Age of Ice and Blood: A Pathfinder System Heroic Fantasy Quest

Eight of Olweje-hamba (Olweje Descendent), 1349 A. L. (After Landfall)

It is strange to hear all about you the Engur tongue and stranger still be have to prove who you are to the satisfaction of the guards of the High City. The Hillfolk they know, though they do not often come among the palaces of the nobility, and of your own company something had been said, even if twisted by rumor and hearsay, but one of the fey wondering about under the light of day festooned with strange artifice, with what must seem to them weapons of dread power... well that calls an accounting. Alas not the kind of accounting that can be solved by adding a few more pieces of silver to the right palm, not for lack of trying on Antonio.

The guard is resolute... as resolute at least as a man facing down armed strangers and one conspicuously unarmed lacy sizing him up through pale eyes can be. It is the law of the city, he claims, that no magician should walk among the people in the company of strange spirits and call them servant. "Too often such have been the master and not the servant to the ruin of all."

"But I do not claim to be a magician good man, nor to have bound Mog by any sorcery, only by his own word freely given for the chance to work his craft in peace and honor."

"I know the law and so I speak it," the guard replies in what is likely a practiced manner to judge by the fact that the crowd waiting to get in the gate which had been at first weary of the gremlin was now groaning and tossing the odd insult where they were thickest. Words they had all heard before when the high plumed guard were at their most intransigent.

"What pray is a spirit good man?" Neios asks. "I confess that I am a stranger to your realm and still struggle with the finer twists of your Engur tongue. Is a spirit one who cannot be touched?" he lays a hand on Mog's shoulder. "Is a spirit one who cannot be understood save by the wise and the learned?"

"Oi, get out the way already?" Mog's accent is... indescribable, best you can place it was if one of the flighty fey of the air tried badly to imitate a troll, but it is without a doubt in the tongue of the land and known by all.

At last the prince asks: "Is then a spirit simply one whose like you have not seen before? Because if that is your measure then I fear trade shall go ill indeed this year."

"It's already gone bad enough on account of the war and no thanks to those who live in the high houses!" one wit shouts from behind you. "What's war gotten us that serve but blood and death for the glory of the Highborn!"

And that is when the pair of younger guards get out their cudgels, oh not for you, they would be as useful as a willow branch against armor and sorcery, but the young fellow had spoken out in the open and the gate guards aren't used to taking lip from the commons, especially ot those who come from good families.

What do you do?

[] Try to calm spirits

[] Ask to get through now that the guards are distracted

[] Write in

OOC: Things have heated up rather badly in Orinilu in your absence and unfortunately for you you are now in the place where pissed off commoners meet the scions of the minor nobility.

Eight of Olweje-hamba (Olweje Descendent), 1349 A. L. (After Landfall)

"There's no war more bloody than one that pits brother against brother on the very threshold of your keep," you call out in a loud voice, but the crowd does not seem to be listening, like a bull enraged by bright colors, like a hound ill kept and off its chain they surge towards the guard trying to get a grip on the young man.

A breath, a heartbeat away from blood is it when the cold breath of the grave falls over you and with it insight of a sort you would once have been hesitant to wield, for it can come from only one. "Stay your hand or death will be among you sure as sunrise, rich and poor highborn and low!" The ring of steel and the hiss of fire kindled underline the words and those nearest in the crowd draw back as if scalded.

"I think," Neios speaks in carefully measured tones, "it would be wisest for all of us to pass along on our business and let others do the same." He takes a half-step towards the guard who was about to connect his cudgel to the head of the ill-timed wit, enough to distract the man, enough for the source of his ire to draw back among his fellows, a family of carters from the knots about their necks.

The captain of the gate looks on your company with a stormy gaze, but he does not try to detain you anymore, too busy now looking for the 'filthy swine' who had dragged the honor of his men through the mud.

They did a good job rolling their honor in it without any help, you think but doo not say as you ride past and into down the long, wide avenue to the manse of House Koire.

You find those halls more filled with voices and with the soft chords that are almost and yet not like lutes, you find the servants gracious and yet weary of the company you keep and you find those guards which had been trained at Wayfarer's Respite now in posts of some import. But Odorin Koire is too busy to receive you, he is the servants tell you, deep in negotiations for his betrothal and so he will be on the morrow, but the day after they assure you he may speak to you as honorable allies.

"Well it looks like we are ill timed this time," Neios laughs and you are about to depart when Esha speaks in the silence of your mind. "I asked the captain of the guards what the lady Odorin is to be betrothed is and he could not say, he said it was not important."

You bite back a curse, but she is not done. "He does think, think mind that his master is with the woman, the one he cannot named but which he is sure is to he the new lady of the manor. There is enchantment here and strong enchantment at that, but of what kind I cannot say, nor what might set it off."

What do you do?

[] Write n

OOC: I have to run, but I wanted to give you guys something.