutes others arrived, they looked like a couple. It was two elementals one fire and one water. Water elementalists were very rare, and they came from far away. They got on and after more waiting the ship took off. The couple were obviously newlywed because they couldn't stop staring at each other.

They all sat in the small boat as it started across the water, the girl looked up her blue hair floating everywhere. She was obviously annoyed at the speed she lifted her arms and moved them. As she did the boat sped up almost twice the original speed. She returned her focus to the fire elementalist.

"This actually might be the fastest boat." he said under his breath then smiled. "At this rate we might even arrive at three o'clock."

Orin tried a couple times to make conversation but soon saw it was pointless.The two love birds seemed to be deaf and blind. They had been going for several hours. Orin being bored and no longer caring about the other two passengers transformed into the man and began talking in a fake voice, "I love you, I love you."

He then transformed into the girl and in a terrible girl's voice said, "I know you can't get your eyes off of me."

Now the boy and girl were both glaring at him. He returned to his normal form and put on a fake cheesy smile. "How do you do?"

They resumed their conversation, as the captain came out "That's a pretty amazing trick, are you a mage?"

"Why thank you. Yes I am." He winked, the couple were obviously not as pleased. "How much longer before we get there?"

"An hour" The fat captain said. "If you want fish there are some in that box, being a mage you could cook it."

"Thank you for the offer but I'm good." Orin glanced at the box. "I think I'm going to try to sleep." After several spells and minutes Orin got to sleep.

Orin was woken by the yell of the Captain saying they had reached Thonimras

Cortlyn Alisse Victoria Sutherland, the unlucky bearer of a name somewhat more intimidating than herself, was torn. As she followed Lucien out of his villa, a biting remark always at the tip of her tongue, to be called up and used whenever and wherever the opportunity presented itself, Cortlyn was torn between liking and hating "Sir Lucien Rolland, The One With Too Many Stupid Titles.

Hrmphing, she followed Lucien to the stables, smirking to herself when he tensed at the slight sound. "What, are you afraid of what might come out if I open my lips? Don't worry, Sparky, I'll be nice." She winked at him as they ducked through the door, turning away and inspecting the small stables.

"Sparky? I would have thought you could come up with something more... creative than that." Lucien's unaffected tone made her pout dramatically as she blinked, trying to get her eyes to adjust to the light.

Cortlyn could just feel Lucien's gaze on her as she walked around, her delicate, slender fingers (so useful for mixing poisons) grazing over the walls lightly as she did so. "If you would prefer to answer to profanity- you probably have some practise at that- I would be quite happy to oblige." Throwing a cheery smile over her shoulder, she resumed her explorations.

"Go ahead. If you had to swear each time you wanted to address me, I'd get at least /some/ respite from your grating voice. Unless you don't mind displaying your status as a tramp in public." Lucien stared her down, apparently expecting her to be offended, or shocked.

Instead, she grinned, throwing a piece of hay at him. "I've been called everything under the sun from harlot to whore. Your sweet, biting insults are quite amusing, did you know?"

When she wandered over to the saddle and bridle and tack, she considered how annoyed Lucien would be if she laid a hand on the softly shining, polished leather. When she looked over her shoulder, though, he was inside one of the stalls, presumably murmuring nonsense to his hellish horse. Prancing over, she rested her elbow on a wooden beam and assumed a critical expression.

"Why haven't you got a stableboy to do this for you?" She giggled to herself at Lucien's tensed shoulders, then continued, "Or... let me guess, you had one, but he ran away because of how hideous your horse was?" She arched an eyebrow as Lucien glared at her and clenched his fists. Spinning gracefully out of the way as the stall door was banged open, an absurd laugh bubbled up her throat as she danced out the stable door.

Her endless chatter never ceased, though, not even when Lucien turned his back to her purposefully and began to brush his horse down. "You don't have any servants, not even a gardener. I should think that a man as well-traveled as yourself would be able to keep a proper household." As Lucien led the horse out of its stall, Cortlyn cringed, edging away from the devilish beast.

The horse really was ghastly, Cortlyn thought, and might have matched Lucien if it had had fire rippling from its mane. It looked just as frightful and boorish as Lucien had at first look. Though, Cortlyn did have to admit that Lucien's odd appearance had certainly grown on her. Silently promising herself to never tell him so, she swept out of the way and leaned against the threshold of the stable. The sun caught her hair and turned it into a fiery halo against her pale skin.

Impatiently, she tapped her foot. "Are you nearly done yet?"

Lucien sighed, pausing his work to look at her disapprovingly. "Are you ever patient?" Holding a hand up when she opened her mouth to reply, he shook his head. "Don't answer that." Taking a deep breath, he said, "Do you even have a horse of your own?"

Sniffing haughtily at his tone, Cortlyn replied, "Of course I have a horse of my own. He's in a stable near the inn someone dragged me out of."

Lucien raised his eyebrows. "Somehow, I recall you storming out of the inn, not me dragging you out."

Making a small noise of discontent, Cortlyn spun in the doorway, her long coat flaring out behind her. Smiling at the dramatic effect, she announced, "I'm going to fetch my horse now. Meet me at the stables- they're just across the road from the inn."

She stepped out of the villa's gate, letting it swing shut behind her. As she strode down the streets, Cortlyn took care the stick to side-roads and back-alleys. After all, even if her father knew of her presence in the city, she had best not flaunt her presence.

By the time she made it to her stables, Cortlyn was covered in a layer of sticky sweat from the bright summer sun. Her thick coat didn't help, either. Briefly, she considered taking it off, but its many pockets were filled with packets rare plants and stoppered bottles of alarming extracts. Besides, she mused, the rich green velvet did bring out the coppery tints in her hair quite well.

Marching up to the stablemaster's door, she rapped sharply with a gloved fist before stepping back and striking a pose against the doorway. When the door swung open, revealing a tall, thin man that seemed almost schooteacherish, Cortlyn waved hello lazily.

"It seems it has come time for me to leave the city. I'll be needing my horse, if you please." She fluffed her hair with one hand lazily, in sharp contrast with the man that stood with almost military discipline in front of her.

Frowning down his bespectacled nose at her, he fetched a stack of perfectly un-wrinkled papers from his desk and peered down at them. "Your name?"

She rolled her eyes, but obliged. "Cortlyn Alisse." She hadn't given her full name, not wanting to tempt fate, although the man undoubtedly knew exactly who she was.

Still staring at his list, he nodded. "Ah, yes. The seal-brown stallion. A fine horse. Unfortunately, he's been stolen, so I'm afraid I can't help you any further." With a brisk nod to her, he strode past her, without so much as a by-your-leave.

Cortlyn gaped after his retreating figure, seemingly frozen to her place in utter shock. Recovering her senses, she unfroze, and bounded after him. "What the bloody hell do you mean, stolen?" Her voice was nearly a shriek, and the stablemaster looked at her disapprovingly again.

"I mean exactly what I've said. Your horse, although fine, was stolen." He strode on, his face expressionless.

As she struggled to match his pace, Cortlyn began, "What on earth were you doing when people's horses were getting robbed?"

Finally, the stablemaster turned into another of the buildings. Taking a small pouch from his pocket, he tossed it into her hand. "There, you've been recompensed. Don't linger, please." With that said, he slammed the door in her utterly surprised face.

Cortlyn growled, kicking at the door. " Open this door immediately, you ignorant buffoon! You have no right to do this to me!" A string of curses leapt from her mouth as she continued to kick and pound at the door.

"It seems that people tend to make a habit of shutting doors in your face." Cortlyn whirled around at the sound of Lucien's voice.

"He says my horse was stolen! What was I supposed to do, just sit there and mope?" Huffing, she turned back around, pounding the door with her fist again. When no reply came, she kicked at the door one last time and strode through the stable gate, which was unceremoniously banged shut. Lucien, somehow managing to step through without getting caught, mounted his hellish horse, waiting expectantly, an amused smile playing on his lips.

Cortlyn stared up at him. She didn't want to ask him for help, but no suitable horse could be procured at so late an hour. And besides,

Kicking at the ground with a boot, she muttered, "I don't suppose..." She trailed off, unable to force the words to exit her mouth. "I-don't-suppose-you'd-let-me-ride-with-you?" The string of words was said with no gaps or spaces, and Cortlyn firmly avoided Lucien's laughing gaze.

"Oh, so now you want to ride Charlemagne?" He smirked as Cortlyn's cheeks burned scarlet. When he started chuckling to himself, Cortlyn glared at him, her pride surging up.

Tossing her head defiantly, she declared, "You know what? Never mind, I don't need anything from you." Turning on her heel, she marched purposefully back to the building where she had left the stablemaster last. The unlucky man had just opened the door, and Cortlyn banged in, earning yet another look of disapproval from the infuriatingly placid man.

Tossing the pouch of coins on a nearby table, Cortlyn smiled viciously. "I will be needing a horse," she announced to the room. Staring down the stablemaster until he seemed at least a bit cowed, Cortlyn watched contemptuously as the man picked up the pouch of coins and scuttled out the door, nodding for her to follow him.

She grinned as she strode behind him and ducked into the stables, her anger fading away as quickly as it had reared its head. When the stablemaster tried to gesture her to an old gelding that had grayed out and looked as if it was on its last legs, she frowned. "Your best horse, if you please."

Frowning to himself, the stablemaster reluctantly walked further into the stables. As Cortlyn followed him, a soft snort from one of the stalls caught her attention. "What about this one?" The black mare had a high, arched neck, and her lithe muscles rippled under her gleaming coat as she clip-clopped to the door.

The stablemaster grimaced, his long, bespectacled nose wrinkling. "She's really not for sale; that is, Lord Duca-" He stuttered to a stop when Cortlyn opened the stall door, stepping inside. "You- you really can't do that!"

Looking over the horse, Cortlyn nodded to herself. Patting the horse's cheek, she strode out of the stall, hereyes twinkling with mischief. "I'll take her. Have her saddled and brought out immediately." When the stablemaster began to protest, she raised an eyebrow. Fishing a coin out of one of her many pockets, she flicked it towards him. The gold glimmered through the air before the stablemaster's greedy hands clasped it and pocketed it, his protests silenced.

When Cortlyn swung through the gate, somewhat less wealthy and in the possession of a rather magnificent horse, Lucien only looked at her. "I suppose you won't be needing any assisstance, then?"

Pulling herself onto the saddle, Cortlyn sniffed indignantly. "You could at least have more of a reaction than that. It might amuse me."

When Lucien started to reply, Cortlyn waved a hand in his general direction. "That didn't need a reply, Sparky." Grinning over her shoulder at him, she said, "Race you to the city gates." Giggling as she spurred her mare, she took off, ignoring Lucien yelling after her to stop immediately. As her hair streamed out behind her and the wind bit into her eyes, she cackled evilly. Foot traffic had increased in the city over the past hour, and Cortlyn soon found herself slowing to a trot. Still, she managed to wend her way to the main road out of the gate quickly enough. Lucien was no where to be seen, and Cortlyn shrugged it off, assuming he had taken a different route.

Just as she neared the gates, she caught sight of Lucien, somehow ahead of her. Glaring at the back of his head, she spurred her mare forward, going as fast as she dared. And then, when she managed to somehow pass Lucien and canter through the gate first, she winked at him. "You couldn't have won. Obviously, I'm the better horsewoman."

She could almost feel Lucien's discontent. "Just go. You're blocking traffic."

A while later, the hot, dusty road, empty save for a few travellers at a time, stretched out before them. Cortlyn stretched her neck, weary of sitting in the saddle for so long with no break. "I definitely won our race."

Lucien sighed. "We weren't racing.

Cortlyn pouted. "Then how did you get there so quickly?"

"We weren't racing."

She huffed, and sat back. As they rode in silence, she sniffed the air, a too-sweet, almost honey-like smell reaching her nose. Wondering where it was coming from, she looked around, but there were no flowers to be seen nearby.

"Do you smell that?" She looked over at Lucien. He looked confused, and she repeated her question. "Do you smell that? That- sweet scent?"

When he sniffed the air, and shook his head, she frowned. "Hold on a second. I need to dismount." One of her poisons could have easily gotten loose from it's packaging. Halting her mare, Cortlyn dismounted, going to the side of the road. When she checked her pockets, nothing was loose, so she tugged her poisons case from her bags, unlocking it easily.

Holding her cloak to her nose and mouth, she popped it open slowly, trying not to breathe in too much. Sure enough, bits of dried caligula leaves had fallen out from their packet. Although their smell wouldn't kill them, it might cause vomiting, or headaches. And besides, the smell was positively nauseating, it was so sweet and cloying. Nodding to Lucien, she mounted again, and they set off, this time in silence, Cortlyn too dull to make even a tiny remark.

When they reached the inn for the night, Cortlyn's spirits had risen, and she had been poking fun at Lucien for the better part of an hour. Flipping a copper to the stableboy to brush down and unsaddle her mare, she waltzed through the doors. Leaving Lucien to his own business, she marched up to the man she was mostly sure was the innkeeper. "A room for the night and a meal, please." Giving him a tight smile, she dropped a coin into his palm and took the key he extended to her.

As she followed him to her room, she smiled at the room in general, not missing the one or two heads that turned when she passed. Locking the door behind herself, she dragged her bags over to her, pulling out her poisons case again. Tugging on her gloves, she smiled at the rows and rows of neatly arranged bottles and vials and tins before. Confidently, she began to mix a new type of sleeping powder she'd never tried before, her fingers plucking and mixing and mashing and stirring constantly.

It was finished within an hour. Scribbling her notes into a small stack of parchment, she nodded happily to herself. Now all she had to do was find someone to use it on, just to make sure it worked. If her calculations were correct, all that had to be done was to mix the powder in alcohol to activate it. Slipping it into her sleeve, Cortlyn swept back to the main hall, ordering a drink and taking a seat. Soon enough, a young man walked up to her and asked if he could buy her a drink. Still keeping an eye on the room for someone who deserved to be put to sleep, she nodded, accepting his offer with a brilliant smile.

Lucien was nowhere to be seen- probably just being boring and lonely in his room, Cortlyn thought. As she chatted with her admirer, her eyes stilled on four men sitting in one of the dark, shadowy alcoves of the inn. Not only did they torment the serving-girls, but the innkeeper had approached them at least a half-dozen times, and had retreated each time looking more and more terrified. Excusing herself, she wended her way through the crowded room, plunking herself down on their table with a wicked smile.

"Well, hallo, boys. What brings you here to-night?" They frowned at her collectively, although one or two did have amused expressions in their eyes.

"Can we help you?" The one on her left looked annoyed as he spoke.

Positioning herself on the table so that his friends couldn't see his cup, she leaned forward, her hand going to his collar even as she sprinkled a little of the powder in his drink with her other. Tugging him closer, she smiled. "There are a great many things you could help me with. In fact, you could all help me." As she turned to the other three and gestured grandly with her arm, she managed to sneak a little into the second man's cup. Hiding her smile at this, she hopped off the table, moving to the opposite side, where the last two sat. As she moved, she took care to keep the small pouch in her hand from showing.

The man next to her leaned back, resting his head on his arms. "What's your name, sweetheart?" He grinned at her, then, and she smiled back.

"Cortlyn." Her smile widened, as his eyes flashed with recognition. When his gaze lingered on her face, she took the opportunity to slip the poison into his drink.

The man on her other side piped up, his cold eyes gazing at her unfavourably. "Go harass someone else. We've no need of your company."

Coyly, she patted his rough cheek, poisoning his drink as she dropped her arm, "Oh, do be nicer to me." Sliding off the table, she grinned back at the men as she threaded her way through the crowd and made her escape. Just then, a bright flicker in front of her caught her eye, and she stopped in her tracks, very nearly avoiding crashing into Lucien, who was glaring murderously at her.

"Tell me that I didn't just see you poison those four men." Lucien's voice was grating, and harsh, and Cortlyn rolled her eyes at him.

"You didn't just see me poison those four men." She shook a lock of hair and looked up at Lucien calmly.

"You cannot walk around poisoning people if you want to be a part of this guild. Do you even kn-"

"Stop talking." Cortlyn glared at him. "It was a sleeping draft. A sleeping draft. They're certainly not helping anyone, and all I did was put them to sleep. They can take a little headache. Kick me out of the guild if you want, but I'm not apologising." She took a quick look behind her and noted with satisfaction that all four of the men were snoring on the table.

As the high from her antics wore off, the loud chatter of the room rose to her attention, never seeming to cease, and Cortlyn massaged her temple, feeling a headache coming on. Stomping past Lucien without waiting for a reply, Cortlyn locked herself in her room and threw open the windows before locking her poisons case and curling up in the corner to try and get some sleep.