Night in any city was a time of renewal and rebirth.

If you traced the cycle of hours from dawn to dusk, you would see the rise and fall of civilization. In the morning the honest folk rose from their beds. A touch of milk and water, perhaps some bread, and they were on their way. Honey if you were a rich asshole. You proceeded with an honest day's work, you collected the wages produced by said honest work, and by dusk you were home. There was a loving family awaiting you there. A wife. Children. Perhaps an uncle or aunt that you were gracious enough to allow to live with you. Dinner was a shared and familial experience. Then you prepared for the next day. You let your self shine through all of the small trials you endured during the day.

( Skandra could never imagine living that way. )

The door closed behind him.

For a moment Skandra was left staring at the punctured, ruined wall before him. Holes revealed the support beams that held all of this up around him. Nonsense was comparing it to what he'd seen now, a glimpse of how a chosen being of the gods really worked. There was no grand tale to show you the way. Show you the light. He kept waiting for it to appear, that circle of golden promise, to give him an answer he could understand. They were set on their course now. He accepted what he was without asking questions, without asking... why any of this should be happening in the first place. Because there was no one to ask, and no reason to think that the answers would make any sense at all.

( That left him going on. )

It was always a surprise when she laid her hands on Leir. A shock to the senses, she felt like she could have told him everything and he would have understood, she felt as if her lives had always revolved around his, but that wasn't true. Those were memories that were not her own and never would be her own. She knew Leir only in the smallest of ways and she could not understand him, nor would he understand her. The next thought was always that he looked too much like his father and it caused a deep sadness to well up inside of her. How many times had she almost whispered his name? Eibhear was gone, he was not coming back. Leir was not his father, and in her mind he could never be better than Eibhear.. Just different from him. Great in his own way but not in her heart. She was different from Leir. They were not friends. Simply companions of fate and destiny.. She would not tell him that though.

( He simply would not understand. )

Stairs shouldn't shake as these did. Skandra paused at the foot of them, one boot still on the hard floor, and placed his hand on the banister. The corridor was seven feet wide, and the stairs took four of that, leading up to the next level. When the grip grew hard the banister creaked. He never shifted his hand, never tried to make it sway. Only a hard grip. On his face a smile erupted. It was steady on his face as he climbed them, these shaking stairs, each step heavier than the last. Wondering if perhaps he'd put his foot through them. While these questions had occurred to him every time he'd gone to check on her it was the first time he'd tested his supposition. There were so many things he did not understand about himself, these days. About Elemmire and the stone. The stone he'd not returned. Its time was coming soon. He needed to be ready.

( Those questions made him plant harder heels on the stair. )

Long hallways were commonly signs of the wealth of a person, of a nation. The longer the corridor you were forced to endure, the more important the person who waited at the end of it. At least that was how the story was told. These meetings were not a trial for him to attend. In the main because... well, because there were a great many rules he had already broken. What was one more? The spear of his father was clutched in his hand, and its heavy counter-weight - a steel orb, polished and new as the day it was made - crashed heavily into marble with each step. Olas made no attempt to mute its noise, and his companion - a thin fellow with a wolf's smile - was not paying any atention to the sound of it. A strange place to meet. He could feel the stirrings of power here, in a way that he had not ever felt before.

( Something was changed. )

For a moment, he didn't think such a thing was possible.

In the aftermath of... whatever the hell it was that had happened here, this section of the city remained deserted. Early one morning he'd heard shouting, and the rattle of armor, but it turned out to have not a thing to do with Skandra Tyullis or the ones who were with him. Which was a lucky thing, considering that Elemmire slept more often than she awoke - and that was usually just to treat herself to a gulp of water. They were not running out of time. They had already run out. Tomorrow was the day. Skandra had not quite framed it in these terms for the stalwart companions that were tolerating his bossy, churlish ways - but tomorrow either Elemmire was going to die, or they were. All other options had been eliminated by now. He couldn't imagine what sort of things were happening in her mind. Or what sorts of images she was seeing in the darkness of her eyelids.

( Probably better if he didn't. )

At first there'd been no talking. Only a bit of sleep for souls that were exhausted, despite the restorative effects of ... what he'd done. Skandra couldn't imagine sleeping after something like that, but his mind settled easily into the rhythm of rest. Hat brim pulled over his eyes, mouth slightly open, the Immortal had begun snoring in earnest. Of course no one complained that he was keeping them awake. That he remembered. If they had, their words were lost in that oblivion reserved for those who were doing something vastly more important than conversing with shrews who complained about snoring - namely, sleeping. But the sleep he found was not the sleep he wanted. Or even the sleep that he needed. Instead his throat was dry, but he took a drink, and the water plunged him into a sea of madness as before. Time that had no meaning. Voices he did not know, arguing about something he did not understand. The visions he saw along with those voices were half-formed and strange. A great hand, the size of a building, covered in runes and symbols of ancient times long forgotten. The hand made a fist. The voice belonged to it. And Skandra drew his sword at its coming.

( It made no sense. )

For a moment Skandra did not realize he was seeing the world in white outlines and black star-drinking shapes. Not until a void that was shaped like a former compatriot was whispering about exhaustion to him. Not until his eyes were drifting skyward, and he was scratching a day's worth of stubble with a bloody wounded hand. You bet everything, and if you lost, you doubled up to make back your losses. That was how it was supposed to work. In reality sooner or later you would lose it all - because nobody had an infinite bankroll. He was starting to feel some of that loss now, starting to wonder if it would be worth it to keep going. Another bet, twice what he'd lost, might save the day. Might ruin him. There wasn't enough time to search for answers. From the corner of his eyes he saw two white shapes clinging to each other, filled with the void, light-less and bland as they shouted incoherently. One staggering step forward. Two. Heat was in his boots, on his legs, but he could not make himself pay attention to the heat just yet. There would come a time. The time was not now. Not yet.

( They still had so far to go. )

Skandra was beginning to regret some things.

Onainat, who'd insisted that she was the perfect person to drive their wagon, was going entirely too fast. She seemed possessed of a madcap glee that he'd not seen in her in quite some time. Skandra didn't like telling people they were insane but he was starting to think they needed to have a conversation. Hanging onto the side rail for all that he was worth, and picturing his death beneath an overturning carriage and ten tons of horseflesh, was more than he was capable of just then. Instead his eyes snapped back, over his shoulder, to the distant rumble he heard from the rear. Whatever it was, it was probably unrelated to them. Probably someone causing another, wholly unrelated ruckus in the city? He never paid attention, but he thought they might have been demolishing one of the old court buildings today. The skyline looked different. He kept looking back until he thought it would make him sick, and then he turned his eyes to the front once more. Onainat was urging people to get out of the way by shouting haphazardly at them. And he was starting to suspect that she'd never done this before.

( Then again, neither had he, if... )

"You're a legend in your own mind," the fellow sneered.

"Then you shouldn't have a problem calling it," Skandra answered his sneer with a more powerful edition.

The brown-coat's face lifted. "Heads."

At the first ring of silver on stone, Skandra lifted the crossbow he was clutching like driftwood at sea and shot his opponent in the stomach. With a single high-pitched squeal the man's soul picked up its feet and fled into the afterlife.

"Well that was womanish," Skandra informed him.

( Somehow they'd stumbled into chaos. )

It stank.

Of fear, anxiety and perspiration mixed with other musty smell of wet hay in the still air.

The White Riders had thrown the entire group that they had gathered at the auction into a single windowless grey holding cell with nothing but concrete walls and metal bars for company. Displaced of their usual setting, the group first milled about, expressing their outrage at the top of their lungs until they realized that there was no one around to hear their protests. The weaker ones found themselves crouching near the floor, overwhelmed by their own anxieties and exhaustion to do anything but weep while the stronger sought to break free – to varying effects. From her corner, she watched as the mages tried to throw their magic at the metal bars to no effects. Basic incantations that invoke the various elements of fire, air, earth and water went unanswered as though they were all caught in a space where no gods or power could reach them. She watched as their faces crumble with despair as they stared at the empty space between their hands expectantly while the more desperate ones threw themselves against the bars, trying to pry the metal rods apart with their bare hands to no avail. The despair of knowing all that you have is not enough Something that she knew too well.

( He will come. )

Thunder.

There was nothing on the horizon that might give way to thunder, of course. They were free of storms. All told it was a pleasantly cool evening in a city that seemed to be in desperate need of them. No, the thunder was his boots, slapping into the ground at an alarming rate, thundering over cobbled stone and back alleys as he ran. Even after emerging from the underground he did not stop. Even after he was blocks away from the auction center, he did not stop. There were White Riders roaming the streets - but none stopped to talk to a man who was running before they were aware of him. Aeotha was running, somewhere along behind, but she was hampered by skirts and a staff. All the same, with those handicaps she was not too far behind. He could hear her feet slapping in counterpoint to his own. Lightning to his thunder. Skandra only knew where he was going when he got there, and that was some time after leaving the gala event in the first place.

( Home. )

This was where he belonged.

Uathis was not a man of complicated tastes. Those around him thought of him this way because of the appearance he created, because of the lie that was his every step and thought and action. In reality that was a show - for those he allied himself with, and those he allied himself against. You could stretch illusions for a long time if you were keen enough to do it. This Elemmire - he knew her by another name, but he doubt the idiot with his basket hilt knew anything about that - kept a great many secrets it seemed. Last remnant of a cursed mountain home. Twice cursed, for the life she should not have led, and yet here she was. Uathis didn't think she knew that he knew - but it was hard not to stare dangerously at someone when you were used to staring dangerously at someone. That he was even here was a testament to the utter stupidity of Skandra Tyullis, his comrade Leironuoth - not the real one of course - and this pair of she-witches that trailed along behind them.

( Women should not know magic. )

Skandra did not know what he'd been expecting, but this was not it. The catacombs beneath the structure were wide enough for five men to walk shoulder to shoulder, but he could touch the ceiling of the thing without stretching, and there were columns and archways in nonsensical arrangements all around them. First a wide arch, gradually thinning to funnel water? Or perhaps to keep large debris from getting through? He'd planned an hour's walk to the site of the auction house, hoped for thirty minutes or so, and was now around the forty-fifth minute with no end in sight. Occasionally water would flow past his boots, never higher than the ankles. He did not look if it was clean or not. Whatever the case those catacombs smelled like dust and stone, the remnants of a thousand years' disuse. Or so he imagined it. Agethlea might be a city of magic and wonder but it felt like a dungeon in the pits. He could have been enjoying a nice drink right now. Only, part of him did not believe they would find the stone there.

( Part of him thought they would never find it. )

Leir had a difficult time bathing. That is to say the facilities were absolute shit, not that he was physically challenged. When he returned to the room, shivering and wet haired, he found it to be completely empty.

“Well,” he said. And then he stood around naked because there was no one to say otherwise. This only lasted a few minutes because he was shivering. Once he was dressed he made the beds, did sit ups with his feet tucked beneath an armoire, admired a spider’s web up on the ceiling, and shouted out the window at a loud bluebird.

They must be eating breakfast, he thought, and sat down on a bed to wait. He cleaned his scabbard and polished the blade of his schiavona. He was about to rebind the handle of a straightback knife when he noticed a note sitting on a small corner desk.

Dress shopping, Aeotha and Elemmire

He covered his eyes with a hand and sighed.

“Wasn’t that my idea?” he asked no one.

So he went out, staying quiet and to himself. Bought some smoked cheese and ate that with bread. Sat down on a few benches here and there and watched people pass by, people argue, people sell things and haggle over the price. A little ways into the afternoon a small human lost her footing and fell flat on her face. Leir was too far away to do anything about it (other than laugh).

There were some squirrels scuffling in the branches. He watched that for a little while and felt like sighing out all the air in his lungs until he fell over dead. Instead he walked over to a tobacconist’s booth and examined the different blends.

“I’ll need a pipe too,” he told the merchant. “Nothing fancy.”

He walked away with the pipe lit and strolled down a broad cobblestone, looking entirely out of place. He was smoking a nice ghynnen blend, something a bit floral on the nose. It was good but he was by no means a connoisseur and could not have said whether or not the price was fair.

“Looks like your axle is loose,” he told someone kicking at their oxcart. They fixed it quickly and Leir decided it was time to walk back to the inn, see if the spider had made any new developments on his web. Or her web, who the fuck can tell.

Sour ale at his elbow, Skandra eyed his cards with thinly-veiled disdain. Two lords, a lady-in-waiting, a cup, and a rod. It was one of the worst hands he'd been dealt tonight. Even with his luck running cold he still had two-thirds of the coin at the table - but he'd bet large early, on the strength of those two lords, and for the two crowns he'd discarded the draw had rewarded him with a lady-in-waiting and a rod. Trading down after a massive opening bet was bad enough - if he dropped his bet here, they would smell blood in the water, and they'd hit him like the tigerfish he knew them to be. Skandra grimaced at the ale as though that was the source of his irritation, and pretended to hesitate in drinking. The men seemed to agree. Warm ale was better than no ale, but warm ale was also worse than drinking rat feces. At least in his mind it was. Skandra didn't think he'd ever had the pleasure, unless the more terrible swill he'd had in the country over the years was made from that. A chilling thought. Concentrate on the cards.

( Luck only carried you so far. )

It was easy to mask the jealousy Aeotha had suddenly felt in that room there with all of them. Easy for her these days to let the calm of Lorien sweep over her. She now knew, or at least thought she did, why it was that Leir had always appeared to in place, so easy back in the days when he was the only chosen of Lorien and Aeotha was a simple temple priestess. Because Lorien commanded a calm. She was a Goddess of Love and Peace, even if many had gone to war in her name, and many died for the same thing. Aeotha did not like shopping. She was much more at home with the old robes of a Priestess than the newer, finer dresses that she wore now. The only reason she ever changed to them was because she had to. The High Priestess station commanded more presence dressed in finery's than the old robes. Part of her enjoyed the finer silks and the fitted design of them. She'd never miss the too starched, or the scratchy feel of some of the robes she'd worn as a girl.

( But she did dislike shopping, especially in a human city, a great deal. )

Skandra Tyullis slouched in a corner, hat over his eyes, rolling a pair of dice around in his palm as he watched. There was no sunlight to trouble him save the muted white glow which descended from the skylight, as early morning hours broke upon the city of Agethlea. There had been trouble last night, or so the stories went. Fighting in the city. A lord's manor burned to the ground, stones and all. A great battle between White Riders and assassins, from the Red House some said. Led fearlessly by this fellow named Eragos Feareborne, whom people seemed to fear more than respect or like. At least, they talked about him the way cowards did. And his sometime-lover Vera of Beit-Orane had saved the High Lord Arand's life. Agethlea was not the sort of city where violence had become commonplace. That meant the city was bubbling with talk. Most of it over how long these two adventurers and heroes would live before someone took their lives away from them. It wasn't the reason he was slouching. He did that to escape roving eyes, who - having no eyes to meet their own - took no notice. There was a long line, here, and they wanted to be done with it before the next battle for freedom broke out in their midst.

( Rich men always made him feel like sneering. )

It was unusual for an inn to provide you with a balcony. In a city this size, he supposed nothing should have surprised him. It was worth laughing about - the idea that this Satharine didn't terrify him, any more than the idea of an invincible steel beast did, but he could feel surprise because of a balcony. So there he sat scanning the night sky, looking for the star that would take him home or somewhere like it, clove hanging between his lips. He'd thought once, very briefly, that he'd quit with a new lease on life. Few things could have turned out to be more wrong. So here he was staring through a cloud of smoke, looking for all the world as though the city was burning and had yet to reveal its flames, and thinking about... what he wanted to do next, and where that move would take him. The Free Cities always made him look inward, some kind of mirror, some kind of trap. And even though he'd been born not far from here, he didn't think of this place as home. Just as the eyesore that he sometimes had to visit. Only someone from the Free Cities would betray their friends for the sake of a stone that they could not explain.

( Well, maybe he could. )

"I said what you wanted me to say," Orb protested quietly. "But that isn't possible. He would never do something like that."

The room was dark enough for ten night skies. Orb preferred it that way. He said the light hurt his eyes. If his line of reasoning was followed to its natural conclusion, however, he had no eyes and all of this was nothing but a fairy tale living in one god's mind. Since Scythe did not believe in such stories he didn't credit them with any measure of truth. Therefore Orb in his mind was nothing but a charlatan. A wide-eyed fool of a charlatan who could not even keep his own lies straight in his head. Scythe felt certain that, if his entire discourse with other persons consisted of falsehood and vague innuendo, he would establish a system to make it sound at the very least consistent. Oa did not seem disturbed by this. She was tapping a fan against the palm of her hand, imitating a lady that they'd seen earlier in the day. That one had died screaming for what she knew. What she knew was the current source of debate. And one that Scythe did not especially enjoy having - the reason for his relative silence.

( The other two went on and on. )