Original Submissions

• 

  Leave No Stone Unturned by pof Dorri
  Added on May 7, 2023

  Dorri, a Rukkian, stumbles over a young woman who doesn't seem to realize what she really is.

  ---

  
  Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
  You pass beneath the shadow of the red sandstone templar statue.
  The Gladiator and the Gaj Tavern -- Main Room [N, E, S, Quit]
  This common room composes the bulk of the Gladiator and the Gaj
  Tavern, a bustling establishment founded in the Year of Suk-Krath's
  Defiance of the 19th age. A cacophony of sounds fills the inn, from the
  busy murmur of the many merchants that frequent the location to the
  howling of the crowd, greeting the arriving news of the latest arena
  fight, to the drunken whine of the hundreds of commonfolk that have made
  the place famous. Stout wooden beams support the paneled roof of the
  room, each bearing many drawings carved by the patrons of the tavern.
  An agafari-wood bar dominates the western side of the room, the shelves
  behind it supporting the weight of many alcoholic beverages. Wood and
  stone tables with matching chairs are strewn all over the chamber in
  clusters as to allow waiters and waitresses to circulate with ease. A
  raised platform has been erected in the northeastern corner for the
  messengers and hawkers hired by the establishment that relay the latest
  news from the arena.
  To the north, a scarred tarp of carru hide leads out onto the busy
  Caravan Way. Flickering yellow and orange light spills out from the
  southern room of the tavern, where the meals are prepared and where
  travelers may roast their raw meat for free. Eastwards lies the public
  sleeping area, while a door lies behind the bar, most likely a back
  room.
  A wall here is designated as a message board.
  The ebon-skinned, matronly dwarf is sitting at a long, scarred bar of agafari wood.
  The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak is sitting at a long, scarred bar of agafari wood.
  The sandy-haired scruffy teen is sitting on a long, scarred bar of agafari wood.
  The smoky-gazed Allanaki soldier drinks some ale at the bar.
  The smoldering-eyed, hale man is sitting at a long, scarred bar of agafari wood.
  A human soldier of Tektolnes stands guard here.
  The angular, silver-eyed man is here, leaning casually against a wall.
  The brutally-scarred orange dwarf sits here at a table, drinking heavily.
  A dark-skinned human barkeep stands behind the bar.
  The lean, sun-reddened woman laughs as she talks at a large table here.
  The hairy, dark-skinned woman watches the room from beside the bar here.
  The towering, golden-haired half-giant is here, crouched beside a table.
  
  The hood of a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak is already lowered.
  
  To the south is the Gladiator and the Gaj Tavern -- Roasting Pits.
  [Near]
  The short, buff, thick-maned soldier is standing here.
  
  A tarp to the east leads to the Gladiator and the Gaj Tavern -- Public Dormitory.
  The tarp is open.
  [Near]
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak is here, slumped on the ground in a corner.
  The sable-haired, jade-eyed soldier relaxes on a bedroll, off-duty.
  The slim human with olive skin is standing here.
  
  You are using:
  a scrub-camouflaged, sandcloth-covered cap
  a dusty dusky-black feather
  a desert-camouflaged, sandcloth-covered collar
  a dull black gem
  a carru-horn, baobab spear
  a dusty bahamet-embroidered leather backpack
  a desert-camouflaged, sandcloth jacket
  a coil of numut-woven rope
  a pair of scrub-camouflaged, sandcloth sleeves
  a bright blue sandcloth bandana
  a durrit-claw bracer
  a pair of scrub-camouflaged, sandcloth gloves
  a bead-sewn pouched belt
  a blackened serrated bone halfsword
  a long redhide pouch
  a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak
  a tightly-woven sash of dark sandcloth
  a pair of desert-camouflaged, sandcloth leggings
  a dusty pair of scrub-camouflaged, sandcloth-covered boots
  
  
  While offering the sandy-haired scruffy teen a friendly wave, the ebon-skinned, matronly dwarf looks up at the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak.
  
  The mousy, young man lowers the hood of his black, hooded militia dustcloak.
  
  The thin young woman knocks the grit off the bottoms of your dusty pair of scrub-camouflaged, sandcloth-covered boots, one at a time, by knocking the side of her foot against the arch's frame.
  
  You dust yourself off.
  
  At a long, scarred bar of agafari wood, the ebon-skinned, matronly dwarf speaks, grinning broadly.
  
  The thin young woman pushes away from the northern arch, wandering through the morning crowd toward a long, scarred bar of agafari wood.
  
  The ebon-skinned, matronly dwarf opens her dusty large chalton-hide backpack.
  
  The ebon-skinned, matronly dwarf gets her plain bag of cloth from her dusty large chalton-hide backpack.
  
  The ebon-skinned, matronly dwarf gets her large bag from her dusty large chalton-hide backpack.
  
  Absently wadding it up, the ebon-skinned, matronly dwarf puts her plain bag of cloth into her dusty scrub-camouflaged sandcloth duster.
  
  The ebon-skinned, matronly dwarf gets her pale wooden longbow from her large bag.
  
  The mousy, young man holds a hand out to the ebon-skinned, matronly dwarf curiouslt.
  
  The ebon-skinned, matronly dwarf gives her pale wooden longbow to the mousy, young man.
  
  East, through a tarp, is the Gladiator and the Gaj Tavern -- Public Dormitory.
  The tarp is open.
  [Near]
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak is here, slumped on the ground in a corner.
  The sable-haired, jade-eyed soldier relaxes on a bedroll, off-duty.
  The slim human with olive skin is standing here.
  
  The thin young woman pauses before a long, scarred bar of agafari wood, then pushes past it.
  
  The Gladiator and the Gaj Tavern -- Public Dormitory [W, Quit]
  This spacious chamber provides a place for the public to sleep for
  free. The floor is covered with tens of soiled, greasy blankets and
  makeshift beds provided by their occupants. Crude insignia and drawings
  have been scrawled on the agafari walls, etched with knifepoint or drawn
  with charcoal. The stench of unwashed humanoid bodies mingles with the
  tantalizing scent of cooked meat wafting in from the bar and restaurant
  to the west. The carru-hide tarp hanging over the archway to the west
  hardly muffles the dull roar of the crowd. Though the conditions in the
  dormitory are quite dingy, it is certainly better than sleeping on the
  dangerous streets of Allanak.
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak is here, slumped on the ground in a corner.
  The sable-haired, jade-eyed soldier relaxes on a bedroll, off-duty.
  The slim human with olive skin is standing here.
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak weeps softly to hereself.
  
  Unabashedly curious, you look down at the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak.
  This young woman is scrawny and willowy in build. She is rather short
  and slender with a frame average for a woman of her height and width. Her
  arms and legs are especially thin, appearing almost like sticks. Her hair
  is a messy little nest of dark brown, cut very short. Her small eyes are a
  light grey. Her facial features are almost flat with a short little nose
  and a well rounded chin. Her complexion is lightly tanned and covered in
  some minor nicks and spots.
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak is in excellent condition.
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak is using:
  an angular, crescent shaped scar
  a dusty bone-studded backpack
  a simple sandcloth shirt
  a few pale, faint looking scars
  a dusty dark, hooded cloak
  a pair of light-brown pants
  a dusty pair of chalton leather boots
  
  She is carrying:
  nothing obvious
  
  The thin young woman turns, making her way toward a worn, woven mat lying against the wall.
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak tries to hide her tears, thought she seems unaware of any attention upon her.
  
  With her back to the wall, you sit down, on the woven mat.
  
  Your new ldesc is:
  The thin young woman sits on a worn, woven mat, her back to the wall.
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak shuffles and cries out in pain quietly as she attempts to sit upright in a corner.
  
  The thin young woman shoots another look toward the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak, then tips her head back, resting back against the wall in a limp, loose sprawl.
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak takes a few heavy breathes, becoming more quiet. She glances down at her ankle with wet eyes before huddling up by herself.
  
  Very briefly as she nervously looks around the dorm area, the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak looks at you.
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak looks away quickly from you and back to the ground, weeping anew and closing her eyes.
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak lies down and falls asleep.
  
  Shutting her eyes, you say, in sirihish:
  "Krath."
  
  The thin young woman glances toward the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak again, then leans over, palming up off the mat.
  
  You stand up.
  
  The thin young woman stretches, pushes off the wall, then steps over to where the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak lies.
  
  You think:
  "I'm too nice."
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak sniffles in her sleep, stirring only slightly before laying on the ground. She idly runs her hand about in some dirt.
  
  The thin young woman boots out at the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak's side ungently, standing over her.
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak awakens.
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak starts right away, yelping out in suprise.
  
  The thin young woman takes a step back, still looking down at the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak, caught between curiousity and resentment.
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak stares back at you, looking terrified. She seems caught between trying to run and being in pain.
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak says to you, in sirihish:
  "I...please...don't...don't steal me soul...."
  
  Flatly, you say to the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak, in sirihish:
  "Are you hungry."
  
  In case the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak had any illusions about the thin young woman: it wasn't a question.
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak whimpers, looking westwards.
  
  Very quietly, still starting at you's gem, the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak says to you, in sirihish:
  "No...fine. Please...won't bother ya."
  
  Inhaling slowly, taking another step away from her - holding her hands out, palm up, placatingly, you ask the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak, in sirihish:
  "Gem means I'm collared. And I can't steal your soul, anyway. Ashbringers do that. I make shitty bread, and that's about it. You hurt?"
  
  Still looking extremely fearful but also pained and immensely tired, the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak says to you, in sirihish:
  "I...what? You...but. No...fine. Fine."
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak tries to stand again but clearly can't, wincing and clutching her ankle.
  
  Dropping down across from the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak, on the floor, you sit down, before scooting back a little further, giving her space.
  
  Your new ldesc is:
  The thin young woman sits here, a ways from the cloaked figure.
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak quivers a little as she eyes you, but exhaustion seems to be keeping her in place. She is covered in a lot of dirt and fresh sand.
  
  The thin young woman hunches her shoulders up, chin tipped down, trying in vain to mask your dull black gem's presence.
  
  After some time, offering lamely, you say to the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak, in sirihish:
  "My name's Dorri. Was born in Luirs."
  
  In a defeated tone, clearly unhappy, the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak says to you, in sirihish:
  "Don't know where Luirs be. Please don't...don't make it hurt daemon. You win...can't be running."
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak lets a tear fall down her cheek.
  
  With a brief glance westward, toward the tarp, you say, in sirihish:
  "Luirs. It's the outpost north of here, on the road. Kuraci owned. It was nice, I guess."
  
  Opening an eye, clearly very confused but cornered, the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak asks, in sirihish:
  "Kuralki? What they? North...so...Tuluk?"
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak looks at you.
  
  Apparently content to talk to the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak, crossing her arms over your desert-camouflaged, sandcloth jacket, you say, in sirihish:
  "Boy, you don't know much, do you? Let's see. Tuluk's north in the scrub, but Luirs is south of there. It's in the middle of the road."
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak merely stares at you, chewing her lip and drying one of her eyes slightly.
  
  Not unkindly, continuing to ramble on, you say, in sirihish:
  "Basically... And there's Blackwing Outpost, too, but I can't go back there, I bet. Or past Luirs anymore... But yeah, uhm, Kuraci. It's a House, like Salarr and all. The dun cloaks, you must have seen..."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman lowers the hood of her dusty dark, hooded cloak.
  
  Trailing off, tipping her head to one side, you say, in sirihish:
  "Mmm, I mean. I swear they had... people here. An agent. Maybe not. In Storm, though."
  
  Meekly, looking down, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "Salarr? Uhm...merchant people like?"
  
  With a distracted nod, glancing back to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, you say, in sirihish:
  "Mhm. A Great House like Salarr or - well, Kadius."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman idly clutches at some dirt in the ground, watching you with a little less fear but immense confusion.
  
  Tonguing at the inside of her cheek, you say, in sirihish:
  "Merchant Houses. Kurac's big into spice trading. Zharal, Tho. That sort of thing. But not here, of course."
  
  A hint of curiousity, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks you, in sirihish:
  "Why...why do they let daemons walk...walk about? Why aren't ya...uh...you do take souls. Why daemons ain't right?"
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman tries to lean up a little, nursing her ankle and tearing up again. She is clearly annoyed by this.
  
  Not quite bristling, but coming close, you say, in sirihish:
  "I'm one of His Gemmed Citizens."
  
  Quietly but quite honestly, looking a little tense, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Yah I ain't...too...daemons and Gemmed daemons. I know..."
  
  Reaching up to touch around, but never at, your dull black gem, you say, in sirihish:
  "Under His protection. I serve the Highlord, and Lady Templar Oash. Anyway."
  
  Meekly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "Protection? Don't you get kept in cages till His Templar need...ya?"
  
  With a soft snort, dropping her arm back into her lap, you say, in sirihish:
  "Mostly in the quarter, I mean. I had an apartment out here for awhile but it's not the same. We're just... citizens."
  
  The thin young woman shrugs defensively and draws her legs up, bent at the knee, and wraps an arm about them.
  
  Mostly to herself, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "Don't make sense...nothing makes sense."
  
  Resting her chin against her knee, watching the scrawny, grey-eyed woman curiously, you ask, in sirihish:
  "Is it supposed to?"
  
  Very quietly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks you, in sirihish:
  "Why ya...talking ta me? I ain't got nothing. Plenty of normal folk...out thar don't talk ta me. You...aint going to hurt me?"
  
  Clearly not sure how to answer, furrowing her brow, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Well...yah. Things should make sense..."
  
  Shutting her eyes, eyebrows beetling together briefly as her forehead wrinkles, you say, in sirihish:
  "I'm not going to hurt you - and that, that's shit. If things were supposed to make sense, I'd be a Faithful Lord's aide, or an Outrider for Kurac, or so rich and..."
  
  Wetting at her lips, murmuring, you say, in sirihish:
  "So - rich and silky that it'd hurt to sit up straight."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman blinks slightly now, seeming to really not understand a word you is saying.
  
  Quietly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "Things made sense afore..."
  
  Opening her eyes, looking back to her, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Before... you hurt your leg."
  
  Her voice tried and a little wavery, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "Na...afore I...uhm well. Afore I had to leave me home. Home was safe. Thought leaving might be nice...ain't. Everything is awful. Just like..."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman rubs at her neck idly, shifting her ankle about a little and biting her lip.
  
  The thin young woman shrugs lamely in response to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, chin still propped on her knee.
  
  Looking worried, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Sorry...talking ta much. Stupid..."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman huddles up again, before looking back at you.
  
  Glancing down at the floor, you say, in sirihish:
  "I left home, ended up - a few weeks, bumming around Luirs, and then this breed shows up."
  
  Musingly, you say, in sirihish:
  "Want to go to Tuluk? And - I don't know why - I went. He gave me a sunback, a nice spear. Off I went to His Ivory, and then this necker there - I joke about it, but I really do think I must look like an easy mark, or an idiot, or..."
  
  Quietly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "What be a breed? I...sorry...Pa said that word lot. Tuluk? Why ya go thar? They all crazy savages who eat folk?"
  
  Stopping and glancing at her feet, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "Thought...can ya eat a daemon?"
  
  Ignoring the scrawny, grey-eyed woman for the time, you say, in sirihish:
  "But this sharp takes me in, and I hunt for her, and I make plenty of sid that way. My own apartment. There's this man, I run back off to Luirs with him for a few weeks - we were going to put one over on the sharp."
  
  You say, in sirihish:
  "'toks got him. So - but, by that time, I knew, I guess. I mean - I did, but I don't want to talk about it."
  
  Giving her head a sudden, hard shake, you say, in sirihish:
  "A breed. You know. Half and half. Or... well. Whatever."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "Half and half what?"
  
  Blankly, you look at the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  As if it's the most obvious thing, you say, in sirihish:
  "A sharp and a person."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman furrows her brow, clearly looking a little confused. However it seems something clicks and she looks horrifed.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "That be what...but....that is even more...that is terrible."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman chews her lip hard, shaking her head.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "Whira...things is all mixed up. "
  
  Exhaling slowly through her nose, watching the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, you ask, in sirihish:
  "Uhm. Yeah. You like gurth?"
  
  You hear a woman's voice shout from the west in sirihish:
  "If I ever catch who keeps stickin' their hand in my shit I'm goin' t' stick my mace up your ass!"
  
  Briefly, you look west.
  
  With a little start, looking fearfully towards the west, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "I...Gurth? Uhm...like? "
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You contact the puny, cherubic lass with the Way.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the puny, cherubic lass:
  "Hey, come here. Can you read this little rat's fortunes?"
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  Softly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks you, in sirihish:
  "Why do you want to know if...I like something?"
  
  With a shrug, you say, in sirihish:
  "For awhile, it's all I would do. Hunt gurth. I mean - I'm fighting them off in packs, and there's this sharp, a Sun Runner, and he's laughing at me... I don't know. I like gurth."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman seems quite interested as you speaks, though she still seems a little nervous.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "Ya hunt things...in the wastes?"
  
  Shaking her head, you say, in sirihish:
  "Nmhm. Not now. I used to hunt. I'd hunt in the scrub, mostly. Sometimes in the waste, though. I don't now."
  
  Chewing her lip and nodding once, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks you, in sirihish:
  "Kay...why you talking to me again? You really don't...don't want anything? Got nuthin...would have bolted if I could. Ya not even going ta hit me?"
  
  Shaking her head once, without lifting her chin off her knee, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Nope."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman seems a little confused at this, but seems a little less tense now. She only now seems to notice she is rather dirty. She wipes at her face and stares at the dirt for a moment.
  
  Quietly to herself, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "Pa would be mad..."
  
  You think:
  "Gul has a mascot. Why can't I?"
  
  Blinking and looking over, with a hint of shame, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Me ankle...is hurt. Don't know why. Fell on it."
  
  Without opening her eyes, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "I can't fix it. I'm not... that sort of person."
  
  With a curious blink at you, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "Why would ya be able to fix it? Stupid. Lucky sharps did na try to eat me in the street. Been trying to avoid em....they everywhere though."
  
  Talking to hereslf, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "Really stupid. Need to...Whira..."
  
  Lifting her head off her knee, glancing westward, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Gul could. That's what he does. But it's sort of - I don't know. He pisses a lot, and that's that."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman glances to the west, seeing the large gathered crowd. She tense a little and shakes her head.
  
  Abruptly, glancing back, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "What's your plan? I mean - you can't just sit here."
  
  Quietly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "It' fine. Feels na so bad now..."
  
  Looking down a little, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Plan? I...I don't know."
  
  Seeming to spark up in a guard fashion, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Ya know where rocks can be found on the street. Been trying to fine some so can sell em for coin or...or something."
  
  Clearing her throat awkwardly, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Ah... Don't take them off the street. You could greb for salt, though - but that's past the walls. Dangerous a little alone."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman clearly looks unhappy about this, slumping a little.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Ya...ya know anyone needs someone can clean? I can clean and...carry things and...and stuff."
  
  Uncertainly, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Er. The - I... stay at the temple. You could clean that but... it's, you know."
  
  Finishing, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "In the quarter."
  
  With a light blink, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "Where is that?"
  
  Face blanking, then regarding the scrawny, grey-eyed woman in open curiousity, you ask the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "...What?"
  
  Flushing red a little, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "I don't...know where it is. I...don't really know where most things be..."
  
  You ask the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "But you're... a southerner. From here?"
  
  The thin young woman closes her hand into a fist, sans her index finger, and prods her finger at the floor for emphasis.
  
  With a low nod, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "I...yah. But I don't...never..."
  
  Quietly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Never had to walk very far...before."
  
  Just that, you say, in sirihish:
  "Gee."
  
  Leaning over, you stand up, palming up off the floor.
  
  As she straightens, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Come on."
  
  Sniffing slightly, brushing some hair back, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "Found place where they sell lots of things and...only got a little lost in some place with...uhm?"
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman stands up.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman tries to stand and seems able, though she limps a little.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman falls in behind you.
  
  The thin young woman hesitates, then reaches out, extending her arm to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  You ask, in sirihish:
  "You good?"
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman hesitates herself, seeming unsure what to do. She takes the arm and raises her hood.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman raises the hood of her dusty dark, hooded cloak.
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak asks you, in sirihish:
  "Uhm...little. We going somewhere?"
  
  With a quick nod, you say to the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak, in sirihish:
  "Yup. Going to show you."
  
  The thin young woman turns, tugging the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak along with herself, and heads for the tarped archway.
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak nods a little, seeming to have little to say.
  
  (Moving west into: The Gladiator and the Gaj Tavern -- Main Room [N, E, S, Quit])
  
  The tall figure in a dusty deep-hooded, brown robe pauses upon entering and bows stiffly toward the sunbronzed, dark-bearded man.
  
  The sunbronzed, dark-bearded man looks at the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak.
  
  The slate-eyed, fat man looks down at the sunbronzed, dark-bearded man.
  
  Puffing her cheeks out, the ebon-skinned, matronly dwarf asks the slate-eyed, fat man, in sirihish:
  "Dregg's my mate, oy. You Meso's friend?"
  
  The tall figure in a dusty deep-hooded, brown robe looks down at the sunbronzed, dark-bearded man.
  
  The gigantic and obese figure in a dusty hooded, red sandcloth windcloak shuffles over to a more empty corner of the bar, and plops down ont his ass.
  
  Turning his head to glance behind him, the sunbronzed, dark-bearded man looks up at the tall figure in a dusty deep-hooded, brown robe.
  
  Easing his back against a wall, the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty hooded, red sandcloth windcloak sits down.
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak limps along slightly, spotting the sunbronzed, dark-bearded man however she blinks and then lowers herself into a clumsy bow.
  
  The thin young woman slows, looking from the tall figure in a dusty deep-hooded, brown robe to the sunbronzed, dark-bearded man, then skirts the crowded tavern, headed for the northern arch.
  
  Reaching up with a hand, the lanky, black-haired half-giant lowers the hood of his dusty hooded, red sandcloth windcloak.
  
  The grizzled, purple-maned half-elf looks up at the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak.
  
  Glancing aside, the tall figure in a dusty deep-hooded, brown robe looks down at the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak.
  
  The grizzled, purple-maned half-elf looks up at you.
  
  You think:
  "Don't know why that Tor lord keeps slumming it in here."
  
  Lifting his voice, the sunbronzed, dark-bearded man asks the night-tressed, murfa-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Darcy. All goes well?"
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak limps behind you.
  
  You can't see a thing; sand swirls about you!
  
  The thin young woman ducks out onto the street - and gets a mouthful of grit, coughs, and hikes up your hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak.
  
  You raise the hood of your hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak.
  
  A faint shape blinks, seeming to be caught off guard at the amount of sand in the air.
  
  You feel uncomfortably hot.
  The figure in a hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak breaks into a fit of coughing, tears pouring from your eyes.
  
  Spitting, you say, in sirihish:
  "Fuck - fuck."
  
  A faint shape suddenly clutches tight against you, yelping out. The clutch seems to relax suddenly after a moment. .
  
  The figure in a hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak doubles over in a coughing fit, jerking unintentionally on a faint shape's hand, then straightens, moving down the road.
  
  You can't see a thing; sand swirls about you!
  
  Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
  You pass beneath the shadow of the red sandstone templar statue.
  You can't see a thing; sand swirls about you!
  
  Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
  You can't see a thing; sand swirls about you!
  
  The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak wanders listlessly, her head beneath her cloak's hood swinging this way and that.
  
  A little hoarse, you say, in sirihish:
  "Uhm."
  
  A faint shape seems to clutch less against you, and her yelping stops as she takes in deep and easy breathes.
  
  You can't see a thing; sand swirls about you!
  
  As the figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak wanders along, she wrenches from time to time on a faint shape's hand, mostly unintentional.
  
  
  Uncertainly, you say, in sirihish:
  "It's..."
  
  Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
  You can't see a thing; sand swirls about you!
  
  A faint shape follows easily behind you, her speed seeming to actually match you's.
  
  Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
  You can't see a thing; sand swirls about you!
  
  Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
  You can't see a thing; sand swirls about you!
  
  The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak sniffs suddenly, then stops sharply, squinting through the sand at your tightly-woven sash of dark sandcloth.
  
  A weak, piteous moan sounds from somewhere atop the massive heap of bodies.
  
  The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak pats down at your tightly-woven sash of dark sandcloth, then glances down - and finds herself standing pretty close to several desiccated corpses.
  
  You say, in sirihish:
  "...Oh."
  
  Quite clearly, a faint shape says, in sirihish:
  "It's a little hard ta be...oh..."
  
  A faint shape winces and backs up into her pair of light-brown pants.
  
  The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak backs two steps up, then turns, doubling back down the street - more or less dragging a faint shape along with her.
  
  Raising her voice, you ask, in sirihish:
  "To be? What?"
  
  A faint shape lets herself be dragged quite easily, offering no resistance.
  
  A little dazed sounding, the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak says, in sirihish:
  "Hard ta see. So much sand...so much."
  
  As the sand gradually lets up, pacing along more confidently, you say, in sirihish:
  "Oh. Yeah."
  
  Hanging back from the horde of people, skirting the edges of that crowd, you say, in sirihish:
  "Here, uhm... There."
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak blinks a little as the dust starts to die down. She frowns a little, seeming to not really be paying attention to where she is going as you leads her.
  
  Gesturing vaguely northward, you say, in sirihish:
  "The quarter. For, uhm."
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak snaps to attention and shuffles over to the north.
  
  Lowering her voice, you say, in sirihish:
  "His Gemmed Citizens."
  
  The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak continues to skirt the edge of that restless crowd, tugging the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak along with her still.
  
  The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak relaxes almost immediately, shoulders slumping.
  
  With a light blush, the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak says, in sirihish:
  "Oh I...uhh...stupid. Yah went down that road while walking. Saw weird buildings. Ya I...I know I was not paying attention."
  
  Wincing at the memory, the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak says, in sirihish:
  "Then I saw the gems and ran...must look a fool."
  
  With an easy shrug, wandering along the street - and even smiling a little, you say, in sirihish:
  "Yeah, well. I'll show you my temple, or whatever."
  
  As she wanders, you say, in sirihish:
  "I have a bird. From an Arabeti, a hawk. But he's sort of stupid, now."
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak seems a little tense again, clearly on edge as she looks around. Yet she follows you in a manner which suggests she is keen to stay close to you.
  
  Slowing as the slim, compact youth rushes past, adding quietly, you say, in sirihish:
  "But it's a long story."
  
  With a worried expression, the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak says, in sirihish:
  "Did daemons draw all this stuff? It...this looks familar."
  
  Glancing toward one of the statues lining the street, slowing again, you ask the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak, in sirihish:
  "Uhm. Really?"
  
  A bit lamely, you say, in sirihish:
  "I still can't make... heads or ass out of most of it."
  
  With a low nod, the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak says, in sirihish:
  "Uhm yah. Guess I...this road I came down when got lost last week."
  
  Briefly, you look at the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak.
  
  Quietly, you say, in sirihish:
  "Oh. Yeah, well. Ah."
  
  The sun rises over the spires of Allanak's east wall.
  
  The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak just shrugs, wandering.
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak looks at the patterns on the road, leaning again heavily against the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak despite walking quite easily now.
  
  Abruptly, the figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak breaks into a run.
  
  You speed up to a fast run.
  
  The tall figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak stealthily moves south.
  
  The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak skids to a stop, wrenching a look southward.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You contact the severe, blue-eyed man with the Way.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the severe, blue-eyed man:
  "Someone's sneaking around in the quarter. Taller than I am."
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak frowns a little as she glances southwards.
  
  You slow down to a brisk walk.
  
  Hissing the words, you say, in sirihish:
  "Shit, almost got a good look..."
  
  The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak wets at her lips, glancing about uncertainly again, then lets her shoulders slump.
  
  With a light blink, the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak asks, in sirihish:
  "What be...who was that?"
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  The severe, blue-eyed man sends you a telepathic message:
  "Where in the Quarter? It ain't that small."
  
  Shaking her head once, resuming her much slower pace down the street, you say, in sirihish:
  "I don't know. There are these - uhm. 'rinth rats that sneak in. Through the wall."
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the severe, blue-eyed man:
  "Down Ruk's Way. Like he came out of the 'rinth through that crack in the wall."
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak looks concerned and chews her lip, seeming to at least understand this statement.
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak says, in sirihish:
  "But they would...daemons live here? I...whira..."
  
  Sighing and looking down, the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak says, in sirihish:
  "Should probably just accept everything is weird..."
  
  A bit tensely, you say, in sirihish:
  "Yeah. That bastard in the Suk-Krath temple, he lets them come in without a -gem-."
  
  You say, in sirihish:
  "There was a flying 'rinth sharp a few weeks ago, floating around. Just - you know. Floating around."
  
  Feeling wary, you think:
  "Bet he's the same sort."
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak looks at you, clearly a little taken aback and frowning.
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak says, in sirihish:
  "Ain't...right."
  
  With another quick, loose shrug, you say, in sirihish:
  "Lady Templar saw fit to end his life for his, uhm, audacity."
  
  Abruptly, you ask the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak, in sirihish:
  "You have people skills?"
  
  Nodding firmly, the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak asks, in sirihish:
  "That be good. I know bout His Templar. What does that mean exactly? People skills?"
  
  Wetting at her lips, twisting to look ahead at the temple entrance, you say to the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak, in sirihish:
  "You don't. Okay. Don't freak out."
  
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak looks a little confused at you.
  
  The Temple of Ruk [S, D, Quit]
  The walls of this small temple are made of smooth mud brick, the
  greyish red color of their composition left uncovered. The air is still and
  quiet, an atmosphere of peace and silence permeating the room. Statues,
  carved of dark stone, their forms amorphous and unguessable, are spaced
  evenly around the borders, what would seem to be their gaze directed towards
  the center of the temple, where a large clay dish has been placed on a
  pedestal, filled with murky water.
  A large open archway leads south out of the temple and onto the streets
  of Allanak, while a stone spiral staircase descends into the ground below,
  covered by a thin sheet of sand.
  A burly dwarf is here, watching the area.
  A pale, purple-haired woman stands here, beside a statue.
  The figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak has arrived from the south.
  
  You dissolve the psychic link.
  
  The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak tugs the figure in a dusty dark, hooded cloak in and, with her free hand, reaches back, pushing down at her cloak's hood.
  
  You lower the hood of your dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman lowers the hood of her dusty dark, hooded cloak.
  
  Her eyes tracking toward that one bit of floor that isn't floor, but is definitely sand, and definitely moving, you say, in sirihish:
  "Anyway. It gets dusty in here."
  
  Quite idly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "Yes...came here. It's nice..."
  
  Uncertainly, you look at the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman seems to focus a little more suddenly, looking uncomfortable.
  
  Pausing, you ask, in sirihish:
  "Really?"
  
  Frowning and back a little away, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "Uhm...no. Feels weird. Can...can we go? I want to go."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman takes a few more steps back, clearly having no trouble with her ankle now. She looks confused and frightened however.
  
  The thin young woman watches the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, blatantly confused.
  
  A little awkwardly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks you, in sirihish:
  "Can we go now? It's...can we go?"
  
  Persisting, you ask the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Wait - it's, what?"
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman bumps into a statue, frowning heavily.
  
  Glancing about the temple - stone statues, spiraled staircase and sand shield, you ask, in sirihish:
  "It's... Well, okay. It's dusty. Is it really that bad?"
  
  Quietly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "It feels odd. Not good really! You sure you ain't going to hurt me. You don't feel like you would but I...I'm confused. Me leg hurt but it's all better now."
  
  Hesitant before nodding quickly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Awful...terrible. The worst thing..."
  
  Tipping her head back, staring up, you say, in sirihish:
  "Weird. It's better past the sand - I lose track of the time, sometimes. I get stuck down there for weeks, just... Not even doing anything."
  
  Glancing back, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "But! I was thinking you could help tidy up the temple. Since you don't have anything better to do."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman glances towards the sand and actually steps forwards a little. She seems annoyed by this and then raises an eyebrow at you.
  
  Also glancing toward that sifting, shifting sheet of sand, you look down.
  A sheet of constantly-rippling sand bars the way down the spiral
  staircase into the depths of the temple below.
  [Near]
  Nothing.
  
  Meekly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Clean...but don't? I'm...I"
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "I ain't allowed here? Am I?"
  
  With a loose shrug, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Gul brings Oz everywhere, and he's not - he's... you know. Normal. Nobody complains. And I'm not letting you -into- the temple, anyway, just the entry room. You can keep here clean."
  
  Idly pawing at the statue she has bumped into, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "But I am normal! Why would I..."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman blinks down at herself and starts to furiously dust herself, seeming only now to be bothered by her dirt. The dirt seems to cling a little however.
  
  Uncertainly, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Don't - don't do that."
  
  The thin young woman watches the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, looking more and more confused, then abruptly steps forward.
  
  Agitated and back away from the statue, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "What? No...it's bad here. I don't like it...please. Thank ya for not eating me but can I go? I wanna go..."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman seems to want to bolt although her movements seem clusmy.
  
  Holding out her hand, murmuring sort of placatingly to her, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Hold still, 'kay? I want to see something. And I'm going to get the dirt off."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman stares at you look terrified but for some reason seems to stand still. She does not seem to understand herself.
  
  Meekly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Ya is doing something ta me. You is...trapping me. Why do you feel nice. You ain't...please let me go."
  
  The thin young woman chews at her bottom lip, regards the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, then sets her hand down on her shoulder, squeezing reassuringly.
  
  You say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Just - I, uh, haven't tried this before."
  
  A little uncertainly, you say, in sirihish:
  "It's... probably fine."
  
  The thin young woman inhales slowly through her nose, then squares her shoulders.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman tenses and freezes a little, before looking hard at you.
  
  Her hand on the scrawny, grey-eyed woman's shoulder still, the thin young woman begins to murmur, mostly under her breath - awkwardly pronounced, thick, ugly words.
  
  The earth trembles in response to your call.
  
  You utter the incantation.
  You feel a heightened awareness with the elements.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman shivers slightly, starting to weep and looking immensely confused as her body goes stiff. .
  
  The thin young woman backs off, dropping her hand, then peers about.
  
  Pausing, you look at the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  The thin young woman squints a little, then reaches up, knuckling at her temple with a sudden, sharp flinch.
  
  Stepping back slightly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "What? What did ya do ta me?"
  
  Shaking her head, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Not you. Me. Ow. And - I'm not sure."
  
  The thin young woman blinks again, then glances back to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, uncertainly.
  
  She is slightly older than you.
  She appears young for her race.
  She is slightly shorter than you.
  She weighs about the same as you.
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman is in excellent condition.
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman does not look tired.
  You sense a familiar presence within her.
  
  Face blanking, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Oh, hey."
  
  Chewing at her bottom lip, suddenly anxious, you say, in sirihish:
  "Oh. Uh."
  
  Clearly concerned, stepping back more and more, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "What? Can I go now? "
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "I really wanna go."
  
  The thin young woman holds up her hand, hesitates, then clears her throat.
  
  Sinking back onto her ass, you sit down.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman waits, seeming to be extremely confused.
  
  The thin young woman opens her mouth, as if about to speak to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, then just snaps it shut again.
  
  The thin young woman crosses her arms over your desert-camouflaged, sandcloth jacket.
  
  You think:
  "She's... she doesn't know it, yet."
  
  Finally, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Shit."
  
  You think:
  "Do I report her... or let her go?"
  
  Clearly agitated now, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "What? What ya done? Why did ya do it..."
  
  Hooking her arm about her knees again, resting her chin there with a disquieted murmur, you ask the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "I - uhm. Your pa died?"
  
  Blankly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Yah..."
  
  As equally blank, you ask the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "I'm sorry. Uhm. You hungry?"
  
  Seeming to be in a slight daze again, looking confused, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "Yah...what are ya doing ta me. I feel odd. Please let me go..."
  
  The thin young woman reaches up again, knuckles at her temple, then glances up, peering back at the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman slumps to the ground a little now.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman sits down.
  
  The thin young woman exhales slowly.
  
  Glancing back down, chin still resting on her knee, you ask, in sirihish:
  "I'm not doing anything. How'd he die?"
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  The severe, blue-eyed man sends you a telepathic message:
  "Didn't see anyone out of the ordinary. Who's your friend?"
  
  Seeming to calm down the lower she gets to the floor, frowning, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "Don't know. He was Byn...just died. That what the rent man said."
  
  You think:
  "She's - like me. And she doesn't know it."
  
  Glancing up abruptly, back to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Want to see the sand fountain? It - it scares the piss out of me, but it's sort of... I don't know. It's not bad."
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You contact the severe, blue-eyed man with the Way.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Yah...yah. I mean..."
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the severe, blue-eyed man:
  "Just some street rat I took out of the Gaj. I was going to let her sweep the temple for 'sid."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman blinks and makes to stand again.
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman stands up.
  
  Quickly amending, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "You don't have to if you - don't want to."
  
  The severe, blue-eyed man sends you a telepathic message:
  "Lemme know if you see anyone else suspicious, yeah?"
  
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  You dissolve the psychic link.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "No! Why would I? I'm going now."
  
  Wetting at her lips again, watching her, you ask the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "How long ago did he, you know? Die?"
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman starts to scurry towards the south, stopping only for a moment.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "Few...weeks. How long I been...out the flat."
  
  Hesitating, flinching as if to move after her, you ask the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "You - hey. You want a drink?"
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman stops again, looking back annoyed and fearful at you.
  
  Adding, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Or - I don't know. I don't, look. I don't bite. Really. There's a cask of flame in the barracks, by my bed."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman exclaims, in sirihish:
  "No...your a daemon trying ta curse me! Don't know why ya felt nice. I'm better now!"
  
  The thin young woman pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, watching the scrawny, grey-eyed woman still.
  
  Stumbling for the exit, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "And ya is making this place feel safe. It ain't"
  
  Breaking that glance to look down at the floor, you say, in sirihish:
  "Look - I. I want to talk."
  
  Stressing that one word, you say, in sirihish:
  "Please."
  
  You think:
  "I can't just - throw her to the templar."
  
  Quietly, looking confused again, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "Why...why do ya want to talk? I don't..."
  
  Closing her eyes and repeating the words, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "I don't want...want to stay. Uhh..."
  
  Patting the ground beside herself, just once, without looking up, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Please."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman clutches her stomach suddenly, looking faint and exhausted. She slumps to her knees again.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman frowns and tries to reach for her pack, trying to get something from it.
  
  The thin young woman seems to notice the scrawny, grey-eyed woman slump, and glances up - but only a little, watching her from the corner of her eye.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman gets her strip of dried beetle meat from her dusty bone-studded backpack.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman eats her strip of dried beetle meat.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman chews down the meat quickly, sighing as she tries to stand again. She stares at you and nods.
  
  Agaitaed, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "I want...to say yah. Yah then...I...Whira..."
  
  After a lengthy pause, you ask the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Come here. You sure your leg's better?"
  
  You think:
  "How do you break it to someone that - that they're, you know. This."
  
  Seeming quite easily obedient suddenly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks you, in sirihish:
  "My leg?"
  
  The thin young woman reaches up, fingers batting at the air by your dull black gem, but again only skirting the outline of that dull stone.
  
  Quite easily, nodding, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "It's fine. Never felt better..."
  
  With a single nod, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Mhm. You said you don't know how you hurt it, but - ? Oh."
  
  After a time, you ask, in sirihish:
  "You sure?"
  
  Quietly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Well I did fall on it. Ran into a dwarf. Lots of em everywhere. Yes...very."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman moves her foot forwards and wiggles it about a little.
  
  The thin young woman nods a few more times, watching the scrawny, grey-eyed woman wriggle her foot.
  
  Quite placid now, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "All better...just needed walk guess."
  
  Wetting at her lips, you ask the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Hey. The Lord Templar gave me something. A - statue. A little one. I can't make head or ass out of it, either, though... But - you want to see it?"
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman raises an eyebrow at you, seeming very content as she now lays on the ground near you She still looks confused but merely nods.
  
  Reaching carefully toward your long redhide pouch, the motion slow, carefully slow, you say, in sirihish:
  "Just be careful."
  
  You get your small, hard-packed sand figurine from your long redhide pouch.
  It is very light.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "Yah...why na? I...why are ya doing this. I don't want to sit but it...let me see."
  
  The thin young woman glance down over your small, hard-packed sand figurine, then holds it out aside to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  Firmly, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Careful."
  
  You give your small, hard-packed sand figurine to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman takes the item carefully, her fingers running along it's texture. She actually smiles briefly.
  
  Quite dully, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "It's nice. Smooth...."
  
  Alternating looks from the scrawny, grey-eyed woman to that figurine, nodding encouragingly, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Yeah, it's - well. I don't know. Yeah."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman furrows her brow slightly, clearly interested in looking deeper at her small, hard-packed sand figurine.
  
  Curiously, you ask the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Make anything of it?"
  
  Looking back at you, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "Yah...what ya mean? The large man? Bald...big neck? Little picture on the figure..."
  
  You think:
  "If she runs... I should tell the Lady Templar... but - that'd... Terrify her. She doesn't know it yet. She's harming nobody."
  
  Frowning and looking concerned again, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "Why...why it glow?"
  
  Holding her hand out toward her, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "It just does. I don't know. I think if I can find the man who made it - well, he'd tell me. But me? I don't know."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman gives you her small, hard-packed sand figurine.
  
  Turning it in her hand, you look at your small, hard-packed sand figurine.
  This small, three-inch tall figurine is made entirely of sand that is
  hard-packed and dense. The features are vaguely humanoid, but no sex or
  race can be determined.
  A small image glows softly upon its surface.
  
  You put your small, hard-packed sand figurine into your long redhide pouch, carefully.
  
  With a frown, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman exclaims, in sirihish:
  "I don't understand...and I...is that magick? Why would ya let me touch it!"
  
  Glancing back to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, you say, in sirihish:
  "...It - it's harmless. You want to sweep the temple? I mean, for 'sid."
  
  Turning her attention back up to the ceiling, before her eyes lid, you say, in sirihish:
  "Until you figure out what you're going to do."
  
  Feeling guilt and resignation, you think:
  "I can't. I can't do it. Not if she doesn't know."
  
  You think:
  "And I can't tell her - who'd believe that? I mean, if they were told."
  
  The thin young woman reaches up, grinding the heel of her palm at her eyes, which remain shut.
  
  With a little frown as she makes to stand, shaking her head, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "Why would I wanna do that? It...this aint a place for me. What...what did ya do to me before? Ya did something. Tell me..."
  
  The thin young woman clenches her jaw, looking briefly, abjectly, miserable.
  
  Dropping her arm, still just sitting on the floor, a distance from the nearest statue, you say, in sirihish:
  "I - I didn't know, you know. At first, for awhile."
  
  With a light blink, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "But then? What? "
  
  Uncertainly, mincing her words as she continues, you say, in sirihish:
  "It - it's better here than there. Up there. These 'toks came at this man, and I - saved him. I did it without thinking. But then I knew. And, and Tuluk, you know."
  
  Echoing, you say, in sirihish:
  "Tuluk. But - so I tried to hide it. Pretend if it wasn't there, it'd go away. But - I was in this cave, and - well. I didn't have this, then."
  
  The thin young woman reaches up, flicking her fingernail once against your dull black gem, and tenses, shoulders drawn up.
  
  Looking confused again, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "What bout Tuluk? I...they all crazy and they wear silly inks. They want to murder all normal folk. Don't know nothing more."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman steps up to you, clearly actually looking annoyed.
  
  Trailing off, you look up at the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, turning her head.
  
  Quietly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Ya making me feel safe and not so afraid. Is this how daemons eat souls? I don't like it I don't feel...like...."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman seems to lose track of what she is saying, chewing her lip.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "I dunno..."
  
  Drawing in a deep breath, the words rushing out, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "What-I'm-saying-is-if-you-like-it-here-you-should-stay."
  
  You are a little hungry.
  
  Closing her eyes a little, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "I...don't know if I like it. I don't want to like it. This is a bad place. Ya ain't right...world is dying cause of daemons. Why folk die. Once when I was young sky rained fired cause of daemons pa said..."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman takes in a heavy and tense breathe, a lot of the dirt on her form suddenly falling off quite easily.
  
  The figure in a dusty tattered, brown hooded cloak has arrived from below.
  
  Resting her cheek against her knee, now, and watching the scrawny, grey-eyed woman like that, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "I heard about that. Didn't see it."
  
  The figure in a dusty tattered, brown hooded cloak looks at the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman starts slightly, glancing at the figure in a dusty tattered, brown hooded cloak.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman looks at the figure in a dusty tattered, brown hooded cloak.
  
  Attention wandering, you look up at the figure in a dusty tattered, brown hooded cloak.
  This man has thick, messy hair that hangs roughly to his shoulders. Both
  the hair sprouting from his head like wilting plains grass and the gruff
  bear growing out of his face like lichen are a dark, muddy brown,
  interspersed with the odd, ashen gray hair. His deep-set, brown eyes are
  crowned by thick, bushy eyebrows and lined with faded kohl. A crooked,
  misshapen nose sits above a pair of thin, cracked lips, and his tanned skin
  is similarly weathered. Rounded shoulders protrude from a somewhat stocky
  torso, complimented by a paunchy gut. Stubby arms hang to just above his
  relatively wide hips, from which his legs, one slightly longer than the
  other, protrude.
  The figure in a dusty tattered, brown hooded cloak is in excellent condition.
  
  The figure in a dusty tattered, brown hooded cloak is using:
  a black, sigil-decorated sandcloth bandana
  a dull black gem
  an obsidian-tipped spear
  a pitted, deep-looking scar
  a scrap of cloth
  a jagged, ebon-black symbol
  a pair of chitin-plated leather gloves
  a dusty tattered, brown hooded cloak
  a pair of drab hempcloth trousers
  a pair of chalton leather boots
  
  He is carrying:
  nothing obvious
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You contact the stocky, gruff-bearded man with the Way.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the stocky, gruff-bearded man:
  "Leave. She's flighty. I'll explain later."
  
  The figure in a dusty tattered, brown hooded cloak glances briefly about before strolling towards the street.
  
  The figure in a dusty tattered, brown hooded cloak walks south.
  
  The thin young woman relaxes minutely.
  
  The thin young woman shifts her attention back to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  Helpfully, you say, in sirihish:
  "That was Zahiid. He's nice, but he's new."
  
  The stocky, gruff-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
  "Who is she?"
  
  Quite honestly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Don't even know why been talking to ya so long. Never talked this long with...anyone. "
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the stocky, gruff-bearded man:
  "Just a street rat, I found her in the Gaj. I was going to let her sweep the temple for some 'sid."
  
  Quirking a faint smile, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Yeah. Want that drink? It's good flame. Kadius."
  
  Looking confused again, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "Flame? What is that?"
  
  Pausing, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "It's - what it's... called. Your da kept you in there for awhile, didn't he? I mean. You didn't get out much."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman chews her lip for a moment, before nodding just once.
  
  Your awareness with the elements returns to normal.
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  Palming up, you stand up.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman falls in behind you.
  
  The thin young woman stumbles a half-step after rising, reaching up to paw once around her eyes, then shakes her head.
  
  The stocky, gruff-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
  "There is an elf in the Quarter, from the Labyrinth by the looks of it. Perhaps the same one sneaking around last week and the one before. Watch out."
  
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  The thin young woman shakes her head again, then turns, making her way toward the sheet of sifting sand and spiraled staircase beneath it.
  
  Holding her hand back out, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Here. Hold on - and shut your eyes."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman blinks and takes you's hand, merely nodding.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "Kay..."
  
  The sand over the stairs ripples and parts, rolling away from you and allowing you entrance.
  You step down the stairs.
  The curtain of sand ripples and parts before you as you descend the stairs.
  Within a Statue Ringed Chamber [S, U, Save]
  A simple, spiraling stone staircase descends from the ceiling of this
  large chamber. Carved in a single, seamless block from the living stones
  surrounding, the staircase makes a slow, curving arc around the edge of the
  circular chamber. Symbols of Ruk and Krok etch each step of the staircase,
  before disappearing into the barren, stone floor.
  Nine huge figures seem to emerge from the walls themselves, ringing the
  chamber and carved from highly polished black marble. Seemingly supporting
  the weight of the Temple above on their backs, their stylized features twist
  in concentration and strain, while corded muscles seem to move under the
  burden that they carry. Though nearly free-standing and in the round at
  times, they are half trapped within the living stone along the walls; their
  smooth, polished surfaces nearly clashing with the rough-hewn walls. Each
  statue has its own, singular rune chiseled into its forehead.
  A tunnel opens up to the south, leading between the legs of one of the
  giant figures.
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman has arrived from above.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  The thin young woman navigates the staircase blindly, but curiously adept - each step at a time, until she reaches the bottom stair.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman shivers a little, although suddenly seems extremely relaxed.
  
  The thin young woman opens her eyes, shakes herself a little, then hops that last step.
  
  A Dark Stone Passage [N, E, S, W, Save]
  This passageway seems to have been carved from the living earth
  itself, the walls bare of any decoration or adornments at all. The ground
  has been left completely bare, and only a few stones peer out of the packed
  earth, slowly worn down and polished with wear. Along the dark walls,
  stones are half-buried, nestled cozily in the secure, reddish earth. The
  occasional candle has been placed on a few conveniently outcropping stones,
  lighting the pathway, and serving as a guide in the dark passage.
  Simple archways lead to the east and west into separate chambers, while
  the passage continues on to the south.
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman has arrived from the north.
  
  The thin young woman turns, slipping toward the eastern doorway.
  
  A Simple Stone Barracks [W, Quit, Save]
  Unmarked, light-grey stone makes up the walls of this chamber, largely
  unadorned. Seeming to grow from the hard packed red earth itself are two
  rows of grey stone slabs, reaching out from the earth as if they were
  fingertips of some buried giant. Shelves have been carved directly into the
  walls themselves, and oil-burning lanterns rest in sconces shaped out of
  stones on the walls. A few chests and footlockers have been placed at the
  foot of a few of the slabs, and a large stone table cantilevers out from the
  wall.
  A simple archway leads west, into a darkened passageway.
  A large, etched wooden cask sits by one of the stone beds, near the foot of it.
  A bone sided chest sits at the foot of one of the stone beds.
  A kenku-carved wooden chest has been pushed up against the stone table.
  A golden-eyed, crimson-winged hawk sits perched on the back of a chair by the stone table, dry bird shit painting the floor around it.
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman has arrived from the west.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman opens her eyes, seeming to almost become excited as she looks around. This look is followed by a lot of agitation though.
  
  As she wanders further into the stone barracks, toward a large, etched wooden cask, you say, in sirihish:
  "I'm not sure... There's - mugs somewhere. Zhig, he fills most of them with sand, though, I don't know why, ah..."
  
  The thin young woman shoots a look at stone shelves.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman gets her strip of dried beetle meat from her dusty bone-studded backpack.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman eats her strip of dried beetle meat.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "Are we...under the earth?"
  
  You get your clay jug from stone shelves.
  It is no problem, and more than half full.
  
  Peering into your clay jug, you say, in sirihish:
  "Mhm."
  
  It's more than half full of an oily liquid.
  
  The thin young woman squints, then carries your clay jug to a cantilevered stone table, frowning uncertainly.
  
  You say, in sirihish:
  "Krath... Nobody uses - anything - for what it's supposed to be..."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman looks at you.
  
  You put your clay jug onto a cantilevered stone table.
  
  Snatching at it, you get your etched obsidian goblet from a cantilevered stone table.
  It is very light, and empty.
  
  The thin young woman upends your etched obsidian goblet, shakes it, then holds it out in the scrawny, grey-eyed woman's general direction.
  
  You give your etched obsidian goblet to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman blinks a little, looking at the goblet before lightly reaching out a thin arm and taking it. She looks at it a little oddly for a moment.
  
  You say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Don't tell me - it's for, you know."
  
  The thin young woman tips a nod at a large, etched wooden cask.
  
  With a blink and a light pout, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "Well of course I do drink...just...this is a nice looking cup. Ya really drink from it?"
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  Looking a little taken aback, you ask the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "I do. I mean - why not?"
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman moves over to a large, etched wooden cask, chewing her lip as she fills it.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  You are a little hungry.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman fills up an etched obsidian goblet from a large, etched wooden cask.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman sniffs her etched obsidian goblet and then takes a hesitant sip.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman sips from her etched obsidian goblet.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  The thin young woman leans back into a cantilevered stone table - and ignores a golden-eyed, crimson-winged hawk's reproachful squawk - and gropes back for your dusty bahamet-embroidered leather backpack.
  
  Awkwardly, you open your dusty bahamet-embroidered leather backpack.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman blinks and actually smiles for a fleeting moment.
  
  Plucking it free, you get your ripe jallal fruit from your dusty bahamet-embroidered leather backpack.
  It is very light.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "It's...nice. Never had uhm...hmm."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman quickly swings back the goblet, clearly thirsty.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman sips from her etched obsidian goblet.
  
  The thin young woman glances down at your ripe jallal fruit, then brushes it against your desert-camouflaged, sandcloth jacket a few times, her attention slipping back to settle on the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman sips from her etched obsidian goblet.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman sips from her etched obsidian goblet.
  
  You think:
  "How do I break the news? You're a - me. You're me. You're one of us."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman knocks back the goblet quite quickly, letting out a light hiccup.
  
  With a tick of her head to a large, etched wooden cask, biting into your ripe jallal fruit, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Take - much as you want."
  
  You eat part of your ripe jallal fruit, swallowing.
  You are no longer hungry.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman looks heistant.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "You...is sure?"
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  With a quick nod, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Mhm."
  
  The thin young woman brings your partially eaten ripe jallal fruit up again, taking another bite out of it.
  
  You eat part of your partially eaten ripe jallal fruit, chewing slowly.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman looks still a little unsure, before quickly going back and having another glass.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman fills up an etched obsidian goblet from a large, etched wooden cask.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman sips from her etched obsidian goblet.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman sips from her etched obsidian goblet.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman sips from her etched obsidian goblet.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman sips from her etched obsidian goblet.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman swings back another goblet, taking it quite greedily. She blinks however, a different vacant look now on her face.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  The thin young woman pushes away from a cantilevered stone table, padding past a large, etched wooden cask and straight toward a low stone bed.
  
  Perching on the edge, you sit at a low stone bed.
  
  You eat part of your half eaten ripe jallal fruit, thoughtfully.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  With an odd sort of smile, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "It's...nice. Makes ya sleep though. Why does it be doing that?"
  
  You think:
  "Maybe - she'll realize on her own. Krath."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "Sleepy even...heh...canna talk straight."
  
  With a helpless shrug, still chewing - speaking around a mouthful, you ask the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "I don't know. It just does. You tired?"
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman lightly stumbles over to a low stone bed, nodding once.
  
  Sounding a little confused again, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Little...."
  
  Quite idly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Felt like dying today...but then we went for a walk and well...felt better. Never been in a sand storm afore. Always...close shutters tight."
  
  Pushing back and sprawling out across a low stone bed, her boots planted firmly on the floor, still, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Oh. It's - ...Well."
  
  You rest on a low stone bed.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman rests at a low stone bed.
  
  The thin young woman trails off, brings up your small portion of a ripe jallal fruit again, and takes another bite of it.
  
  You eat part of your small portion of a ripe jallal fruit.
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman slumps back herself, her tension gone although she looks a little bit absent in thought.
  
  You ask the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Going to tell you something I can't tell many people. You'll keep quiet about it?"
  
  The severe, blue-eyed man sends you a telepathic message:
  "How's it goin', Dorri?"
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You are already in contact with someone else.
  
  At your seat, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says in sirihish:
  "Hmm?"
  
  You dissolve the psychic link.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman lazily looks over at you, nodding quite easily.
  
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, tipping her head back, staring up:
  "When I knew, but didn't have the gem. I was in that cave with Tho, my inix. And - then I heard this voice. And I thought it was the rocks, so I threw down my bag and said I was sorry, I wouldn't kidnap them..."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman listens idly towards you, furrowing her brow slightly.
  
  Hesitating, shrugging awkwardly against a low stone bed, you say, in sirihish:
  "Yeah, that was stupid. But it - wasn't rocks. It was an ashbringer. He let me go, sort of. I ran through a hallway and came out in the blue caverns. He said he'd come back and check on me, later...."
  
  At your seat, you say in sirihish:
  "...if - and I had to bring him gurth fat. Or he'd eat me. So I bought myself a beetle from Bam, she's Kuraci, and I rode south, here. And I found Lady Templar Oash and got my gem."
  
  At your seat, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says in sirihish, seeming to look a little concerned again:
  "Ya...ya said you don't eat people...."
  
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, shutting her eyes:
  "And it was the best thing I ever did. Food, water. A place to sleep. Tav. And - not -me-."
  
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a quiet snort:
  "Him, the - ...That one. The abomination."
  
  You aren't in contact with anyone.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You contact the severe, blue-eyed man with the Way.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the severe, blue-eyed man:
  "It's - complicated. Explain later. *harried, agitated*"
  
  The thin young woman grimaces, shakes her head, then props up on her forearms, glancing aside at the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  At your seat, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says in sirihish, clearly looking confused:
  "I dun understand. All...magick is...abomination. Like pa said."
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  The severe, blue-eyed man sends you a telepathic message:
  "Need me over there?"
  
  At your seat, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says in sirihish, rolling over slightly:
  "But you don't feel bad but...why...that's because you done something."
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the severe, blue-eyed man:
  "No."
  
  The thin young woman remains propped up, watching the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  The severe, blue-eyed man sends you a telepathic message:
  "Take care."
  
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, quietly:
  "Bet I can do something you can't."
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the severe, blue-eyed man:
  "Is the Lady Templar around? Don't tell her anything, but I may need her later."
  
  At your seat, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says in sirihish, meekly:
  "You making this place feel...not bad. But I know it is bad....what. What can ya do?"
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman turns back again, clearly a little drunk.
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, pushing up in a sudden shove, straightening by a low stone bed:
  "Shitty, shitty bread."
  
  You stand up from a low stone bed.
  
  The severe, blue-eyed man sends you a telepathic message:
  "I'll find her, but I'm gonna need to tell her more than that."
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the severe, blue-eyed man:
  "Forget it. I'll find her mind later."
  
  You dissolve the psychic link.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman leans up a little, glancing oddly at you.
  
  The thin young woman clears her throat, paces a step from a low stone bed, then holds out her arms.
  
  With another odd smile, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Can't cook well. But okay I watch...figured it out. This a dream...I sick from me leg and this be a dream."
  
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  With - of all things - a laughably dramatic flair, you exclaim, in sirihish:
  "Right! Waaaaatch that patch of floor - there!"
  
  The thin young woman points at the floor nearby, braces herself, then clears her throat.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman nods, rubbing her nose and watching you carefully.
  
  The earth trembles in response to your call.
  
  You utter the incantation.
  You lost your concentration!
  
  The thin young woman squints, blanching as nothing happens, then appears to even wilt a little.
  
  Clearing her throat, you look down at the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman blinks herself, chewing her lip.
  
  Less dramatically, and a little ashamed, you say, in sirihish:
  "That... uh. Er."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "What ruk?"
  
  Lamely, you say, in sirihish:
  "It... never fails."
  
  The thin young woman scuffs her boot at the floor, then scoots back a step.
  
  Sidelong, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Shh."
  
  The earth trembles in response to your call.
  
  You utter the incantation.
  You lost your concentration!
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman closes her mouth tight, before nodding slowly.
  
  The thin young woman hesitates, peers back at the scrawny, grey-eyed woman with a startled, guilty look, then clears her throat.
  
  The thin young woman twists, putting her back to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, and crouches down a little this time, almost nose to nose with the ground.
  
  Irritably, the thin young woman murmurs down at the floor.
  
  The earth trembles in response to your call.
  
  You utter the incantation.
  Ok.
  A kalan fruit suddenly appears.
  A charred mass of gelatinous meat suddenly appears.
  A slice of gritty brown bread suddenly appears.
  A kalan fruit suddenly appears.
  A charred mass of gelatinous meat suddenly appears.
  A charred mass of gelatinous meat suddenly appears.
  A slice of gritty brown bread suddenly appears.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman blinks and her eyes widen slightly at the amount of food that appears.
  
  Caught somewhere between relief and smug satisfaction, the thin young woman straightens up, stepping away from the pile of food.
  
  Leaning down again to snag at a kalan fruit, then straighten, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Beat that and I'll pay you two small."
  
  You pick up a kalan fruit, actually.
  It is very light.
  
  You are carrying:
  a kalan fruit
  a small portion of a ripe jallal fruit
  
  Popping it in her mouth, you eat your small portion of a ripe jallal fruit.
  
  You are carrying:
  a kalan fruit
  
  With a light blink, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks you, in sirihish:
  "I...well. Well course silly I canna do that. But that...is it safe to eat?"
  
  As she carries your kalan fruit back to a low stone bed, you say, in sirihish:
  "Mhm."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman stumbles up from where she is sitting and leans down on the ground, reaching for a peace of food.
  
  Tossing it over, you give your kalan fruit to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman eats a portion of her kalan fruit.
  
  After a slight hesitation, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Try doing what I did. For - shits and giggles. Those words. But - wek, wek, wek."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman bites into the fruit and clearly enjoys it, smiling a very small and almost guilty smile.
  
  You sit at a low stone bed, on the edge again.
  
  Quite idly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "Hmm? Wek?"
  
  With a firm nod, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Yup. Wek, not mon. Mon's a bitch."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman frowns a little, before shrugging and seeming to go along.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "Just...a dream. Silly sounding words anyway..."
  
  The thin young woman watches the scrawny, grey-eyed woman quietly, hands folded in her lap.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman stands up from a low stone bed.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman stands a little oddly and then seems to quite blatantly say the words.
  
  You think:
  "Progress. She'll acknowledge it, take the gem."
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You contact the serpentine braided woman with the Way.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman begins a spell, and the earth trembles in response.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman utters the incantation.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the serpentine braided woman:
  "Could we speak when you have a moment, Lady Templar?"
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman suddenly looks really ill, and stumbles back slightly.
  
  The serpentine braided woman sends you a telepathic message:
  "Morning Dorri, what is the problem?"
  
  Shifting forward, almost pushing off a low stone bed, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Easy - easy, sit down. You did okay - but - sit down."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman slumps back, before looking agitated. Some dirt in the air shifts as she suddenly quite simply falls unconscious on a low stone bed.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman sleeps at a low stone bed.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the serpentine braided woman:
  "There's - no problem. I'm trying to handle this... I'm trying to be gentle, but she needs a gem. When she realizes, anyway. Can you do that? Oh. Oh, she passed out. Krath."
  
  The serpentine braided woman sends you a telepathic message:
  "Who? Where are you?"
  
  The thin young woman hesitates, opens her mouth, then snaps it shut again, watching the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  The serpentine braided woman sends you a telepathic message:
  "This is nothing for you to handle, you tell me immediately if you detect a rogue."
  
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the serpentine braided woman:
  "I'm in the temple, Lady Templar. I - of... of course, Lady Templar. I'm in the temple."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman groans a little, some sand lightly laying down upon her form. She tenses visibly but after a moment seems to be sleeping almost normally.
  
  The thin young woman watches the scrawny, grey-eyed woman awhile, then pushes back on a low stone bed until she rests, back to the wall, atop it.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman breathes in and out idly for a while, sniffing just once.
  
  The thin young woman stares down at her lap then, hands folded there, looking - again - just briefly, utterly, miserable.
  
  To the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, or nobody, you say, in sirihish:
  "I'm sorry about this."
  
  You think:
  "But it's dangerous out there, and you need guidance."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman awakens.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman wakes with a start. She sits upright quickly.
  
  Still staring down at her lap, at her folded hands, you say, in sirihish:
  "Someone important's coming. If you got to puke, do it now, not then."
  
  Suddenly seeming much clearer and focused, looking extremely unhappy, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman exclaims to you, in sirihish:
  "What! What is...no...why am I here? This is a dream!"
  
  
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman stands up from a low stone bed.
  
  Gently, still without looking up, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Sit down."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman quickly tries to stand up, immensely tense.
  
  The serpentine braided templar has arrived from the west.
  The half-giant soldier has arrived from the west.
  
  Quite childishly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "No! Let me go! Don't hurt me! Wha ya done to me! I..."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman blinks and looks upon the serpentine braided templar She quite quickly falls to the ground, head held low.
  
  The thin young woman glances toward the serpentine braided templar, then pushes up from a low stone bed.
  
  You stand up from a low stone bed.
  
  Pacing into the barracks and stopping before the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, the serpentine braided templar asks, in sirihish:
  "Morning, Dorri... and who is this?"
  
  The serpentine braided templar looks down at the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  The thin young woman immediately doubles in a bow, though her attention slips toward the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  Straightening uncertainly, you say, in sirihish:
  "She's - like me. She doesn't know it yet."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman is quite clearly terrified in the prescene of the serpentine braided templar.
  
  Mumbling, clearly agitated and tearful, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman exclaims to the serpentine braided templar, in sirihish:
  "Mercy Lady Templar! The daemon did something ta me! I is stupid! Help me...mercy please I ain't done nothing wrong please mercy!"
  
  Staring down at her coldly, the serpentine braided templar asks the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Get up. What is your name?"
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman shuts her mouth and stumbles up to stand.
  
  Very meekly, weeping openly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to the serpentine braided templar, in sirihish:
  "Brel...."
  
  Glancing aside to you, the serpentine braided templar asks the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "What did Dorri do to you then?"
  
  Feeling conflicted, you think:
  "I can't let her go, I couldn't have. It... had to be like this."
  
  Clearly panicked, her words jumbled, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman exclaims to the serpentine braided templar, in sirihish:
  "Made me come to this demon place! And...made it feel not bad! But I know magick be bad! I didn't do anything Lady Templar. Please dun kill me I do anything ya say!"
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  Without a trace of emotion, the woman's posture strictly rigid, the serpentine braided templar asks you, in sirihish:
  "You are sure?"
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman continues to weep, though her terror in front of the serpentine braided templar seems to be keeping her quite rigid.
  
  The thin young woman glances from the scrawny, grey-eyed woman to the serpentine braided templar.
  
  After a noticeable hesitation, you say to the serpentine braided templar, in sirihish:
  "I'm - yes."
  
  Amending, you say, in sirihish:
  "Yes, Lady Templar."
  
  Squinting at her, the serpentine braided templar asks the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "So are you, Brel? Are you touched by Ruk?"
  
  Clearly looking uncertain in her weeping, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks the serpentine braided templar, in sirihish:
  "No I...I ain't a daemon Lady Templar. What...what is Ruk?"
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  Snapping her fingers at you, the serpentine braided templar says, in sirihish:
  "Explain it to her."
  
  With a flick of her wrist, looking irritated, the serpentine braided templar says, in sirihish:
  "I am not in the mood for this either."
  
  Dropping back onto a low stone bed, murmuring wearily, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Ruk and Krok. The stone. What you did earlier, with the words. Why you like it here. Why dirt sticks."
  
  You sit at a low stone bed.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman looks upset and darts a glance at you, before frowning and shaking her head.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman exclaims, in sirihish:
  "Ya making me feel sick. Ya making me feel like that! Why? What did ya do ta me!"
  
  You think:
  "That's it, I'm never going to the Gaj again."
  
  With that same, patient weariness, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "I can't do that. I can do - crazy, crazy shit. But I can't make you do it. That's - you."
  
  Looking between you and the scrawny, grey-eyed woman with a bored expression, the serpentine braided templar asks, in sirihish:
  "What did you do Brel?"
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman whimpers in response, glancing at the serpentine braided templar and then looking down at her feet. She clearly has no response.
  
  Quietly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to the serpentine braided templar, in sirihish:
  "Don't...know Lady Templar. Nothing makes sense I...she touched me earlier and started saying all these things. I dun understand my Lady Templar. Please don't...be angry."
  
  Quietly, you say to the serpentine braided templar, in sirihish:
  "She spoke words and Ruk responded. The ground, anyway, Lady Templar. The way it does when I do things."
  
  Crossing her arms, finally annoyed, the serpentine braided templar says to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Show me what Dorri means or I will slay you."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman looks utterly helpless, glancing at you.
  
  Softly, even encouragingly, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "It's okay. Go on."
  
  Meekly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks you, in sirihish:
  "What...words?"
  
  With a sharp inhale, you say, in sirihish:
  "The words you said before - just like that. Each word, like that."
  
  Adding quickly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "I'll say em Lady Templar! But what...I dun remember."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman clearly makes to repeat the words, showing no inkling of their meaning.
  
  The serpentine braided templar remains patiently annoyed, the half-giant soldier trying to be tough at her side but clearly confused.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman begins a spell, and the earth trembles in response.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman utters the incantation, 'wek un ruk wilith wril'.
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman gestures, summoning food from the air itself.
  A charred mass of gelatinous meat suddenly appears.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman blinks and shudders violently for a moment, staring at what appears before her.
  
  The thin young woman wets at her lips, glances down at a charred mass of gelatinous meat, then clears her throat.
  
  The thin young woman opens her mouth, then shuts it again, staring at the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  You think:
  "What do I say? Congratulations? This - this was like rape."
  
  Feeling disgusted, you think:
  "This is rape. She didn't know, and I forced her into it. And the gem."
  
  Tilting her head at her, unfazed by the magick, the serpentine braided templar asks the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Not a very appetising meal is it? You need practice. You do know what this means now, don't you?"
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman shakes her head, her expression once of honest unknowing.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks the serpentine braided templar, in sirihish:
  "I dun...ya...slay me?"
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  Slipping a hand into her blue, hooded templar's robe, the serpentine braided templar says to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "That you must be marked as an elementalist of Ruk, Brel."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman weeps a little quiter now, clearly very tired. She blinks as the serpentine braided templar speaks and simply nods obediently.
  
  The serpentine braided templar pulls a dull black gem out of a blue, hooded templar's robe.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman tenses as she looks at the black gem.
  
  Extending her dull black gem to her by the cord, careful not to touch the dark material, the serpentine braided templar says to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "It is a mark of His Blessing, a sign you follow His Will. It binds you to His Service and in it you will find purpose."
  
  Quietly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "His...his Blessing? His Service? It...it is Lady Templar?"
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman steps forwards, clearly upset and afraid.
  
  Still holding her dull black gem out to her, the serpentine braided templar says to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Yes, Brel. Dorri will explain it in further detail. The rules, your new life... ... or you may flee Allanak, never to return."
  
  Clearly looking agitated, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to the serpentine braided templar, in sirihish:
  "Na! Na Lady Templar I want ta serve! I don't want to leave. I...do anything ya say."
  
  Nodding softly, the serpentine braided templar says to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Then accept His Gem, Brel."
  
  Passing it across, the serpentine braided templar gives her dull black gem to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  The thin young woman reaches up, pinching at the bridge of her nose, and watches the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman blinks and nods quickly, before lightly putting on the gem.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman tilts her head forward and fastens her dull black gem about her throat.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman does it in a clumsy fashion, looking a little confused.
  
  The thin young woman exhales shortly, clearly relieved.
  
  Aside to her, the serpentine braided templar says to you, in sirihish:
  "I am busy Dorri, but do not 'handle' them yourself. Tell her what she needs to know."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman merely slumps now, bowing low before the serpentine braided templar and looking extremely lost.
  
  Her attention still on the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, you say to the serpentine braided templar, in sirihish:
  "If I'd known in the Gaj what she was, Lady Templar, I wouldn't have."
  
  You think:
  "I would have turned the other cheek and left."
  
  Before turning on her heel and marching away, the serpentine braided templar says to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "His Shadow shelter you Brel."
  
  The serpentine braided templar walks west.
  The half-giant soldier walks west.
  
  The thin young woman bows her head, slumping on a low stone bed, and crosses her arms over your desert-camouflaged, sandcloth jacket again.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman is quite silent, her expression vacant.
  
  Flatly, finishing, you say, in sirihish:
  "I'd have... turned, left. This was rape."
  
  Without looking up, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "I'm sorry. You should probably sit down."
  
  
  Starting to cry again, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks you, in sirihish:
  "Why didn't ya let me go? I...why has this happened? How can I be a daemon?"
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman slumps onto a low stone bed and starts to weep quietly.
  
  The thin young woman looks more and more miserable, eyes trained on her lap.
  
  Lamely, you say, in sirihish:
  "I didn't know - and then, when I did, I - had to cover my own ass. It's... better this way. Trust me, it's better."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman clutches her arms and lets out a pitiful sigh.
  
  The thin young woman clenches her jaw, flexing it from side to side, back teeth grinding lightly.
  
  Quietly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks you, in sirihish:
  "Is it? I...don't. Would...what if we had na spoken? What if ya had left me hurt and alone like everyone else?"
  
  Flopping back with a ragged exhale, you rest on a low stone bed.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman sits at a low stone bed.
  
  Shutting her eyes, draping an arm across her face, you say, in sirihish:
  "I don't know. It comes out eventually."
  
  At your seat, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says in sirihish, with a light blink:
  "It...does?"
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman sniffles a little, rubbing her brow slightly.
  
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, just lying there:
  "Yeah."
  
  The figure in a dusty tattered, brown hooded cloak has arrived from the west.
  
  At your seat, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says in sirihish, chewing her lip slightly:
  "Why did ya bring me here...did ya know from the start?"
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman sits up quickly, gaze upon the figure in a dusty tattered, brown hooded cloak.
  
  As he enters, the figure in a dusty tattered, brown hooded cloak says to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:
  "Dorri, I am going hunting before sundown."
  
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, shaking her head, arm still draped over her face:
  "No. I didn't know."
  
  The thin young woman lifts her arm and props up, glancing toward the figure in a dusty tattered, brown hooded cloak.
  
  You say to the figure in a dusty tattered, brown hooded cloak, in sirihish:
  "Hood down, Zahiid, and say hello. This is - uhm."
  
  Uncertainly, you look at the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  Glancing at the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, the figure in a dusty tattered, brown hooded cloak says to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:
  "Any chance you could do that thing that made me stronger? I would like to maximize my chances of not being scrab food."
  
  The stocky, gruff-bearded man lowers the hood of his dusty tattered, brown hooded cloak.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman stares blankly at the stocky, gruff-bearded man.
  
  After a pause, you say to the stocky, gruff-bearded man, in sirihish:
  "Brel? Brel - and, I can't. Not if you're running around the city with it on, it's not subtle enough."
  
  The stocky, gruff-bearded man says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
  "Walking from here to the gates, but..."
  
  The stocky, gruff-bearded man shrugs his shoulders.
  
  Pushing up with a soft huff, you stand up from a low stone bed.
  
  Pacing away from a low stone bed, you say to the stocky, gruff-bearded man, in sirihish:
  "If you get caught, I'm not covering for you."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman clutches herself tight, clearing her face up a little.
  
  The stocky, gruff-bearded man says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
  "I will blame gypsies."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman looks up at the stocky, gruff-bearded man.
  
  With a tip of her head, gesturing back at the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, you say to the stocky, gruff-bearded man, in sirihish:
  "Gypsies are good. Say hello. She's - ... really new."
  
  Offering a lazy wave, the stocky, gruff-bearded man says to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in tribal-accented sirihish:
  "Hello. I am Zahiid."
  
  Wincing a little before offering a weak nod, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to the stocky, gruff-bearded man, in sirihish:
  "Brel...ello."
  
  The thin young woman stops well short of the stocky, gruff-bearded man and shuts her eyes, shoulders back.
  
  A charred mass of gelatinous meat fades from existence.
  
  The earth trembles in response to your call.
  
  You utter the incantation.
  You lost your concentration!
  
  The thin young woman flinches, takes a step to the side, then glances about, blinking rapidly.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman shivers just a little at the shuddering earth, biting her lip.
  
  Glancing back to the stocky, gruff-bearded man, shaking her head again, you say, in sirihish:
  "Yes - No. No, krath. What's - wrong with me..."
  
  Raising an eyebrow, the stocky, gruff-bearded man asks you, in tribal-accented sirihish:
  "Hm?"
  
  The thin young woman rolls her shoulders, shakes her head yet again, then inhales slowly, beginning that low, slow murmur.
  
  The earth trembles in response to your call.
  
  You utter the incantation.
  Ok.
  You exhale a sandy cloud towards the stocky, gruff-bearded man, and his muscles bulge with newfound strength.
  
  Flinging her hand the stocky, gruff-bearded man's way, all the dust and grit in the room shifting toward him, you say to the stocky, gruff-bearded man, in sirihish:
  "I - no, I'm fine."
  
  Wiggling his fingers, the stocky, gruff-bearded man says to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:
  "My thanks."
  
  The thin young woman drops her arm and the dust and grit drops, too, and she turns.
  
  The thin young woman nods wearily, moving stiffly back to a low stone bed.
  
  To nobody in particular, the stocky, gruff-bearded man says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
  "His Shadow."
  
  The stocky, gruff-bearded man walks west.
  
  Briefly, you look west.
  West, through a door, is a Dark Stone Passage.
  The door is open.
  [Far]
  Nothing.
  [Near]
  Nothing.
  
  You sit at a low stone bed, on the edge.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman stares a little the leaving man, before glancing back to you.
  
  Reaching up to pinch at the bridge of her nose, kneading at the skin there, you say, in sirihish:
  "You can catch up with him, if you'd like. But he's reckless. He's likely to die out hunting scrab like that."
  
  At your seat, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says in sirihish, quiet idly, her weeping seeming to have calmed:
  "No...he is weird. I...if you didn't want to kill me or eat me. And ya didn't know...why did ya want me to come with you?"
  
  Taking an idle bite, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman eats a portion of her partially eaten kalan fruit.
  
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, lamely:
  "I - don't know. You looked like you needed help, and I thought I'd let you sweep the temple, then toss you a small or two."
  
  Quietly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks you, in sirihish:
  "You wanted to help me?"
  
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a sudden, flinching laugh:
  "Yes - yes! Krath, I'm sorry."
  
  Idly looking at her feet, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Other girl did not want to. Ya see her. Saying things on somethings called kruth cards. Making things up but folk payed her and stuff. Said she was getting a job."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "Thought cards telling things sounded unnatural. daemon talk....I...so...I am a daemon?"
  
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, musingly, staring down at her hands:
  "Some help I am. You're a - a Rukkian."
  
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, firmly:
  "Like me."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman slumps forwards slightly.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "Like...you?"
  
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, scooting back along a low stone bed again, pressing into the wall:
  "Mhm."
  
  At your seat, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says in sirihish, with a deep and weary breathe:
  "Uhm...kay. I...so what happens now?"
  
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, shutting her eyes:
  "I don't know. Same as before, but... well, with - this, now."
  
  The thin young woman reaches up, about to touch your dull black gem, but draws her hand back short of it.
  
  You think:
  "Good question. What now. Krath - I don't know."
  
  Quietly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Before I was trying to find some work ta be doing so I did na starve. I can't do much but sweep and clean..."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman touches her dull black gem herself, wincing a little.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "It...come off now?"
  
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, her hand dropping, shaking her head:
  "Never. Not when you sleep, when you eat, when you fuck, or even die. It's - you get used to it."
  
  At your seat, you say in sirihish:
  "After awhile."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman tugs on her dull black gem, before nodding slightly.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman collapses to the ground in agony.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman winces and quickly withdraws her hand.
  
  The thin young woman's face blanks and she shoots a startled look at the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "Uh...uh sorry. I...see. Uhhhh...."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman takes in a deep breathe, clearly pained.
  
  Leaning over, holding her hand out to her, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Here. Don't do that."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman seems hesitant to take you's hand, but she takes it and then grips it hard.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Dorri. I dun know what ta do...."
  
  The thin young woman squeezes back, some half-hearted attempt at comfort, and tips her head back again, looking up.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman sniffles a little, leaning over closer to you.
  
  A little wryly, you ask the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "Did you before?"
  
  Quietly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "Things made sense before...now they make even less sense. Although..."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman rests at a low stone bed.
  
  At your seat, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says in sirihish:
  "Least me leg feels better...."
  
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, resting her head back against the wall, shutting her eyes:
  "You won't starve. There's water in the cistern in the hall, and - if you need food... You can - well, you can ask. Or - make it, but - there's... no pressure to do that. Unless you want..."
  
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, clearing her throat:
  "Unless you want to."
  
  At your seat, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says in sirihish, with a light sniff:
  "I'm...tired. Dorri is there anything real important I should know now? I...I'm really tired."
  
  The thin young woman turns her head, opens an eye, and glances toward the scrawny, grey-eyed woman.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman looks quite intently at you now.
  
  At your seat, you say in sirihish:
  "No magick outside of the quarter. Don't break the laws. Don't practice but in the temple. Do not shit on the floor, this isn't the fucking T'zai Byn."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman blinks slightly at the last part.
  
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, tone gentling:
  "And this is -my- bed."
  
  At your seat, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says in sirihish:
  "I...they do that?"
  
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, glancing briefly westward:
  "Zhig - you'll meet him. He's a dwarf."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman slowly makes to stand, idly placing her etched obsidian goblet down as well.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman puts her etched obsidian goblet into stone shelves.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman stands up from a low stone bed.
  
  Glancing around and rubbing her neck, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "You live here?"
  
  Shutting her eye again, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "You can sleep here if you'd like, if it makes you feel better. And - I do, yeah. It's... I can't sleep in an apartment. It's - look, forget it."
  
  After a pause, you say, in sirihish:
  "And - don't go into the 'rinth. Never."
  
  Your mood is now tired.
  
  Nodding quietly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
  "I...can I sleep her now? I'll sleep on tha floor and then I'll...go somewhere else later. Why would I go ta tha rinth? Everyone there is a murdered and a necker and a fiend and..."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman blinks slightly, looking troubled about something.
  
  Pushing up, you stand up from a low stone bed.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks, in sirihish:
  "One last thing...before that word...Ashbiter. Ya...so...we ain't that?"
  
  Padding away from a low stone bed, you say, in sirihish:
  "Sleep there. We ain' - we aren't."
  
  The thin young woman nods back toward a low stone bed.
  
  Stepping over to a low stone bed, meekly, the scrawny, grey-eyed woman asks you, in sirihish:
  "I don't have to...eat souls and hurt folk?"
  
  Shaking her head, standing there awkwardly apart from a low stone bed, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "No."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman chews her lip, nodding in a dumb fashion. She moves over to a low stone bed and slumps into it.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
  "I'm sorry for....saying mean things afore..."
  
  Just standing there, you say to the scrawny, grey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
  "It's okay."
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman quite quickly slumps into a slumber. It is clearly a very deep one.
  
  The scrawny, grey-eyed woman has departed from the land of Zalanthas.
  
  You think:
  "What is this, atonement?"
  
  The thin young woman watches a low stone bed awhile, then paces to a cantilevered stone table.
  
  The thin young woman pulls a chair out from a cantilevered stone table and straddles it, leaning forward against the wicker wood backing, and props her chin against it.
  
  Feeling unsettled, you think:
  "My way of apologizing, I guess. Krath, I'm tired."
  
  The thin young woman shuts her eyes, slumped in that chair, and gradually dozes like that - arms crossed, head tipped forward.
  
  Come back soon!

  
  Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
  You pass beneath the shadow of the red sandstone templar statue.
  The Gladiator and the Gaj Tavern -- Main Room [N, E, S, Quit]
  This common room composes the bulk of the Gladiator and the Gaj
  Tavern, a bustling establishment founded in the Year of...
  Continue Reading...
• 

  The Grey Hunt - Part 3 by Adhira
  Added on Mar 4, 2016

  The winner is finally announced.

  ---

  Scene: The Silverwood Estate

  Event: The Grey Hunt Announcement

  Note: Staff view of thinks and feels has been left in to enhance the scene.

   

  <! As seen by Amos/Malik and his alter ego-->

  
  Someone thinks:
       "Hmm."
  
   << The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar feels curious. >>
  
  
  The spangled-blond, muscular woman snakes her way through the crowd.
  
  
  The short, dusky woman thinks:
       "What the fuck?"
  
  
  With a swift glane, the scruffy, brown-haired youth looks at the spangled-blond, muscular woman .
  
  
  The pearl-haired Lirathan templar begins guarding the tall, muscular man.
  
  
  The svelte, top-knotted woman glances to the freckled, light-skinned man then back up to the stage in confusion and alarm.
  
  
  The short-haired, jade-eyed Lirathan templar begins guarding the tall, muscular man.
  
  One eye narrowed, the sinewy, weather-worn man looks down at the spangled-blond, muscular woman.
  
  The tiny, reed-like Jihaen templar begins guarding the tall, muscular man.
  
  The very short and thick male wearing a bloodied runic, fire-scorched mask looks up at the tall, muscular man.
  
  [[You get the strangest impression that the tall, muscular man is actually growing taller.]]
  
  << The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette feels absolutely confused. >>
  
  
  The willowy, grey-streaked man thinks:
       "What the fuck?"
  
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man thinks:
       "What the fuck?"
  
  The willowy, grey-streaked man looks at the tall, muscular man.
  
  
  The stocky, clean-shaven man thinks:
       "This is..."
  
  
  Tilting her head, the dusky, sorrel-curled woman looks up at the tall, muscular man.
  
  
  Slowly, the short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales tilts her head to the side.
  
  
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "What the... fuck is happening."
  
  The stout, heavily-scarred dwarf looks up at the tall, muscular man.
  
  
  The short, dusky woman thinks:
       "What.. what.. what.. what?"
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man 's eyes widen as he watches.

  
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar swallows hard, her eyes growing wide.
  
  
  Squinting quizzically, the lofty, cunyati-tanned man looks down at the spangled-blond, muscular woman.
  
  
  The stocky, clean-shaven man's jaw drops open, slowly.
  
  
  The skeletal, dark-skinned Jihaen templar begins guarding the tall, muscular man.
  
  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar's gaze drifts to the spangled-blond, muscular woman a look of realization coming over him.
  
  The sinewy, bald-headed man reaches over, grabbing the scruffy, brown-haired youth's elbow, with a firm hand.
  
  
  The spangled-blond, muscular woman takes a step back.
  
  
  The grey-haired, fiery-eyed woman tilts her head as she watches.
  
  
  Squinting quizzically, the lofty, cunyati-tanned man looks at the tall, muscular man.
  
  
  With a furrowing of his brow, the trim, ashen-skinned man looks up at the tall, muscular man.
  
  
  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar thinks:
       "That is His Radiance?"
  
  
  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette stares wide-eyed at the tall, muscular man.
  
  
  The willowy, grey-streaked man thinks:
       "No."
  
  
  Without even seeming to realize it, the short, dusky woman clutches the stocky, clean-shaven man's arm, staring at the tall, muscular man.
  
  
  Eyes narrowing, the swarthy, aging man looks up at the tall, muscular man.
  
  
  The pockmarked, well-toned man swallows, watching the tall, muscular man.
  
  
  The dusky, sorrel-curled woman's breath catches.
  
  
  The scruffy, brown-haired youth's eyes widen noticeably and without a thought he seeks to spring forward but is held in check by the sinewy, bald-headed man.
  
  
  << The short, fire-blackened woman feels utterly fucking gobsmacked. >>
  
  
  Adjusting her wig, the robust, coppery-curled teen looks up at the spangled-blond, muscular woman.
  
  
  Under his breath, the willowy, grey-streaked man says, in southern-accented sirihish:
       "No."
  
  
  The chubby, brown-haired man's eyes widen, watching.
  
  
  Curiously as he glances between him and the skeletal, dark-skinned Jihaen templar, the sinewy, obsidian-haired man looks up at the tall, muscular man.
  
  
  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man reaches up to touch his forehead, mouth agape as he looks at the tall, muscular man.
  
  
  [[The unremarkable features of the tall, muscular man become more defined, and his complexion takes on a remarkably healthy luster.]]
  
  
  The willowy, brown-haired young man frowns broadly, pushing himself to his feet very quickly.
  
  
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar goes to one knee before the tall, muscular man, her head bowed to the ground.
  
  
  The willowy, brown-haired young man stands up from a long wooden bench.
  
  
  The pockmarked, well-toned man thinks:
       "What's going on?"
  
  
  The spangled-blond, muscular woman's expression shifts from concern to puzzlement.
  
  
  Mouth falling open and food falling out, the freckled, light-skinned man eats his small portion of a baguette of brown bread.
  
  
  The trim, ashen-skinned man thinks:
       "What the fuck..."
  
  
  The stocky, clean-shaven man quickly removes his hand from beneath his cloak, empty, his eyes wide.
  
  
  The short, dusky woman thinks:

       "What.. what.. wh.."
  
  
  The very short and thick male wearing a bloodied runic, fire-scorched mask thinks:
       "Muk...no way."
  
  
  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man stands up from a long wooden bench.
  
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man stands up from a long, white painted table.
  
  

  
  [[Beneath his brows, the tall, muscular man's eyes seem to grow darker, yet strangely clearer and more compelling.]]
  
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man thinks:
       "He's growin' huge!"
  
  You notice the robust, coppery-curled teen glancing at the robust, coppery-curled teen .
  
  
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "Dang, who is this guy, and... well, if the Faithful are bowin' to him, guess I sure will."
  
  
  On her knee in the grass, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar watches the tall, muscular man in wonder.
  
  
  The ethereal, fair-haired woman watches the tall, muscular man, enraptured, frozen in place.
  
  
  [[The tall, muscular man's hair twines itself into numerous braids, no longer mousy in appearance but taking on a lustrous red hue.]]
  
  
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar thinks:
       "Is it... could it be...?"
  
  
  The trim, ashen-skinned man thinks:
       "Who..the Krath.."
  
  
  Chewing at her thumbnail, the robust, coppery-curled teen looks up at the tall, muscular man.
  
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man glances towards the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar, then back to the tall, muscular man.
  
  
  Blinking rapidly, the curvy, jallal-tressed maiden looks up at the tall, muscular man.
  
  
  The stocky, clean-shaven man drops down to both knees before the tall, muscular man.
  
  
  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man kneels, falling forward onto his chest, arms outstretched above him as he presses his face into the grass.
  
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man thinks:
       "Oh, fuck."
  
  
  << The earthy, sienna-maned woman feels a bolt of high reverence. >>
  
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man thinks:
       "Utep??"
  
  
  His mouth agape the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar watches the tall, muscular man in astonishment.
  
  
  The trim, ashen-skinned man looks at the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar then widens his eyes back at the tall, muscular man.
  
  
  Feeling abject shock, the swarthy, aging man thinks:
       "No way... No way under Krath..."
  
  
  << The spangled-blond, muscular woman feels your heart beat faster, pounding between her ribs. >>
  
  
  His eyes narrowing, as he watches him, the sinewy, bald-headed man looks up at the tall, muscular man.
  
  
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden thinks:
       "What the...?"
  
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man's jaw drops as he watches the tall, muscular man, his attention fixed.
  
  
  The willowy, brown-haired young man shoves his way through the crowd until he reaches the lanky, indigo-tressed woman, arm reaching slowly over his right shoulder.
  
  
  << The short, fire-blackened woman feels utterly astounded, every muscle frozen and tensed. >>
  
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man falls to both knees, lowering his head quickly.

  
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man glances from side to side, a bit confused, and follows suit with the templars, falling to his knees in deference to the tall, muscular man... though still completely mystified, by all appearances.
  
  
  The very short and thick male wearing a bloodied runic, fire-scorched mask thinks:
       "Well fucken shit...guess he ain't some old wrinkled fart in a pyramid after all."
  
  
  
  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man thinks:
       "My King... I bask in Your Gloriousness."
  
  The chubby, brown-haired man moves to his feet, watching.
  
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden fiddles around in disbelief, her body teeming with energy but her mind obviously confused.
  
   
  Having sunk to her knees in shock and wonder, the short, dusky woman stares, mouth open, then lowers her eyes.
  
   
   This large man towers at least eight feet above the ground, much larger
  and taller than most other men.  From his head, crimson braids, the color of
  wet blood upon a battlefield, cascade down his massive, muscular back.  His
  features appear to be the work of some master sculptor, where every nuance
  must be pleasing and familiar to the eye, the flat planes of his face
  chiseled and stern, yet personable and illuminated with perfect health.  His
  tan skin almost seems to glow with a brilliant light, and his dark eyes seem
  to be filled with endless depths of wisdom, knowledge, and humor regarding
  all they survey.  
  The immense, crimson-braided man is in excellent condition.
  
  <worn around neck>       a sunburst decorated silk shoulder-cape
  <slung across back>      an old runed, ivory-hilted steel greatsword
  <worn on torso>          a loose tunic of white silk
  <worn around wrist>      a ruby-set silver bracelet
  <worn on right finger>   a bejewelled golden ring
  <worn on left finger>    a ruby-jeweled golden ring
  <worn as belt>           a white and flame-red silk scarf
  <worn on legs>           a pair of white silk pantaloons
  <worn on feet>           a pair of silver-toed leather boots
  
  
  The trim, ashen-skinned man thinks:
       "SHIT!  IS HE GOING TO ATTACK?!"
  
  Blinking rapidly, the stout, heavily-scarred dwarf stands up from a long wooden bench.
  
  Peering over the crowd as some drop to their knees, the extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales stands up from a long wooden bench.
  
  Following suit with the crowd to kneel, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette sits down.
  
  [[Now towering above the tallest human, the immense, crimson-braided man's physique is imposing despite his relaxed posture.]]
  
  The scruffy, brown-haired youth looks up at you.
  
  << The lofty, cunyati-tanned man feels amazement. >>
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "Krath, could it actually be Him?"
  
  << The trim, ashen-skinned man feels worried about Paryl attacking the man...what might be Muk. >>
  
  The willowy, grey-streaked man looks up at you.
  
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden thinks:
       "Is it...?  I mean, could it be...?"
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man sits down.
  
  Tugging at his arm, the sinewy, bald-headed man whispers something to the scruffy, brown-haired outh .
  
  For just a moment, then quickly tearing her gaze away, the extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales looks up at you.
  
   The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar drops to a knee immediatly.
  
   Sucking in air, the trim, ashen-skinned man looks up at you.
  
  The spangled-blond, muscular woman thinks:
       "I don't understand"
  
  The pockmarked, well-toned man shakes his head slowly, quickly sliding from a long wooden bench to fall to his knees.
  
  As he slowly takes a knee, the sinewy, bald-headed man looks up at you.
  
  The scruffy, brown-haired youth kneels suddenly.
  
  Mouth hanging open, the swarthy, aging man looks up at you.
  
  
  With a just a brief raise of her eyes, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette looks up at you.
  
  Silently, her hands trembling, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar watches you silently.
   
  Falling to a respectful kneel as though forcefully tugged to the ground, the extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales sits down to rest.
  
  Falling to a knee beside her chair, the svelte, top-knotted woman sits down.
  
  The extremely short male wearing a bloodied runic, fire-scorched mask looks up at you.

  
  Jaw falling slack, the dusky, sorrel-curled woman looks up at you.
  
  Forgoing staying on his knees, the freckled, light-skinned man just completely prostrates himself.
  
  Glancing up carefully, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man looks up at you.
  
  The willowy, grey-streaked man's jaw drops and he just stares at you, standing among the kneeling crowd.
  
  The short, lithe young man stands up from a long wooden bench.
  
  The ethereal, fair-haired woman drops to both knees, posture rigid as she... stares up at you.
  
  After a moment of looking around, the curvy, jallal-tressed maiden drops herself to the floor and places her head to the ground, mumbling incoherently.

  
  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar thinks:
       "He has graced us with His Presence."
  
  Just..... staring, the short, dusky woman looks up at you.
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden sits down.
   
  The sinewy, weather-worn man's attention snaps to the side in surprise and then quickly falls to one knee.
  
  The trim, ashen-skinned man thinks:
       "Fuck no."
  
  
  The immense, crimson-braided man stands on the stage, folding his arms over his massive chest as he looks out at the crowd.
  
  The sinewy, obsidian-haired man gasps for a moment, his thick carru and cheese sandwich falling from his mouth to land on his lap, before falling forward on his knee afterward.
  
  The willowy, brown-haired young man blinks quickly and hesitantly drops to one knee.
  
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden looks up at you.
  
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "What is going on?!"
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man sits down.
   
  The freckled, light-skinned man thinks:
       "Sun King!  I had no idea!"
  
  The scruffy, brown-haired youth hangs his head low, knelt beside the sinewy, bald-headed man, silent and unmoving, his eyes widened in disbelief.
  
  The extremely short male wearing a bloodied runic, fire-scorched mask  chuckles quietly and slaps a long wooden bench.
  
  The spangled-blond, muscular woman sinks to her knees slowly.
  
  The stout, heavily-scarred dwarf drops slowly to a knee, gazing about in surprise.
  
  His attention completely set upon you, the lofty, cunyati-tanned man looks up at you.

  
  Jaw dropping, the robust, coppery-curled teen looks up at you.
  
  Only briefly daring to look up, the svelte, top-knotted woman looks up at you.
  
  The trim, ashen-skinned man gives another awe filled look at you then slowly lowers to one knee.
  
  The short, lithe young man hurries to kneel.
  
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden thinks:
       "Look at-- is it-- no, I don't-- He would-- no no-- what?"
  
  A tear touching the corner of her eyes, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar averts her gaze from you.
  
  << The swarthy, aging man feels fear. >>
  The swarthy, aging man thinks:
       "Krath shade us, and may we shelter in the lee of Whira's fury!"
  
  The grey-haired, fiery-eyed woman rises to her feet and bows respectfully to you, her eyes wide.
  The sinewy, obsidian-haired man looks up at you.
  
  << The ethereal, fair-haired woman feels ... utterly... at... a... loss... >>
  Turning his eyes up briefly, the sinewy, weather-worn man looks up at you.
  
  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man thinks:
       "And here... here is the source of the Light. This is what I have fought my entire life for. My life is yours, Your Gloriousness, should you require it."
  
   
  The short, lithe young man looks up at you.
  
   
  << The trim, ashen-skinned man feels impressed, so damn impressed. >>
  << The ethereal, fair-haired woman feels stunned >>
  
   
  [[You feel an upwelling of joy and happiness in the immense man's presence.]]
  
   
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden stares at you for a moment and then quickly lowers her eyes, mumbling soft prayers.
  
   
  The spangled-blond, muscular woman looks up at you.
  
   
  << The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar feels your heart expand to bursting. >>
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar  thinks:
       "It is Him~  He is here... what an incredible honor."
  
   
  Eyes darting upwards briefly, then quickly returning to the ground, the stout, heavily-scarred dwarf looks up at you.
  
   
  << The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette feels utterly astonished and quite frightened. >>
  
   
  << The stocky, clean-shaven man feels completely voiceless. >>
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man sucks in air as he shudders.
  
   
  Takinig a deep breath, the chubby, brown-haired man looks up at you.
  
   
  The freckled, light-skinned man thinks:
       "Sun King!  I..."
  
   
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "Dang, dang, dang, fuckin' shit. This is intense."
  
   
  The willowy, brown-haired young man scans the crowd, brow knitted in confusion, and allows himself a brief glance at you with squinted eyes.
  
   
  His eyes misting the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar raises his gaze looking serenly at you.
  
   
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "Who is he?"
  
   
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "I feel so..."
  
   
  Sliding limply off a long wooden bench to his knees, the swarthy, aging man stands up from a long wooden bench.
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man thinks:
       "He's fuckin' real!"
  
   
  The pockmarked, well-toned man smiles, closing his eyes as his face points down to the ground.
  
   
   
  The willowy, grey-streaked man stares at you, wide-eyed, his entire body trembling.
  
   
  The ethereal, fair-haired woman thinks:
       "... Thank you..."
  
   
  Her eyes touched by joyful tears, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar  looks up at you.

  
  Her breathing steadying, the curvy, jallal-tressed maiden looks up at you and then away, and then back, and then away, a tear dripping over her tattooed one.
   
   
  The ethereal, fair-haired woman thinks:
       "... Thank... you."
  
   
  An odd, strangled little laugh croaks from the extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales 's throat.
  
   
  << The freckled, light-skinned man feels exceptionally awed in the presence of his Sun King. >>
  
   
  [[A sense of well-being settles over you at the perfection of the crimson-braided man's appearance.]]
  
   
  << The extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales feels happy, suddenly, HAPPY, for no reason at all. >>
  
   
  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette reaches up to pull at the willowy, grey-streaked man 's arm.
  
   
  << The lofty, cunyati-tanned man feels an unusual swelling of hope. >>
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "Hope he doesn't notice you? No - hope he -does-."
  
   
  The scruffy, brown-haired youth's breathing quickens, a broad smile, though hesitant, crashing onto his youthful features. He can do nothing but kneel silently, wide eyed gaze staring into the ground before him.
  
   
  The pockmarked, well-toned man thinks:
       "I can't believe it..."
  
   
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar thinks:
       "He is so handsome!"
  
   
  Muttering it out quickly, the dusky, sorrel-curled woman exclaims, in tribal-accented bendune:
       "Blessed Utep!"
   
   
  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar thinks:
       "I am honored to be here, he has graced us.  This feeling is greater than I have ever imagined."
   
   
  The freckled, light-skinned man thinks:
       "No shit."

  
  The willowy, grey-streaked man bats the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette 's hand away, staring at you.
  
   
  << The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden feels utmost joy. >>
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden  thinks:
       "This is-- it's-- He's-- it really must-- He is--"
  
   
  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man takes a deep breath as tears begin to roll down his cheeks, his breath ragged for a moment.
  
   
  The willowy, brown-haired young man inhales slowly and deeply, a smile gradually broadening over his face.
  
   
  The pockmarked, well-toned man thinks:
       "I've been in HIS presence..."
  
   
  << The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar feels your senses reeling with joy and disbelief. >>
  
   
  The short, lithe young man shivers visibly, his gaze locked on the floor.
  
   
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "I have no idea why I feel this way, who is this man?"
  
   
  The robust, coppery-curled teen wipes at her eyes as she glances at you in apparent awe.
  
   
  The extremely short male wearing a bloodied runic, fire-scorched mask nods as if to himself.
  
   
  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette tugs on the willowy, grey-streaked man 's arm again in an attempt to pull him down next to her.
  
   
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden's body shivers as tears stream down her face, making a noise torn between a sob and a laugh.
  
   
  With a trembling hand the svelte, top-knotted woman smears away a moist sheen from her face.
   
  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar thinks:
       "His Radiance cannot be denied, all will know, all must know.  His wisdom, his guidance is always with us."
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man lifts his gaze to you, mouth slowly opening without a sound.
   
   
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar thinks:
       "He is.. perfection... He is everything... He is older than -time-."
  
   
  The dusky, sorrel-curled woman thinks:
       "Die today, in perfection."
  
   
  The ethereal, fair-haired woman thinks:
       "Please..."
  
   
  Unfolding his arms, you say, in sirihish:
       "My people! I have come before you as I once walked amongst you."
  
   
  << The lofty, cunyati-tanned man feels a sudden twist of black humour. >>

  
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "And I suppose these southerners now know we were right the whole fuckin' time."
  
   
  The stocky, clean-shaven man thinks:
       ".... and I'm kneeling right before him."
  
   
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden thinks:
       "I just-- is it-- can I-- oh my!"
  
   
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "I wonder what they're going to report when they get home?"
  
   
  Tears begin streaming down the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar's face as he remains transfixed on you, remaining prostrate.
  
   
  The chubby, brown-haired man moves to kneel at your words.
  
   
  The chubby, brown-haired man sits down.
   
   
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "...hey, I even think my hangover's gone."
  
   
  The spangled-blond, muscular woman blink slowly one hand rising to press against her chest over her heart, mouth still hanging open.
  
   
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "I am, I am!"
  
   
  The willowy, grey-streaked man screams, a strangled, joyous, betrayed sound, as he falls to his knees next to the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette .
  
   
  On her knees, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar watches you in rapt silence, her expression glowing.
  
   
  The scruffy, brown-haired youth 's jaw drops slightly at you's speech, not daring to lift his gentle browns to the man's perfect form.
  
   
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden lifts her eyes slightly to you, and then turns them.  They become a center of activity, shifting from looking at to looking away from you.
   
  Trembling, but seemingly not in fear, the svelte, top-knotted woman looks up at you.
  
  [[The presence and magnetism of the crimson-braided man is so intense you feel that you would follow him anywhere.]]
  
     
  Looking down at those gathered with a benevolent smile, you say, in sirihish:
       "Over these past hours I have drunk wine with you, I have eaten with you, and now, together we shall rejoice."
  
   
  The willowy, brown-haired young man forces himself down lower on his knee, face tucked into his chest.
  
   
  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette pulls the willowy, grey-streaked man against her as she visibly trembles.
  
     
  << The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette feels adoration and wonder. >>
  
   
  The spindly, grey-haired man bends over, knees to the ground and face held down in reverence.
  
   
  << The trim, ashen-skinned man feels an elaborate elation flowing through you. >>
  
   
  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar thinks:
       "Paryl cannot deny it, no one can deny it.  His Radiance is so beautiful, it blinds."
  
   
  << The extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales  feels a strange wash of odd, affectionate adoration from seemingly nowhere, causing her throat to tighten. >>
  
   
  The willowy, grey-streaked man's hand moves to the jade cross hanging from his neck and he begins tugging compulsively at it, eyes transfixed on you.
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man stares at you with a slightly quivering lower lip.
  
   
  [[Your growing adoration for the immense man begins to outstrip your love for any other living being.]]

  
  Deadly silent, but trembling with energy, the curvy, jallal-tressed maiden lowers her head as the tears stream hotly, but with joy.
  
   
  The robust, coppery-curled teen trembles as tears glisten on her round face.
  
   
  << The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar feels like reeling and reeling. >>
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar  thinks:
       "What a gift he has given us with His presence!"
  
   
  His breathing quick and shallow, as one on the verge of tears, the scruffy, brown-haired youth makes a concerted attempt to steel himself, his youthful features quivering with untold happiness, though there this is the faintest tick of
  confusion to his brows.
  
   
  The dusky, sorrel-curled woman reaches out exposed fingertips toward you.
  
   
  The chubby, brown-haired man thinks:
       "Krath...krath...krath...krath..."
  
   
  The short, lithe young man inhales shakily, seeming to struggle internally with himself.
  
   
  The sinewy, weather-worn man squeezes his eyes shut and holds his head low.
  
   
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "This is... this is such a weird... keep your wits about you, Bryn. That southerner looks like he's going to lose his shit."
  
     
  The chubby, brown-haired man blinks rappidly, watching you with adoration.
  The ethereal, fair-haired woman thinks:
       "... Please... stay with us..."
  
   
  His hand motioning towards the short, dusky woman and the stocky, clean-shaven man , you say, in sirihish:
       "These two stand here as the last to compete for the right to join my Chosen."
  
     
  The spangled-blond, muscular woman's trembling hand rises slowly from her heart to her lips.
  
   
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar squeezes her eyes closed, wiping a tear from her cheek before swallowing hard, once again, lifting a brilliant smile to the pearl-haired Lirathan templar.
  
   
  As it slides from his limp fingers, the swarthy, aging man stops using his smoothly carved black pipe.
  
   
  The stocky, clean-shaven man picks his head up in wonderment, still kneeling before you.
  
   
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "Oh, for the chance to be one of those two!"

  
  The swarthy, aging man drops a smoothly carved black pipe.
   
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden  thinks:
       "Am I... dreaming?  Is this...?"
  
   
  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man reaches to unbuckle the straps of his breastplate, the many brands of rising suns covering his skin displayed.
  
   
  The extremely short male wearing a bloodied runic, fire-scorched mask  taps his chin.
  
  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette lifts her head to gaze openly, wide-eyed, apparently completely entranced with you.
  
   
  The sinewy, obsidian-haired man takes in a deep breath as he focuses on you, staring directly towards him, his chest straightened proudly.
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man thinks:
       "Krath, I just can't believe it."
  
     
  The short, lithe young man trembles heavily as he lifts his hands to his head. He digs his fingers into his hair, yanking roughly.
   
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "Why was I born so... my thoughts aren't even worthy in this man's presence."
  
   
  Hastily pulling them off to kiss the back of her hands, the curvy, jallal-tressed maiden stops using her pair of white silk gloves, revealing a tattoo of a six-pronged star.
  
   
  << The extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales  feels on the verge of tears. >>
  
   
  Face damp with tears, the short, dusky woman gazes wordlessly at you, lips parted in amazement.
   
  
    Turning slightly on his heel to face the pair, you say, in sirihish:
       "Worthy contestants both, but only one shall be joining the ranks of those most favored. Only one shall I choose."

  
  << The lofty, cunyati-tanned man feels forced and difficult determination. >>
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "Not... lettin'... anything ruin this. Eyes on the southerners. Make sure they don't go nutso. Gotta... gotta keep useful."
   
  You unsling an old runed, ivory-hilted steel greatsword from your back.
   
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "This is the zenith of my life, I shall remember this day forever."
  
   
  The scruffy, brown-haired youth steals the briefest glance up towards you before quickly averting his eyes, his head shaking in disbelief, feathers and beads flying in unison. His broad and childish smile is uncontrollable.
  
  
  << The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar feels like you cannot bring your attention away to answer her. >>
  
   
  << The stocky, clean-shaven man feels like even if the Sun King cut him in two with that sword, it'd be the happiest moment of his life. >>
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man thinks:
       "Krath, he's fuckin' beautiful."
  
   
  The pockmarked, well-toned man opens his eyes, staring down at the ground as he smiles brightly.
  
   
  The immense, crimson-braided man holds your old runed, ivory-hilted steel greatsword up high above one shoulder, twisting his body slightly as he makes a move to bring it slashing down towards the stocky, clean-shaven man's neck.
  
   
  Trembling, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar silently watches, her eyes widening.
  
     
  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette gasps as she watches the sword swing.
  
   
  [[The steel of the immense, crimson-braided man's sword gleams brightly despite its apparent age.]]

  
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden  holds a hand over her mouth as she watches your sword.
  
   
  The short, lithe young man thinks:
       "No! Mother! Zak! Valin!!!"
  
   
  The stocky, clean-shaven man goes stiff, eyes squeezing shut.
  
     
  The short, dusky woman jolts, as if to throw herself toward the stocky, clean-shaven man in protection, a reflexive movement.
  
   
  The dusky, sorrel-curled woman clutches her ruby crystal pyramid tightly in her hand.
  
   
  The freckled, light-skinned man lifts his gaze slightly from his position on the ground, coming to a kneeling position finally.
  
   
  The scruffy, brown-haired youth's gaze lifts once more at the sound of swinging steel.
  
   
  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar's mouth drops agape as he watches you, frozen still.
  
   
  [[ As he grips the sword, the crystal imbedded in the pommel begins to glow deep red, like the bloody horizon at sunrise.]]
  
     
  Eyes wide the svelte, top-knotted woman's trembling hands cup her agape mouth.
   
  The sinewy, weather-worn man's breath quickens as he opens his eyes, locking his gaze on the stocky, clean-shaven man.
   
  As the sword comes to an abrupt halt inches from the stocky, clean-shaven man's neck, you ask, in sirihish:
       "Rokov Kurac, do you renounce all that you have been. Do you commit yourself to my service, to walk the streets of the Ivory as my Chosen?"
  
   
  [[The pommel's crystal appears to throb with light, as if in time with a heartbeat.]]
  
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden thinks:
       "ROKOV!"
  
   
  << The swarthy, aging man feels your pulse quickening. >>
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man stares at the crystal in the sword, eyes transfixed, gaze trailing from it to the stocky, clean-shaven man.
  
   
  << The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar feels your heart grow calm and still. >>
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar thinks:
       "The Sun King speaks."
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man thinks:
       "You...Sun King, you heard my plea!"
  
   
  The dusky, sorrel-curled woman thinks:
       "I DO!"
  
   
  The chubby, brown-haired man's holds his breath, watching.
  
   
  The stocky, clean-shaven man opens his eyes, and then lifts his head, his mouth opening next, though no words escape.
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man thinks:
       "Sweet merciful... It's all real."
  
   
  << The stocky, clean-shaven man feels completely, utterly, shocked. >>
  
   
  << The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar feels your heart go out to Thiza. >>
  
   
  << The extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales  feels like one or two drops of pee might have come out. >>
  
   
  The stocky, clean-shaven man thinks:
       "... gotta.. gotta say something. Just say yes."
  
   
  The scruffy, brown-haired youth blinks rapidly, a quick glance drifting aside towards the short, dusky woman. His brows knit heavily for the quickest of moments.
  
   
  The ethereal, fair-haired woman thinks:
       "... It was Him..."
  
   
  [[The glowing crystal shifts to a warmer, brighter red, like the glare of Suk-Krath at midday.]]
  
   
  His voice awed, breathless, the stocky, clean-shaven man says to you, in sirihish:
       "I.. I do."
  
   
  << The stocky, clean-shaven man feels completely certain. >>
  
   
  The spangled-blond, muscular woman's hand travels from her mouth to reach out tentatively toward you, as if to touch you across the span of feet between her and the stage. Her outstretched and quivers like a bow-string.
  
   
  The extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales shifts slightly where she kneels.
  
   
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "Not... going to just... cry my eyes out feelin' happy... gotta... gotta stay useful."
  
   
  Touching the heavy metal sword down on the stocky, clean-shaven man 's shoulder, you say to the stocky, clean-shaven man , in sirihish:
       "From this day till your end you are Chosen Lord Rokov, winner of my great hunt. "
  
   
  [[ The faces of those nearby are bathed in the warm glow of light from the crimson-braided man's sword.]]
  
     
  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette gazes transfixed, reverently, at you.
   
   
  The stocky, clean-shaven man bows his head again, letting out a weak gasp.
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man exhales softly, serenely, the glow of the crystal casting over his face as he watches.
  
     
  The trim, ashen-skinned man thinks:
       "Amazin'...  Just... fuckin' amazin'."
  
   
  The dusky, sorrel-curled woman's hands tremble.
  
     
  With a benign smile, her eyes shining proudly, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar looks at the stocky, clean-shaven man.
  
   
  << The extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales feels a warmth rush over her face, beneath her mask. >>
  
   
  The svelte, top-knotted woman eyes squint in the glow of the radiating light.
  
     
  Lifting the sword up from the stocky, clean-shaven man's shoulder, you say to the stocky, clean-shaven man, in sirihish:
       "Do you choose to elevate a consort Chosen Lord Rokov."
  
   
  His face alight with a gentle glow, the scruffy, brown-haired youth's brows quiver with the intensity of the moment.
  
   
  The chubby, brown-haired man thinks:
       "Krath..."
  
   
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden lets out a little sound, the light shining over her tear-moistened face.
   
  The freckled, light-skinned man thinks:
       "...ah..."
  
   
  << The swarthy, aging man feels numb. >>
  The swarthy, aging man thinks:
       "SweetKrathSweetKrathSweetKrathSweetKrath..."
  
     
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden thinks:
       "There's no way he'd pick me.. he doesn't even know me..."
   
   
  You notice: One of the short, dusky woman 's hands curls tightly into a fist, eyes shutting.
   
  
  Simply, the extremely short male wearing a bloodied runic, fire-scorched mask  whispers something to the extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales.
   
  << The spangled-blond, muscular woman feels your mind a total blank, thought chased by the power of the emotional pull toward him. >>
   
   
  The chubby, brown-haired man's eyes flick briefly towards the short, dusky woman before returning to you.
   
   
  Looking up, once again, his face tear-streaked, the stocky, clean-shaven man says to you, in sirihish:
       "I... if it pleases you... I would take..."
  
   
  Watching the proceedings silently, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar  bows her head with a deep smile.
   
   
  The extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales  offers a shallow nod to the extremely short male wearing a bloodied runic, fire-scorched mask .
  
   
  The extremely short male wearing a bloodied runic, fire-scorched mask's blue gaze returns to the stage.
   
  Seeming to find a bit of his voice, finally, as he finishes, the stocky, clean-shaven man says to you, in sirihish:
       "... I would take Jisiu al Azia, of the Muark, as my consort."
  
   
  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette gasps and puts a hand to her jade and ebony cross.
   
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar thinks:
       "Who?"
  
   
  Breathing heavily, the curvy, jallal-tressed maiden watches the stocky, clean-shaven man and then the short, dusky woman.
  
   
  Tearing it off, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette stops using her jade and ebony cross.
  
   
  The short, dusky woman puts a hand to her mouth, tears escaping her eyes, though she blinks swiftly against them.
  
  The extremely short male wearing a bloodied runic, fire-scorched mask stifles a cough.
  
   
  The scruffy, brown-haired youth's gaze locks upon the short, dusky woman , brows drooping in a pleading expression, deep concern evident for the faintest of moments before the aura of you consumes him once more, eyes falling to the ground before him.
  
   
  << The ethereal, fair-haired woman feels haltingly, dizzingly. >>
  The ethereal, fair-haired woman thinks:
       "... Kurac... and a Muark..."
  
   
  The willowy, grey-streaked man cries out, tearing his jade and ebony cross from his throat by way of snapping the leather cord around his neck.
  
   
  Voice rumbling in his chest, you say to the short, dusky woman, in sirihish:
       "Chosen Consort Jisiu, find your place by your Chosen Lord's side."
  
   
  The willowy, grey-streaked man stops using his jade and ebony cross.
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man smiles silently as he watches you then shifts his gaze to the ethereal, fair-haired woman and the short, dusky woman.
  
   
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "Oh, shit... tossin' her Tek mark? I mean, obviously anyone would... s'the right decision... but it's gonna set that other one off. I know it. He's gonna lose his..."
  
   
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "Well, fancy that. He did it too..."
  
   
  The svelte, top-knotted woman looks up at the short, dusky woman.
  
   
  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar thinks:
       "He has done what is best for the Ivory."
   
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar  thinks:
       "The southron cannot bear his presence."
  
     
  Slowly rising, his head still held low in reverance to you, the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar stands up.
  
   
  Adoring eyes still fixed on you, the willowy, grey-streaked man clutches his jade and ebony cross in a closed fist before dropping it to the ground.
  
   
  << The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette feels a terrible mixture of love for Muk and a sickening sense of betrayal of Allanak. >>
  
   
   
  [[The faces of the stocky, clean-shaven man and the short, dusky woman flicker in the light cast from your sword.]]
  
   
  The willowy, grey-streaked man drops a jade and ebony cross.
  
   
  The short, dusky woman swallows, lifting her eyes to you for the briefest of moments, then bows her head humbly, reverently.
  
   
  << The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar feels astonished. >>

  
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar thinks:
       "The southron... oh, Muk Utep!"
  
   
   
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar thinks:
       "Muk Utep, thank you."

  
  Breathlessly, the short, dusky woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
       "Gladly. I will."

  
  Shaking terribly, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette stares at you.
  
   
  The chubby, brown-haired man's features relax, a proud smile upon his face.
  
   
  The sinewy, obsidian-haired man gasps with his mouth wide open, staring towards you, briefly stealing a quick glance towards the stocky, clean-shaven man before turning back to you.
  
   
   
  << The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden feels somehow whole. >>
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden  thinks:
       "All those selfish thoughts..." 
  
   
  << The extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales  feels utterly uninterested in answering the bronzed, angular humanoid. >>
  
  
   
  The scruffy, brown-haired youth turns his gaze aside to the knelt form of the sinewy, bald-headed man, a questioning and pleading look dancing upon his brows and in his eyes.
   
  Pumping his arm in the air, his sword lofted high above, you exclaim, in sirihish:
       "Citizens! Join me as we welcome my newest Chosen!"
   
   
  << The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar  feels your heart growing strong, the sense of love the reverence for the immense, crimson-braided man. >>
  
   
  The freckled, light-skinned man thinks:     "I...I..."
  
   
  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar unslings a double-tassled steel-bladed staff from his back.
   
  The short, dusky woman looks both horrified and reverent at once, eyes wide.
  
   
  The freckled, light-skinned man thinks:
       "I made the right choice!"
   
   
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar stands, calling out a hearty cheer, a fist in the air.
   
  
  The willowy, brown-haired young man forces his knee into the ground further, wiping sweat off his brow as he holds his gaze downward.
  
   
  The ethereal, fair-haired woman's eyes close.  When she opens them, it is with a smile as she slips two fingers into her mouth and whistles shrilly for the short, dusky woman and the stocky, clean-shaven man .
  
   
  The freckled, light-skinned man claps his hands solidly, lifting his gaze as tears stream down his face.
  
   
  The chubby, brown-haired man moves to his feet, calling out loudly.
   
  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar raises his double-tassled steel-bladed staff in triumph as he looks to the stocky, clean-shaven man his eyes reddened.
   
  The hulking, gurth-bellied half-giant soldier grins at the short, dusky woman and the stocky, clean-shaven man, hooting loudly.
   
  Swiftly, the sinewy, weather-worn man stands up.
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man looks between the stocky, clean-shaven man and the short, dusky woman with a broad grin.
  
   
  The svelte, top-knotted woman lets out a joyful cheer, applauding with trembling hands.
  
   
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden's eyes steal glances at you as she pushes to a stand, shouting incomprehensibly and pumping her fist into the air.
  
   
  The dusky, sorrel-curled woman whistles loudly, her ruby crystal pyramid in her fingers.
  
   
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden stands up.
  
   
  The swarthy, aging man's hands come together in a stuttered fashion, clapping hesitantly, then faster, faster.
  
   
  The willowy, grey-streaked man clutches at the ground with his fingers, his shoulders shaking and body trembling.
  
   
  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar raises his double-tassled steel-bladed staff in triumph as he looks to the stocky, clean-shaven man and the short, dusky woman his eyes reddened.
  
   
  Head tilting back, his braids swinging from his shoulders, you shout in sirihish:
       "Tuluk!"
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man slowly pushes off the ground and raises his hands in applause as he straightens up.
  
   
  The short, lithe young man rises shakily to his feet, gently applauding.
  
   
  The stocky, clean-shaven man rises up to his feet, slowly, his tear-streaked face a mix of wonderment and pride as he reaches for the short, dusky woman's hand.
  
   
  Raising a fist above his head, pumping it wildly, the stout, heavily-scarred dwarf exclaims, in sirihish:
       "Chosen Lord Rokov!"
  
   
  The sinewy, weather-worn man pumps his fist into the air, bellowing loudly.
  
   
  Her voice trembling and joyous, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar exclaims, in sirihish:
       "To the Sun King Muk Utep, and Chosen Lord Rokov!"
  
   
  [[The crowd goes wild with adoration, faces everywhere upturned to you as thunderous applause breaks over the amphitheater.]]

  
  << The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette  feels torn and wretched inside, as if her deepest loyalties are beseiged. >>
  
   
  Shakily, as if not quite sure of her feet, the short, dusky woman rises, her breath rapid as she stares at the stocky, clean-shaven man.

  
  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man stands, spreading his arms wide as he leans back, emitting a long howl, a note of victory evident in his tone.
  
   
  Cheering loudly as he gazes up back, the sinewy, obsidian-haired man exclaims, in sirihish:
       "Hail the Sun King! Hail the new Chosen!"

   

  Shill voice cracking with emotion, the spangled-blond, muscular woman shouts, in sirihish:
       "Tuluk!"
  
     
  The chubby, brown-haired man continues yelling with the crowd, fist pumping.
  
   
  The willowy, brown-haired young man trembles on his knee as he grins fiercely and applauds vigorously.
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man continues pumping his fist into the air as he yells out over and over again.
  
   
  Softly, as he speaks to the floor, the lofty, cunyati-tanned man says, in sirihish:
       "Hail to His glory, and His power."
  
   
  The immense, crimson-braided man lowers his sword, beaming at the crowd before dipping his head to the stocky, clean-shaven man.
  
   
  Rough voice lifted ecstatically, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man shouts, in sirihish:
       "Tuluk! Glory to the Sun King! Glory to Chosen Lord Rokov!"
  
   
  [[The warm red aura surrounding the crimson-braided man seems to pulse and scintillate.]]
  
   
  Along with the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar, the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templarexclaims, in sirihish:
       "Eternal is the Sun King, endless is His Wisdom!"
  
   
  Lifting his voice amid all the cheers, the stocky, clean-shaven man exclaims, in sirihish:
       "The Sun King Eternal!"
  
   
  << The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar feels as if the headiness is about to make you faint. >>
  
   
  The grey-haired, fiery-eyed woman exclaims, in sirihish:
       "Utep! Utep! SUN KING!"
  
   
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "I don't even know why I feel all of this excitement, but it is simply sweeping!"
  
   
  
  Her voice barely above a whisper as she wipes her face, the curvy, jallal-tressed maiden exclaims, in sirihish:
       "Eternal is the Sun King!"
  
    Gently, you say to the stocky, clean-shaven man, in sirihish:
       "You may join those friends in the crowd, Chosen Lord."
   
  The willowy, grey-streaked man clutches at his jade and ebony cross like a lifeline, choking back joyous, reverent sobs.
  
   
  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette breaks into a sobbing cry and tears spill onto her cheeks as she watches you.
  
   
  Fiercely, the swarthy, aging man shouts, in an unfamiliar tongue:
       "opbn ez ppj cco fiod!  rpqqa ih pdhrfv ridb cnuir!"
  
   
  His voice lost in the shouts, the pockmarked, well-toned man says, in sirihish:
       "Hail t-t-t-... t-to the Sun K-...  K-K-King."
  
   
  Enthusiastically, the robust, coppery-curled teen shouts, in sirihish:
       "Tuluk!"
  
   
  The sinewy, weather-worn man hollers until his voice croaks and then quickly resumes, lifting both fists into the air. 
   
  << The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette feels totally confused and torn. >>
  
   
  The chubby, brown-haired man wipes at his eyes, continuing to cheer.
  
   
  You sling an old runed, ivory-hilted steel greatsword across your back.
  
   
  Pushing through the crowd to extend a hand, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar exclaims to the stocky, clean-shaven man , in sirihish:
       "Chosen Lord Rokov, congratulations!"
  
   
  [[You are caught up in a fervor of excitement and fascination with the immense man.]]
  
   
  The pockmarked, well-toned man thinks:
       "This is all...  so much..."
   
   
  Softly, arms dropping to her sides, the extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
       "... Chosen Lord Rokov."

  
  The stocky, clean-shaven man bows his head down low to you, then the rest of the Faithful nearby.
   
  The ethereal, fair-haired woman clasps her hands together, holding them in front of her face as she watches the stocky, clean-shaven man and the short, dusky woman with incredulous devotion.
  
   
  The svelte, top-knotted woman sobs joyously continuing to cheer.
  
   
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden somehow finds the ethereal, fair-haired woman in the crowd and leans against her back, sobbing with glee.

  
  Voice breaking though the word is spoken softly, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says, in sirihish:
       "Radiance! The Sun King."
  
   
  Standing proudly back to his feet, shouting loudly, the sinewy, obsidian-haired man exclaims, in sirihish:
       "The Sun King lives, glory to His City and His Chosen!"
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man continues yelling joyous praises to you and the stocky, clean-shaven man as he pumps his arm into the air. 
   
  The willowy, grey-streaked man sways to his feet, sobbing and shouting joyfull and wordlessly at the stocky, clean-shaven man.
  
  
   
  Seeming to clasp it for dear life, the swarthy, aging man holds his black serpentine cane.
   
  Seeming surprised for a moment before taking her hand and shaking it back, the stocky, clean-shaven man says to the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar , in sirihish:
       "Thank... thank you, Faithful Lady."
  
   
  The scruffy, brown-haired youth hesitantly puts his gloved hands together, his youthful face a mixture of many emotions.
   
  << The lofty, cunyati-tanned man feels hints of an awful, unbearable sadness. >>
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "What's... what is going on, I..."
  
   
  Grabbing at the willowy, grey-streaked man's arm, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette stands up.
   
  The chubby, brown-haired man laughs, clapping an arm upon the back of the swarthy, aging man. 
  
  << The extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales  feels overwhelmed from all angles, senses reeling. >>
  
  The immense, crimson-braided man takes up position in the middle of the narrow stage, his arms folded across his chest.

  
  The ethereal, fair-haired woman lifts a hand, wrapping it around the curvy, jallal-tressed maiden's head, hand soothing as much as elated.
   
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar eases away back toward the stage, her eyes straying shyly back to you.
   
  The pockmarked, well-toned man thinks:
       "I'm...  in...  the Sun King's presence..."
   
  With a dazed smile, laughing almost as if in spite of herself, the short, dusky woman hugs the stocky, clean-shaven man's waist with one arm.
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man walks over to the stocky, clean-shaven man, slapping a hand on his shoulder with a broad grin.

  
  The spangled-blond, muscular woman thinks:
       "That I was here today. It's a reason to have young, to be able to say I was here today. That I gazed upon him."
   
  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette lets out a shout for the stocky, clean-shaven man and thrusts a fist in the air.
   
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar thinks:
       "Should I... can I... -talk- to Him?"
  
     
  The robust, coppery-curled teen shrieks in excitement as she wipes away a tear.
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man continues laughing for a bit longer before stepping away.
  
   
  Placing a gloved hand on his shoulder, the scruffy, brown-haired youth whispers something to the sinewy, bald-headed man .
  
   
  <Eukelade>: A hush ripples slowly over the crowd as you folds your arms over his chest, starting from the stage and moving backwards.
  
   
  << The lofty, cunyati-tanned man feels a struggle between overwhelming euphoria and a deep, abiding grief. >>
  
   
  Easing himself up as he wipes stray tears from his cheeks, the spindly, grey-haired man says, in sirihish:
       "His Radiance... Oh, to be honored by His Radiance's presence."
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man thinks:
       "He's real."
   
  The swarthy, aging man grips the chubby, brown-haired man 's cloak as if for fear of falling, but jabs his black serpentine cane into the air with his other hand, cheering.
   
  The ethereal, fair-haired woman looks up at you, a smile lingering.
   
  << The spangled-blond, muscular woman feels overwhelmed with awe. >>
  
   
  Sobbing into the ethereal, fair-haired woman shoulder, the curvy, jallal-tressed maiden whispers something to the ethereal, fair-haired woman.
   
  Still clutching at his jade and ebony cross, the willowy, grey-streaked man begins pushing his way through the crowd towards you, his gaze loving and reverant.
  
   
  The scruffy, brown-haired youth looks up at you.
  
   
  [[You feel an intense STILLNESS ome over you as your attention is drawn to you.]]
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man turns and looks back to you in reverential silence.
  
   
  Pulling back to shout out loud, the curvy, jallal-tressed maiden  exclaims, in sirihish:
       "He is my Sun King!"
  
   
  << The spangled-blond, muscular woman feels wetness on your cheek. >>
   
  The stocky, clean-shaven man wraps an arm around the short, dusky woman, starting to retreat back into the crowd towards the chubby, brown-haired man, then pauses.
  
   
  The extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales silences and stills, motionless.
  
   
  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar turns suddenly to you hushing immediately.
  
     
  The chubby, brown-haired man falls into silence, an arm still upon the swarthy, aging man's shoulder. 
   
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden suddenly falls still, her eyes drawn to you.
   
  With awe, the pockmarked, well-toned man looks up at you.
   
  Sucking in a hushed breath the svelte, top-knotted woman 's sobs grow silent, her body still trembling.
  
   
   
  Lifting her head, the extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales looks up at you.
  
   
  << The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar feels your attention riveted on Muk Utep. >>
  
   
  The willowy, grey-streaked man stops in his tracks near the front of the crowd, his jade and ebony cross dangling in his hand from a broken leather cord.
  
   
  The sinewy, weather-worn man lowers his hands to his sides, eyes fixed intensely on you.
   
  The scruffy, brown-haired youth 's arms fall to his sides, his gaze inevitably drawn to you, wide eyed.
   
  The freckled, light-skinned man stares upwards at you.
   
  
  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette begins to take a step to follow the willowy, grey-streaked man, and then stops as if slapped.
  
  Spreading his arms wide, palms upturned, you say, in sirihish:
       "Hear me, citizens of the Known World."
  
   
  With utter calm and quiet, the robust, coppery-curled teen regards you.
  
     
  Staring fixated, the svelte, top-knotted woman looks up at you.
  
   
  The chubby, brown-haired man thinks:
       "Krath...Rokov...you bastard...ha!"
  
   
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden reaches out for the nearest hand and grasps it tightly, her eyes focused on you.
  
   
  The chubby, brown-haired man thinks:
       "Utep...speaks..."

  
  Held by the stocky, clean-shaven man, the short, dusky woman stares, motionlessly, toward you, eyes still wide, the kohl streaked where tears left their tracks.
  
   
  The extremely short male wearing a bloodied runic, fire-scorched mask peers over at you.
  
   
  The dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man has arrived from the east, stepping quietly.
  The dreadlocked female has arrived from the east.
  The neat bearded, cyprini-hued male has arrived from the east.
  
   
  << The lofty, cunyati-tanned man feels awful clarity. >>
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "I don't... don't understand... whose feelings are these? Mine, or theirs?"
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man watches you with serene smile on his lips.
  
   
  The spangled-blond, muscular woman 's hand moves to her face and slowly wipes the moisture there smearing the tears into streaks and then she looks down at her wet fingers, then quickly up at you.
   
  << The extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales feels compelled to listen. >>
   
  << The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette feels full of rage at Samos. >>
   
  The chubby, brown-haired man wipes at his eyes, blinking back tears.
  
   
  Crimson locks glinting in refracted light, you say, in sirihish:
       "Long did I slumber, but never did I rest. My dreams spoke to me of this day, of this event, and of what will come to be."
  
   
  Glancing from the dreadlocked female to the neat bearded, cyprini-hued male , the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man says, in southern-accented sirihish:
       "Not a word."
  
   
  [[Everything else seems to fade away as all your attention is focused on the immense, crimson-braided man.]]
  
   
  The freckled, light-skinned man glances briefly to the side to the dreadlocked female .
  
   
  [[You feel compelled to hush. To listen. To listen to your words, which seem to you to be beautiful, and right.]]
  
   
  The dreadlocked female looks around with an anxious expression then bows deeply.
  
   
  << The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden feels an somehow solid emptiness. >>
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden  thinks:
       "Sun King, Sun King, sun king..."
  
   
  The freckled, light-skinned man thinks:
       "Ah...I..."
  
   
  The willowy, brown-haired young man reaches up a slender finger to wipe away a stream of tears slowly working their way down his cheek.
  
   
  << The lofty, cunyati-tanned man feels a twinge of of sympathy for the southern emissaries. >>
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "This must be tearing them apart."
  
  
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar falls into simple, rapt stillness.
  
   
  The neat bearded, cyprini-hued male thinks:
       "What is happening"
  
   
  His gaze stern as he looks through the crowd, you say, in sirihish:
       "To you I gift the knowledge of what must come to be. "
  
   
  Kneeling beside the freckled, light-skinned man, unable to help herself the svelte, top-knotted woman grips the top of the freckled, light-skinned man 's hand tightly, seemingly unware of herself doing so as she stares at you. 
   
  << The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette feels reverent. >>
  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette thinks:
       "The knowledge of what must come to be."
  
   
  << The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden feels her heart skip a bit, but almost unknowingly. >>
  
   
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "Ah... look at this..."

  
  The dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man's brows furrow, eyes on you.
  
     
  The scruffy, brown-haired youth stares wide-eyed towards you, scrawny form still and motionless, hands hanging low at his sides.
  
   
  The neat bearded, cyprini-hued male halts suddenly, eyes searching through the crowd and stopping as they rest on you.
  
   
  << The extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales feels like everything she's ever known was wrong. >>
  
   
  Lowering his hands to his side, you say, in sirihish:
       "Heed my words, for they are the prophecies of the Sun-King, Muk-Utep."
   
  Hanging on every word, the stocky, clean-shaven man looks up at you.
  
   
  The ethereal, fair-haired woman thinks:
       "... Stay..."
  
   
  << The trim, ashen-skinned man feels elation pouring through your body. >>
  
   
  << The lofty, cunyati-tanned man feels emotions racing between peace, rapture, grief and confusion. >>
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "I've... I can't think straight. Why can't I think straight? I've got to get out of here..."
  
   
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "No, I've got to stay?"
  
   
   
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "This must be destiny... that I have crossed the sands and shot into slavery to hear His words!"
   
  Expressionless, the robust, coppery-curled teen remains transfixed on you.
  
  
  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man watches you intently, face rapt.
  
  The chubby, brown-haired man holds his breath, eyes firmly once more upon you.
  
   
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "This is what you want, Bryn! Important things! There's nothing more important than this!"
  
  << The spangled-blond, muscular woman feels suffused with rapture. >>
  The spangled-blond, muscular woman thinks:
       "Am I worthy? I want to be worthy."
  
  << The short, dusky woman feels the entirety of her being drawn reverently toward the immense, crimson-braided man, her lifelong loyalties and loves suddenly thrown into turmoil. >>
  
   
  His head tilting back, eyes unfocused as he speaks with a booming voice, you say, in sirihish:
       "Darkness gathers overhead, falling with soft intention to those below. A victory… turned to defeat. A deed done in ignorance will set the world awash with anger."
   
  Staring, slack-jawed, the extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales looks up at you.
   
  Kneeling down, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man sits down.
   
  The short, lithe young man gazes silently at you, deep green eyes held wide.
  
  
  << The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar feels all the noise and chaos disappear at the sound of His voice. >>
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man thinks:
       "I should think more before I try to help..."
  
  The dreadlocked female stares at you in rapt attention.
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man thinks:
       "Darkness?"
  
  Massive chest lifting as he takes a deep breath, you say, in sirihish:
       "Wasted lands will fall victim, as swooping shadows solidfy a stone saber will shatter the earth."
  
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar thinks:
       "A deed done in ignorance."
  
  << The short, dusky woman feels as if she and the immense, crimson-braided man are all that exists. He and His words. >>

  
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden sucks in a deep breath, her blinks almost non existant as she watches your every
  
  move.
  
  << The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette feels utterly concentrated on Muk's words. >>
  
  << The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar  feels your being quail at the words. >>
  
  The ethereal, fair-haired woman thinks:
       "... No... what are... you... saying..."
  
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar thinks:
       "His prophecy... He makes it known to His common caste now."
  
  << The trim, ashen-skinned man feels that stillness holding through your entire body. >>
  
  Words carrying clearly across the garden, you say, in sirihish:
       "A time of ash shall mark the rise of the cities. Days of old shall be new once more. "
  
  [[A muffling, encompassing void of silence shrouds the area, broken only by your powerful, penetrating words.]]
  
  
  << The ethereal, fair-haired woman feels like it's impossible to think, to reason, to... understand... >>
  
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "I can't believe what I'm hearing..."
  
  Head tipping down, his gaze clouded, you say, in sirihish:
       "The paths diversify, bright strands bring victory, the wrong steps defeat."
  
  The spindly, grey-haired man stays silent, focusing on you's every word.
  
  << The short, dusky woman feels the tiny surfacing thought. >>
  The short, dusky woman thinks:
       ".. more riddles... even the Sun King Himself speaks riddles."
  
  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar  thinks:
       "His Radiance speaks of the return of Echri.  Command us, what do you wish of us, your loyal and faithful servants."
  
  << The short, dusky woman feels prompted to mad laughter, just as much as she is to cry, all overwhelmed with awe and reverence. >>
  
  << The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar feels the shroud of silence press close, the only thing visible in His Light. >>
  
  The stocky, clean-shaven man thinks:
       "... deeds done in ignorance... that sounds like what Samos went and did.."
  
  His voice dropping lower, you say, in sirihish:
       "What was once opposite shall join as one - fire and water will mingle, the union will tremble the earth."
  
  
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "This... really doesn't mean much to me. At all. I can't piece this together at all."
  
  << The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar feels terrified. >>
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar thinks:
       "Magick and void and-- ooooh."
  
  << The spangled-blond, muscular woman feels confusion. >>
  The spangled-blond, muscular woman thinks:
       "I don't understand it all."
  
  << The extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales feels her face flush with warm heat at the word 'fire.'. >>
  
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "This sounds... cataclysmic..."
  
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "Will any survive this?"
  
  The chubby, brown-haired man blinks his eyes but otherwise watches you.
  
  The words a mere whisper yet clearly heard, you say, in sirihish:
       "When eyeless beasts comb the land, then shall be the time for all tribes to gather. The march must be made, or the path will be lost."
  
  The short-haired, jade-eyed Lirathan templar falls in behind you.
  
  The skeletal, dark-skinned Jihaen templar falls in behind you.
  
  << The short, dusky woman feels a tight inward shudder. >>
   
  The short-haired, jade-eyed Lirathan templar falls in behind you.
  
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "If the Sun Kings words are true... then slavery or not, I'll be ash by the time this prophecy rings true."
  
  
  Her eyes fastened at your feet, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar shivers deeply.
   
  The freckled, light-skinned man thinks:
       "Tribes!  We have...we've done it right so far!"
  
  The tiny, reed-like Jihaen templar falls in behind you.
  
  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man thinks:
       "We are tribe, my King. We are strong in the Light."
  
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden watches you with fascination.
  
  << The extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales  feels revulsion churn through her gut--old memories, old words, the ramblings of a madman recalled. >>
  
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar thinks:
       "Eyeless beings... He will protect us.  We must do as He orders."
  
  The immense, crimson-braided man exhales, nostrils flaring as he looks over those gathered, his lips pressing together to form a stern countenance.
  
  The chubby, brown-haired man thinks:
       "Rache...Utep...Utep...listen...Utep..."
  
  Fixed where she stands, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette  gazes adoringly at you.
  
  
  The willowy, grey-streaked man reaches out a trembling, empty hand towards you.
  
  << The sinewy, weather-worn man feels nothing, everything in him fixed on the words of the immense, crimson-braided man. >>
  
  
  << The lofty, cunyati-tanned man feels a grim determination as he forces his feelings to quiet. >>

  
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "Fine. Fine. Leave the big stuff to people who understand it. Eyes on your own prize. Thrend will lead you."
  
  
  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar's gaze remains utterly transfixed on you, his expression caught between rapt attention and stern determination.
  
  The trim, ashen-skinned man thinks:
       "and now....this should be my home..."
  
  Motionless, the dreadlocked female looks up at you.
  
  << The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar feels your mind racing. >>
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar thinks:
       "We can do it, we -will- do it.  Oh, if only he will look at me...  war..."
  
  << The trim, ashen-skinned man feels that overwhelming love for Tuluk flowing through you. >>
  
  The spangled-blond, muscular woman's body sways on her bended knees, both her hands pressed over her heart.
  
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "How can the Dragon even wish to ever vanquish such a massive and all-powerful king as this?"
  
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "You're going to be best, aren't you? That's how you'll serve him. That's..."
  
  Stepping towards the edge of the stage, you say, in sirihish:
       "Look for my warnings. Only if we march as one will we there be victory."
  
  The short, lithe young man breathes shakily, his deep green eyes unflinchingly locked on you.
  
  << The extremely short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales  feels subdued and reverent. >>
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man thinks:
       "As...one...?"
  
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "The South is but a grain of this man's being!"
  
  
  << The short, dusky woman feels memories flashing, stirring, mad ramblings, visions of fire and death, of floods and cold void winds, of a pure white bird larger than life, awe and desperate sorrow overwhelmed with devotion and love. >>
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man thinks:
       "...with the other tribes, or..."
  
  
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden whispers but a single word-- 'victory'.
  
  << The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar feels a burst of hot tears behind your eyes. >>
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar thinks:
       "Work as one!  Yes!"
  
  
  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette murmurs something that sounds like an agreement as she watches you.
  
  The svelte, top-knotted woman clutches the freckled, light-skinned man 's hand, gaze transfixed on you, tears welled in her eyes.
  
  
  << The swarthy, aging man feels nothing, weightless - mind, body, and soul caught in the immense, crimson-braided man's grasp. >>
  
  << The lofty, cunyati-tanned man feels a moment's doubt. >>
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "Serving Him... seems like such a different idea now that... now that you've seen Him... like this..."
  
  Dipping his head, braids swinging about his face, you say, in sirihish:
       "Walk in My light, my people."
  
  The ethereal, fair-haired woman thinks:
       "... Stay..."
   
  The ethereal, fair-haired woman thinks:
       "... please."
  
  The immense, crimson-braided man steps from the stage, motioning to the group of silent Templars behind him.
  
  A silent sob wracking her shoulder, her face joyous as she whispers, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar 
  
  says, in an unfamiliar tongue:
       "rizr en aio."
  
  [[As the immense, crimson-braided man shifts to leave the stage, he turns his head, looking directly at you, a luminous smile on his handsome face.]]
  
  The short, dusky woman thinks:
       "My people.. my people."
  
  
  The dusky, sorrel-curled woman's eyebrows rise.
  
  
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "He looked at me..."
  
  The dreadlocked female's eyes widen in shock.
  
  
  The spangled-blond, muscular woman's breath catches in her throat, the sound a gasp, a sob, and raptured moan.
  
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden emits a soft gasp as she looks at you, her body swaying on weak knees.

   

  Someone thinks: I have to serve him...
  
  

  Someone thinks: He loves me..  He loves me..
  
  

  [[A ripple of energy courses through you, and people all about the area begin to turn and glance in the direction of the Grand Ivory Pyramid.]]

  
  
  

  Scene: The Silverwood Estate

  Event: The Grey Hunt Announcement

  Note: Staff view of thinks and feels has been left in to enhance the scene.

   

  
  Someone thinks:
       "Hmm."
  
   << The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar feels curious. >>
  
  
  The...

  
  Continue Reading...
• 

  Gurth Hunter by Elkinhym
  Added on Mar 29, 2015

  ---

  Covered in armor from head to toe
  Very thick leather and shell...
  Fierce paint on his face, he's a man of woe;
  There is only one beast that's more fell.
  
  He has set out before, others give him wide berth:
  he is off to slay the mighty gurth.
  
  This gurth slew his mother--a hunter was she.
  It ground her poor bones to dust.
  It also took the arm of his sister, you see:
  Leaving it alive would be unjust!
  
  He is scared for his life, for his life has great worth:
  he is off to slay the mighty gurth.
  
  The hunter made way through the scrublands
  
  he paused and then gave up a shriek,
  Without his notice, it had bit off his hands,
  and now leapt for his throat with its beak!
  
  
  Of these numerous beasts, one can't say there's a dearth,
  So let this be a lesson--though without any mirth:
  Beware when you hunt mighty gurth!
  
  

  Covered in armor from head to toe
  Very thick leather and shell...
  Fierce paint on his face, he's a man of woe;
  There is only one beast that's more fell.
  
  He has set out before, others give him wide berth:
  he is off to slay the mighty gurth.
  
  This gurth slew his mother--a hunter was she.
  It ground her poor...
  Continue Reading...
• 

  Tribe of One by Nakita
  Added on Nov 3, 2013

  Ishtar's only family were the shadows underground.

  
• 

  Sabers and Glory by Torgun
  Added on Dec 6, 2012

  A drinking song first heard among units of the Allanaki Jade Sabers Legion, late in the 22nd Age.

  ---

  We are the pride of the Dragon’s Arm,

  A legion of great and far renown,

  Carved in history is our Legion's name

  His City's founding onward down

   

  If you think the Byn is tough

  Or Salarr as strong as their steely claims

  Just wait till we lay hands upon you,

  Crying 'In the Highlord's Name!'

   

  The Jade Sabers' is the place for me

  The creme of all the infantry

  No other legion can hope claim

  The Sabers’ share of the glory!

   

  We know no fear when duty sends us far from home

  Or keeps us near to find the hidden foe

  The Highlord's Cross above us boldly waves

  As we give His enemies their dying day!

   

  We take delight in the foeman's pain

  Crashing through their ranks and on to fame

  Strong as a braxat’s our blows do fall

  When the order comes we'll kill them all!

   

  The Jade Sabers' is the place for me

  The creme of all the infantry

  No other legion can hope claim

  The Sabers’ share of the glory!

  We are the pride of the Dragon’s Arm,

  A legion of great and far renown,

  Carved in history is our Legion's name

  His City's founding onward down

   

  If you think the Byn is tough

  Or Salarr as strong as their steely claims

  Just wait till we lay hands upon you,

  Crying 'In the Highlord's...
  Continue Reading...

• 

  Winrothol Sergeant by Valeria
  Added on Dec 6, 2012

  Sherris Keshmar, unfinished. Never did get the hair right.

  
• 

  Kenku Warrior by Greasygemo
  Added on Dec 6, 2012

  Drawing of a someone I once met

  
• 

  Last Bynner Standing by Greasygemo
  Added on Dec 6, 2012

  We're gonna need a new sarge...

  
• 

  Greth by Kalai
  Added on Dec 6, 2012

  A white-feathered serpent slithers here.

  
• 

  A desert elf descends by Greasygemo
  Added on Dec 6, 2012

  
• 

  The Story of Muk Utep by Belenos
  Added on Dec 4, 2012

  c.400 -- A hitherto unkown warrior named Muk Utep sacks the twelve tribes at Gol Krathu with an army of terrible barbarians out of the northwest. The tribes called the Elves of Mallok and the Twin Warlocks are among the conquered. The city-state of Tuluk begins to rise under Utep the Sun King.

  ---

  "There is something depressing about the ending of these battles," Muk Utep
  thought as he stared out over the canyon below. Thin trails of smoke curled
  up from the ashen remains of numerous fires as a couple of physicians worked
  their way through fallen warriors. Muk crossed his arms and let out a slow
  sigh as he surveyed the ruins of the battle scene before him. "How many times
  has this played out before?" Muk thought as a hot desert breeze stirred up the
  sand beneath his feet.
  
  Muk was a large man. Near eight feet from head to toe, he stood well above
  most men. With a musculature borne of a lifetime of battling, Muk was easily the
  most impressive warrior on any battlefield. His thickly braided hair shone
  with the color of a Zalathan sunset, a deep crimson not dissimilar to the
  blood he had spilled so many times during battle. Crimson is a color he knew
  all too well. Muk's prowess in the art of war was unparalleled. It was known
  far and wide that no one could defeat the massive warrior, no matter how small
  an army he wielded.
  
  Muk turned his attention from the battlefield and watched as a man by
  the name of Ameit, a wiry man with greying hair the color of withering numut
  vines approached from below. This man, a lieutenant falling directly under
  Muk Utep himself, paused then offered a shallow bow to Muk. Muk barely tipped
  his head in a return acknowledgment.
  
  "Sir," stated Ameit, calmly with the quiet self assurance of a victor,
  "The last of the tribe has scattered. They are no longer a threat to our men."
  Muk shrugged with a casual movement, as if the news held no more importance than
  announcing that the evening meal was ready.
  
  "They have contacted your mind have they not Lieutenant? Agreed to the
  meeting of the twelve?"
  
  "Yes, Warlord," Ameit stammered, unsure of where to continue. It was
  unsettling when Muk Utep seemed to know things before they happened.
  
  "We will meet in a month's time, here in the Gol Krathu," Muk continued on,
  "We will meet at the site of the final battle. There is much we need to do,
  tell the men to start preparations."
  
  Ameit drew himself to attention, nodding quickly at Muk, "Yes, Warlord."
  Ameit paused and looked to Muk with a tired tone in his voice. "Will this work,
  Warlord? I mean, can the twelve tribes really be brought together in this
  vision of yours? It is so hard to tell what will happen in the future. Our
  luck could simply just run out."
  
  Drawing himself up to his full eight feet, Muk Utep shifted his gaze to Ameit,
  allowing the tone of his baritone voice to ring out over the canyon. "We will
  succeed, as long as everyone does exactly as I direct them."
  
  "Yes, Warlord." Amiet recoiled at Muk's words. "I'll not doubt your
  directions again." Amiet quickly scrambled down the path toward the canyon
  below, leaving the large man behind.
  
  Muk Utep closed his eyes and took a deep breath, allowing the visions to
  spill before him. Before him lay crystalline threads, each stretching off
  into the distance. There were only a few threads close to him, yet as they
  stretched out in the distance they branched off numerous times, becoming
  tangled and indistinct. Muk took one of those threads and rode it, traveling
  along as he watched future events unfold.
  
  You see, Muk Utep's prowess in battle lay in the simple fact that Muk could
  see the future that lay before him. Muk could travel paths that would show
  defeat and victory. As long as he chose the correct path, he was unstoppable,
  for who could ever stop a foe who always knew what you were going to do
  before even you did?
  
  Muk knew this particular thread well, he traveled it often, yet no matter
  how often he traveled it, he could not grasp its meaning. This twisted path
  led to an unimaginable strangeness, to a world with familiar elements to it,
  yet other elements so utterly bizarre he could not fathom their purpose. He
  backtracked into more familiar territory, away from the strange future. The
  threads that lay closest to the present were much more comforting. The closer
  they were to now, there were fewer threads, and each vision was clearer.
  To dwell too long in the far future would risk madness.
  
  Muk once again opened his eyes and felt the hot desert wind upon his skin.
  He turned his attention to the canyons below, and the fallen warriors he had
  so readily defeated. He shrugged his shoulders and walked the path to the
  battlefield. He would do what he could to tend to his defeated enemy and
  prepare for the upcoming meeting. The troubling dark visions would as always
  need to wait for another day.

  "There is something depressing about the ending of these battles," Muk Utep
  thought as he stared out over the canyon below. Thin trails of smoke curled
  up from the ashen remains of numerous fires as a couple of physicians worked
  their way through fallen warriors. Muk crossed his arms and let out a...
  Continue Reading...
• 

  A Gith by Greasygemo
  Added on Nov 30, 2012

  
• 

  A Sneaky, Fancy Elf by Greasygemo
  Added on Nov 30, 2012

  
• 

  Seated Warrior by Greasygemo
  Added on Nov 30, 2012

  
• 

  Discord Amongst Akei'ta's Own by Kankfly
  Added on Nov 30, 2012

  Black Thorns of the Akei'ta Var, hoping to score a drink from a fellow kin, sparks an argument with another instead. This log proves that even tree-hugging hippies get into arguments.

  ---

  [The following log contains my favorite Imm animation. Kudos to everyone involved! It was awesome.]
  
  Center of a Thornbush-Walled Camp [NESW Quit]
     Rising taller than a bahamet, and just as wide, an extremely dense circular
  wall of thornbushes surrounds this small area.  The land outside this natural
  barrier is barely visible through small breaks in the thorny mass.
     Lush in comparison to the barren surrounds, a patch of green flora covers
  the central part of this hill.  In the center of this patch of living ground
  sits a large campfire.  A well-worn path circles this campfire and branches
  off east and west.  Denizens of the camp pack this area most densely, some
  working hides, others in deep meditation or conversation, and here or there
  a few are immersed in one ritual or another.
     A half of a bahamet shell sits just off the well-worn path, due north of
  the fire, laying dome-up on the ground, serving as a natural podium of sorts.
     To the west the camp is densely packed with tents, the number of elves
  visible in that direction testament to the well-settled nature of that side,
  while to the east lies fewer tents and fewer still inhabitants.
  A majestic falcon, with keen yellow eyes, casts a predatory glance about the area.
  A carved granite box rests on the ground here.
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf is standing here, looking tired.
  The crook-nosed, muscular elf stares into the fire.
  The wild-haired, elderly elf sits near an aging elf by the fire.
  The pale, bald, elderly elf supervises the pounding, waving a tuber.
  The gangly, agitated elf works hides here.
  A serpent-tattooed youth kneels here, nibbling meat off of his spear.
  The lithe, dark-skinned elf sits on a bahamet shell here.
  
  
  
  It is dusk on Barani, the 32nd day of the Descending Sun,
  In the Year of Silt's Slumber, year 53 of the 21st Age.
  
  
  
  With a broad yawn, the male wearing a thin, white-sandcloth facewrap makes his way over to the fire, his gaze flickering to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf.
  
  
  You stop using your thin, white-sandcloth facewrap.
  
  
  You put your thin, white-sandcloth facewrap into your stained harness made of black leather.
  
  
  
  You look up at the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf.
     Ebon skin sheathes this sinewy elf, his weather-worn flesh having been
  burnt to a mahogany shade and smoothed by wind and glossy scar tissue.  The
  etched webbing of bleached, pale scarring lays in a labyrinth over every
  inch of skin left visible.  The raised flesh is intermingled with ink to
  create coils of sinister thorny vines of pallid greens and grays.
  Grotesquely long limbs stretch his rope-muscled frame into a graceful,
  serpentine shape, made sinewy and catlike by his spare, ropey musculature.
  Angular features mark his gaunt face, his visage thinned to a harsh mask
  reminiscent of an agafari's grain.  Thin lips mark his mouth, and his hollow
  cheeks lie stretched over a sharp jaw.  The ashen scarring continues across
  his bald crown, left hairless save for a coarse braid of charcoal-colored
  hair that hangs limply between his shoulders.  Almond-slanted eyes the pale
  hue of vibrant turquoise perch atop his sharp cheeks, their edges torn by
  twin scars that rake away across his temples. 
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf is in excellent condition.
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf is using:
  <head>                   a pair of long, jagged-looking scars
  <face>                   a detailed inking of a spiny thornbush
  <worn in left ear>       a small, carved hardwood loop
  <worn in right ear>      a small, carved hardwood loop
  <worn around neck>       a stained studded tembo-hide collar
  <worn about throat>      a rough hide waterskin
  <slung across back>      a bloodied long, twin-bladed baobab axe
  <worn on torso>          a dujat-banded leather jacket
  <worn on arms>           dark blue and green swirled warpaint
  <worn around wrist>      a long, leather-strapped bone buckler
  <worn around wrist>      a long, leather-strapped bone buckler
  <worn on hands>          a bloodied set of anakore-clawed climbing gloves
  <worn on forearms>       a set of feather-tipped leather cords
  <worn as belt>           a fine pouched belt
  <hung from belt>         a bloodied baobab bastard sword
  <hung from belt>         a bloodied sharp carru antler halfspear
  <worn around body>       a dusty drab, weathered stormcloak
  <worn on legs>           a stained pair of desert-camouflaged, sandcloth leggings
  <worn on feet>           a pair of knee-high jet black military boots
  
  He is carrying:
  nothing obvious
  
  
  Folding his legs, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf sits down to rest.
  
  
  
  Calling over as he moves to join him, you say to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, in allundean:
       "Hey, brother."
  
  
  You sit down.
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf  eases onto a flat stone beside the fire, his rough hide waterskin held carefully in one gloved hand.
  
  
  Tipping it to his thorn-impaled lips, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf drinks firestorm's flame from his rough hide waterskin.
  
  
  Distractedly, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf stares into the fire, his turquoise eyes narrowed slightly.
  
  
  
  Pale eyes flickering aside, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf looks at you.
  
  
  
  The dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf tucks a leg underneath him, shifting to a side to allow another elf to squeeze in.
  
  
  As if awakening from a brief reverie, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf's chapped lips press into a thin smile.
  
  
  Lifting it for another heavy swig, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf drinks firestorm's flame from his rough hide waterskin.
  
  
  Shifting his attention to him, you ask the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, in allundean:
       "So anyway, smooth sands?"
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf coughs hoarsely, one fist pounding against the chest of his dujat-banded leather jacket.
  
  
  In a slightly unsteady, slurring rasp, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "Some.  Had a sstrange vizhion."
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the ebon-hued, fire-scarred elf intently scans the area.
  
  
  
  Regarding him curiously a moment, you ask the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, in allundean:
       "Aye? What about?"
  
  
  Sharply, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "Nothin'."
  
  
  Scowling even as he slurps at its wooden neck, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf sips from his rough hide waterskin.
  
  
  
  As though unfazed by his sharp tone, you say to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, in allundean:
       "You know you can tell me anythin', promise I won't laugh. Or cry. Or both."
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the bald, weather-battered elf intently scans the area.
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You are unable to reach their mind.
  
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the ebon-hued, fire-scarred elf intently scans the area.
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf flicks a glance at you, his weathered features twisting further into his dour scowl.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the umbral, dark-tressed female elf has arrived from the east, sauntering along with a swaggered gait.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  sauntering along with a swaggered gait, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf walks west.
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf has arrived from the east, sauntering along with a swaggered gait.
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf tilts up the hand from the gentle swell of her midriff to give a light rub against her forehead.
  
  
  Flicking an idle glance over one shoulder, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf looks up at the umbral, dark-tressed female elf.
  
  
  Following the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf's gaze, you look up at the umbral, dark-tressed female elf.
  Obsidian-hued hair tumbles in straight locks to mid-back, the dusty
  flecked mane covering half over sharply pointed and pierced eartips lending
  no doubt to her elven heritage.  Two chin length shorn and dreaded tendrils
  frame either side of her angular features, the darkened hue bringing out the
  steely silver of her large almond shaped, pearl flecked gaze.  Between the
  lay of her tilted, kohl-rimmed eyes rests a narrow nose, it's end
  unobtrusive with a small upturned slope.  A slanted and bony jawline leads
  down to a defined and slightly pointed chin, a pair of thin grey tinted lips
  curving in bow shape above.  Various scars mar her dusky skin, smatterings
  of old and new littering over her long and willowy form.  Though she bears
  slight curves to give hint at her femininity, little else but the rounds of
  her hips and chest shows any trace of the cushion of fat. 
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf is in excellent condition.
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf is using:
  <worn in hair>           a dusty saw-toothed, silvery green leaf
  <worn in left ear>       a dusty blackened ear cuff of polished bone
  <worn in right ear>      a dusty green and blue feather earring
  <worn around neck>       a dusty string of sharp teeth
  <worn about throat>      a dusty hooded, amber-fringed leather shoulder cape
  <slung across back>      a dusty thornwood and tortoiseshell longbow
  <worn across back>       a stained green and brown dyed canvas pack
  <body>                   a swirl of deep blue and green inks
  <right shoulder>         a rantarri paw inked in white
  <left shoulder>          a tattoo of a yawning tembo
  <worn on arms>           a dusty dark blue and green swirled warpaint
  <worn around wrist>      a dusty green chitin archery brace
  <worn around wrist>      a dusty supple, earthy archery brace
  <worn on hands>          a dusty pair of anakore-claw gloves
  <primary hand>           a dusty knife-bladed bone pick
  <secondary hand>         a dusty sandstone straightening wrench
  <worn on forearms>       a dusty set of etched wooden bangles
  <worn as belt>           a dusty black-trimmed, pouched dark green belt
  <hung from belt>         a dusty long bone-headed spear
  <hung from belt>         a dusty hooked mekillot-bone spear
  <worn about waist>       a dusty soft, amber-tasseled suede quiver
  <worn on legs>           a dusty vividly-slashed, dark blue skirt
  <right ankle>            a wreath of flowers tattoo
  <left ankle>             a twining tattoo of a ginka vine
  <worn on feet>           a dusty pair of sparkling, amber-adorned moccasins
  
  She is carrying:
  nothing obvious
  
  
  Flicking an absent glance about the area, her tone thoughtful, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says, in allundean:
       "You know.. I just had the strangest thoughts."
  
  
  Dryly, his voice a hoarse rasp, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "Not zhe only one."
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf's hand lowers back to settle almost protectively against the gentle swell of her bare midriff, silver-gaze narrowing into a faint squint back eastwards.
  
  
  His lips tugging into a lazy smile as he leans back, voice raising to call the umbral, dark-tressed female elf over, you ask, in allundean:
       "Well, if it isn't the mother to be. How's the baby?"
  
  
  Sauntering a step over more closely over towards the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf and the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says, in allundean:
       "I had the strangest urge that I didn't like the organization of the tents and that I should rearrange everything from the size of shadows."
  
  
  The corners of her lips tugging upwards in a welcoming smile, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to you, in allundean:
       "Which is just.. strange.. because I was the one who organized that tent and the crafting tent months ago."
  
  
  A coarse chuckle resonates in the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf's throat, soon broadening into a harsh, barking laugh.  His breath reeks of alcohol, intermingled with the heady, floral scent of spice.
  
  
  Giving a light pat against the swell of her stomach, a faint sigh accompanying her words, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to you, in allundean:
       "The baby is fine.. the babies father however won't be the next I see him."
  
  
  Lifting one hooked claw, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf asks, in allundean:
       "Ai?  Who's zhat?"
  
  
  
  With a snicker as he looks to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, you ask, in allundean:
       "Why's that?"
  
  
  Perking up a single brow, a faint hint of amusement lacing her tone as she drums her fingers lightly against her bare stomach, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, in allundean:
       "Kija.. of the Akeita ni Var Soh."
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf snickers sharply, and eases back, leaning unsteadily onto one sharp elbow.
  
  
  
  Lazily, you say to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "Kija, hm? I met him once, with Tripped. Killed a braxat and flaunted it in front of a Sun Runner. Strange people those Sohs."
  
  
  
  A note of sincerity heard within her tone as she flicks a glance for the southern stretch through the cluster of tents, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says, in allundean:
       "He will hear a piece of my mind.. to be sure."
  
  
  His bright eyes returning to the roaring fire before him, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "Don' let it claw out, sistah."
  
  
  
  
  Her nose wrinkling upwards as she sweeps up a hand to push the lay of her hair back up out of her face, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says
    to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, in allundean:
       "It's been trying to for weeks.. Akeita's pits it's kept me womb-bound for longer than I've cared."
  
  
  
  
  One pale eye squinting into a narrow slit, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf asks, in allundean:
       "Been sick?"
  
  Sliding it off, you stop using your dusty broad-brimmed suede bush hat.
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf dips her head gently aside for the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, pacing a couple of steps around various lingering elves on a path towards the southern stretch of the tents.
  
  
  
  The dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf knocks your dusty broad-brimmed suede bush hat on the ground, sending sand flying everywhere, causing a few nearby elves to cast him annoyed glances.
  
  
  Scooping it out in hand, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf gets her green-fletched thorn-tipped arrow from her dusty soft, amber-tasseled suede quiver.
  
  
  
  You brush the dust off of a stained broad-brimmed suede bush hat.
  
  
  
  You place your stained broad-brimmed suede bush hat on your head.
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf gives her green-fletched thorn-tipped arrow a twirl in hand, her lips pursing aside thoughtfully.
  
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf gently knocks the thorn-locked tip of her green-fletched thorn-tipped arrow against her opposite hands palm.
  
  
  After hitching in a brief, coarse breath, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf puffs out his chest and looses a heavy belch.
  
  
  Appearing satisfied, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf leans forward, bracing both sinewy forearms across his knees.
  
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the hunched, beak-nosed elf has arrived from the east.
  
  
  
  Speaking up randomly as he gazes into the flames, you ask, in allundean:
       "You know what they say about silences like this?"
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  Swirls of energy dance around the hunched, beak-nosed elf as he starts an incantation.
  
  
  In a quiet rasp, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf asks, in allundean:
       "T'shuddup an' let 'em be?"
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the hunched, beak-nosed elf walks west.
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf has arrived from the east.
  
  
  Over the curve of a cape-clad shoulder, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf looks at the hunched, beak-nosed elf.
  
  
  Shifting his gaze to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf and giving him an easy grin, you say, in allundean:
       "No idea, but you're probably right."
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf's thin lips peel back, baring his yellowed teeth in a narrow grin.
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf opens her stained green and brown dyed canvas pack.
  
  
  As he approaches the fire, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "Good to see you, Sister."
  
  
  Giving a tug against the strings, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf closes her stained green and brown dyed canvas pack.
  
  
  Near you, the hunched, beak-nosed elf sits down.
  
  
  Offering a warm smile across for him, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to the hunched, beak-nosed elf, in allundean:
       "It is good to see you as well, brother."
  
  
  Glancing over to him and dropping him an easy nod, you ask the hunched, beak-nosed elf, in allundean:
       "Hey, Kickin', how's it goin'?"
  
  
  Swaying unsteadily on his perch, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf lifts his rough hide waterskin from its cord at his throat.
  
  
  
  His breath reeking of alcohol, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "Ai, Kickin'."
  
  
  Leaning back and scratching his cheek, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says, in allundean:
       "Pretty good. Akeita still hides from me in the slate, though. Gonna need more."
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf's gaze flickers over towards the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf's waterskin, her brow lowering thoughtfully.
  
  
  
  Pulling the flaps of your dusty layered black cloak with an agate clasp close to his nose, the dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf gives a quick sniff, a puzzled frown appearing on his features before glancing to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf.
  
  
  
  A sweet, floral tinge clings faintly to his skin.
  
  
  Suddenly kicking into step, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf walks east.
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the umbral, dark-tressed female elf has arrived from the west, suddenly kicking into step.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the umbral, dark-tressed female elf walks east.
  
  
  
  His gaze dropping to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf's waterskin, you ask, in allundean:
       "Ah, damn, thought it was me. Here, give a brother a swig, eh?"
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf's pierced nostrils flare in a sharp sniff, and he leans back forward, bracing both sinewy forearms across his knees.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the umbral, dark-tressed female elf has arrived from the east, stalking along.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  stepping along, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf walks west.
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf has arrived from the east, stepping along.
  
  
  With a level glance at you, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf tips his rough hide waterskin over, allowing a single, precious drop of reddish liquid to fall to the dry ground.
  
  
  Pausing near the eastern break in the tents, her tone questioning, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says, in allundean:
       "Any of you seen a bag?  I put it on the sleeping mats, and it had a lot of my stuff in it.."
  
  
  
  Holding out a hand to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, you ask the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "What's in your bag?"
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf asks the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "What'd it look like? And what was in it?"
  
  
  Pattering her fingers lightly against the swell of her bare midriff, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says, in allundean:
       "A number of waterskins with alcohol in it.. - as well as other random things."
  
  
  With a stiff shrug, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says to you, in allundean:
       "Nothin' left."
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf gets her leather waterskin from her dusty hooded, amber-fringed leather shoulder cape.
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf's gaze immediately shifts to you.
  
  
  Looking disappointed as his hand drops back onto his lap, his gaze shifting to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, you ask, in allundean:
       "Eh, what?"
  
  
  After squinting a single eye to peer down into her leather waterskin before flicking a glance up for the hunched, beak-nosed elf, you and the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says, in allundean:
       "Amber liquid of a .. sort."
  
  
  With a shrug, you say to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "No idea. Sorry, sis. Only drank those bottles of firebreather."
  
  
  
  After a pause, you ask the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "Were they yours too?"
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf's lips quirk down into a faintly irritated frown as she reaches to tuck her leather waterskin back for her dusty hooded, amber-fringed leather shoulder cape.
  
  
  Tucking it away, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf puts her leather waterskin into her dusty hooded, amber-fringed leather shoulder cape.
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf opens her dusty green and brown dyed canvas pack.
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf closes her dusty green and brown dyed canvas pack.
  
  
  Huffing out a breath on a turned step to take a stalking path back through the tents, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says, in allundean:
       "Akeita's pits... those were -gifts- from that biter."
  
  
  Stalking along a step, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf walks east.
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the umbral, dark-tressed female elf has arrived from the west, stalking along a step.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  stalking along a step, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf walks east.
  
  
  Flicking a glance over one shoulder, his hoarse voice slurred slightly, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "Well, if y'miss 't zhere's spice in th'-"
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf cuts off abruptly, his ink-whorled brow creasing, before returning his pale gaze to the roaring fire.
  
  
  
  After a moment as he watches the departing figure, you say to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, in allundean:
       "You're in trouble, brother."
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the bald, weather-battered elf intently scans the area.
  
  
  With a shrug, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says, in allundean:
       "I don't see what the big deal is. If she wanted the booze for herself, she shouldn't have left it in one of the communal tents."
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the umbral, dark-tressed female elf has arrived from the east, trudging along a step.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  trudging along a step, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf walks west.
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf has arrived from the east, trudging along a step.
  
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  
  With her arms folded over the swell of her bare midsection, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf trudges back through the tents towards the fire.
  
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf sends you a telepathic message:
       "Surprised isn't wasn't you, though, Brother. I don't know whether to be proud or disappointed."
  
  With an absent nod, you say, in allundean:
       "Aye, there's to that."
  
  
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  
  Easing awkwardly down onto her rear, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf sits down to rest.
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf opens his mouth as if to speak, but only manages a sharp hiccup.
  
  
  More to herself than to anyone else, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says, in allundean:
       "I would appreciate it.. if none of you touched that strange lizard.  I need to return it."
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf asks, in allundean:
       "To who?"
  
  
  
  With a blink, you say to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "What/"
  
  
  Slanting silvery-hued gaze aside as she stretches her legs out before herself, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to the hunched, beak-nosed elf, in allundean:
       "To a friend of mine.. a biter."
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf turns in his seat, easing a glance at the umbral, dark-tressed female elf.
  
  
  In a quiet rasp, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf asks, in allundean:
       "Yah make -friends- wit' bitahs?"
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf lifts a brow toward the umbral, dark-tressed female elf.
  
  
  
  The dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf blinks, staring at the umbral, dark-tressed female elf for a moment.
  
  
  You are a little hungry.
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the ebon-hued, fire-scarred elf intently scans the area.
  
  
  The corners of her lips tugging upwards in a faint show of amusement, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says, in allundean:
       "Well.. yeah.  But only after he's saved my life countless times in the past."
  
  
  With a blink, sounding more than lost, you ask the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "Uh, why'd it give you a present.. and then you have to return it?"
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf shakes his head slowly and lifts one clawed hand to scratch at his ink-whorled brow.
  
  
  A single dark brow creeping up a touch as she shifts her attention for you, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to you, in allundean:
       "He .. didn't.  I didn't have to return anything.  This particular lizard we have here was uh... rescued."
  
  
  Staring at her, the hunched, beak-nosed elf asks the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "Does it talk?"
  
  
  Explantorily, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "The biter, not the lizard."
  
  
  With a thoughtful expression, before hefting up a shoulder loosely, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to the hunched, beak-nosed elf, in allundean:
       "Somewhat.. the biter can speak a bit of our tongue, but isn't very good.  It's not how we communicate."
  
  
  
  Now sounding completely lost, you ask the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "You said the bag was from the biter as a present, then you have to return it to it? Then you- Wait, when did a lizard get involved?"
  
  
  With a lift of one thin finger, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf asks, in allundean:
       "Y'think one'a zhose could understand talking?"
  
  
  Offering a shake of her head aside for you, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to you, in allundean:
       "No.. the bag was mine, but inside were gifts that the biter gave to me for me helping him.  The lizard was rescued from roundears that had stolen it from him."
  
  
  Rubbing his chin, the hunched, beak-nosed elf asks the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "Do the elders know about this?"
  
  
  Flatly, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "So let't go, an' if zhe child wants to return to zhe bitah, 't will."
  
  
  Offering a gentle roll of a shoulder in a shrug, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to you, in allundean:
       "It is a long story how I came to know the bit-"
  
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf's silvery-gaze flickers aside in a slight narrow for the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf.
  
  Looking thoughtful a moment before apparently giving up the idea of the lizard on whole, you ask the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "So... why do you have to return the gifts to the biter?"
  
  
  You are a little hungry.
  
  
  Simply, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to you, in allundean:
       "I don't."
  
  
  Flicking a glance aside, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says to you, in allundean:
       "Jus' th'scaled child, apparently, brother."
  
  
  The dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf opens his mouth as though to say something and then shuts it, his gaze shifting to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf.
  
  
  Canting her head aside a touch to draw her attention over for him, her tone neutral, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to the hunched, beak-nosed elf, in allundean:
       "The elders knew all along about the plots of two of our -own- against my life and did nothing, so why would I speak with them on something like thi"
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf asks, in allundean:
       "... this?"
  
  
  Finally comprehending as he gives a nod, you say, in allundean:
       "Oh! Well, sorry sister, didn't see any lizards around."
  
  
  
  His attention flickering, once again, to her, sounding startled, you ask the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "What?"
  
  
  Frowning at her, the hunched, beak-nosed elf asks the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "What in the name of Akeita are you talking about, Sister?"
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf's ink-whorled brows lift, and his head slips aside into a lazy tilt.
  
  
  Reaching aside to give a somewhat labored push up to her feet, the languid movement hindered with the swell of her midsection, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says, in allundean:
       "I'm talking about the plot of death against me by one of our sisters and one of our brothers."
  
  
  Gaining to her feet, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf rises and stands.
  
  
  Bursting into an amused laugh, you say to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "Sister, that's the funniest shit I've ever heard."
  
  
  Adjusting her dusty hooded, amber-fringed leather shoulder cape about herself, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf just stares at you.
  
  
  
  Nudging him with an elbow, you ask the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, in allundean:
       "Kinda beats my joke about the uh... what was it again?"
  
  
  Giving an angry pluck against the edge of her dusty hooded, amber-fringed leather shoulder cape, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to you, in allundean:
       "And this is exactly why I stayed away from the Lap and the womb - and why I shall do so once again."
  
  
  
  
  Staring at her, bewildered, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "Sister, we sincerely have no idea what the fuck you're talking about."
  
  
  You are a little hungry.
  
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  
  Sweeping up a hand to give a point of an index finger towards you, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to you, in allundean:
       "Another of our brothers -heard- them plotting.. it's no laughing matter, but apparently you think it is."
  
  
  With a tip of his chin towards the hunched, beak-nosed elf, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "Seconded."
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf sends you a telepathic message:
       "I think it was about a snake? I don't know, we were drunk."
  
  
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  
  Still smiling as though it's the funniest joke ever, you say to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "Right, and I was nearly killed by a ritikki. Which is true. Now -that- is no joke."
  
  
  Huffing out a breath, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf turns in step towards the eastern stretch through the tents.
  
  
  Trudging along, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf walks east.
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the umbral, dark-tressed female elf has arrived from the west, trudging along.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  trudging along, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf walks east.
  
  
  With a demonstrative gesture of two hooked claws, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "Soh's seed has turned her mind."
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the umbral, dark-tressed female elf has arrived from the east, backstepping.
  
  
  Still talking and completely unaware of the departing figure as he glances to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf and the hunched, beak-nosed elf, you ask, in allundean:
       "That child hit -hard-, you know?"
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  stepping along, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf walks south.
  
  
  Lifting a brow, the hunched, beak-nosed elf asks, in allundean:
       "So... since when is our Sister insane?"
  
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the umbral, dark-tressed female elf has arrived from the south, stepping along.
  
  
  Still snickering as he passes a hand across his brows, you say, in allundean:
       "Dear mother, a brother and sister wantin' her life."
  
  
  With a slow shake of his head, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf asks the hunched, beak-nosed elf, in allundean:
       "Bitahs... Soh... leavin' zhe Lap?"
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the umbral, dark-tressed female elf intently scans the area.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  Flicking a glance about the clearing, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf adjusts the straps of her dusty green and brown dyed canvas pack along her shoulders.
  
  
  
  Holding up three fingers, one at a time, the hunched, beak-nosed elf asks, in allundean:
       "Getting worked up over booze, talking to biters... now nonsense about a plot against her?"
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  her pack craddled against her back, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf walks west.
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf has arrived from the east, her pack craddled against her back.
  
  
  His bright eyes narrowing to slits, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says to you, in allundean:
       "She did not zhink she was jokin'."
  
  
  Solemnly, you say to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, in allundean:
       "You know what they say about mothers to be. They have strange moods."
  
  
  As she makes a wide berth around the firepit, silvery-gaze slitting aside for the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf and you, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says, in allundean:
       "I didn't think it.. because I wasn't."
  
  
  The cream-colored shell around your body collapses to the ground.
  
  
  
  Turning his attention to her and giving her a lazy smile, still tinged with amusement, you ask the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "Aye, aye, no doubt about that. Perhaps it's just a dream, hm?"
  
  
  Narrowing silvery-gaze upon you, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to you, in allundean:
       "Do not blame it on my strange moods.  It happened -before- I got with child, you dolt."
  
  
  Openning and closing her mouth a couple times, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf suddenly reaches a hand around for her dusty green and brown dyed canvas pack.
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf opens her dusty green and brown dyed canvas pack.
  
  
  Yanking it free, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf gets her tiny musk gland from her dusty green and brown dyed canvas pack.
  
  
  Leaning close and speaking in a hoarse rasp, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf whispers something to the hunched, beak-nosed elf.
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf takes only a moment of aim before suddenly hurling her tiny musk gland straight for you.
  
  
  In an unsteady rush, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf rises and stands.
  
  
  The dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf jerks aside, dodging it a tad too late as the gland lands right on the middle of his chest.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the feral obsidian-mohawked elf has arrived from the east.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the feral obsidian-mohawked elf walks west.
  The feral obsidian-mohawked elf has arrived from the east.
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf stares incredulously at the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, his pale eyes widening briefly before narrowing  into lopsided slits.
  
  
  As she watches the gland smash against your chest, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf shouts, in allundean:
       "IT WASN'T A DREAM!"
  
  
  With a startled cry as he flicks the gland off him, his lips twisting in disgust, you ask, in allundean:
       "The fuck, sister?"
  
  
  You stand up.
  
  
  Her gaze narrowing angrily aside, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf looks at the feral obsidian-mohawked elf.
  
  
  The feral obsidian-mohawked elf cocks his brow as he strolls along the camp, turning his gaze over the others.
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf blinks several times, utterly bewildered.
  
  
  Sweeping a hand over to indicate the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf and you, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf exclaims to the feral obsidian-mohawked elf, in allundean:
       "Tell them it wasn't a dream!  That you heard them!"
  
  
  
  Blearily, slitted eyes blinking, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf looks at the feral obsidian-mohawked elf.
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf looks up at the feral obsidian-mohawked elf.
  
  
  Still disgusted, the dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf apparently does not notice the feral obsidian-mohawked elf's arrival as he tries to brush at his chest.
  
  
  The feral obsidian-mohawked elf asks, in allundean:
       "Heard what sister?"
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the bald, weather-battered elf intently scans the area.
  
  
  Shifting her hand to pat protectively against her midsection, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to the feral obsidian-mohawked elf, in allundean:
       "That they plotted.. to kill me."
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the tall figure in a dusty hooded, sandy-brown reinforced sandcloth duster has arrived from the east.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the tall figure in a dusty hooded, sandy-brown reinforced sandcloth duster walks north.
  
  
  His head canting aside in a lazy tilt, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf exclaims to the feral obsidian-mohawked elf, in allundean:
       "Zhis is insane, brother.  Calm her down!"
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the tall figure in a dusty hooded, sandy-brown reinforced sandcloth duster has arrived from the north.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the tall figure in a dusty hooded, sandy-brown reinforced sandcloth duster walks west.
  The tall figure in a dusty hooded, sandy-brown reinforced sandcloth duster has arrived from the east.
  
  
  The tall figure in a dusty hooded, sandy-brown reinforced sandcloth duster walks west.
  On the West Side of the Camp you see:  the tall figure in a dusty hooded, sandy-brown reinforced sandcloth duster has arrived from the east.
  
  
  On the West Side of the Camp you see:  the tall figure in a dusty hooded, sandy-brown reinforced sandcloth duster walks east.
  The tall figure in a dusty hooded, sandy-brown reinforced sandcloth duster has arrived from the west.
  
  
  Dipping his head in a nod, the feral obsidian-mohawked elf says, in allundean:
       "Flower and Tripped? Yeah, I overhead them when I came upon them on a hunt, they didn't see me approach so I sat to listen."
  
  
  The feral obsidian-mohawked elf says, in allundean:
       "I went to the Elders with it as well."
  
  
  Fairly barking out, her eyes narrowing angrily, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf exclaims to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, in allundean:
       "I wouldn't be upset if you'd taken me seriously!"
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the ebon-hued, fire-scarred elf intently scans the area.
  
  
  You are a little hungry.
  
  
  A thin smile appearing on his lips as he focuses his gaze on the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, you say to the hunched, beak-nosed elf, in
    allundean:
       "This one is insane. Must be the Soh in her belly."
  
  
  With a swift sweep of one clawed hand, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "But Tripped still runs.  Zhis is impossible."
  
  
  Huffing out a breath of irritation, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, in allundean:
       "Because the Elders did nothing... I said as much."
  
  
  Laughing roughly, the feral obsidian-mohawked elf says, in allundean:
       "How is it impossible? The Elders said they were content to let us deal with our own problems."
  
  
  
  His gaze slanting to him, you say to the feral obsidian-mohawked elf, in allundean:
       "You are talking about your -own- brother and sister. Have a care what you say."
  
  
  Casting his grey hued gaze aside, the feral obsidian-mohawked elf looks down at you.
  
  
  The feral obsidian-mohawked elf asks, in allundean:
       "Have a care for what I saw and what I was told?"
  
  
  Planting her hands down once again at her hips, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf narrows her eyes once more at the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf.
  
  
  The rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf lowers the hood of a dusty hooded, sandy-brown reinforced sandcloth duster.
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf shakes his head sharply before loosing a hoarse, alcohol-scented breath.
  
  
  Flatly, his turquoise eyes sliding shut, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "Fine.  Ah don' believe 't, but I won' fight yah."
  
  
  His smile widening as he gives the feral obsidian-mohawked elf a look-over, you ask, in allundean:
       "Well I'm not about to argue with my own blood, hm? But to have me believe that there are two of our own plotting against our own?"
  
  
  Giving her hands a toss up from her hips, before whirling on a foot to trek southwards, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says, in allundean:
       "Akeita's Pits.. dense.. I'm gone."
  
  
  Picking her way around the crowd, the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf ducks beneath the feral obsidian-mohawked elf's arm, tucking herself against him with a wide, mismatched blink about.
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf stands up.
  
  
  His pale eyes flicking open once more, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf looks at the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf.
  
  
  The dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf gives a shrug, dismissing the group as he moves to sit down by the now silent camp.
  
  
  Dipping her head aside to flick her gaze over towards her, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf, in allundean:
       "And I will -not- be back this time, Smoke."
  
  
  
  You sit down.
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf asks, in allundean:
       "One now. You know Blue Flower has gone on her Last Walk, yes?"
  
  
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf asks the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "Do you know what she told me before she died?"
  
  Ok, you are gone afk a bit.
  
  
  Lifting an eyebrow slightly, the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf asks the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "Is it time then, sister?"
  
  
  Coiling his arm about the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf, the feral obsidian-mohawked elf says, in allundean:
       "Believe what you want or not, but -I- was the one that was there and heard them."
  
  
  Waving her hand dismissively over her shoulder, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to the hunched, beak-nosed elf, in allundean:
       "I could care less.  She was full of lies."
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf glares soberly at the umbral, dark-tressed female elf.
  
  
  
  Ok, you are no longer gone.
  
  
  Quietly, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "That she was sorry. And that she wished to make amends with you."
  
  
  
  Scoffing loudly, you say, in allundean:
       "She is calling a biter a friend and a sister a liar."
  
  
  In a sharp rasp, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf whispers to you, in allundean:
       "Hush."
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf turns to the hunched, beak-nosed elf, ink-whorled brows lifting slightly.
  
  
  Huffing a breath as she narrows her eyes faintly over at him, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to the hunched, beak-nosed elf, in allundean:
       "-After- she had already planned out to kill me, and gave false information to the White Pit when she -knew- they wanted me dead."
  
  
  Puffing out a soft breath, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to the hunched, beak-nosed elf, in allundean:
       "And -after- she started the spread of lies through the womb about me."
  
  
  Casting his gaze toward the ground, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "I didn't know what she was talking about. Still don't. I don't pretend to know what happened between you all."
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf shakes his head slowly and lifts his gloved hand to rub a knuckle across his ashen-rimmed eye.
  
  
  
  Unable to contain himself any longer, you ask the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "And you know all this because they decided to plot against you in the open where all can hear?"
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the bald, weather-battered elf intently scans the area.
  
  
  Turning a hand over to touch a thumb against her chest, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to the hunched, beak-nosed elf, in allundean:
       "She hated me because I -dared- to voice my opinions against her illogical reasoning.  I did nothing to her, yet she wanted me dead."
  
  
  In a swift snap, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf clasps one clawed hand over your shoulder, stepping aside to place himself between you and the umbral, dark-tressed female elf.
  
  
  The feral obsidian-mohawked elf looks down at you.
  
  
  
  The dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf opens his mouth as though to say something and then shuts it, his gaze shifting over to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, eyes narrowing slightly.
  
  
  Staring directly at you, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf whispers to you, in allundean:
       "Enough.  Let zhem speak."
  
  
  Slanting her gaze aside, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to you, in allundean:
       "I've always been one to think she was not entirely all there in the head."
  
  
  The feral obsidian-mohawked elf says to you, in allundean:
       "She knows all this because they never spotted me following them out into the lap to have their talks."
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf's turquoise eyes remain affixed on you, his chapped, thorn-impaled lips twisting into a harsh scowl.
  
  
  
  The dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf regards the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf silently a moment, and then shifts his gaze back to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf and the feral obsidian-mohawked elf.
  
  
  Staring at her, slack-jawed in surprise, the hunched, beak-nosed elf asks the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "I don't understand. What does it matter? How can you still carry hate for a dead Sister?"
  
  
  Calling over one shoulder in a quiet rasp, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "I know 'zactly how yah feel, sister."
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the ebon-hued, fire-scarred elf intently scans the area.
  
  
  
  Stance suddenly relaxing, his lazy smile appearing on his lips though it doesn't touch his eyes, you say, in allundean:
       "Aye, we're the Akei'ta Var, we do not bicker with our own. Let the insane rant on if she wants."
  
  
  Her attention drifting aside, her lips pursed tightly, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to the hunched, beak-nosed elf, in allundean:
       "I never -hated- her.  Not even when I found out she wished my death.  She was my sister.  But to have my brothers..."
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf's attention snaps back aside towards you.
  
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf turns slowly on his heel, his stance slightly unsteady as he folds both arms over the chest of his dujat-banded leather jacket.
  
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  
  In a quiet tone, her expression belying her tone of calmness, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf asks you, in allundean:
       "I am insane, because you don't wish to face the reality of what -really- happened?"
  
  
  The leathery, braxat-inked dwarf sends you a telepathic message:
       "*a touch of uncertainty creeping across the surface of the connection* Hello, would you be Black Thorns, of the Akei'ta Var?"
  
  
  Levelling an even look at her, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "An' zhe elders spoke.  Yah shoul' deal wit' your own problems, nah drag th'rest of th'womb to blades at each other's throats."
  
  
  A frown touching the corners of her mouth, the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf whispers something to the feral obsidian-mohawked elf.
  
  
  
  
  Raising his hoarse voice in a sudden, violent yell, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf shouts, in allundean:
       "Enough!"
  
  
  
  Dismissing the group entirely, the dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf's gaze turns toward the ashy remains of the campfire, a distracted frown appearing on his face.
  
  
  The feral obsidian-mohawked elf whispers something to the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf.
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You contact the leathery, braxat-inked dwarf with the Way.
  
  
  Lifting a single hooked finger, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says to you, in allundean:
       "Do.  Nah.  Start again."
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the leathery, braxat-inked dwarf:
       "Aye, and who is this?"
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  
  His turquoise eyes narrowing to bare slits, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf exclaims to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "Do nah drag brothers an' sisters into zhis.  You have done what is needed!  Go to zhe elders, if you feel zhat is unfair!"
  
  
  The leathery, braxat-inked dwarf sends you a telepathic message:
       "I am Stump, of the Ishtorn blood. I sit within the Rose and word touched my ears that you are looking for trade, yes?"
  
  
  In a harsh, barely-audible rasp, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "Akei'ta has already taken one.  He works in His own ways.  Let't be, sister."
  
  
  You send a telepathic message to the leathery, braxat-inked dwarf:
       "*with a touch of faint amusement* Indeed, though I am lookin' more for the Sun Runners. Still, trade is trade, hm? What is it that you're lookin' for?"
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf jerks her chin up faintly, falling silent as she regards the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf.
  
  
  The leathery, braxat-inked dwarf sends you a telepathic message:
       "Well, I am certainly not a Fire Runner though, my blood can offer much. What is it you seek or have a need for, Black Thorns?"
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the leathery, braxat-inked dwarf:
       "What are you offerin'?"
  
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf looses a sharp hiss, his thorn-impaled lips pressing into a thin line as his similarly pierced nostrils flare.
  
  
  Very quietly, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, in allundean:
       "Well said, Brother."
  
  
  Snorting faintly, the feral obsidian-mohawked elf says, in allundean:
       "Slow in the fucking head to not believe when ya have more then just one side, but if you choose fine, live in the dark."
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  
  
  The leathery, braxat-inked dwarf sends you a telepathic message:
       "Well, I can offer much. Weapons? Services? I am able to tread in many places others are not, or at least without a danger, yes. "
  
  
  Without further word, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf turns on heel, stepping southwards through the cluster of tents towards the break in the thorn-wall.
  
  
  Stepping along, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf walks south.
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the umbral, dark-tressed female elf has arrived from the north, stepping along.
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf levels an even look at the feral obsidian-mohawked elf, straightening smoothly.
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the leathery, braxat-inked dwarf:
       "Hmm... that so? Well there is always need for legwork and swords, eh? What are you lookin' for in return?"
  
  
  The leathery, braxat-inked dwarf sends you a telepathic message:
       "Rare gems? Rocks? Materials for arrows? "
  
  
  You think:
       "Legwork and sword, hm? Could be useful."
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the leathery, braxat-inked dwarf:
       "Aye, we have plenty of those. But of your service... I doubt we need it at this moment."
  
  
  You are a little hungry.
  
  
  The leathery, braxat-inked dwarf sends you a telepathic message:
       "I wish you to allow me to move through your territory and help me and my people understand your way better."
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the leathery, braxat-inked dwarf:
       "This, I'll have to speak with my brothers. Perhaps I'll find your mind later, hm?"
  
  
  The leathery, braxat-inked dwarf sends you a telepathic message:
       "Yes, until then shall I be welcomed if I observe and respect your way?"
  
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the leathery, braxat-inked dwarf:
       "Aye, I'll let my blood know as well."
  
  
  The leathery, braxat-inked dwarf sends you a telepathic message:
       "Good. I will show your lands no disrespect."
  
  
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  You dissolve the psychic link.
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf deflates abruptly, his posture collapsing, and turns on his heel, regarding the hunched, beak-nosed elf and you with weary, ashen-rimmed eyes.
  
  
  A frown curling the corners of her mouth, the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf whispers something to the feral obsidian-mohawked elf.
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the bald, weather-battered elf intently scans the area.
  
  
  Turning on his heels, the feral obsidian-mohawked elf says to the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf, in allundean:
       "Lets go then."
  
  
  Scratching idly at his middle, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf asks you, in allundean:
       "Ah'm goin' t'get a smoke.  Eithah 'f you want't?"
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf asks, in allundean:
       "Where are you going?"
  
  The dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf brushes a hand across his temple, his gaze shifting to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf and giving him a nod.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the vibrant, bestial creature has arrived from the south.
  
  
  The feral obsidian-mohawked elf says, in allundean:
       "To get my sister back"
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the vibrant, bestial creature flies west.
  The vibrant, bestial creature has arrived from the east.
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf looks up at the vibrant, bestial creature.
  
  Attention shifting over, you look up at the vibrant, bestial creature.
  Something akin to a tembo, a man, and a kenku stoops here.  Filled
  with energetic musculature, covered in a striped layer of scar-free
  flesh, this thing exudes power.  A wide mouth filled with tembo teeth,
  the eyes as well similar to that creature, break open a face that looks
  only vaguely humanoid.  Curving talons tip each finger, and hardy,
  silver-feathered wings sprout from the back.  A vibrant set of bright
  hued feathers sprout from the wrists and race back along the arms,
  moving from silver to red to brilliant blue as they coat the body
  of this odd looking being.
  The vibrant, bestial creature is in excellent condition.
  
  He is carrying:
  nothing obvious
  
  
  The rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf nods, stepping from underneath the feral obsidian-mohawked elf's arm to straighten herself a moment.
  
  
  Loping along on all fours, the vibrant, bestial creature moves through the camp as elves part before him.
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf straightens slightly, and eases a glance over one shoulder.
  
  
  His turquoise eyes widening, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf looks up at the vibrant, bestial creature.
  
  You stand up.
  
  
  The rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf walks east.
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf has arrived from the west.
  
  
  Sitting back on his haunches, the vibrant, bestial creature flares his too-wide nostrils.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf walks north.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf has arrived from the north.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf walks east.
  
  
  Growling low in his throat, words slurred by the shape of his mouth, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "Air... thick.  Stiff.  Like back of roundear who wears robes."
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the bald, weather-battered elf intently scans the area.
  
  
  Turning his shining, golden eyes towards the hunched, beak-nosed elf, the vibrant, bestial creature asks, in allundean:
       "Why is this?"
  
  The dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf blinks, his gaze flickering quickly to the hunched, beak-nosed elf.
  
  
  Sniffing the air, the feral obsidian-mohawked elf says, in allundean:
       "Anger. You can smell it."
  
  
  A little stunned, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says to the vibrant, bestial creature, in allundean:
       "Well, uh, not sure. Seems we stirred up some old ghosts between sisters Black Wind and Blue Flower."
  
  
  In spite of his attempt to stifle it, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf looses a quiet belch into one gloved fist.
  
  
  The words growling low from his predatory throat, the vibrant, bestial creature asks, in allundean:
       "Old ghosts.  Ghosts are unhappy.  Old things rot.  Who shows teeth?"
  
  
  His muzzle lifting a bit, the vibrant, bestial creature looks down at the feral obsidian-mohawked elf.
  
  Feeling a sense of relief, you think:
       "Well, now the elder is here. He will speak for us. And what he decides will be it."
  
  
  With a vague gesture south, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says to the vibrant, bestial creature, in allundean:
       "Sister Black Wind claims that, some time ago, she heard of Brother Tripped and Sister Blue Flower plotting to kill her."
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf says to the vibrant, bestial creature, in allundean:
       "Some support her story. Apparently, this was brought before the elders, but it was new to me."
  
  
  Gesturing to himeslf, you and the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says to the vibrant, bestial creature, in allundean:
       "We questioned her on it. Black Wind ran off, angry. Very angry."
  
  
  Slowing his speech, seeming hopelessly confused, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says, in allundean:
       "Also talked about... uh, something about being friends with a halfling."
  
  
  Crossing his arms over his chest, the feral obsidian-mohawked elf says, in allundean:
       "She ran off angry because you fools called her a liar and insane."
  
  
  His tembo-teeth showing as he speaks briefly, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "I remember this.  The wound was healed, yet it becomes open again, and festers."
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf opens his mouth to continue, but shuts it, apparently thinking better of it.
  
  
  The vibrant, bestial creature's eyes narrow and sharpen as he looks to the feral obsidian-mohawked elf.
  
  
  His words impeded slightly by the thorned piercings through his tongue and lips, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "Partly my doin', at zhat."
  
  
  The vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "You speak to your brothers and sisters so?  Call them fools?  You are farthest from the wisest upon the grass now.  A bold statement you make, and unkind."
  
  Unable to help himself, you say, in allundean:
       "She is sayin' that two of our blood is plottin' against her, and then she's sayin' she's friends with a biter."
  
  
  The feral obsidian-mohawked elf says, in allundean:
       "I don't rightly give a fuck about what was said or done, but I was the one to hear their plotting, and she wasn't lying."
  
  
  His gaze narrowing, the feral obsidian-mohawked elf says to the vibrant, bestial creature, in allundean:
       "I stand by my brothers and sisters in all things, but they are wrong now, Sister Atemys had the right of it."
  
  
  Very quiet, barely audible, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says, in allundean:
       "Be respectful in front of the Shaman. All of you. All of us."
  
  Feeling a surge of anger, you think:
       "Disrespectin' the shaman, callin' his blood fools, what next?"
  
  
  Shaking his head slowly, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf lifts a gloved hand towards the hunched, beak-nosed elf.
  
  The dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf purses his lips, sliding his gaze respectfully down.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf has arrived from the east.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf walks north.
  
  
  Shifting one back paw for a moment, then resting fully back, stubby tail supporting his body, watching the feral obsidian-mohawked elf, the vibrant, bestial creature asks, in allundean:
       "And it is the way of us to throw barbed words to solve problems?"
  
  You think:
       "Dire news indeed. Perhaps -this- is the things Kickin' read from the entrails of the diseased child."
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf watches the vibrant, bestial creature and the feral obsidian-mohawked elf intensely, hardly blinking as his eyes flick between the pair.
  
  You think:
       "The disagreement within family."
  
  
  Waving his hand, the feral obsidian-mohawked elf says, in allundean:
       "As far as I'm concerned the problem was solved with Akeita's will, I speak my mind plainly, and I will stand by my tribe."
  
  
  Lowering one paw, the vibrant, bestial creature speaks no words as a small vine begins to thrust valiantly up from the soil below.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf has arrived from the north.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf walks east.
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the bald, weather-battered elf intently scans the area.
  
  His attention caught, the dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf stares at the flourishing vine by the vibrant, bestial creature's feet before shifting his gaze back to him.
  
  
  As the vine begins to grow, a single flower blooming upon the end, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "What occurred in the past, is past.  This does not mean we should forget it.  But to bring anger, harsh words, and wound your brothers is not our way."
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf has arrived from the east.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf walks north.
  
  
  The vibrant, bestial creature's left ear rotates towards the eastern side of camp for a few moments.
  
  
  You are a little hungry.
  
  
  Cocking his brow faintly, the feral obsidian-mohawked elf says, in allundean:
       "Yet I was not the one to call Sister Atemys a liar and insane, I was angered yes, but I was the one who was there and heard the truth."
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf has arrived from the north.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf walks west.
  The rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf has arrived from the east.
  
  
  The youthful, copper-skinned elf has entered the world.
  
  
  With a low rumbling growl, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "Bandages heal flesh.  Words heal hearts and minds."
  
  
  As he turns his color-shifting, shining eyes over the assembled elves, the vibrant, bestial creature asks, in allundean:
       "Who uttered the words of insanity, and of lies?"
  
  
  The youthful, copper-skinned elf meanders closer from the eastern tents. As he notes the vibrant, bestial creature addressing the other elves, he pauses, glancing about.
  
  
  With a final crackle of full growth, the bloom on the vine becomes a flower, then a full ginka fruit below the vibrant, bestial creature paw.
  
  
  Skidding to a stop beside the feral obsidian-mohawked elf, the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf coughs slightly as she lopes in from the east.
  
  
  Without a word, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf raises one clawed hand, though his visage retains its stoic mask.
  
  
  Gesturing toward himself, you and the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says to the vibrant, bestial creature, in allundean:
       "We did. The three of us. We were confused, and were seeking to understand Sister Black Wind's anger."
  
  After a moment, speaking up from the crowd, you say, in allundean:
       "I called Sister Black Wind insane, yes. I thought she was jokin' at first."
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf's tongue flickers across his chapped lips, briefly revealing a pair of long thorns impaled through it.
  
  
  As he grips his juicy ginka fruit and lifts it slowly, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "An apology.  Many words.  Sincere.  Speak not only your grief, but speak of why you said those words."
  
  
  The youthful, copper-skinned elf furrows his brow, clearly a touch puzzled by what he overhears. Rather than interjecting, he skirts the gathering, seating himself upon the grasses near the campfire.
  
  
  The youthful, copper-skinned elf sits down.
  
  
  The vibrant, bestial creature's massive, predatory teeth scythe right through the armored, spiked fruit.
  
  
  The vibrant, bestial creature takes a bite of his juicy ginka fruit.
  
  
  With a faint lift of his chin, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "It was all strange.  Friendin' a bitah, bearin' a Soh's seed in her belly, an' speakin'a brothers an' sisters killin' her."
  
  
  His head shaking slowly, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says to the vibrant, bestial creature, in allundean:
       "She sounded as if she was jokin', or t'Akei'ta insane.  Ah was drunk, an'..."
  
  
  After a brief pause, his scar-whorled brow creasing, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "... Worried."
  
  
  Grunting after swallowing, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "A strange life does not mean a lie.  It means a strange life."
  
  
  With a pair of swift nods, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "Ah saw th'life.  Doesn' mean I zhink it's th'righ' thing for a sistah."
  
  
  Squinting over at the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, the vibrant, bestial creature asks, in allundean:
       "You are Akeita's Eye?"
  
  
  Rolling his shoulders in a shrug, the feral obsidian-mohawked elf says, in allundean:
       "She never felt safe in the womb so she found others, but I'm not going to let my sister with child wander aimlessly through the lap in anger."
  
  
  The youthful, copper-skinned elf listens attentively to the discourse, his attention jumping from one speaker to the next. However, all the while, his gaze tends to favor the vibrant, bestial creature.
  
  
  
  Stammering hoarsely, with a lazy tilt of his head, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "W- well... nah.  I mean, her belly grows.  Zhat was th'least of 't."
  
  His gaze flickering over to the feral obsidian-mohawked elf and speaking out of context, again, you say, in allundean:
       "Nothin's safer than the Womb. That is why it's called the Womb, brother."
  
  
  Grunting, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "Only Akeita may judge so."
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the ebon-hued, fire-scarred elf intently scans the area.
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf says, in allundean:
       "I have a question, Shaman, that perhaps you could answer. I think it may help some of us still confused."
  
  
  Pointing one five inch claw at the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "You will welcome her back to the Womb.  You will ensure she knows her brothers and sisters love her.  This is her tribe, her home, her safety."
  
  
  Gaze averted, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says to the vibrant, bestial creature, in allundean:
       "The reason I was... hesitant to believe my sister was because I didn't believe Brother Tripped capable of such a thing. I've ran with him many times."
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf ceases his stammering, and straightens, his battered visage smoothing into a stoic mask.
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf asks the vibrant, bestial creature, in allundean:
       "If he really did this thing... and apparently he did... then why was he not punished? Why was this not even spoken of until now?"
  
  
  Shaking his head lightly, the feral obsidian-mohawked elf says, in allundean:
       "She won't listen, her trust is already broken and scattered."
  
  
  The scales of his neck bunching as he turns to look over at the hunched, beak-nosed elf, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "Tripped is so capable.  We believe his heart to have been clouded by spice and the spirits of War."
  
  
  With a tight frown, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "He was punished.  His punishment is not physical.  It is not noticed.  It is with the lack of knowledge that will be granted to him.  He was being considered as my apprentice."
  
  
  The youthful, copper-skinned elf bows his head for a moment, the fingers of his right hand spreading to rub deeply at his eyes.
  
  
  Simply, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "This is no more."
  
  
  Nodding, but suddenly looking very weary, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says, in allundean:
       "I understand."
  
  
  Blinking back and forth from the vibrant, bestial creature to the hunched, beak-nosed elf, the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf shifts on her feet a moment.
  
  
  His chest carrying a deep rumble, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "Our sister is scared.  She is frightened, and does not understand why the ground collapses below her."
  
  
  Gaze averted, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says, in allundean:
       "I understand now, Shaman. We were wrong. And I will apologize to Sister Black Wind, before we lose her to the Soh for good."
  
  
  With a slow shake of his head, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "Nah.  Ah will."
  
  
  Looking to you, sadly, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says to you, in allundean:
       "We all will."
  
  
  Raising one claw, tapping the scales of his chest, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "You, brothers, sisters, I... all of us.  The Womb.  We are her ground.  Trust must be re-established.  She must trust that we are firm.  That we will always be."
  
  Feeling grudgingly, you think:
       "I suppose I will too."
  
  
  Finally piping up as he lifts his head, lowering his fingers from his eyes, the youthful, copper-skinned elf says, in allundean:
       "I was to go and open trade with the Soh. I'll help"
  
  
  Shaking his head, braids swaying alongside his face, the youthful, copper-skinned elf says to the vibrant, bestial creature, in allundean:
       "Before I do that, though ... Shaman, I think my eyes have taken ill."
  
  
  Chomping down loudly, ripping a massive hunk from the ginka, the vibrant, bestial creature eats a portion of his partially eaten juicy ginka fruit.
  
  The dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf drops a silent nod, his gaze slanting to the youthful, copper-skinned elf.
  
  
  The vibrant, bestial creature's eyes shift over towards the youthful, copper-skinned elf.
  
  
  The rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf has lost link.
  The rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf has reconnected.
  
  
  Lifting his chin as he takes a sharp breath of air, the youthful, copper-skinned elf says to the vibrant, bestial creature, in allundean:
       "I was working hides earlier in the week, as the hunters need space. Nothing was wrong, and then it felt as though daggers were thrust through my eyes. They still hurt."
  
  
  A sudden chuckle resonates in the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf's throat.
  
  The dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf clears his throat as he attempts to cover up an amused smile, gaze shifting sideways a moment.
  
  
  Grunting gruffly, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "The dwellers of the Dun Pit have a saying..."
  
  
  Sounding slightly amused, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "Every Spice has its Price."
  
  
  Sidestepping toward the feral obsidian-mohawked elf, the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf tucks herself back underneath his arm in a slight lean, chewing her bottom lip over in thought.
  
  
  Blinking before he turns his gaze aside, grimly favoring the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, the youthful, copper-skinned elf says to the vibrant, bestial creature, in allundean:
       "Oh."
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf's chuckle briefly becomes a hoarse, barking laugh, but he manages to stifle it, and it soon fades.
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf lifts a clenched fist to his mouth, unsuccessfully attempting to stifle a snicker.
  
  
  Nodding once towards the youthful, copper-skinned elf, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "Much water, only fresh fruit, two weeks.  No meat.  Then remember in future."
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the bald, weather-battered elf intently scans the area.
  
  
  Drawing a defiant breath as he rises, the youthful, copper-skinned elf says to the vibrant, bestial creature, in allundean:
       "They laugh, but we must all learn. I only worried because I've made many promises. I will open trade with the Soh, and I want to deal with some of the Pit dwellers. Trade makes trust, makes peace."
  
  
  The youthful, copper-skinned elf stands up.
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf shakes his head, looking momentarily distracted.
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf says to the vibrant, bestial creature, in allundean:
       "She has sealed her mind off to me, Shaman. But I will speak to her as soon as she's ready to let me."
  
  
  Smiling over at the youthful, copper-skinned elf, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "In time, you will learn the beauty of laughter as another learns."
  
  
  Sincerely, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says to the vibrant, bestial creature, in allundean:
       "Thank you for... setting me right."
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf stalks over the low knoll, easing to a halt at the youthful, copper-skinned elf's side.
  
  
  Glancing once again toward the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, just before he adopts aslight smile, the youthful, copper-skinned elf says to the vibrant, bestial creature, in allundean:
       "Yes, Shaman. Do you think it is wrong of me to deal with the Pit walkers? Some say I should never near them, but I want peace for the Womb."
  
  
  A set of nictating membranes slide down over the vibrant, bestial creature's eyes.
  
  
  Taking a seat near the fire and massaging his temple, the hunched, beak-nosed elf sits down to rest.
  
  
  Voice the rumble of earth shifting far below, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "I've her mind."
  
  The dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf regards the youthful, copper-skinned elf curiously a moment and then glances back over to the vibrant, bestial creature.
  
  
  The rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf Mismatched eyes flicker from one elf to another before finally settling decidedly on the vibrant, bestial creature.
  
  
  the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf's mismatched eyes flicker from one elf to another before finally settling decidedly on the vibrant, bestial creature.
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the ebon-hued, fire-scarred elf intently scans the area.
  
  
  You are a little hungry.
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf shifts from one boot to the other, briefly lifting two gloved knuckles to rub at his scar-etched brow.
  
  
  Flicking his grey-hued gaze aside, the feral obsidian-mohawked elf looks at the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf.
  
  
  Canting his head mildly, the youthful, copper-skinned elf says to the vibrant, bestial creature, in allundean:
       "I know the trade tongue, and where there is mutual need, there is usually peace. If we offer a blind eye to our neighbors, and a silent tongue, we'd might as well turn our backs to their spears."
  
  
  Placing a clawed hand on his shoulder, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf whispers something to the youthful, copper-skinned elf.
  
  
  Clearing his throat lightly, the youthful, copper-skinned elf says to the vibrant, bestial creature, in allundean:
       "... So I think, anyhow. I'm not eager to enter that place, either."
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the bald, weather-battered elf intently scans the area.
  
  
  Glancing up at him, his brow furrowed, the youthful, copper-skinned elf says to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, in allundean:
       "I stalk the sort of prey Akeita made me to hunt. That's all. When this is over, perhaps the Shaman will have time to mull over my question."
  
  
  Returning to the fireside grasses, where he drops into a crouch, the youthful, copper-skinned elf sits down.
  
  
  Fingers coming up to tug and fidget at the hem of her sweat-stained sleek black quirri-hide halter top, the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf chews her bottom lip in thought, mismatched eyes clouding over a moment.
  
  
  You are a little hungry.
  
  
  
  With a gutteral rumble, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "She will return.  Your words will be ready.  The trust will be healed in time."
  
  
  The rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf lets out an audible breath, stature relaxing.
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf's expression turns dour, for a moment, before smoothing back out into his usual, weather-beaten mask.
  
  You think:
       "Then she will have to... Oh, but if the shaman said it, then I must try. Even if she -is-... strange."
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf nods simply toward the vibrant, bestial creature.
  
  After a moment, the dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf also drops a nod, his expression giving away nothing.
  
  Feeling sardonic humor, you think:
       "And if it is Akei's will, then let it be."
  
  
  Looking to the hunched, beak-nosed elf, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "Use your wisdom to guide them."
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf blinks in surprise at the vibrant, bestial creature, then nods solemnly.
  
  
  Touching a twelve inch thrashing ginka vine below his paw, whispering the word, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "Thank you."
  
  
  The vibrant, bestial creature watches the vine retreat underground.
  
  
  You are a little hungry.
  
  
  Turning, the vibrant, bestial creature takes one step, vanishes, reappears instantly ten cords later on his path, then takes another ten cord step, and turns south into the tent.
  
  
  The vibrant, bestial creature flies east.
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the vibrant, bestial creature has arrived from the west.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the vibrant, bestial creature flies south.
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  working her way around a hide-covered tent, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf runs north.
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf has arrived from the south, working her way around a hide-covered tent.
  
  At her arrival, you look at the umbral, dark-tressed female elf.
  Obsidian-hued hair tumbles in straight locks to mid-back, the dusty
  flecked mane covering half over sharply pointed and pierced eartips lending
  no doubt to her elven heritage.  Two chin length shorn and dreaded tendrils
  frame either side of her angular features, the darkened hue bringing out the
  steely silver of her large almond shaped, pearl flecked gaze.  Between the
  lay of her tilted, kohl-rimmed eyes rests a narrow nose, it's end
  unobtrusive with a small upturned slope.  A slanted and bony jawline leads
  down to a defined and slightly pointed chin, a pair of thin grey tinted lips
  curving in bow shape above.  Various scars mar her dusky skin, smatterings
  of old and new littering over her long and willowy form.  Though she bears
  slight curves to give hint at her femininity, little else but the rounds of
  her hips and chest shows any trace of the cushion of fat. 
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf is in excellent condition.
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf is using:
  <worn in hair>           a dusty saw-toothed, silvery green leaf
  <worn in left ear>       a dusty blackened ear cuff of polished bone
  <worn in right ear>      a dusty green and blue feather earring
  <worn around neck>       a dusty string of sharp teeth
  <worn about throat>      a dusty hooded, amber-fringed leather shoulder cape
  <slung across back>      a dusty thornwood and tortoiseshell longbow
  <worn across back>       a dusty green and brown dyed canvas pack
  <body>                   a swirl of deep blue and green inks
  <right shoulder>         a rantarri paw inked in white
  <left shoulder>          a tattoo of a yawning tembo
  <worn on arms>           a dusty dark blue and green swirled warpaint
  <worn around wrist>      a dusty green chitin archery brace
  <worn around wrist>      a dusty supple, earthy archery brace
  <worn on hands>          a dusty pair of anakore-claw gloves
  <worn on forearms>       a dusty set of etched wooden bangles
  <worn as belt>           a dusty black-trimmed, pouched dark green belt
  <hung from belt>         a dusty long bone-headed spear
  <hung from belt>         a dusty hooked mekillot-bone spear
  <worn about waist>       a dusty soft, amber-tasseled suede quiver
  <worn on legs>           a dusty vividly-slashed, dark blue skirt
  <right ankle>            a wreath of flowers tattoo
  <left ankle>             a twining tattoo of a ginka vine
  <worn on feet>           a dusty pair of sparkling, amber-adorned moccasins
  
  She is carrying:
  nothing obvious
  
  
  Lowering his brow towards the ground, rubbing at his neck beneath his thick mane, the youthful, copper-skinned elf says, in allundean:
       "I'm an idiot."
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf flicks a glance over his shoulder at the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, his thorn-impaled lips pressed into a line.
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf looks up at the umbral, dark-tressed female elf.
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf straightens and turns on his heel, picking his way through the milling elven crowd towards the umbral, dark-tressed female elf.
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf comes to a halt along the southern expanse of the clustered tents, keeping well clear of those gathered.
  
  
  Shaking a little as he rises, watching the umbral, dark-tressed female elf approach, the hunched, beak-nosed elf rises and stands.
  
  
  Lifting his chin a bit, his gaze following the flow of others nearby, the youthful, copper-skinned elf looks up at the umbral, dark-tressed female elf.
  
  
  For a long moment, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf simply looks at the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, his ink-whorled brow creased slightly.
  
  
  
  Turning his gaze to offer a smile, the feral obsidian-mohawked elf looks at the umbral, dark-tressed female elf.
  
  
  Gaze lowered to the ground, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "Sister... we're sorry."
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the ebon-hued, fire-scarred elf intently scans the area.
  
  
  
  Eyes narrowing evenly on the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf nods solidly once and cracks a smile, leaning easily against the feral obsidian-mohawked elf.
  
  
  With a tilt of his head, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "Has th'right of 't.  Y'should know zhat y'have a root heah, in th'Womb.  Silly t'think yah can't be safe heah."
  
  The faintest hint of a smile appearing on his lips as he looks at the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, you ask, in allundean:
       "Aye, we're of your blood, no?"
  
  
  Employing a sudden bout of cheer, his lips hauled by their peaks into a broad smile, the youthful, copper-skinned elf says to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "WElcome home."
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf folds her arms down in a loosely protective clasp over the top swell of her midsection, remaining otherwise silent.
  
  
  One turquoise eye squinting faintly, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "Zhe... Shaman came t'speak wit' us, an' told us what happened.  Th'elders did nah do nothin' - punishment was levelled, an' you can be safe here."
  
  
  Ignoring the others, and seeking her gaze, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "We were confused. And maybe a little ashamed for our Brother. It was never our intent to make you feel unwelcome."
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the bald, weather-battered elf intently scans the area.
  
  
  You are a little hungry.
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf says to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "You're safe here. We have nothing but love for you. For you and your child."
  
  
  After a beat, the hunched, beak-nosed elf nudges you gently in the side with his elbow.
  
  
  
  Clearing his throat as he drops a nod, you say to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "Aye. Right. Love."
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf's silvery-gaze flickers doubtfully aside towards you.
  
  
  With a sharp lift of his chin, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf asks the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "Ai?  So how d'yah feel?"
  
  After a moment, licking his lips and then lowering his head abit, you say to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "I am sincerely sorry for what I said, sister."
  
  You think:
       "There. I apologized. Sincerely."
  
  
  Edging a step backwards, doubtfilled gaze shifting over for him, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, in allundean:
       "Like I am an outsider.. again."
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf's ink-whorled gaze creases slightly, and his pierced lips press into a thin line.
  
  You think:
       "Right. Outsider. Here at the Womb. She -is- a strange one."
  
  Speaking out suddenly, a lazy smile flickering back on his lips as he glances to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, you say, in allundean:
       "Well, now that we have made our peace, I thought I hear you said somethin' about smokin' earlier, brother."
  
  
  Stepping aside from the feral obsidian-mohawked elf, the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf edges up close to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, standing shoulder to shoulder.
  
  
  Leveling a finger at her, the hunched, beak-nosed elf asks the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "You are no outsider. You will never be an outsider. You are of the Akei Ta Var, I am your brother, and this is your home. Yes?"
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf watches the umbral, dark-tressed female elf earnestly.
  
  
  After a long moment, his voice a quiet rasp, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "You shouldn'.  You're welcome, an' yah loved, sister, for all'a your choices."
  
  
  Slipping a hand down to press against the swell of her stomach, her words clipped, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says to the hunched, beak-nosed elf, in allundean:
       "Yes."
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf has arrived from the north.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf walks south.
  
  
  The rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf shifts slightly on her feet, giving a quick glance Eastward.
  
  
  Smiling suddenly, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "Good."
  
  
  Leaning close, his turquoise eyes still locked on the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf whispers to you, in allundean:
       "Remember when I said t'shuddup an' let silence be?  Ah was wrong.  Go get zhe spice."
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf asks the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "Then you accept our apology?"
  
  A grin appearing on his lips as he gives him a nod, you whisper to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf in allundean:
       "Aye, let's go."
  
  You now follow the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf.
  
  
  With a long moment of pause, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf hefts up a small shrug of a shoulder for the hunched, beak-nosed elf.
  
  
  After a long moment spent in silent observation, the youthful, copper-skinned elf says to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "Part of being family's knowing when to apologize, and when to forgive. They spoke truth t'you."
  
  
  The feral obsidian-mohawked elf shifts his weight before making his way over towards the umbral, dark-tressed female elf's side.
  
  You think:
       "Like I said, she's ins- Er, a strange one."
  
  
  Cocking a hip and crossing her arms over her chest, the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf stands close to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, gaze shifting to the youthful, copper-skinned elf a moment.
  
  
  A booming roar sounds from the Shaman's tent.
  
  
  With a slow nod, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "Ai, go-"
  
  
  
  Silvery-gaze flicking aside towards him, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf asks the youthful, copper-skinned elf, in allundean:
       "They also spoke before of insanity.. because they spoke it should I believe that as truth as well?"
  
  
  With a relieved sigh, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says, in allundean:
       "Good. Good. Then we should all get drunk and eat and tell stories, like brothers and sisters-"
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf abruptly turns on his heel, swiftly cutting into a dead sprint.
  
  
  At a swift sprint, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf runs east.
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf has arrived from the west, at a swift sprint.
  You follow the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, and run east.
  
  East Side of a Thornbush-Walled Camp [NESW]
     Rising taller than a bahamet, and just as wide, an extremely dense circular
  wall of thornbushes surrounds this small area.  The land outside this natural
  barrier is barely visible through small breaks in the thorny mass.
     Some tents dot this side of the camp, spread unevenly over the hill.  Fewer
  elves, relative to the hill's western expanse, mill about here, most either
  moving to a tent or from it towards the tribe's denser population lying to the
  west.
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf is standing here.
  A granite-haired, beak-nosed elf sits on a mat, inking needles.
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf has arrived from the west.
  
  
  
  Crashing through the heavy flaps, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf runs south.
  You follow the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, and run south.
  
  Stinging sand swirls around you.
  Inside a Canvas-Walled Tent [N Quit Save]
     Only a few sleeping mats, made of hides, canvas and other materials,
  line the floor of this yet to be fully occupied tent.  A framework of small
  pymlithe branches supports the reinforced canvas that forms this
  dwelling's walls.  Upturned gurth shells and simple wooden chests hold a
  variety of personal belongings, ranging from bone, wood and stone tools to
  other objects of a vaguely arcane quality.
  Hanging from a peg of one of the tents poles, staring with it cold hollow gaze is an anakore skull.
  A large bag is lying here.
  A well-fashioned grass basket rests here, filled with roots and fruits.
  A sturdy grass basket rests near the grill, filled with seasonings.
  A six-sided purplish basket rests near the grill, filled with fats.
  A bone and tile grill sits in the middle of the tent.
  A simple wooden chest rests here, filled with meat.
  A simple wooden chest sits here on the floor.
  A square, snake-embroidered linen mat lies here, providing seating.
  The broken remains of a humanoid skeleton lie here.
  A hefty wooden barrel sits here.
  A hefty wooden barrel sit to the side, filled with water.
  A bone and shell frying pan is here is here hanging from the grill.
  A bone and shell frying pan is here hanging from the side of the grill.
  A duskhorn skull is here propped next to a chest.
  A large domed shell lies here.
  A sleeping mat, blue in hue and comfortable looking, sits here.
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf is standing here.
  The vibrant, bestial creature is flying here.
  The shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf is standing here.
  The slight, withered elf girl squats here, preparing bundles of herbs.
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf has arrived from the north.
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf has arrived from the north, sprinting along.
  
  You look down at the vibrant, bestial creature.
  Something akin to a tembo, a man, and a kenku stoops here.  Filled
  with energetic musculature, covered in a striped layer of scar-free
  flesh, this thing exudes power.  A wide mouth filled with tembo teeth,
  the eyes as well similar to that creature, break open a face that looks
  only vaguely humanoid.  Curving talons tip each finger, and hardy,
  silver-feathered wings sprout from the back.  A vibrant set of bright
  hued feathers sprout from the wrists and race back along the arms,
  moving from silver to red to brilliant blue as they coat the body
  of this odd looking being.
  The vibrant, bestial creature is in excellent condition.
  
  He is carrying:
  nothing obvious
  
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf looks ragged as he swifts through the flaps, his turquoise eyes widened.
  
  
  Teeth bared, eyes obviously angered, energy crackling around him, the vibrant, bestial creature exclaims, in allundean:
       "If you wish to speak to me of how wise you are, I encourage you to think CAREFULLY before you chose your next sentence!"
  
  
  The youthful, copper-skinned elf has arrived from the north, brushing the tent flaps aside as he dashes in.
  
  
  The rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf has arrived from the north, loping swiftly along.
  
  The dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf blinks, appearing lost as he glances about.
  
  
  Stabbing a claw into the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf's chest, the vibrant, bestial creature exclaims, in allundean:
       "YOUR words caused this wound!  They were action enough!"
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf stops dead in his tracks at the entrance to the tent, watching the vibrant, bestial creature and the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf.
  
  His gaze finally landing on him, you look at the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf.
  Lean, with a wiry cording of musculature beneath his golden-flecked skin,
  this elf has the deeply define characterization of his elven ancestry
  with a touch of the bulk that is associated with one very active. His eyes are
  almond shaped and are toned a cool blue in hue, with swirls of umber and
  jade twisting around the irises.  Shaggy locks of crimson-stained hair have
  been twisted into braids and flop down across his shoulders.
  The shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf is in excellent condition.
  
  The shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf is using:
  <worn on head>           a dusty mesh-covered, tembo-hide cap
  <worn in hair>           a dusty baobab leaf
  <worn around neck>       a dusty studded tembo-hide collar
  <worn about throat>      a dusty crystal teardrop pendant
  <slung across back>      a dusty slender duskhorn recurve bow
  <worn across back>       a dusty large chalton-hide backpack
  <worn on torso>          a bloodied studded, scorpion-emblazoned vest
  <right shoulder>         an angry, armored bahamet tattoo
  <left shoulder>          a tattoo of a duskhorn bull's head
  <worn on arms>           a pair of carru leather sleeves
  <worn around wrist>      a leaf-patterned, tembo-hide wrist-wrap
  <worn around wrist>      a leaf-patterned, tembo-hide wrist-wrap
  <worn on hands>          a dusty pair of anakore-claw gloves
  <worn as belt>           a tooth-studded, tembo hide belt
  <hung from belt>         a dusty fanged baobab spear
  <worn around body>       a dusty hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak
  <worn about waist>       a bloodied jozhal hide quiver
  <worn on legs>           a set of leaf-patterned, tembo-hide leggings
  <worn on right ankle>    a dusty small leather pouch
  <worn on feet>           a dusty pair of tembo mesh boots
  
  He is carrying:
  nothing obvious
  
  You think:
       "Ah, brother..."
  
  
  The shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf winces as the claw stabs into the flesh.
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf's silvery-gaze flickers aside towards the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf, as she skids to a halt just inside the tent.
  
  
  Levering forward, his toothed maw inches from the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf's face, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "You will heal this wound."
  
  
  The youthful, copper-skinned elf makes his pause behind some of the older men, his heels skidding to an abrupt halt as he overhears the enraged words.
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf lopes over an overturned basket, placing himself between the vibrant, bestial creature and the rest behind.
  
  
  The rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf skids to a halt just inside the tent flaps and edges aside to allow others through, mismatched gaze settling on the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf.
  
  
  The feral obsidian-mohawked elf has arrived from the north.
  
  The dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf sucks in a breath, watching the exchange with wide eyes.
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf hunches up her shoulders suddenly as she watches the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf, backing up slowly towards the tents flaps.
  
  
  Voice a low hiss, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says, in allundean:
       "No one speak. No one intervene."
  
  His lips barely moving, his attention caught, you whisper to the hunched, beak-nosed elf in allundean:
       "I'm not plannin' to."
  
  
  Thin, crimson fluid continues to drip from the vibrant, bestial creature maw as he stares into the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf eyes.
  
  
  As blood trickles down his chest, the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf says, in allundean:
       "I have always put the good foot forward.  But believe me if there is a wound then I can heal it."
  
  
  Hissing in a dry rasp over his shoulder, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf exclaims, in allundean:
       "Quiet!"
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf holds back his arms, holding back a gathering crowd of curious elves. None attempt to move deeper into the tent.
  
  
  Retracting his claw, passing his palm over the wound and bringing it closed, the vibrant, bestial creature says, in allundean:
       "Then do so."
  
  
  The shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf pulls his gaze from the vibrant, bestial creature to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf.
  
  
  His torso remaining steady in the air, the vibrant, bestial creature pulls up his left leg, then his right, crossing them as he hovers silently.
  
  You think:
       "Mother, I can cut tension with a knife."
  
  
  The vibrant, bestial creature's eyes steadily closed, the deep hum of a meditative focus coming from within his chest.
  
  You think:
       "And probably break the knife in the process."
  
  
  The youthful, copper-skinned elf maintains his silence, observing the discourse through the gap between two of the taller men. He breathes a sigh of relief, however, as he sees the claw retract from the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf's chest.
  
  
  Speaking with some pain, the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf asks the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, in allundean:
       "Sister, my words and our time of unfriendly days when my Jaan was with us still coming to you?"
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf remains still as stone, save for a slight tremble in the corded sinews of his over-tensed arms.
  
  
  As her gaze had never left the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf backs once more in a pace for the tents flap.
  
  
  Ducking beneath the tents flaps, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf walks north.
  
  
  The shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf takes a deep breath.
  
  The dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf shifts his attention away, as though studying a sturdy grass basket with deep interest.
  
  
  Before stalking off to the north, the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf asks the vibrant, bestial creature, in allundean:
       "You sure you didn't just have me open a wound?"
  
  
  The shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf walks north.
  
  
  The vibrant, bestial creature crackles.
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf sighs wearily, finally lowering his arms.
  
  
  Lightning beginning to play across his skin, the vibrant, bestial creature keeps his eyes shut.
  
  
  You are hungry.
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf backs slowly away from the vibrant, bestial creature, each boot scraping slowly across the tent floor.
  
  
  The rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf frowns deeply, arms re-crossing over her chest.
  
  The dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf takes a step toward the flap of the tent, and then another, before ducking out completely.
  
  Inside a Canvas-Walled Tent [N Quit Save]
     Only a few sleeping mats, made of hides, canvas and other materials,
  line the floor of this yet to be fully occupied tent.  A framework of small
  pymlithe branches supports the reinforced canvas that forms this
  dwelling's walls.  Upturned gurth shells and simple wooden chests hold a
  variety of personal belongings, ranging from bone, wood and stone tools to
  other objects of a vaguely arcane quality.
  Hanging from a peg of one of the tents poles, staring with it cold hollow gaze is an anakore skull.
  A large bag is lying here.
  A well-fashioned grass basket rests here, filled with roots and fruits.
  A sturdy grass basket rests near the grill, filled with seasonings.
  A six-sided purplish basket rests near the grill, filled with fats.
  A bone and tile grill sits in the middle of the tent.
  A simple wooden chest rests here, filled with meat.
  A simple wooden chest sits here on the floor.
  A square, snake-embroidered linen mat lies here, providing seating.
  The broken remains of a humanoid skeleton lie here.
  A hefty wooden barrel sits here.
  A hefty wooden barrel sit to the side, filled with water.
  A bone and shell frying pan is here is here hanging from the grill.
  A bone and shell frying pan is here hanging from the side of the grill.
  A duskhorn skull is here propped next to a chest.
  A large domed shell lies here.
  A sleeping mat, blue in hue and comfortable looking, sits here.
  The feral obsidian-mohawked elf is standing here.
  The rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf is standing here, looking tired.
  - she is carrying a rough canvas backpack.
  The youthful, copper-skinned elf is standing here.
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf is standing here.
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf is standing here.
  The vibrant, bestial creature is flying here.
  The slight, withered elf girl squats here, preparing bundles of herbs.
  
  East Side of a Thornbush-Walled Camp [NESW]
     Rising taller than a bahamet, and just as wide, an extremely dense circular
  wall of thornbushes surrounds this small area.  The land outside this natural
  barrier is barely visible through small breaks in the thorny mass.
     Some tents dot this side of the camp, spread unevenly over the hill.  Fewer
  elves, relative to the hill's western expanse, mill about here, most either
  moving to a tent or from it towards the tribe's denser population lying to the
  west.
  A granite-haired, beak-nosed elf sits on a mat, inking needles.
  
  You think:
       "Stomach will have to wait."
  
  
  You think:
       "Or I'll just.. take a nibble..."
  
  Stinging sand swirls around you.
  Inside a Gizhat-Hide Tent [W Quit Save]
     Only a few sleeping mats, made of hides, canvas and other materials,
  line the floor of this yet to be fully occupied tent.  A framework of small
  pymlithe branches supports the crimson hide that forms this dwelling's
  walls.  Upturned gurth shells and simple wooden chests hold a variety of
  personal belongings, ranging from bone, wood and stone tools to other objects
  of a vaguely arcane quality.
  A heavy agafari trunk lies here off to the side, filled with assorted gear.
  A heavy agafari trunk lies here off to the side, filled with shields, clubs and spears.
  A heavy agafari trunk lies here off to the side, filled with belts and quivers.
  A heavy agafari trunk lies here off to the side, filled with boots and leggings.
  A heavy agafari trunk lies here off to the side, filled with caps, bracers and collars.
  A heavy agafari trunk lies here off to the side, filled with sleeves and vests.
  A heavy agafari trunk lies here off to the side, filled with cloaks.
  A simple wooden chest lies here off to the side, filled with waterskins and torches.
  A simple wooden chest lies here off to the side, filled with bows and throwing weapons.
  A simple wooden chest lies here off to the side, filled with axes and swords.
  A pile of softly-tanned sleeping furs lies along the back of the tent.
  A large bag lies here near some chests, filled with bags.
  
  You open your dusty bahamet-embroidered leather backpack.
  
  Muted brown carru hide has been sewn to form this sturdy backpack.  The
  dull color of the leather is offset by the elaborate embroidery that
  envelopes the entire piece.  Lines of a soft purple-brown hue are stitched
  into the backpack's flap to depict the enormous shell of a bahamet.  A tiny,
  stitched head pokes out above the clasp of the bag.  Four stubby limbs
  sprout off the sides of the shell, pointing off towards the edges of the
  pack. 
  It is covered with dust and sand.
  In a dusty bahamet-embroidered leather backpack (used) :
  a few slabs of red meat
  a couple of waterskins
  an irrig lamp-topped staff
  
  You get your slab of red meat from your dusty bahamet-embroidered leather backpack.
  It is very light.
  
  You close your dusty bahamet-embroidered leather backpack.
  
  You eat part of your slab of red meat.
  You are a little hungry.
  
  You eat your half eaten slab of red meat.
  You are no longer hungry.
  
  You are carrying:
  
  nothing.
  
  East Side of a Thornbush-Walled Camp [NESW]
     Rising taller than a bahamet, and just as wide, an extremely dense circular
  wall of thornbushes surrounds this small area.  The land outside this natural
  barrier is barely visible through small breaks in the thorny mass.
     Some tents dot this side of the camp, spread unevenly over the hill.  Fewer
  elves, relative to the hill's western expanse, mill about here, most either
  moving to a tent or from it towards the tribe's denser population lying to the
  west.
  A granite-haired, beak-nosed elf sits on a mat, inking needles.
  
  Stinging sand swirls around you.
  Inside a Canvas-Walled Tent [N Quit Save]
     Only a few sleeping mats, made of hides, canvas and other materials,
  line the floor of this yet to be fully occupied tent.  A framework of small
  pymlithe branches supports the reinforced canvas that forms this
  dwelling's walls.  Upturned gurth shells and simple wooden chests hold a
  variety of personal belongings, ranging from bone, wood and stone tools to
  other objects of a vaguely arcane quality.
  Hanging from a peg of one of the tents poles, staring with it cold hollow gaze is an anakore skull.
  A large bag is lying here.
  A well-fashioned grass basket rests here, filled with roots and fruits.
  A sturdy grass basket rests near the grill, filled with seasonings.
  A six-sided purplish basket rests near the grill, filled with fats.
  A bone and tile grill sits in the middle of the tent.
  A simple wooden chest rests here, filled with meat.
  A simple wooden chest sits here on the floor.
  A square, snake-embroidered linen mat lies here, providing seating.
  The broken remains of a humanoid skeleton lie here.
  A hefty wooden barrel sits here.
  A hefty wooden barrel sit to the side, filled with water.
  A bone and shell frying pan is here is here hanging from the grill.
  A bone and shell frying pan is here hanging from the side of the grill.
  A duskhorn skull is here propped next to a chest.
  A large domed shell lies here.
  A sleeping mat, blue in hue and comfortable looking, sits here.
  The feral obsidian-mohawked elf is standing here.
  The rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf is standing here, looking tired.
  - she is carrying a rough canvas backpack.
  The youthful, copper-skinned elf is standing here.
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf is standing here.
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf is standing here.
  The vibrant, bestial creature is flying here.
  The slight, withered elf girl squats here, preparing bundles of herbs.
  
  
  With a sharp lift of his chin, his voice a quiet whisper, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf exclaims, in allundean:
       "You heard me.  Go!"
  
  You think:
       "Eh?"
  
  
  The feral obsidian-mohawked elf walks north.
  
  East Side of a Thornbush-Walled Camp [NESW]
     Rising taller than a bahamet, and just as wide, an extremely dense circular
  wall of thornbushes surrounds this small area.  The land outside this natural
  barrier is barely visible through small breaks in the thorny mass.
     Some tents dot this side of the camp, spread unevenly over the hill.  Fewer
  elves, relative to the hill's western expanse, mill about here, most either
  moving to a tent or from it towards the tribe's denser population lying to the
  west.
  A granite-haired, beak-nosed elf sits on a mat, inking needles.
  
  Northwards lies a tent of goudra hide.
  The flaps are open.
  [Near]
  Nothing.
  
  <101/101|124/124|189/206|103/103|running|standing>Directly to the east lies a tent of gizhat hide.
  The flaps are open.
  [Near]
  The organic, umber-pearled youth is standing here.
  
  Stinging sand swirls around you.
  Inside a Gizhat-Hide Tent [W Quit Save]
     Only a few sleeping mats, made of hides, canvas and other materials,
  line the floor of this yet to be fully occupied tent.  A framework of small
  pymlithe branches supports the crimson hide that forms this dwelling's
  walls.  Upturned gurth shells and simple wooden chests hold a variety of
  personal belongings, ranging from bone, wood and stone tools to other objects
  of a vaguely arcane quality.
  A heavy agafari trunk lies here off to the side, filled with assorted gear.
  A heavy agafari trunk lies here off to the side, filled with shields, clubs and spears.
  A heavy agafari trunk lies here off to the side, filled with belts and quivers.
  A heavy agafari trunk lies here off to the side, filled with boots and leggings.
  A heavy agafari trunk lies here off to the side, filled with caps, bracers and collars.
  A heavy agafari trunk lies here off to the side, filled with sleeves and vests.
  A heavy agafari trunk lies here off to the side, filled with cloaks.
  A simple wooden chest lies here off to the side, filled with waterskins and torches.
  A simple wooden chest lies here off to the side, filled with bows and throwing weapons.
  A simple wooden chest lies here off to the side, filled with axes and swords.
  A pile of softly-tanned sleeping furs lies along the back of the tent.
  A large bag lies here near some chests, filled with bags.
  The organic, umber-pearled youth is standing here.
  
  Stalking in, the dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf jerks to an abrupt halt, appearing deep in thought a moment before casting a glance out the flap of the tent.
  
  To the west, gizhat-hide flaps open up to the camp's east side.
  The flaps are open.
  [Very far]
  The green-runed elven girl kneels here, swirling designs in the sand.
  [Far]
  The rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf is standing here.
  The feral obsidian-mohawked elf is standing here.
  The crook-nosed, muscular elf stares into the fire.
  The wild-haired, elderly elf sits near an aging elf by the fire.
  The pale, bald, elderly elf supervises the pounding, waving a tuber.
  The gangly, agitated elf works hides here.
  A serpent-tattooed youth kneels here, nibbling meat off of his spear.
  The lithe, dark-skinned elf sits on a bahamet shell here.
  [Near]
  A granite-haired, beak-nosed elf sits on a mat, inking needles.
  
  
  The organic, umber-pearled youth has departed from the land of Zalanthas.
  
  
  East Side of a Thornbush-Walled Camp [NESW]
     Rising taller than a bahamet, and just as wide, an extremely dense circular
  wall of thornbushes surrounds this small area.  The land outside this natural
  barrier is barely visible through small breaks in the thorny mass.
     Some tents dot this side of the camp, spread unevenly over the hill.  Fewer
  elves, relative to the hill's western expanse, mill about here, most either
  moving to a tent or from it towards the tribe's denser population lying to the
  west.
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf is standing here.
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf is standing here.
  The youthful, copper-skinned elf is standing here.
  A granite-haired, beak-nosed elf sits on a mat, inking needles.
  
  
  Stalking up the low knoll, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf walks west.
  The youthful, copper-skinned elf walks west.
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf walks west.
  You follow the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, and walk west.
  
  Stinging sand swirls around you.
  Center of a Thornbush-Walled Camp [NESW Quit]
     Rising taller than a bahamet, and just as wide, an extremely dense circular
  wall of thornbushes surrounds this small area.  The land outside this natural
  barrier is barely visible through small breaks in the thorny mass.
     Lush in comparison to the barren surrounds, a patch of green flora covers
  the central part of this hill.  In the center of this patch of living ground
  sits a large campfire.  A well-worn path circles this campfire and branches
  off east and west.  Denizens of the camp pack this area most densely, some
  working hides, others in deep meditation or conversation, and here or there
  a few are immersed in one ritual or another.
     A half of a bahamet shell sits just off the well-worn path, due north of
  the fire, laying dome-up on the ground, serving as a natural podium of sorts.
     To the west the camp is densely packed with tents, the number of elves
  visible in that direction testament to the well-settled nature of that side,
  while to the east lies fewer tents and fewer still inhabitants.
  A majestic falcon, with keen yellow eyes, casts a predatory glance about the area.
  A carved granite box rests on the ground here.
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf is standing here.
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf is standing here.
  The youthful, copper-skinned elf is standing here.
  The rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf is standing here, looking tired.
  - she is carrying a rough canvas backpack.
  The feral obsidian-mohawked elf is standing here.
  The crook-nosed, muscular elf stares into the fire.
  The wild-haired, elderly elf sits near an aging elf by the fire.
  The pale, bald, elderly elf supervises the pounding, waving a tuber.
  The gangly, agitated elf works hides here.
  A serpent-tattooed youth kneels here, nibbling meat off of his spear.
  The lithe, dark-skinned elf sits on a bahamet shell here.
  
  To the south the ground gradually slopes downwards, levelling off.
  [Near]
  The ebon-hued, fire-scarred elf stands here, eyes gleaming.
  The bald, weather-battered elf stands here, scanning the horizon watchfully.
  The gaunt, windblown elf stands here watching the sky.
  The green tattooed elf stands here vigilantly.
  Coming to a skidding halt beside the feral obsidian-mohawked elf, the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf sighs softly and shakes her head.
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf's slitted eyes flick across the western clearing, and he tips his chin in a faint nod.
  
  It is high sun on Ocandra, the 34th day of the Descending Sun,
  In the Year of Silt's Slumber, year 53 of the 21st Age.
  
  
  The youthful, copper-skinned elf follows along just a bit behind the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, his gaze sweeping over the heart of the camp.
  
  
  As he eases down, bending into a crouch, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "Let 'em speak."
  
  
  Dropping onto a flat stone beside the fire's grave, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf sits down.
  
  To the south the ground gradually slopes downwards, levelling off.
  [Near]
  The ebon-hued, fire-scarred elf stands here, eyes gleaming.
  The bald, weather-battered elf stands here, scanning the horizon watchfully.
  The gaunt, windblown elf stands here watching the sky.
  The green tattooed elf stands here vigilantly.
  
  To the north the hill meets a cliff wall, an overhanging shelf offering some shade.
  [Near]
  A black warbeetle is reclining here.
  A large yellow sunback lizard stands here.
  A large yellow sunback lizard stands here.
  A huge, four legged, shell-backed lizard is here, nosing about for forage.
  A large and grey-scaled flightless bird stands here.
  A large yellow sunback lizard stands here.
  A large war beetle crawls about, struggling against its chitin harness.
  A large yellow sunback lizard stands here.
  A large and grey-scaled flightless bird stands here.
  A large yellow sunback lizard stands here.
  A desert-scaled sunlon stands here on two legs.
  A large war beetle crawls about, struggling against its chitin harness.
  A gargantuan lizard with glossy black scales stands here foraging for food.
  A huge, four legged, shell-backed lizard is here, nosing about for forage.
  A slender, striped cheotan lizard crouches here, nostrils flaring.
  A huge, four legged, shell-backed lizard is here, nosing about for forage.
  
  To the west lies the bulk of the camp's tents, elves bustling around.
  [Far]
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf is standing here.
  The shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf is standing here.
  [Near]
  The green-runed elven girl kneels here, swirling designs in the sand.
  
  After a moment of deliberation, the dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf moves over to an empty spot and lowers himself to the ground.
  
  
  Nodding and taking a seat near the fire, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says, in allundean:
       "Yes. No need to complicate things further. They need to speak."
  
  You sit down.
  
  
  Near the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, the hunched, beak-nosed elf sits down to rest.
  
  
  Lifting a finger to jab him between the shoulderblades, chin rising as he crouches, the youthful, copper-skinned elf says to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, in allundean:
       "Made a fool of me t' the Shaman, with your damn spice. Now you're gonna run the Pit with me, that's for certain."
  
  Glancing over and giving him a grin, you ask the youthful, copper-skinned elf, in allundean:
       "Well now, if you'd asked either of us, we would've told you, eh?"
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf straightens stiffly beneath the jab, a sharp hiss escaping his lips.
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf turns a dour glance over one shoulder at the youthful, copper-skinned elf, but his visage soon softens into a narrow, yellowed grin.
  
  You feel like there is too much things going on right now and it's best to just see how it goes.
  
  
  On the West Side of the Camp you see:  the umbral, dark-tressed female elf has arrived from the west, turning on heel.
  
  
  On the West Side of the Camp you see:  stalking along, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf walks east.
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf has arrived from the west, stalking along.
  
  
  On the West Side of the Camp you see:  the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf has arrived from the west.
  
  
  On the West Side of the Camp you see:  the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf walks east.
  The shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf has arrived from the west.
  
  
  Expectantly, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf looks up at the umbral, dark-tressed female elf.
  
  
  Stlking south to the tent, the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf shouts, in allundean:
       "Delur!"
  
  
  The shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf walks south.
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf has arrived from the north.
  
  The dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf glances up as the two arrives, his gaze looking over them quickly, almost searchingly.
  
  
  The youthful, copper-skinned elf offers a smile to the men closest to him. It fades, however, as he turns his attention towards the western tents.
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf walks north.
  The shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf has arrived from the south.
  
  
  The shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf walks east.
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf has arrived from the west.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf walks south.
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf says, in allundean:
       "Leave them."
  
  You think:
       "Will she not make -peace-?"
  
  
  With a slow nod, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "Ai, zhat is best."
  
  
  Lifting spindly fingers up to twist and pull back the knots of one wood-beaded dreadlock, the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf plops down onto the ground at the feral obsidian-mohawked elf's feet.
  
  
  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf folds her arms tightly over her chest, making a wide berth around those gathered towards the south stretch through the tents.
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf looses a long, hoarse and weary sigh, his chest visibly deflating.
  
  
  Wincing slightly as he watches after the shaggy-haired elf's sprint, the youthful, copper-skinned elf says, in allundean:
       "I wouldn't go back in there now, that's for sure."
  
  
  Stalking along, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf walks south.
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the umbral, dark-tressed female elf has arrived from the north, stalking along.
  
  With a sigh, the dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf rubs his hand on his brows.
  
  
  Putting his head in his hands wearily, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says, in allundean:
       "If Aduj wants to get his head ripped off by the Shaman, that is his prerogative."
  
  It is early afternoon on Ocandra, the 34th day of the Descending Sun,
  In the Year of Silt's Slumber, year 53 of the 21st Age.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf has arrived from the south.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf walks west.
  The shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf has arrived from the east.
  
  Tilting his head back to look at the sky a moment, you say, in allundean:
       "I'm feelin' like I wanna run to the post and get myself a long nice smoke."
  
  
  Shaking his head slowly, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "No forgiveness."
  
  
  Shaking her head as she speaks, more to herself than anyone else, the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf says, in allundean:
       "All of this coming to blows is upsetting her and tha' young in her belly."
  
  
  Stalking in , the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf exclaims, in allundean:
       "Which brother says I spoke of harming my sister?!"
  
  
  Straightening stiffly, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf stands up.
  
  
  The youthful, copper-skinned elf blinks as he looks towards the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf, furrowing his brow.
  
  
  Not looking at him, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says to the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf, in allundean:
       "It matters not, Tripped. Shaman Delur himself speaks it."
  
  
  The shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf looks over the gathered elves.
  
  
  Wearily, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf turns on his heel, squaring himself with the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf with slitted eyes.
  
  
  The shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf says to the hunched, beak-nosed elf, in allundean:
       "Well he is wrong."
  
  
  With a lift of one clawed hand, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says to the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf, in allundean:
       "First, brother, you must be calm."
  
  
  Gaze narrowing into thin slits as mismatched eyes rest on the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf, the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf pulls herself slowly to her feet.
  
  
  The youthful, copper-skinned elf widens his eyes as he listens to the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf, his attention straying quite deliberately towards the eastern tents beyond.
  
  With a sudden burst of dry humor as he glances to the hunched, beak-nosed elf, you say, in allundean:
       "Perhaps -this- is what you speak of, brother. Not the witch mark or anythin', but the dividin' within our tribe."
  
  
  With a sweep of one clawed finger through the air, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says to the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf, in allundean:
       "Zhis will nah get anythin' done."
  
  
  The shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf turns his south.
  
  With a sardonic twist of a smile, you ask the hunched, beak-nosed elf, in allundean:
       "The innards of the diseased child you've read. Perhaps it all turns to this, eh?"
  
  
  The shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf says to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, in allundean:
       "BUt there was never no plans of harming my own."
  
  
  Looking to you, taking the joke quite seriously, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says to you, in allundean:
       "Perhaps you're right, Brother. Perhaps you're right."
  
  
  With a sharp angle of his chin, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says to the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf, in allundean:
       "Zhen let't be.  Only more useless -shit- will come'a zhis.  Akei'ta will decide zhe details."
  
  Muttering to himself though loud enough to be overheard by some, you say, in allundean:
       "Dear mother, I need a drink."
  
  
  Jutting a single, clawed finger to the southeast, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says to the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf, in allundean:
       "Listen to zhe Shaman!  It is nah important what words are lies, only zhat th'wound is shut.  Zhis will bleed th'Akei'ta Var 'a strength."
  
  
  The shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf nods a few times.
  
  Calling out to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf unhelpfully, you say, in allundean:
       "She is already bleedin'."
  
  
  Folding both sinewy arms over his dujat-banded leather jacket's chest, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf asks the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf, in allundean:
       "What was said t'her?"
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf seems oblivious to you, his weathered visage set into a hard, stoic mask.
  
  
  Looking south, the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf says to the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, in allundean:
       "Some brother says he heard me and my Jaan plotting to harm her."
  
  Tugging your dusty bahamet-embroidered leather backpack onto his lap as he mutters under his breath, you say, in allundean:
       "If I had a drink..."
  
  You open your dusty bahamet-embroidered leather backpack.
  
  Muted brown carru hide has been sewn to form this sturdy backpack.  The
  dull color of the leather is offset by the elaborate embroidery that
  envelopes the entire piece.  Lines of a soft purple-brown hue are stitched
  into the backpack's flap to depict the enormous shell of a bahamet.  A tiny,
  stitched head pokes out above the clasp of the bag.  Four stubby limbs
  sprout off the sides of the shell, pointing off towards the edges of the
  pack. 
  It is covered with dust and sand.
  In a dusty bahamet-embroidered leather backpack (used) :
  a few slabs of red meat
  a couple of waterskins
  an irrig lamp-topped staff
  
  
  The shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf lopes off to the south.
  
  
  The shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf walks south.
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf has arrived from the north.
  
  The dreadlocked, thorn-inked elf rummages within your dusty bahamet-embroidered leather backpack a moment, his brows creasing into a frown as he comes back empty handed.
  
  You think:
       "Ah fuck."
  
  
  With a pair of sharp nods, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "Ai, ah get zha-"
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  The shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf lopes over near the umbral, dark-tressed female elf.
  
  With a sigh, you close your dusty bahamet-embroidered leather backpack.
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf cuts off abruptly and looses a hoarse, weary sigh, one hand rising to his scar-whorled brow.
  
  
  Flatly, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says, in allundean:
       "No one follow."
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf stops leading you.
  
  
  The rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf coughs, mismatched gaze turning southward to watch from afar.
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf asks the umbral, dark-tressed female elf something.
  
  
  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf stops leading the youthful, copper-skinned elf.
  
  Glancing to him, you ask the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf, in allundean:
       "Hey, brother, you don't happen to have a drink, eh? Or did you finish it all?"
  
  
  Stalking down the low, grassy slope, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf walks south.
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf has arrived from the north, stalking down the low, grassy slope.
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  The umbral, dark-tressed female elf ignores the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf plainly, her gaze set out away from the cluster of tents.
  
  
  Lifting his shoulders, the youthful, copper-skinned elf says, in allundean:
       "Didn't plan to follow. Nothin' will change until they open their ears t'each other."
  
  Ignored, turning to him instead, you ask the youthful, copper-skinned elf, in allundean:
       "-You- don't happen to have any... do you?"
  
  
  The feral obsidian-mohawked elf walks east.
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the feral obsidian-mohawked elf has arrived from the west.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the feral obsidian-mohawked elf walks south.
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  The willowy, thorn-inscribed elf paces towards the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf and the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, his weathered visage set in a stoic mask.
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf says something to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf.
  
  
  Snorting in light amusement, the youthful, copper-skinned elf asks you, in allundean:
       "No. Am I the only Brother who doesn't drink and spice all day?"
  
  
  The rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf walks east.
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf has arrived from the west.
  
  
  On the East Side of the Camp you see:  the rangy, smoke-tattooed she-elf walks south.
  
  Eyeing him a moment before cracking a grin, you say to the youthful, copper-skinned elf, in allundean:
       "Nah, Kickin' doesn't either."
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  with a gesture, the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf says something to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf.
  
  
  Rubbing the butt of his palm wearily into his face, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says, in allundean:
       "I'm fucking tired."
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  As he nears, his hoarse voice thinning out wearily, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says something.
  
  Glancing southward a moment and watching the two speak before shifting his attention to him, you ask the hunched, beak-nosed elf, in allundean:
       "So am I. Our sister's not so forgivin' eh?"
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the ebon-hued, fire-scarred elf intently scans the area.
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  bracing her elbows up against her bent knees, her gaze never lifting for him, the umbral, dark-tressed female elf says something to the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf.
  
  
  Contemplatively, as he looks off to the eastern tents, the youthful, copper-skinned elf says to you, in allundean:
       "If you're runnin' to the Blackwing for drink, well, I need to get some of the things I've made sized. Nahual about keels over when I talk about goin' to the Pit for it."
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  pacing back and forth, the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf says something to the umbral, dark-tressed female elf.
  
  Giving him a nod, you ask the youthful, copper-skinned elf, in allundean:
       "Aye, I'm goin'. But later. Think I'm goin' to pass out for a few days. I'll find your mind later, eh?"
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf rises from the ground, and clambers to his feet.
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf says something.
  
  
  Rubbing at the small of his back, the hunched, beak-nosed elf says, in allundean:
       "I'm going to take my rest."
  
  Pushing himself off the ground, you stand up.
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf says, in allundean:
       "Hopefully time will shut this wound."
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  In a sharp hiss, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf exclaims something.
  
  With another glance southward, you say, in allundean:
       "Unlikely."
  
  
  Scratching his chin, the youthful, copper-skinned elf says to you, in allundean:
       "I'll just go to the Pit. I can do that trade, while I'm at it."
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf trots off to a nearby tent.
  
  
  The hunched, beak-nosed elf has departed from the land of Zalanthas.
  
  Shifting his gaze to him and giving him a grimace, you say to the youthful, copper-skinned elf, in allundean:
       "Don't go alone. Take Whisper with you at least."
  
  
  At the Entrance to the Camp you see:  With a sharp jab of two hooked claws at the umbral, dark-tressed female elf, the willowy, thorn-inscribed elf says something to the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed elf.
  
  Giving him a wave as he starts off towards the tents, you say to the youthful, copper-skinned elf, in allundean:
       "Anyway, I'll find your mind later, eh? Get you properly drunk and spiced up."
  

  [The following log contains my favorite Imm animation. Kudos to everyone involved! It was awesome.]
  
  Center of a Thornbush-Walled Camp [NESW Quit]
     Rising taller than a bahamet, and just as wide, an extremely dense circular
  wall of thornbushes surrounds this small area.  The land outside this...
  Continue Reading...
• 

  A Man of the Wilds by Briar
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  Got Slate? by Briar
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  A Drovian and a Rukkian.

  
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  An Evening Rose by Briar
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  The rose speaks of love silently, in a language known only to the heart. - Anonymous

  
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  Young Errigson by Briar
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  Sergeant Anaba of the Fist by Briar
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  Arjaan by Briar
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  Let the fine deeds of the father be observed by his son and his son's children and let the virtue of this warrior-heart reward them with a Light-held life.

  
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  Crafter by Bast
  Added on Sep 20, 2012

  
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  Gibbs by Bast
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  Tribal by bast
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• 

  A poor, common girl. by Wayani
  Added on Aug 12, 2012

  Composed by Seeker Ayla of Konviwedu for her first and truest love, Arkesh Kadius.

  ---

  Don't leave me here, alone and empty;
  for I know you could fill your bed aplenty.
  
  I know that this poor common girl ...
  Is not fancy enough for the refinement of your world.
  
  Your duties and mine keep us apart -
  And yet I wonder if I still truly stir your heart?
  
  Am I only the simple common girl,
  who dresses and speaks unlike her parented churls?
  
  The one you ornament in the richest of silks,
  to have only -your- hands unfurl?
  
  Do you truly believe you were meant for me?
  A poor common girl who's never worn pearls from the silt sea?
  
  And even encrusted in such jewels feels completely empty?
  Tell me love, tell me truly please.
  
  So that my heart might rest with ease,
  within my false bed of pretty tapestries.

  Don't leave me here, alone and empty;
  for I know you could fill your bed aplenty.
  
  I know that this poor common girl ...
  Is not fancy enough for the refinement of your world.
  
  Your duties and mine keep us apart -
  And yet I wonder if I still truly stir your heart?
  
  Am I only the simple common girl,
  who...
  Continue Reading...