Karazasura Senhotep

5th Blade of House Senhotep Karazasura Senhotep (a.k.a. Zashi)

Physical Description

General Physical Condition

Solidly-build, with lithe muscles like steel cables indicating agility and durability.

Body Features

Scintillating electric-blue scales Long scar runs down his right arm, a memento from a past duel

Facial Features

Torn aural fringe from a run-in with a pirate, now elegantly body-modded into a neater pattern. Piercing yellow eyes.

Apparel & Accessories

Imposing splint armor characteristic of the dragonborn in colors of red and orange and gold. Senhotep shozoku disguised as courtier's attire, elegant flowing robes easily tucked and tied away when discretion is called for and armored underneath.

Mental characteristics

Personal history

Karazasura "Zashi" Senhotep, Fifth Blade of the Senhotep Clan, has high expectations riding on him. Descendants of Fraxiros’ second son, the Senhoteps have spent their years as the right arms of the government. Swearing themselves to their country’s service, the Senhoteps practice elegant swordplay, military discipline, and espionage. They are the sun and the moon of the Draconian Imperial Republic, honorable envoys in peacetime and versatile foreign operatives otherwise. The duties of his family trained Zashi to be forthright, noble and efficient; traits he saw exemplified in his elder sister, Hikora. A master of the sword and architect of her own technique, Hikora’s accomplishments at home and in the field have led to her becoming the First Blade or the Senhotep Clan, their most trusted and accomplished agent. She’s 34. His admiration for his sister has led him to push himself to his limits since he was young. Zashi first picked up a sword when he was eighteen months old, barely out of his hatchling phase, and was known to sneak up on the family’s cats when he was young. He is talented, well-liked, and has remained utterly in the shadow of his sister throughout. His achievements have earned him the rank of Fifth Blade, still not enough when compared to his best friend who is the Third and his sister who is the First. He sees this comparison as a challenge, holding no enmity towards those above him, but is a challenge he intends to meet very sincerely. Zashi has a lot to prove, so he believes. A long scar running down his arm from a past duel is a reminder of what he’s willing to do to prove it, and also serves as a lesson for himself to not be so brazen in pursuing it. Having attempted once to defend his father’s honor in said duel when he was outclassed, he has since learned to pick his battles. His caution, however, cannot be said to truly outweigh his pride. Zashi’s first assignment saw him chasing a local pirate crew and making an example of their leader—he’d made a name for himself instantly. He had been itching to get back in the action ever since; subsequent appointments saw him on important diplomatic duties, but nothing where his role was major. He watched his friend Amiri move past him in position, his mother pass away, and still he found no solace in action. He got his wish in a way he was not anticipating. Shortly, one after another, Amiri fell off the radar on an important assignment and his sister was injured in another. With the other Blades above him scattered across the world, it fell upon Zashi to answer the call: he is to intercept the blueprints for a devastating new weapon from Del'Orta, and gather military intelligence for a potential invasion. The presence of the manapools in Tollund is proving to be an irresistible temptation, and enough factions have demonstrated interest that Draconia cannot help but probe the situation, waiting for the right opportunity to stake their claim… Now, Zashi finds himself torn between yet another two worlds: pride for his people, and a desire to see them reclaim their glory on the world stage, and a nagging feeling that this war is not the answer… And what happened to Amiri? ___________ ^{1Sparks Fog the Blade Like Winter Glass: Crackling Fang of the Blue Dragon is its formal name, but it’s often referred to as Blue Dragon Fang in shorthand.}

Gender Identity

Male--he/him/his

Sexuality

Straight, to his current experience.

Education

Raised among a wealthy, yet monastic and spartan cadet clan of Fraxiros' line, most wealth Senhoteps experience is in their courier's attire and other essential equipment.

Employment

Envoy and operative of the Senhotep Clan of Draconia.

Personality Characteristics

Motivation

I want to live up to the standard my sister has set for me, and rise to the family's expectations.

Likes & Dislikes

Likes -Cats -Sketch artistry -Swordplay -His sister -Flying Dislikes -Firearms -People who don't keep their word -Riding

Virtues & Personality perks

Eschews the use of firearms--much of this belief helps him accept the light/dark duality of the work that he does.

Vices & Personality flaws

Relies on religious dedication to reconcile his more violent, shadowy deeds.

Social

Contacts & Relations

Cadet family--Clan Senhotep--to Fraxiros' main family lineage. Clan Senhotep are known as the movers and shakers, with each able-bodied member trained to take a stand for the lines values; being a cadet family has left them with much to prove. Amiri
Best friend and (MIA) 3rd Blade of House Senhotep Zashi had been taken on a charity mission to one of the lower, poorer, provinces of Draconia. His dojo would occasionally do outreach to connect with the common citizens, and this was little seven-year-old Zashi’s first. He had been training as a Blade for about four years at this point. Zashi was tasked with handing out bread to the other children. As he went about his task, he saw a young dragonborn--about his age, maybe younger--standing at the back of the crowd. When Zashi offered him some bread, he quietly refused. After, when the rest of the dojo gathered and the townspeople had come to see them off, that same dragonborn boy pushed his way through the crowd and called out to Zashi. As he spun around, he saw a broom handle hurtling towards his face. He brought up his wooden training sword just in time to block the blow, but within eight strikes he was on your ass, staring down the length of a broom handle. The poor young dragonborn had defeated him; it was Zashi's first time tasting such bitter loss. It only made it worse then that his sensei saw something in this child and decided to take the vagrant in. Zashi protested saying, that the child had surprised him and that he would not lose next time. Master Izem responded, pointing out that the runt had called out before he struck, not the move of someone seeking to surprise another. The child, whose name Zashi would learn to be Amiri, was annoying; every day since he was taken in, he would get up early and request to duel Zashi. At first Zashi ignored him, half because he did not want to risk losing to the peasant and half because he just plain resented him. It wasn’t until Zashi's tenth birthday that they became true friends. As a Blade of the Draconian Imperial Republic, on one's tenth birthday they receive your first sword, the Shoshin-sha, the novice blade. But to earn such a blade, a cadet class must complete the Trial of Metal. In order to wield metal, one must first be metal. The task was to carry a hundred-pound boulder to the Hisui waterfall and meditate atop the boulder, under the waterfall, until morning. As Zashi took off, he felt jubilation as the rest of the dragonborn from his year slowly fell behind--including Amiri. About halfway to the waterfall, Zashi noticed the forest had gone silent. He crouched by a tree and saw through the underbrush a large brown bear. Zashi slowly moved to back away, but as he moved to stand, the large bolder strapped to his back shifted and fell tumbling down the hill. The bear turned its gaze in Zashi's direction, and with a mighty growl struck out at him. Zashi's scales weathered the blow, but he was tossed aside, breaking several ribs. Amiri must have heard the ruckus, because as the bear moved in to bite Zashi's neck and finish him, Amiri came roaring out of the underbrush, shouting his head off. The bear turned its attention to him, rising up on its hindquarters and roaring in return. Amiri did the same, all the while shouting defiantly in the bear's face, elemental energy crackling in his maw. The bear dropped from its hind quarters and gave another half hearted roar, but the fight had gone out of it--that much was clear. Amiri took Zashi by the arm and helped him as reattach the bolder in its bindings, and together they traveled arm and arm up the hill. After that day, Zashi never missed a morning duel with Amiri. Since their childhood, Amiri and Zashi have accompanied each other to their every landmark--reception of the Twinned Blades, first assignment, each challenge for rank... and then, on a routinely challenging assignment, Amiri vanished. Zashi has not heard from his friend since. . Hikora
Older sister and 1st Blade of House Senhotep The eldest child of Zashi's family, Hikora picked up a sword at age two and passed her Trial of Metal at age seven--a prodigy of both Sun and Moon. She is charming, resourceful, and remarkably skilled, having invented her own sword technique when she was fourteen: Sparks Fog the Blade Like Winter Glass--Blue Dragon Fang. Zashi has spent most of his life looking up to her as an example of what it means to be a Blade. She often found herself too busy to engage with her eager young brother, but the interactions they did engage in were marked by his acute admiration for her and her warm, if preoccupied, fondness for him. She began climbing the ranks of the Blades when she was sixteen, and reached that of 1st Blade by the time she was twenty-three, having won the position from Mazzara Ramun-Senhotep. One whispered conversation Zashi caught between Hikari and their father was that of their patriarch imploring her to wait a few years between each challenge, so as to not humiliate those of venerable rank and age above her. Awhile back, Hikora returned home from an assignment sorely wounded, and was forced to settle in for a longer recovery. She has managed to defend her position as 1st Blade, but she has yet to regain her full strength... and she says little to Zashi of what she encountered far afield.

Arakhet Senhotep
Father to Zashi and Hikora and Consul of House Senhotep Austere and reserved, Arakhet Senhotep is filled with pride for his children, and crushed by sorrow at the loss of his soul mate, Mirako. Arakhet was more involved than usual in the raising of his children, due to the death of his spouse, but he sees her echoes reflected in them. Still, his early investment in his children's growth resulted in backlash from other consuls, and he grew more distant as time went on. Zashi in particular regards his father in the same way one looks upon glowing coals which were once a warm fire. One time in Zashi's earlier days, when he was still an adolescent, he heard a courier questioning Arakhet's dedication to the family, claiming the success of his children had made him complacent. Zashi challenged the offender, Noro, to a duel, and received a scar and a lesson from it, but his point was proven. People seldom challenge Arakhet's dedication now. Master Izem Senhotep
Zashi's mentor and a friend of his father A friend of Zashi's father--from childhood, and reinforced when they served in war together--who agreed to train Zashi after his father had to immerse himself more in his position as a consul. Izem refused to allow even a hint of favoritism into his training, demanding grueling work and jarring transitions between Sun and Moon training. The effect was Zashi leaning on his faith for emotional scaffolding during training, and a perseverance difficult to match even within the Blades. Izem loved parables born of bygone heroes, and passed this lore-love onto Zashi as well. Zashi's early frustration with the difficulties of his training melted away once he understood the circumstances of Izem's training more wholly, and they have since been able to develop a relationship marked by jesting jabs at one another which belies their mutual respect.

Family Ties

Distant relatives to Fraxiros, the Senhotep clan is one of the most devoted to Draconia's ends.

Religious Views

Worships the New Gods, practices Pilgrim's Invested Divinity, which seeks adherents to find reflections of their gods in the objects, places, and people they find. He sees his god in his family, his friends, and his sword.

Mannerisms

Gregarious, with a good sense of humor. This warmth hardens when he is confronted by a grave trial or bloodshed.

Hobbies & Pets

Pet cat--not a familiar, just a cat--named Bastet. Not much for traditional poetry or calligraphy, but loves to sketch. Carries graphite with him wherever he goes.

Speech

A bellowing voice like a peal of thunder--fitting, for his lightning breath.

Wealth & Financial state

Aristocratic, but spartan.

A distant scion of Fraxiros' second son, Zashi is a Blade of House Senhotep, monastic warriors who serve as courtiers by day and assassins by night. A second son himself, Zashi is a bold swordsman with a lot to prove.

View Character Profile

Alignment

Lawful Good

Honorary & Occupational Titles

5th Blade of Clan Senhotep. The Blades of Senhotep are the typical curved kesh'tam of the Draconian people, but theirs are sharpened on the inside edge as well, as a reminder of their sacred duty: fight for Draconia with honor in the light, and be merciless unto their wicked foes in the shadows. Senhotep dogma liberates its adherents to do as they must to combat those who would go against Fraxiros' lineage... but its dichotomy is challenging for many to accept.

Age

Date of Birth

1177 AM

Birthplace

Draconia

Children

Gender

Male

Eyes

Gold

Skin Tone/Pigmentation

Blue scales with almost a purplish tint

Height

6'7"

Weight

205lbs

Known Languages

Draconic and Common.

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The Darkened Path

Great Spirits, what a magnificent quest! It is utterly invigorating to be on solid ground for a classic infiltration/extraction mission, pitted against a classic enemy. The Oprishniki, of all lowlifes! After destroying the Witch Hunter, we darted from the great room, down the hall. Well, Orlando darted—I had Kyliko with an arm over my shoulder, wounded as he was. Orlando seemed content to pull ahead while we drew the away the Oprishniki who pursued us all. In the moment, I felt almost a sense of betrayal; why was he fleeing from the men with guns while we lagged behind, with a serious injury to nurse? Bullets whizzed and snapped by our heads, but we managed to evade the shots, and Kyliko’s icy breath upon the ground behind us did well to slow the pursuit. By the time we reach what seemed to be a central office at the end of the hall, Orlando was nowhere to be found. Fraxiros’ Fang! Did he think now of all times was one to slip away? No time to ruminate, I had to remind myself, though it was difficult not to—we yet remained for Orlando’s cause, after all. Forcing down my rising anger, I sequestered Kyliko into a side office, where he could hole up and catch a breather. It’s a good thing I did, because, shortly after, an Oprishniki emerged from another office at the end of the hall! Ordinarily, I would’ve anticipated a healthy fear of death would’ve halted this brute as he came face to face with a Blade, but he appeared unperturbed. As he called for reinforcements, I noticed he was shrugging on a magitech exoskeleton not unsimilar to mine. I rushed in to close the gap, but in one swift motion, he had dropped some sort of smoke grenade upon the floor. These Oprishniki were more capable than their typical allies, it seemed! Well, they all die when they are cut, in the end. I heard whispers of the soldier’s voice through the smoke, saw the hazy outline of his body, and Cloudpiercer was true to its name. As the soldier before me died, I heard his fellow Oprishniki rush inside the office, taking up positions in an attempt to flank us—flank me, I realized, with Orlando nowhere to be seen and Kyliko hunkered down in the side office. In an attempt to outwit our enemies before I was forced to outfight them (the Moon Arts in practice!), I snatched up the fallen soldier’s speaker bauble and muttered misdirection through the line, but it was no use—our enemies were canny. I heard the hiss of grapple systems and saw shadows moving beyond the smoke. I would need to move quickly to keep from being outmaneuvered. It was thrilling to be battling foes of this capability and training, using equipment similar to my own! It reminded me of my days sparring Amiri in the various gauntlets within the Blades’ compounds and temples, constantly seeking ways to gain the upper hand despite being instructed by the same master. One thing I learned form Amiri then: at a certain point, discipline will only do a warrior so much good. After that, success in battle depends on adaptability and instinct, and I had been honing both in the six months approaching this mission. These bastards thought they could escape Cloudpiercer my gaining the high ground—little did they know reach was not limited to the length of my arms. I caught sight of an Oprishniki soldier lining up a shot at me from the balcony and zipped up to him. Using my magitech’s reel to aid my momentum, I spiraled through the air, a bolt of lightning sent by the Great Spirits. Cloudpiercer rent my hapless foe from every direction, and even as he, somehow still alive, attempted to flee, I reminded him of the fact that a grapple transfixes flesh just as well as infrastructure. It was now that I saw—or rather, heard—Orlando (as one does tend to hear him first, don’t they?). I saw the Oprishniki on the ground below scatter from the blast of a familiar barker cone, the office erupting in a whirlwind of broken desks and scattered papers. A magnificent showing, as usual, but we were not in the clear yet. As if one hadn’t been enough, two more of those “pill boy” mechanized units burst into the room. Tempted as I was to dismantle them as we had destroyed their companion, we were spread too thin—it was time to retreat. Kyliko, Orlando, and I fled across the balcony towards what we assumed was a lift to Olivia’s office, just as the Witch Hunters opened fire. Their crank guns growled and roared as the world seemed to explode around us, shredded paper and splintered wood and pulverized chunks of marble. We barely wrested the lift doors open as the pill boys lumbered up the stairs after us. Before I jumped into the open shaft, though, a premonition crossed my mind—it would be a sore miscalculation if the lift was above us, blocking our way. My companions had already jumped in, though, and a groan of despair confirmed my suspicions: our path upwards was blocked by the lift. We needed more time. Seeing my comrades tucked into the nooks and crannies of the shaft, out of harm’s way for now, I flicked the switch of the lift and heard a grating echo as it lumbered downwards. It had some ways to go, though, and the Witch Hunters were rounding the corner, their sights set on me alone now. I spun about to face them as they began to make their way around the balcony. The floor creaked in protest beneath their weight, and I threw myself to the ground as their guns opened up. The Great Spirits were with me in that moment! One of the pill boys began to shudder and hiss, and I saw its cockpit begin to fill with the same yellowish cloud that they had released upon us before, the one which made my lungs burn and my eyes water. Now it seemed the pilot of this machine was completely shrouded in it, suffocating in the fog of his own arrogance. The other unit was working as intended, though! I watched the very walls of the building be torn apart around me—if this thing drew any nearer, I would be facing down its crank gun point blank. I could not allow such a thing to happen, and made a quick tactical decision almost by instinct; my grapple snapped across the balcony at the level of the thing’s ankles, and I pried to the Great Spirits it would hold… And hold it did! The lumbering machine was thoroughly foiled by my impromptu tripwire, and collapsed in a heap just as the lift rumbled past us. I jumped into the now-cleared shaft and cut the suspension cables, and the carriage plummeted with an echoing crash to the ground below. Orlando was ready to resume his climb in a moment, but Kyliko, wounded as he was, was another matter. I saw him waver as he coiled himself to jump, and almost called out to him—but he had already sprung forward. His tired body did not muster for him quite the distance he needed, and Orlando’s hand shot out to grab him—to no avail. I attempted to catch him myself, claws digging into his scales, but I watched him, panic in both our eyes, slowly slip away. As he began to tumble, I caught his robes in my jaw, desperately hanging on, but slowly, slowly before he could muster himself, I heard a tearing as his robes came away in my jaws, and he was falling again. I would not let the warrior assigned to guard my life be lost to such a plunge because I could not catch him! In a last-ditch effort, I sent my grapple hissing towards him, catching him by the leg. He grunted in pain as the cable jolted him to a halt, but there he was—still alive, and hanging on. We resumed our climb. After a few moments’ ascent, Olivia’s office was revealed to us; it had to be hers, adorned as it was in fine polished wood and shelves of books and fine alcohol. At the center of the whole affair was the rascal Jensen, rag tied in his mouth, bound to an ornate chair. His eyes widened as he saw us enter the room, and frantic grunts crawled past his gag. I saw why in a moment—a thin wire made its way from somewhere beneath him to the bookshelves. A tripwire? I had Kyliko step back into the hallway, pondering our next move as Orlando began to talk at Jensen. If it was a tripwire trap, I thought, severing the cable without disabling the mechanism itself would only cause the trap to go off. We needed to think of a better approach. Orlando began to make his way towards Jensen, careful to stay away from the wire. Something was still wrong, though—Jensen didn’t seem at all reassured that we had taken note of the trap. Orlando began to remove the gag on Jensen as something clicked in my mind. I had just tripped up a Witch Hunter by snaring its ankles with a taut line. This wire had no tension in it; if it was a tripwire it would have to be pulled— And then a massive explosion rocked the room. Tucked behind the doorframe as I was, I could only watch as wave of heat rolled over me and obliterated everything where Jensen and my companion had been standing. Dust choked the air, and I heard myself calling Orlando’s name… … Imagine my astonishment when I saw him standing there, still intact, glowing with an inner light. In that moment, the typically-ostentatious bard looked like an image of Godmaker Cinder. From behind the bookshelves, three Oprishniki emerged, apparently expecting to clean up our remains, and with hardly a shrug, Orlando loosed a barrage of energy upon them, as if returning the explosion they had set off, and vaporized them. Or, almost of of them. I leapt into action, levelling Cloudpiercer at the one Oprishniki who was yet standing, apparently a captain. We had the scum surrounded, his compatriots but charred remains upon the floor. So many questions to ask, yet so little time… we began with the one at the forefront of our minds—where could we find this contact of Orlando’s? Still, despite being surrounded, outnumbered, and weak from his injuries, this man did not submit—he feared us, he said, much less so than he feared Olivia’s father. So Olivia herself was but a pawn. I almost admired this captain; he reminded me of Draconian bodyguards of past lords who had stood by their masters’ sides till the last breath, past the edge of oblivion. I had hardly thought humans capable of such courage before. Still, his bravery here strayed too close to foolishness for the man’s own good. We began to press our interrogation further, before a crash from the shattered window’s ledge caught my attention. A Witch Hunter’s grapple; I rushed over, eager to cut the thing down before it could enter the fray. Rattled ever so slightly by the surprise—these Oprishniki simply never seem to quit!—I once again failed to cut the chain on my first try, and the mechanized unit reeled its way up the side of the building—the very same pill boy I had tripped earlier on! In mere moments it would haul itself over the side, and then we would be well and truly outgunned. I had to think fast. There was yet one tool in my arsenal I had not brought to bear! The dragon-headed cane which I had retrieved from the mage’s vault gleamed at my side, and I pulled it free; I could only assume it operated as its shape would suggest. I roared, and willed it to roar beside me, and sure enough, a fan of lightning arced from the cane and augmented my own! It watched as the Witch Hunter spasmed and sparked, its pilot shuddering along with it—hard to believe the poor fools had failed to insulate their most feared mech. I watched with satisfaction as the metal beast creaked and toppled, tumbling down over the side of the building and landing with a crash, far below. And then I heard two gunshots, and saw the captain standing over the bleeding bodies of Orlando and Kyliko. There was something more than rage I felt in that moment. It was a sense of… disgust. Disgust that this man had seen two sorely wounded opponents and not even done them the dignity of delivering a personal death. Smoking barrels like two probusci. I turned to face this insect. His boldness from earlier remained, I will warrant him that. He stood there before me: scarred, cold. Grip tightening around the hilts of his pistols. Clear blue sky behind him. I breathed in. Fifteen paces apart. Sun between us. Great Spirits pelting us with their light. Wind scattering cinders like fireflies in the daylight, his gelled hair unmoving. Me, unmoving. Him, unmoving. My arm loosens. His eyebrow marks my movement. Breathe out. Hold. His buckles flash in the light. Breath in. Hum of an airship, far away. His elbow shifts, shoulder twitches, breathe out, halfway now, hold it to steady myself— BANG! His pistols roared as my arm went to my rash’tam upon my back, but the Great Spirits had me in their arms. The shots his me like pelting stones, and I let them twist me about and lend their momentum to my Windpiercer, Riptide spiraling end over end before splitting his sternum like firewood. His loyalty still lit his eyes as he stumbled backwards. I couldn’t see that light when he fell. I rushed to Kyliko immediately, just managing to bind his wounds—I’ve certainly been treating a lot of gunshots this past year, haven’t I? But he was stable, and that stability left me quite comfortable with admonishing him for tending to Orlando before the man armed with guns standing ten feet away. I mean, really, Kyliko! What sort of bizarre tactical assessment was that? At the very least, he had succeeded in that task. Orlando sputtered awake, and we planned our next move. I was initially concerned there may be more Oprishniki flooding in, but a glint upon a distant rooftop caught my eye—the gleam of a rifle, and, squinting, a familiar shrouded face! Ko! So the Drop Corps had survived their fall, then! The presence of allies reassured me somewhat; I would’ve been more heartened by the presence of a fellow Blade, someone who could watch my tail in the thick of things instead of from afar, but I hardly had time to complain. I looked to my companions: Orlando and Kyliko were both sorely wounded and frail. Kyliko and I had escaped captivity, and freed Orlando while we were at it, a feat indeed! But we had yet to find Orlando’s contact. Hmm… I could not risk the life of my sister’s attendant, such a loyal Blade. And yet, I could not leave a job incomplete, either! It was not enough to have simply escaped the clutches of the hideous Oprishniki—I felt a need now to take something back from them in kind. If my duel had proven anything, the Great Spirits were with us. I instructed Kyliko to flee, safe under Ko’s eye, and ensure the safety of the boy I had saved from the crash. Orlando and I, though, would stay, stay and wrest one more soul from the soulless witch hunters. It was decided—we would descend into the dark. I held onto Orlando tightly as we descended, my grapple easing our passage, but it was not to be such a luxurious joyride: as we went, there were the sounds of more Oprishniki behind us, the grapple-equipped elites. The close quarters of the shaft worked in our favor, though, and even as I saw the spiderweb of their cables crawling down the shaft after us, I breathed my draconic wrath upon them and they tumbled into the dark below. No time to waste, though. I set us into a freefall as more Oprishniki gathered blow us, and we plummeted past them before I caught us just in time—my arm was wrenched mightily, but we managed to fly past the frustrated curs. Our passage would have been expeditious, but Orlando was overcome by avarice when we passed by the broken body of an Oprishniki I had earlier felled. He had fallen atop the ruin of the elevator, crushed from the earlier impact of me cutting its cables. Why did he desire so strongly a grapple system now? We had soldiers on our tails! I only barely managed to tear him away before the elites—and I could hear Olivia among them, now—finished their descent. We made our way down the profane halls of the Oprishniki’s deepest dungeon. No light of the Great Spirits graced this place, no echoes of their harmony rang within the cold tunnels. As we went, we passed by the products of countless heinous experiments too horrid for me to have imagined. People with their skulls split, still alive, their brains twisted grey masses strung with wires and tubes; people shackled to the wall, their arms lined with syringes, veins pulsing with a sickly tar; people with their heads entirely encased in dull mechanical contraptions, eyes refracted through layers and layers of tiny red lenses. It was undoubtedly the most horrid place I have ever seen. There were no gods there, no spirits or prophets—not even discord in the Great Harmony, so beyond that holy song it was. Only cold lights and rumbling pipes. I felt my spirit had drained from my body by the time we reached the intubated flesh of Oleric. He was visible, eyelids shut, through the glass panel of a metal coffin, which opened with a hiss at Orlando’s touch. Black bile oozed from his lips, as Orlando took him gingerly in his arms, and I resisted the urge to vomit. Whatever had been done to the other experiments had been done to this man, his body seeming to be entirely vacant of a soul. I somewhat doubted he was even alive; it seemed fruitless to pray for him, in this place. Orlando cloaked us in his spell of invisibility as we fled, misleading Olivia and her squadron of Oprishniki with a separate illusion as they passed by a hair’s breadth from where we walked. It was intensely satisfying watching and hearing them take the bait. As we retreated, I jammed the elevator behind us with one of the fallen Oprishniki’s grapple cables— that should keep them occupied. I took Oleric, the corpselike man still leaking pus, and grappled upwards as Orlando used my rope to do the same. As we passed by a mechanic attending to the damaged hull of a Witch Hunter mech, I hear a slight shift in the shaft beneath me, and knew he’d soon be dead by Orlando’s hand. Well, if he wanted to delay, he could delay—I would keep climbing. It was something divine being under the light of the sun again, even though my time in that dungeon had been relatively short. After all we had been through, I was relieved to simply take a moment to decompress, taking in a moment again to finally breathe in the fresh air. I felt the light of the sun on my scales, saw the sprawl of the city below me, clouds dotting the sky, an airship passing in the distance, the Great Spirits all around me, I felt serenity in my heart… And then there was the jagged pain of the mark upon my leg, the Mark of the Crow burrowing into my leg. I doubled over for a moment, wracked by pain, and as I did, a saw a sight which caught my breath in my throat: the mark was no longer limited to my leg, but had wound its way up to my hips. I shuddered to think of what would happen if it progressed too far. I refused to become a servant of some dark god, as I had seen in my nightmares. I would not be a slave to evil. A commotion from below pulled my attention away from my crisis, a commotion which sounded an awful lot like a Witch Hunter’s crank gun had been set to fire until it overheated and exploded. Orlando was up to his old tricks. They seemed successful in their goals, though: I could hear the cries of the Oprishniki below. Orlando had also, apparently, busied himself with the theft of another set of magitech gear. I tried to keep in mind the boon it would be for both of us to have such mobility, although I could not help but feel a sense of frustration that he was eating up our precious time trying to prise the equipment from dead bodies so that he might hastily strap it on himself. Well, if he was going to delay for a new toy, then he could put it to good use. As soon as he had swung to the top, I handed him Oleric and grappled away. Finally—free from the Oprishniki. I kept low to the ground as I swung between the buildings of Tica’Ma, using the architecture as cover for my passage. Descending to the ground, I sought to melt into the crowds upon the streets, but apparently dragonborn are a strange sight in the portion of Tica’Ma we were in, because they shied away from me like oil from water. Meanwhile, still more Oprishniki were swarming like cockroaches from the Star Prison. Hah! Even as I readied myself for their approach, though, a gunshot rang out and one pursuer dropped to the ground, contents of his skull emptied onto the street—Ko was still watching us, it seemed! I took the opportunity to inhabit the Tenets of the Sun, striding forth fearlessly and declaring the scorn of my gods for the lives of the Oprishniki! The rats shuddered and scurried back into their warren, too afraid to risk the wrath of my gods, my Blades, or the sniper perched above, a sniper who now directed me towards her. Making my way into an alley, I found my way to the subtle soldier, who had already rendezvoused with Kyliko. We picked up Orlando—he wasn’t hard to find—and proceeded into League territory where we would be safe, Oleric in tow. For once, I was almost glad the League had an overbearing presence in most places of civilization—it would certainly serve to keep the witch hunters off our tails. It was unfortunate I had to cover my scales as we went, though. A dragonborn, as I had learned, would stand out too much on the streets, a theory which was proven yet again when my cloak caught on a fence post and I was spotted by a patrol! I decided to try my hand at performance—why not, yes? The Great Spirits had been with me today! While I was certainly able to distract the Oprishniki long enough for my companions to melt away, the ruffians were intent on capturing me, something which I could not allow to happen; just as they thought they hand me, in their grasp, hands raised in surrender, I swung away, bullets buzzing by me, but otherwise unharmed. I found my way back to the safe house Ko had designated, and was relieved to see Captain Azon there, alive, as well. He looked upon me with grim eyes as I entered. A few of his soldiers had escaped the crash, but were set upon by the Oprishniki soon after. Kudan was missing, and Sarabet had been killed in the ensuing struggle. I was leaden with a cold sense of remorse. Had it been my actions which had gotten them killed? Surely not! It as the interference of the Emperor and the League who had assigned the Drop Corps to my clandestine journey, meddled in Blades matters. I had gone so far as to dive into the Green Sea after the wreckage in an attempt to rescue them! But still, the loss weighed heavy on my heart. My mind flickered back to Amiri—I know what it’s like for a dear friend to go missing. There are few things which compare to the sorrow of not knowing the fate of a close companion. Even though missions I have partaken in have seen few casualties, every loss stings, another sour note in the Great Spirits’ harmony. I tended to Orlando’s wounds as Azon brought me up to date, mind set on the day’s consequences and the holes in my friend’s flesh. Time slipped away, as my attention narrowed. And that, I realize, was my greatest mistake of the day. As I began to bind Orlando’s last wound, a twinge crept into Azon’s tone, and an apology escaped his lips. I didn’t have time to register whether I believed it genuine before there was a pounding at the bulkhead, the clatter of legion boots hitting the pavement. The first thought which burst through my mind—had Azon, of all folk sold me out to the damnable Oprishniki?? But it was not Olivia’s voice which reverberated through the door. Azon stood resolute, even as I accused him of treason. Not witch hunter, no… the League. And such is the end of all argument between the military and the Blades. The Noble Clans of the Imperial Republic serve the Emperor and their people—the the military, however advanced they may claim to be, are naught but the League’s guard drakes, their true loyalties to their people apparently long forgotten. I was tempted to flee; I still had the opportunity to slip away, escape into the crowded city and steal towards my true objective as day turned to night. But there was Orlando to think of, and Kyliko, and the League host outside—and Adeline’s keen aim certainly echoed in Ko’s abilities. There was little chance I could slip away, and it would be a poor reflection on my family name to flee as such. So when the preening elven steward stepped, in flanked by a squad of crack League soldiers, I did not resist. It did not seem as if I was under arrest—it was a summons to the oracles Tar Aranie is famous for, prophets said to ordain the very future itself. Not even Hikorra nor Master Izem has seen them! My father mentioned having an audience with them when he was a young general, once, when they foretold the end of a small but treacherous war. He told my sister and I that, while he doesn’t believe the Great Spirits speak through them, their portents are not to be trifled with. Perhaps my being apprehended might lend me some insight, after all. The elves led me to a self-propelled carriage, a monstrous thing drawn by two metal horses fused to its coach, and we were off. I had seen vehicles like this before, at a League Fair Amiri dragged me too, but they had always struck me as inelegant hunks of metal, belching smoke and steam into the gods’ clean air. Of course the elves favor them. What would these oracles reveal—fortune or omens? What had happened to Orlando’s contact? Better yet, will Orlando be able to stay out of trouble while I’m gone? I suppose I don’t need to be a fortune-teller to guess that one. May the Great Spirits watch me through the gleam of my sword, enlighten me in the hidden places of the world, guide me in the words of the strangers I've yet to make familiar, and bless me in the light of sun and moon. May they walk in the stride of those I walk amongst, and touch the world through the hands of my companions. May their deeds echo in my actions and their will echo in my wishes. May I honor them in the paths I follow and the waters I tread and the mountains I climb. I am but a transient pilgrim walking the tracks of this past and future world, my blood the blood of my lord and my father and my people.

No Fury Like a Cornered Dragon

I dared only steal a glimpse of the Witch Hunter before I retreated back behind the heavy door of the vault. It was a bizarre, pill-shaped thing, wiry mechanical limbs protruding from an ovoid body. On one arm was the unmistakable bulk of a crank gun—the other appeared to host a bulky stabbing implement that I couldn’t quite make out. There is nothing on this plane under the providence of the Great Spirits that a determined sword cannot fell, but there was nothing holy about the design of that mechanical monstrosity. How on earth were we supposed to take it down? I offered for a moment the possibility that we sneak by it altogether, but my companions would not be dissuaded—Orlando was intent on finding his contact, and it would be worse for us to confront this thing while it had reinforcements available than it would be to destroy it now. I resigned myself to a confrontation with this devilish thing. Not that I was intimidated, of course! No magitech can match a veteran Blade for agility. That said, it would be unlikely that we would escape this encounter unscathed, and from how I judged our current situation, we would need—will need—all our strength if we are to break free of this place. There was still one way we might leverage a tactical advantage, though: I raised the Speaker Bauble to my mouth and whispered for my sister. Hikora hardly seemed to be expecting me; I have attempted, throughout my years, to not bother her too much with my younger-brother’s troubles. In this instance, though, I required all of her wisdom. After I expediently described our position, Hikora offered me two key morsels of information regarding Witch Hunters: By the standards of mechanized platforms, they are built to avoid hits, not take them. Now, I did not imagine this would mean our weapons would be as strong as they would be cutting through ordinary foes, but I was not about to underestimate the potential of our dragon-forged steel. The weapons of the Blades are forged from a metal that is smelted with dragonbone to make an incredible sharp and resilient alloy—in ordinary hands, a kesh’tam can fell even a goliath in a single swing. In the hands of a Blade, they have been known to shear through dwarven plate armor. Izem himself still trains his cutting technique on boulders from time to time (though his swords are of a stouter build than mine—I balk at the thought of risking a broken blade for ordinary “morning exercise”). But, I digress; please pardon my boasting. Hikora also mentioned to me the tendency for Witch Hunters to be equipped with a dangerous anti-personnel countermeasure, a “haze” which apparently dispersed through the air in gaseous form. Nothing deadly, but thoroughly incapacitating—and excruciating, apparently. Much as I valued the time I had to hear my sister’s counsel, our conversation was interrupted by the presence of this very haze, creeping its way inside the vault. It was a yellowish hue, not bright, but rather dull and deadened, like sunbeams drenched in rain. Gas weapons. The world’s freshest mortal-made horror. I had only just received a briefing on it in those six months when I had returned from Del’Orta, so new is the concept. We had witnessed it ourselves in some form when we had our run-in with the Imperium, and I was not eager to confront it again here. We had to act fast; the gas was a fiendish tool being leveraged against us, but we could also use it to our advantage. I instructed my companions to tie wet rags over their mouths as masks and we dove into the miasma. Inside the cloud, it was as if I was wandering some stretch of the Dark Road, nothing but that dim, sickly shade of yellow with the silhouette of the Witch Hunter looming on the other side, a demon in the mist. And then, despite my preparations, I felt a claw raking the inside of my throat, a burning in my eyes as the gas swept over my body, and I was seized by a fit of coughing, raking coughs which doubled me over in my tracks. I saw the Witch Hunter swivel my way, and the grinding roar of its crank gun drowned out my coughs and cut swirling trails of air through the yellow cloud. Just barely, I managed to twist out of the way of the salvo, rolling out of the mist and coming to my feet with the Witch Hunter fixed in my vision… as well as an ornate chandelier, poised above it—favor from the Great Spirits! A well-aimed throw of my rash’tam sent the thing hurtling downwards on top of the machine. To my surprise, the mechanical monster yet moved after the crushing impact, but quick thinking on the part of Kyliko froze the debris of the chandelier to its prone chassis. It was a brilliant tactic—the mightiest dragonborn are those who use their dragon’s heritage to its fullest effect. We ducked behind a column, having earned a brief opportunity to collect ourselves in the midst of battle. In that short moment, I heard Orlando’s voice whisper in my ear: he believed it was most prudent of us to flee and locate his contact. Perhaps so, but if we ran from this fight before it was over, we would be confronted by the Witch Hunter again, only with infantry support next time. No, we had to finish it while it was helpless, pinned to the ground—it was our only opportunity to banish its threat from our minds. Admittedly, though, I cannot deny other motivations for my continuing the fight… I seldom face a foe such as this, and the opportunity to destroy this grandiose monument to the science of death was one I could not deny. We had no further time to ruminate; this mecha pilot was resourceful in their own use of the tools they had been given, and the chain-linked harpoon buried itself in a nearby pillar as it began to tug itself from the rubble. I attempted to cut the chain with a rising draw cut, a Skyward Wing, but, still reeling as I was from the gas, my efforts did not sever the chain. I did not have time to ruminate upon my failure, as a burst of sound washed over me, hitting me like a wall and sending me tumbling into a pillar. It was no ordinary sound, though, I realized—what had hit me was Orlando’s voice, magnified a thousand times over. It was doing literally here what it had always done to me metaphorically, it seemed. Still, the dangerous ploy on my friend’s part may have been just the advantage we needed: the Witch Hunter, too, had been scattered to the ground by the blast. Kyliko and I used the opportunity to fall upon the cockpit itself of the machine, targeting the caged glass with precise, blows. Such was our ferocity that, in one fearsome stroke, I even managed to damage the foul whirling firearm which adorned its hand—still not enough, though! Under our strategic assault, hairline cracks crept across the cockpit, but the beast yet moved, and we had not yet mustered the force to break it. All through this battle, I found myself faced with the same challenge: I knew exactly what I needed to do, but was unable to muster the focus to do it. As I delivered another blow to the machine, I heard Kyliko cry out, sent sprawling by the harpoon-stake, his torso rent by a brutal wound. I was not going to lose him! He couldn’t die, not now… I almost disengaged from the Witch Hunter entirely to aid him, but he struggled to his feet and pulled forth a rakím, a throwing blade. The audacity of this dragonborn, covering his bloodied retreat from a mechanical warrior with a throwing knife! But further calamity struck as it slipped from his blood-soaked fingers and delivered its toxic payload into his own body. I was torn between two battles: one for Kyliko’s life, as he crawled behind the nearest pillar and weathered his baleful wounds, and the one for all our lives, in which I had to muster enough focus to drown out the haze the gas weapon shrouded my head in and deliver a blow which would end this struggle once and for all. Even now, more pale yellow smoke billowed from vents in the Witch Hunter. Soon, we would be in a deadlock, surrounded by foes as the walking armor hedged us in… Just like that, though, Orlando, so ready to flee before, came rushing forward in a bombastic purple swirl. I imagine he intended to execute a series of acrobatics which would leave him in the perfect position to deliver a devastating blow to the Witch Hunter. Instead, though, the slippery tile floor, covered in stone dust, stole his feet out from under him and sent him sprawling at the feet of the beast. I saw him blink but once at the groaning machinery creaked around the fix itself on him. And then another burst of sound erupted from his strange cone, and the Witch Hunter fell back again. I saw it raise its harpoon arm as it had before, taking Orlando in its sights… And then clarity pierced the veil within my mind as I saw the next fraction of a second unfold exactly how it would. The stake shot from the Witch Hunter’s arm with a pneumatic hiss, barrelling towards Orlando, chain rattling in its wake. I returned Cloudpiercer to its sheath, the harmony of the Great Spirits unfolding itself to me. My friend grimaced and grunted as the harpoon pierced his thigh, digging deep into his flesh. My hand went to the hilt of my sword. In just another moment— —the chain links, like chimes. Jingling once, twice—and then pulling taut as they sought to reel Orlando back towards them. At this, a louder ringing, like a bell. And then, at the moment of greatest tension, I sounded my own note. A clear chord resonated as Cloudpiercer and my’s Skyward Wing severed the chain. And it was as I knew it to be. And Orlando wrenched the stake from his leg, fitted it within his cone like a bolt upon a crossbow, and another roar from that wondrous thing sent the projectile careening through the already-weakened glass, painting the cockpit red from within. And Cloudpiercer returned to its sheath. The battle was over. Simple warrior’s resolve and ingenuity won us the fight, not the nightmare of some mechanic. Here, the old ways had triumphed—the ways empires have built their legacies upon. The Great Spirits had seen us through. It struck me that Izem did not, in his morning training, swing his sword haphazardly at boulders: he saw his sword cutting through boulders, and he never doubted for an instant that it would. Less an exercise for the body than for the mind. As if on cue, Baltos burst in, bearing tidings from when we’d sent him away before. He had found Orlando's contact! … And to get to them, we would have to march straight through Olivia’s office. Well… at least now I have my chance to meet her. Something tells me that if we can manage her mechanical monstrosities, the woman herself cannot be too deadly herself. But, then again, my training has taught me to not underestimate my opponents… ...And my scars are proof of what happens when I do. May the Great Spirits watch me through the gleam of my sword, enlighten me in the hidden places of the world, guide me in the words of the strangers I've yet to make familiar, and bless me in the light of sun and moon. May they walk in the stride of those I walk amongst, and touch the world through the hands of my companions. May their deeds echo in my actions and their will echo in my wishes. May I honor them in the paths I follow and the waters I tread and the mountains I climb. I am but a transient pilgrim walking the tracks of this past and future world, my blood the blood of my lord and my father and my people.

Don't Corner a Dragon

Well, we made our to Processing easily enough—a rather drab, stifling room. We quickly learned that the processing to be done was that of people, rather than items. I saw not a soul familiar to me from the drop corps or the like; I found myself dismayed that they were unaccounted for, but also admittedly relieved that they were not in the captivity of the Oprishniki, which itself is a fate I would not wish upon any being, dead or alive. Ah, I should not jest. Their absences weigh heavily on my mind, though I cannot bring myself to believe yet that they have perished. No matter where they are, I will find them. A witchhunting dog burst through the door, shaking me from my musings. Ordinarily this would not have posed any significant additional threat, but, quite unfortunately, this particular Oprishniki barreled right through my companions and I, the violent movement wrenching us from beneath the convenient cloak of Orlando’s invisibility magic. All of a sudden, seven pairs of hostile eyes were fixed on us! We ran, the guards hot on our tail. I would have been boxed in by the brutes, had it not been for a daring strike from Kyliko—gunshots echoed after us in the tight corridors. I was perhaps more vulnerable in this moment than I had ever been: without Cloudpiercer and Riptide, my sun and my moon, I had no means of defending myself, no implement through which to channel my deadly focus… Aside from, I realized, myself. In the moment of that realization, a profound feeling of peace came over me. Those who follow the way of Pilgrim’s Invested Divinity refer to this sensation as “passing the crossroads”: the moment a person steps through maze of decisions, choices, and doubts and their path once again leads in a single direction. I would not perish here amongst these pests. As I saw Orlando make a break for the vault, I knew what I had to do—one path lay before me. Bellowing like Baz’duk of the Blood Wing, I charged up the stairs, seeking to lead as many of the guards towards me as possible. My ploy seemed to work! When two Oprishniki pursued me, I electrocuted them both with my wrathful breath. More followed, though, their gunshots whizzing past my head and reducing the marble bannister to fine dust. Another group approached from the opposite stairway, and from above: there was no place to flee. I hoped Orlando would be quick with opening that vault—I would be needing my swords soon. As the three squads of jailor brutes converged on my, though, I remembered something, a token I’d received closer to a year ago in Del’Orta: a small blue size-changing potion! There was no telling whether it would make me a titan or a titmouse—only one way to find out! I supposed, in the heat of the moment, that either direction would be useful, though I secretly hoped I might become the size of a storm giant and crush them all there before razing the complex itself. Perhaps the Great Spirits were winking at me as they replied, as I felt myself shrinking down to the size of an ant. Hah, so be it! The harmony of the spheres was sounding an awful lot like a jaunty jig in the moment. Still, I could hardly have asked for a better result; with the fearsome blue dragonborn suddenly out of sight, the Oprishniki fell into disarray, and I made my escape! It was easy enough to rejoin Orlando; I found him and Kyliko standing amongst frozen statues and bullet-riddled corpses. I can only imagine his chuckles at the sound of my voice masked a deep desire to also explore the world from my new perspective; who would have thought a carpet could be a forest, staircases a vast mountain range? Besides, my new diminution posed such a potent tactical advantage. I’ll have to see if I can have this potion reproduced somehow when I return home. Imagine if I maintained my strength while in this form! I never had the chance to find out, unfortunately; as soon as I stepped foot within the vast vault, I began to return to my typical size. This new place was its own manner of extraordinary, even from my usual vantage point—every inch of floor was strewn with treasures, both magical and mundane. A tax collected from many slain mages, it would seem. Cloudpiercer and Riptide, of course, shone from amidst the curios like diamonds in the rough. As I returned them to my hip and my back, I felt an immediate sense of potency; there will be nothing these witchhunters throw at me that I cannot cleave in twain. In addition to my own priceless treasures, I retrieved a strange cane topped by a gleaming silver dragon, as well as a fine opal earring. Time will tell what these may be. I knew they would not be missed, though, because in that moment, Baltos rejoined us, bearing grave news: a swathe of mages had been freshly executed by the Oprishniki, and with them apparently a man Orlando had arranged to meet. The catalyst for this execution? Apparently the fool Jensen had given us all away. I can’t seem to remember a time I saw such fury on my friend’s face. Certainly, a fire burns within him, but nothing so vengeful as what I now witnessed. My surprise, to be honest, was as much at the fact that Orlando hadn’t seen it coming as it was at his anger itself. Surely a first-rate silvertongue would recognize such a cheat without a moment’s hesitation? It had felt quite evident from the moment the swindler took my hand in his that he was nothing more than a charlatan—perhaps I owe that to my training and my Draconian social sensibilities. I can only guess. Still, in a way I almost admired his anger. Where elven Invested Divinity and Draconian Invested Divinity diverge is our thoughts on that deadly emotion; the elves see it as a hindrance, a roadblock, and seek detachment from it. Such niceties don’t exist in Draconia—fury is a weapon to be tempered and brandished as one must. The Codex of Sun and Moon cites that, while we cannot allow it to control us, there are certainly times where great strength may be found in channelling it through us. I am curious to see where Orlando’s takes him; I was reminded of the great feats of the Paradoxes in the old days, the wrath they loosed on the unworthy. Still, they practiced mercy in equal measure. Some of them, at least. It had been awhile since our chase, and no Oprishniki followed us into the vault. The clamor had abated. Orlando took the time to describe his plight to me, one of which the news he sent had never reached my ears. His goal was to reconnect to a man from a mages’ lodge, an organization called the Possums. Strange choice of mascot if I ever heard one, but apparently they’re quite skilled in the magic of illusion—makes sense. As a result, he had submitted himself on-purpose to the Oprishniki, in hopes they would lead him to the person he sought, already in their captivity. So much for that plan. Still, I was more than willing to aid a friend in need—Orlando’s abilities could prove pivotal in my own quest, and he readily agreed to aid me in return. A dragon forgets no debts, nor do they leave them unpaid—and a Pilgrim accepts whatever help they can get! Now I only need to hope he gets along with Kyliko. Resolved to assist one another, we prepared to exit the prison. We heard the brassy voice of Olivia the warden, echo through the complex; brash words about foiling us and thwarting our escape. As she spoke them, though, a fine dust descended upon us from tiny vents in the walls, dust seemingly comprised of a similar substance as the stone manacles which had bound Orlando before. I had to be careful—there would be no immediate returning to my hand of Riptide, covered as we all were in this antimagic powder. And there was one other matter which was unsettling to me: the complete lack of any noise throughout the complex. Practically dead silence, only the gentle hiss of the dust rushing through the slats. I checked the hallway in the reflection of my blade; no guards masses outside our position. Whatever countermeasure Olivia had planned for us, she expected it to be capable of pacifying us all by itself. Hah! I have tangled with demons, beings far fiercer and crueler than her ilk. The Oprishinki were nothing. I stepped furtively outside the vault—only one direction to go, after all. I took it as almost a given that I would be spattered against the walls by massed sniper fire, but no such fate befell me! Only a cavernous main hall before me as my companions followed. Then, in the silence, I heard it: a deep clanging rumble, sounding deep from within the walls. A slight shudder in the ground. And a large set of doors, rumbling open… … To reveal a suit of magitech armor, bristling with weaponry, plates as thick as my leg, ready to charge. Well… Great Spirits guide my blades as I figure out a way to chop this one open. May the Great Spirits watch me through the gleam of my sword, enlighten me in the hidden places of the world, guide me in the words of the strangers I've yet to make familiar, and bless me in the light of sun and moon. May they walk in the stride of those I walk amongst, and touch the world through the hands of my companions. May their deeds echo in my actions and their will echo in my wishes. May I honor them in the paths I follow and the waters I tread and the mountains I climb. I am but a transient pilgrim walking the tracks of this past and future world, my blood the blood of my lord and my father and my people.

Another Cell, Another Bold Escape!

Captured again! The harmony of the Great Spirits echoes itself in many strange ways. This time, my captors, the proprietors of the business where I am detained—for make no mistake, prisons are a business like any other—seem to be the Oprishniki, my dungeon that which I saw from above earlier. A formidable sight it was, indeed! Perhaps it will be more of a challenge than the dilapidated boat of the Red Devils to exfiltrate. I wonder if the Oprishniki will ever strive to be anything more than the well-organized thugs they are. Brutes they have always been, but their dogma used to be the fell-handed sentence of thousands of lives, particularly mages. Now, they appear to find work as no more than jailors-for-hire, drunk off their desire to flaunt their will upon sorcerors and mundane folk alike. Take my cell-mate, for example. In the Oprishniki’s heyday, if it can be called that, Jensen would’ve been no more than a rabbit scurrying across the road before their horses. Now, they waste their resources on embezzlers like himself in hopes of some measly payoff. Jensen stood out to Kyliko and I rather immediately, staring at us from across our crowded group cell until we couldn’t possibly not see him. When he introduced himself, his handshake and his shifty demeanor told me all I needed to know in one moment: he was a bureaucrat who sought much more than he deserved. I seldom have patience for his type. In Draconia’s past, we had practically no need of bureaucracy; a lord’s officials led from the front, warriors as well as politicians, and the lowliest courier’s quality of character was enforced by the civil code between subject and liege. Nowadays, society is rife with such folk, scaleless worms who seek compensation for all the easiest duties of office without having ever gotten their hands dirty. Jensen fell into this category, having swindled money from an employer who now wanted him dead. It wasn’t his fault, it was a statement against the wealthy, such and such. His naive hope was that I would help him. Ahh, he was certainly an interesting man in his own way, but there was little chance our objectives would intersect, Great Spirits willing. Thankfully, he was summoned away by the guards before I said anything lacking tact. I was left with Kyliko in the crowded cell. Thank the Great Spirits he’s safe—I could not abide my dark circumstance costing any more good folk their lives. Before I had a chance to complete even a rudimentary sketch of my dingy cell, the guards who had taken Jensen away returned, and this time they called for Kyliko and I. Or rather, one did. Without so much as a word of explanation, the two of us were ushered away… by this lone guard. Folks who apprehend Draconians are faced with a fascinating dilemma. If one leaves our jaws unbound, we are free to breathe our destructive breath upon a captor. If one dares put a muzzle on us, well… there’s a saying for that: “One who binds a dragon’s fangs had best be wary of its claws.” Only, “claws” may be substituted for “tail,” “horns,” “sheer awesome size,” or any number of things—the point being, any who do us the offence of attempting to clamp our jaws shut like a beast will inevitably face the full wrath of our people. Previous emperors overthrown via coup have been paraded about with muzzles one moment, before word spreading of their conqueror’s family being slaughtered days later. Our guard made the proper decision in not obstructing our mouths, in that sense; his mistake was escorting us by his lonesome, ushering us into a secluded elevator. He didn’t even have time to scream. Fortune of the Three blessed us in that moment, and it offered us an even greater surprise in the next: when the doors of the elevator opened, they opened upon Jensen, the second guard, and my good friend Orlando, cocky as ever, waiting for us at the top! How the rascal got imprisoned here is anyone’s guess, but there was no time to ponder that now (and something told me his response would leave me with more questions than answers). Instead, we all turned our attention to the last surviving guard—who saw Jensen as his way out. To nobody’s surprise, the guard had been commissioned by whomever Jensen had swindled to ensure the scallywag died. What was impressive, however, was how this guard, in spite of all our reasoning with him, was more afraid of his employers’ reprisal than he was of death at our hands. Backed into a corner, he took the path he saw as his best course of option; leaping from the prison’s tallest tower, hoping to take Jensen with him. The con man must have a devil’s luck, though, because somehow, even as the guard plummeted, he managed to hold on to the lip of the tower as Kyliko sent the jailor hurtling on towards his doom. I took the opportunity to free my bardic friend. Whatever bound Orlando’s wrists had been stifling his magical abilities; some sort of stone manacle, it appeared. Now freed, though, he was free to bring his magic to bear to the full extent of his abilities, and he whisked us out of sight with an incantation and a waggle of his fingers. Jensen would simply have to find his own way out. Ordinarily, I would meditate upon our meeting him and conclude that the Great Spirits intended him as an agent to reunite us with Orlando. That said, Orlando is difficult to miss no matter where one is, and I feel chancing upon him is an inevitability either way. Our first objective was to find our weapons. Whatever magics ensorcelled this place prevented me from recalling even my rash’tam, and loosing my named weapons entirely would be like loosing a part of myself—unacceptable. Perhaps fortuitously and perhaps to our concern, the lift we had arrived in, and the only way down through the compound again, had been recalled. We might’ve infiltrated again from the outside of the building to a more direct spot, but the place hardly possessed any windows to speak of, and being within the building already was a priceless advantage, especially while rendered invisible by Orlando’s magic. We proceeded downwards, down the empty, rumbling shaft. The lift itself, surely now packed full of Oprishniki guards, blocked our access to the ground level of the compound; we slipped through the medical wing instead, packed to the brim with prisoners bloodied and manacled. I wonder if they received their wounds before or after being apprehended by the Oprishniki. To be honest, I was praying I might hear news of wounded members of the Drop Corp; not only would they prove useful allies in a fray, but I also simply will not be able to rest before I have accounted for them. Though we have our differences, I am loathe for my comrades to suffer on my account. No word on them was spoken as we slipped by, though, save for mention of two corpses in the mortuary. Corpses would not help us become free. We made our way to the first floor undetected. At the base of the stairwell was a sigil I would have passed over without much thought, but Orlando cautioned us against stepping thoughtlessly upon it; the Oprishniki are mage hunters, after all, and darting over one of their symbols could do us no good, wreathed as we were in magic of invisibility. With my grapple’s aid, we circumnavigated the obstacle without too much difficulty. Beyond it, adorning the walls leading to the “Confiscated” zone, were three portraits of this place’s wardens throughout its history. Typical for the Witch Hunters—their pursuit is as much in service of their ego as it is their personal beliefs. As a fellow artist myself, though, I had to admit: the brushwork was excellent. It left me curious about this “Olivia” depicted as the current leader. Paintings may depict a person however they desire; the truth of an individual is something far more difficult to capture. When we arrived at “Confiscated,” we were met by a massive vault door guarded by three ruffians. Not an impossible task to divide amongst three competent folks, but certainly not desirable odds with such sparse room to maneuver and seek cover. Even if we did silently dispatch the guards, upon the door could be locks, alarms, or any sort of trap imaginable. No, we agreed—now was not the time to conquer this roadblock when another path yet remained. And so, we elected to retrace our steps and move back towards “Processing…” But in that place, what is processed: items, or people? Is it too late for me to retrieve my sun and moon from such a place? Will we be met by a similar obstruction? Well, we will find out shortly enough. I pray I recover those pieces from myself and make my way from this drab pit; I still have duties to uphold, to myself, to my country, and to that young lad I promised I would check upon. This is no place to be locked away in for long. A silent escape will be optimal, but if it comes down to it… The Oprishniki will feel the wrath of the Blades. May the Great Spirits watch me through the gleam of my sword, enlighten me in the hidden places of the world, guide me in the words of the strangers I've yet to make familiar, and bless me in the light of sun and moon. May they walk in the stride of those I walk amongst, and touch the world through the hands of my companions. May their deeds echo in my actions and their will echo in my wishes. May I honor them in the paths I follow and the waters I tread and the mountains I climb. I am but a transient pilgrim walking the tracks of this past and future world, my blood the blood of my lord and my father and my people.

A Tica'Ma Welcome

After a few days’ decidedly tense travel, we arrived at Tica’Ma. I’ve flown over the Green Sea before en route to my various assignments, and the sight of it never fails to amaze me. Sweeping waves of grass like the windswept fur of a great beast, a roiling, emerald forest. Who knows what wild secrets it conceals within, what untold mysteries have been choked by the verdant waves? Tica’Ma itself is a bustling industrial city state, its position between a number of world powers making it a hotbed of activity and technological integration. These advancements follow the flow of capital, though—the ingenuitive tram only chugs around the center of the city, where the wealthy residents live, and the northern reaches of the place are marked by a sizable four-pronged prison; the Oprishniki have their own active presence here, and I would not be surprised to see their people crawling about the place. I was sure to draw a sketch of the place as we wheeled overhead. I was glad to see a place where Seela and Crayvon, as I learned their names to be, might be deposited. The Nagimi are a people with webs of familial support all over Embarial. I should know—many of them are Blades informants! Surely they will be able to locate some friendly faces and proceed from there. I still have justice to wreak upon the foolish mayor who set us upon their caravan to begin with—but this is a start. Seela, the woman, attempting adamantly to refuse a sum of money I offered, but my insistence paid off: they ought to have a little over a week’s worth to manage. It’s the least I can do, for repentance; payment may secure the state of the body, but it achieves nothing for the soul. Upon getting closer to landing, we discovered that the docks were quite full, a swarming hive of activity. I wondered if this was the norm for this place, or whether the hustle and bustle was unusual. No matter, I thought—it offered the perfect chance to circle about and surveil the city from above! Upon doing this, I got what might be an answer from Azon to my previous question: the buzz about the city was for a certain show taking place, “Kur’Dil and the Mystery Child.” I am not much one for the mundane arts, but Azon’s tone of voice seemed to indicate this show is quite the event! Perhaps I might even watch it someday, if given the opportunity; for now, I had far more pressing matters to attend to. More so than I thought, apparently, for in that moment the ship jolted and a glance out the window revealed a dire threat: another fell murder of crows, fanatical in their attack on the airship. Kyliko took the wheel from the dead helmsman as the vessel shuddered again, and I saw a slain crow crumpled at his feet. There was no saving the ship from plummeting. Kyliko told me to go, and I was torn for but a moment before realizing there were innocents to see to safety. In the drop hangar, the 3rd Drop Corps had already mobilized and begun to evacuate in midair with their flight suits. My path and Azon’s collided as we escorted Seela and Crayvon through the decks. I needed no flight suit—heights ceased bothering me long ago. But such technology would be useful for ferrying civilians. I watched Azon root through the storeroom as the airship began to plunge. He withdrew a flight suit in moments, but I watched a look of confusion come over his face as he threw it back in and retrieved another, then the same for another, and another: They had been sabotaged! My stomach dropped as I realized most of the Drop Commandos had already jumped ship, anticipating the technology of the flight suits to aide them. I sought desperately to gather myself as thoughts swarmed my mind of them attempting to activate a faulty suit as they fell, waiting for a breath of wind that would never come… Focus! One path forward, then. I would see Crayvon to the ground, and Azon would use the rappel cables built into the ship to do the same with Seela. Without another moment’s hesitation, I took the boy in my arms and hurled myself from the ship. The wind roared in our ears and mingled with his cries as we fell through the open air, before the familiar pneumatics of my magitech cable hissed and my line found purchase in the roof of a nearby building. We pendulumed back and forth for a moment before I swung to the ground, sticking the landing. Perfect technique! No time to waste, though—I watched the airship careen into the Green Sea, swarmed by crows and burning smoke marking its wake. Kyliko was still in there! I told Crayvon to meet me at the nearby church if he was able, leaving him with a guard upon the Green Sea’s outer walls. These folks seem to always expect a fight; the thick walls were heavily patrolled, and marked regularly with crank guns, growling, multibarreled things which can spew a river of bullets in a matter of seconds. I chose to take their presence as a point of comfort, and vaulted over the walls of Tica’Ma into the Green Sea. My mind raced as I rushed through the thick grass. Had the mark on my body brought the crows upon us? Could they still see my movements now? Had I brought death upon this crew? Who had sabotaged the suits?! So deep in thought was I that I barely noticed the grasses curling themselves around my body, seeking to suffocate me! Cloudpiercer blazed about me as I cut a swath to the fallen airship. The grass was not my only enemy, though—when I reached the ship in its burning clearing, I saw swarming about it a chittering mass of giant ants! The realization of why the crank guns speckled the wall hit me like a wave. I was not too late, though; inside, I heard the sounds of struggle. Kyliko’s voice! Hardly daring to wade through the fire and mandibles—my dying here would just about mean both our deaths—I instead called for him to use his ice breath to clear a path and tame the fires somewhat. Wether he heard me over the din or his own ingenuity struck him in that particular moment, a blast of ice shattered the bridge’s window and doused some of the fire for but a moment. That opening was all I needed! I shot my grapple towards him and he clung on as I wrenched him from the wreckage. I heard him yell as he emerged from the ants’ clutches, and looked to see his legs mangled and bloody. Escape would prove to be very difficult. Behind us, the tide of ants began to close in. In the distance before us, I heard a klaxon and shouting on the wall. Such a commotion I could hear it over the fire and the clicking legs! I couldn’t make out their exact words, but I realized with a start exactly what they were saying when the crank guns swiveled our way. I leapt from the wreckage of the ship, Kyliko in tow, just as the crank guns roared to life. The Sea was cut apart by the deluge of bullets, the dirt pulverized as if by a relentless rain, the giant ants torn limb from chitinous limb. Jarred as I was by landing with both myself and the injured Kyliko, I could not bring my sword to bear now as the grasses closed around us, and I felt it swallow us as if it were alive, and ravenous. I saw now not blades of grass, but a million snakes hissing and undulating in the wind, eager to squeeze the life out of us. And then the world was dark and silent. I felt Kyliko stir beside me, similarly restrained by the grass—but alive! Despite our current situation, I had managed to deliver a young boy to safety and pull my traveling companion from a deadly wreckage. My feats today were nothing short of astounding. Still, pride is difficult to muster in such dire straits. Who had betrayed the Drop Corps, sabotaged the suits? Had any of the soldiers survived the fall? Great Spirits, would those guards on the wall even have seen our escape and come to rescue us?? What seemed like an eternity passed, and I remembered one particular lesson of Izem’s. My master constructed a gauntlet of obstacles he enjoys pitting his students against, a sort of agility course. One day, as a young buck who had just completed my Ceremony of Steel, I arrived at the course with more swagger than ever, making it farther than ever! I felt the wind at my back and fire in my heart as I scaled the oiled wall, skipped across the river stones, danced through the swinging pendulums. I crossed what I assumed to be the finish line with a puffed chest and outstretched arms… before I realized the finish line was in fact a snare trap which strung me up before I could even shout “Victory!” Izem’s lesson was clear: a battle is not won when I have proven myself worthy and accomplished feats to write poems about and written my name in the history books. A battle is won when the enemy forces are destroyed. A fight over when it is over, and not a moment before. And this fight, now, it would seem, is not over. As if to confirm my suspicions, a soft voice could be heard overhead as Kyliko and I, still cocooned, were lifted from the Green Sea, the grasses hissing behind us as they saw us go… May the Great Spirits watch me through the gleam of my sword, enlighten me in the hidden places of the world, guide me in the words of the strangers I've yet to make familiar, and bless me in the light of sun and moon. May they walk in the stride of those I walk amongst, and touch the world through the hands of my companions. May their deeds echo in my actions and their will echo in my wishes. May I honor them in the paths I follow and the waters I tread and the mountains I climb. I am but a transient pilgrim walking the tracks of this past and future world, my blood the blood of my lord and my father and my people.

Cursed Omens

What an eclectic crew I find myself amongst. Though the 3rd Drop Corps’ efficiency in combat speaks well for their value to the Imperial Republic, I cannot say I relish the thought of Draconia’s storied martial tradition falling into the hands of those who are essentially civilians given the training of a handful of months. Perhaps the killing body requires but a short period of training, but the killing mind must be honed for much longer if it is to act with consummate duty and dignity. There were five principle members of the 3rd Drop Corps I met: Ko, their specialist; her scales are black like Amiri’s, but with less of his bluish luster, be it through natural differences or from the scarring which adorns her body. I wondered at first why she was so silent—when she pulled her gaiter down and revealed her throat to be all scars, I learned why. Kudan, a green dragonborn, is the mechanic and heavy weapons expert. When he laughed, he reminded me of Master Izem, in that odd way only the Great Spirits can orchestrate. More often, though, there was a short-tempered nature about him with many walls preventing my access. He is the operator of an Iron Dragon, a bulky mechanical suit with remarkable killing abilities; I wonder what it means for exhaustively-trained warriors such as myself when machines now can be made which grants the killing potential of ten soldiers to a hot-headed amatuer such as Kudan. For again—a mind cannot be so easily bought and constructed in such a way. Suzahara is their pilot, a blue dragonborn like myself and my family, and Sarabet, a red dragonborn, is the second-in-command to their captain, Azon. Azon, now, is the type of soldier who gives me confidence that such a style of military may be viable. Disciplined and level-headed, it was evident he commanded the respect of those under his authority, and he even tempered what may have otherwise blossomed into a contempt for me. Perhaps it is some glow of Fraxiros himself I see in Azon’s red scales. Though I was concerned for Kyliko at first, being a simple aide to my sister, he assured me that, though unranked, he is more than capable of managing himself. He certainly carries himself as such—I just want to be certain. It would be a reprehensible loss of mine were some harm to befall him accompanying me on a mission of mine; we all know the risks of our way of life, but I still feel a deep sense of responsibility for this draconian who has so faithfully served my sister. I meditated on such matters, and on my reception with the crew, when I first reported to my quarters. Their welcomes had been measured at best, and prickling resentment at worst. Kudan in particular seemed to bristle at the sight of me, a sentiment I, to be perfectly honest, share about him. In a few short moments, he demonstrated an utter lack of control which could kill him or another in an instant, and it amazed me, for that reason, that he was authorized to operate the deadliest weapon aboard the ship. No good can come of such great power wielded with such little responsibility. I couldn’t meditate the whole time, though; the Questions of Embodied Light of the Arts of the Sun dictate that a Blade must dedicate themself to understanding their companions to the utmost, their capabilities and their motivations and their temperament all shaping the notes they weave into the Great Harmony. Thus, I took it upon myself to be present at the mess hall that evening. The camaraderie between these people cannot be denied. I entered a room full of light and noise, one vastly different from what I have experienced; Blades typically travel alone, and when we do accompany others, we tend to take our meals separately. The detachment I travelled with for my first mission was but a small one, and not given to such boisterousness. Even travelling with Nobler and Nema and Orlando and Baltos, conversions has been tempered by our small numbers and the gravity of our circumstances. Here, loud conversation flowed freely. It was inevitable that I was called upon to share a story from my canon of experience, a moment I had anticipated from my meditations. It would be a vital moment in demonstrating my prowess and charisma to these bawdy soldiers; I selected, for that reason, the story of our confrontation with traitors from the Navy atop the karsts, a tale of my unique aptitudes, my capabilities, and my ability to settle more than one score—I hope the message was engaging as it was clear. The Moon Arts’ musings On Emptiness, which have defined the policy of the Draconian Imperial Republic since their publication, posit this: “It is best to be both loved and feared, as mortals are frozen by both awe for the dragon’s form and terror at its might—but it is better to be feared than to be loved if one cannot attain both, as one who loves a dragon covets what makes one, and one who fears a dragon cowers or perishes.” I may hope for both. But I will settle for one. “Our scales for protection, our claws for the rest,” as I believe the military puts it. In return for my story, Kudan was coerced by his companions into telling me about The Battle of Broken Wing, in which an error on his part landed him in the sea, entombed in his great Iron Dragon. So much for elite training. Embarrassed by his retelling, he stormed off. Just as undisciplined as I had guessed, and confirmed by his companions. “Kudan’s a lug,” was all Sarabet had to say about his behavior, telling me not to mind him. It was reassuring to hear her say this, that the crew didn’t share his contempt for me in its entirety, but I cannot help but be cautious—only one creature need feel discontent with another for death to result when they grip a gun in their hands. The sharing of any more stories was cut short by a klaxon, and an announcement from Azon: an official dispatch from the Embarrian League summoned us to the outskirts of Lilting to deal with a group of criminals, horse theives and brigands terrorizing the halfling locals from the sound of the report. Now, typically I would find such work beneath my capabilities, but I cannot tell if my travelling companions had any such pride. Had it been my decision, I would have ignored the call and continued on my—to be frank—vastly more urgent mission. Unfortunately, the call was not mine to make; duty binds me to my country’s service, and the political miasma of the damned League binds my country to the needs of the League’s constituents—however cursedly petty, apparently. Draconia would not even be a part of the elf-controlled League, were it our choice. When the demand was first made for us to join, many fought claw and fang to resist—ultimately, though, their supply chain was stronger, and their alliances with the dwarves and the Imperium would have meant Draconia would be surrounded on all sides in the event of a conflict, something we simply couldn’t withstand in the event of a protracted, all-out struggle. And so, now the greatest warriors beneath the eyes of the Great Spirits must answer to punish te robbery of halfling ponies. Had we been a shipful of Blades, we would have simply received the news and landed. With the military, though, and its reliance on specialty gear, we lost time to the 3rd Drop Corps strapping on their suits and rifles and bandoliers, time Kudan filled by attempting to mock me, mock the Blades, and mock Cloudpiercer and Riptide. I told him simply that the throng of battle would reveal the superior force, and the floor fell away beneath us over the forest below. My pride itched after that exchange, and I was eager to get to ground and wade into the fray. I made a quiet pursuit of the drop troops, who had been able to fly in before I could rappel down, and found myself, before long, face to face with what appeared to be no more than a child, gripping a pistol behind a tree stump as screams and gunfire tore through the branches around him. Was he of the party we were to pursue? He offered little, frozen as he was by fear, and I had Kyliko restrain him as I charged into battle, Cloudpiercer gleaming in the moonlight. Our enemy was pitiable, and we washed over them like a river over pebbles. Kudan, as expected, was both considerably devastating in combat and considerably reckless, nearly knocking me off my feet as he barreled towards the enemy. As they fell before us, though, a greater and greater sense of unease came over me. The 3rd Drop Corps was chomping at the bit to cut every last one of them down, but I demanded we spare the last one before blade or bludgeon fell upon her. Not long after, trembling with fear, she revealed to us what I had been dreading I might hear: these people were not brigands. These people were Nagima, wanderers of the long road. Not vagrants, but pilgrims. And at the demands of some errant order, we had slaughtered them for passing through town! The first act of my named kesh’tam was to cut down one who was helpless, stained by innocent blood! I resolved to see these folk safely to Tica’Ma as soon as we touched down, barely biting back fury and revulsion as I reentered our airship. To think that I had been so eager to rush into battle against those who could barely defend themselves with firearms clutched in their fists! That the greatest military engineering of Draconia united with the greatest martial and monastic traditions had been called down to Lilting to crush a group of peaceable travellers, travellers whose faith held at its roots the origins of my own Pilgrim’s Invested Divinity! I nearly wrenched the communication device from Azon’s hands when he told me the dispatcher was expecting a report. And what voice greeted me on the other end of the line? What malign notes had compelled me to violation of my sacred vows and steered me from my course? The voice of a snivelling beaurocrat, some Tofling Haflinger who could barely sniff his words out from behind his upturned nose. I did not train my entire life, dedicate my whole spirit to my training, to do THIS petty thing. I haven’t the time to deviate from my current mission when such a malign curse of the crow lies upon me… but innocent blood festers on unclean hands. I will see this Haflinger’s deep wrong against me corrected—mark my words. Great Spirits pardon me, my steps have strayed from their path. May their hidden waters wash my spirit clean. May their blessed song soothe my fractured soul. May the folk I meet and the lives I touch offer me the opportunity for redemption in my deeds and actions; may the disharmony I have sown be rectified in the course of the hallowed song. May my swords, my blessed sun and moon, not be splintered by evil glories and my heart find the truth at the heart of my unintended misdeed. I am but a transient pilgrim walking the tracks of this past and future world, my blood the blood of my lord and my father and my people.

Gathering Clouds

In my dreams, I was flying. They have been more vivid since I returned home; ah, what a day that was! I’ll never forget the sight of Drakkon emerging from the horizon. The looks of awe from those gathered as we touched down in the Ebon Storm. The feeling of triumph I had disembarking, victorious, after my long trials. I’ve never been so happy to see my family; Hikora was present in moments, her pride glowing—haha, perhaps this brings me one step closer to catching up to her! Master Izem required a full account of my journeys to truly be satisfied, which I might have expected—he’s a storyteller at heart, and it brings me pride to know that perhaps he may now use my story to inspire a new generation of trainees. My father was busy with matters of state, and I would not see him for awhile longer, but a missive was sent right away, with another returned just as hurriedly: he had been waiting eagerly to hear of my success! I cannot envision a happier day. I am blessed that the music of the Great Spirits would ring such joyful notes about me. For the next couple weeks or so, I could show my companions around Draconia—those parts which secrets of state did not forbid me to reveal! Orlando regaled us all with his performance, much to the delight of Izem; such things are right up his alley. Nobler and Nema were another point of fascination, showing us a bit of their act from their circus days, only now in an environment truly worthy of their talents. We spent some time recovering, some time relaxing… and then we said goodbye. And after that, there was work to do. No word of Amiri, that much I knew as soon as I landed. But the intelligence bulletin, the scout reports, the plainclothes operatives—nowhere was there even the slightest news of his whereabouts. It is as if he vanished into thin air. It was a sobering reminder, after I’d permitted myself such luxury of celebration. There was work to be done. There is always work to be done. Thankfully, I did not spend those couple weeks slacking off entirely. As soon as we touched down, I announced my readiness to name my kesh’tam and rash’tam, as well as my readiness to challenge the Fourth Blade—Inobu. A daring move, I know, perhaps even a bit arrogant, but I was ready. Ready for both. There would be no stopping me now; I swept in on marvellous wings and I had no intention of slowing. There was much to prepare. In-between checking upon Amiri’s status, I spent my time training relentlessly. I wove the obstacle course until it became instinctual, performed agility exercises until my scales felt as if they’d fall off; I even managed to catch Hikari and Izem for a few sparring matches, something they almost never have time for! All to prepare myself for this moment of truth I had claimed for myself. I prayed the Great Spirits would see me through. The temple felt different now; I felt within it new echoes of the Great Melody which I recognized from my travels. The shrine at Hu Zhuang Wu, the hidden temple along the Sidein Coast, the blessing of the Great Carp at Yokozu… I carry each of them with me now, and they echo through me. I prayed. I meditated. I trained. And as I did, my body’s strength returned and I drew nearer and nearer to my Naming Ceremony. Six months later, I found myself flying over Drakkon, on my own wings. It’s every dragonborn’s dream to fly, to embrace that proud heritage our principles are built upon. In fact, I was dreaming in that moment, I realized, soaring through the air with Bastet right along side me, and I could feel the wind tossing my aural fringes and beneath my wings. And then I saw ash. When I looked down, Draconia was burning, my beloved country set ablaze, its gravity-defying towers crumbling to the earth and smoke choking its skies. Bastet had transfigured into a mocking crow alongside me, and I felt my wings grow heavy with dark feathers before they fell away just as quickly, and I plummeted. When I screamed, all I heard was a strangled caw. And then I was awake. The day of the Naming Ceremony was upon me. My leg throbbed. For awhile, I had almost forgotten the insignia Nar’Shen had burned into it when I slew him the first time; it was impossible to ignore now, which only exacerbated my frustration at having no idea what it entailed. I could only pray for the Great Spirits’ protection and continue on my way. My ceremonial robes slipped on easily over the magitech frame I yet wore. The mechanical frame has become a comforting weight, one which has spared me many a plunge and gotten me places I otherwise never might have. As I made for hangar, eager to board my family’s private airship (The Thundercrest), I came to the quick realization that I was not the only one there. Loitering next to a ship of their own were Draconian Drop Troops, louder and more boisterous than I remember them being. The Drop Corps is a special unit of the Imperial Military who specialize in, as their name would suggest, rapid insertion from an airship. Sometimes this means sliding down grapple lines, sometimes using massive parachutes which darken the sky—I hear they’ve even tested artificial wings which allow them to glide for a short period of time, play at being true dragons. I find this silly for two reasons: first, because they have taken the belief that a few months of specialized training and cunning equipment may stand in for traditional regimens practiced from birth. Second, because the day our people truly fly solo will be a day heralded by a message from the Great Spirits themselves, not a quartermaster handing out a fancy rucksack. Now, that is not to say that I’ve any desire to disparage the great ingenuity of Draconia’s brilliant scientists and engineers—far from it. Rather, I am opposed to the hubris developed by entirely unremarkable individuals when the product of such minds comes into their hands. Needless to say, I hoped I would make it to the Thundercrest without having to engage with the Drop Troops, but even the Great Spirits cannot rescue me from small talk. As soon as they spotted me, they set out to disparage me, mock the Blades—as if. I was tempted to correct their coarse tempers where they stood, but taking part in such petty squabbles is beneath my family name, especially on such a momentous day. I thought of my companions of my Del’Ortan adventures and I bickering, the mere remembrance ample motivation to not act hastily. I offered them a companionable reminder of their national pride, and continued on my way. I cannot say I was not tempted to show them the merits of the Blades’ teachings, though. Aboard the Thundercrest, I was ecstatic to see Hikora herself greeting me! She seems to be mostly recovered from her previous injury—in spirits, at least. One cannot regrow a lost eye. According to her, a number of early successes have made the drop troops quite bold. I reminded myself that such successes boded well for my country, but I couldn’t shake the disdain in their voices when we had spoken, the arrogance. Thankfully, I had other things to think about, like how the bounty on our heads in Del’Orta had been signed with the same crow insignia which marked my leg, as well as a previous letter I’d shown to Hikora years ago after my first assignment. A letter which had prompted her to hide it away and change the subject as quickly as it had been raised. Now, when I showed her the bounty notice in our airship, she again pretended she had no idea what I was speaking of, and told me to put it away. Her reaction… practically frightened me. I did not wish to imagine how deep a secret this was if she could not even tell me. Does she… have some association with this crow figure? Is she investigating it, unable to speak due to there being hostile agents in our midst? I left the airship with a troubled mind when we landed at Bladesinger Temple. The Hundred Steps served to clear my mind somewhat. For each I ascended, I could feel the fog lifting a bit more, my ascent up the mountain matching my descent into the still waters of my deep psyche. There is something unique to the structure of stairs in that for each one, it is as if the ground has lifted higher to meet you. My feet connected to the eager ground, and the stone responded to me. I arrived to the presence of a full crowd of monks, Blades, officials, and dignitaries. I saw my father, his noble brow instantly standing out amidst the crowd. Hikora joined the audience next to Izem, who had even dressed for the occasion! Noro Igrin-Senhotep, he who I had challenged years ago, was nowhere to be seen. As one who is not an Ordinal Blade, he is expected, but not duty-bound, to attend such ceremonies, and I’m sure he found some excuse. Noro remains a mystery to me. Flamboyantly-dressed, unwedded, and tastefully disinterested in everything, he chose not to vie for a numbered position amongst the Blades despite his great skill. My sister has expressed before that she sees him as perhaps a more formidable challenger to her position as the First Blade than the current Second Blade, Rakkaro Din-Senhotep, if only he would muster the desire to seek it. I trust him, oddly enough—it’s said that in the brief instant of a duel, a warrior sees their opponent’s heart, and I did that day. Though he beat me, he no longer derides my family in the way he had. He completes his assignments with admirable reliability and discretion. He simply… doesn’t fit within my understanding of what it means to be a dragonborn. Regardless, he wasn’t here now, and I was out of time to ponder where he might otherwise be. The moment of my Naming Ceremony was upon me. Dragonborn—well, Blades, at least—aren’t so presumptuous as to lavish our swords with titles before we have had the opportunity to understand them. One does not name a song they have yet to hear. Instead, we wait until our service with our tam’ur has shown us what name they ought to carry, what deeds are echoed and will yet be undertaken in wielding them. Naming gives life to the legend of a weapon. The Naming Ceremony itself sees a participant enact a ritual performance incorporating both verse and movement, intended to embody a wielder’s ability to channel the spirit of their blades as well as their unity with them. It is the duty of the swordbearer to create the spoken verses and the movements they will perform, a process many weeks, even months might be spent on. The poetry itself is a traditional style rooted in the Pilgrim’s Way, known as a Transitory; these feature two verses which evoke the spirit of a location or circumstance, followed by a single word indicating a passage or shift in time, and concluded by a cascade of action which flows through the established setting and leaves it a changed place. It is a form of poetry which captures the power of our interactions with the world, our connectedness to the places around us and our ability to effect or even simply bear witness to great change in a dynamic world. As for the physicalization which accompanies it in this particular ceremony, well… I’ve enjoyed experimenting with poetry, but I’ve never fancied myself much of a dancer. Still, it is an honor to be able to take part in such a thing! The movement features slow, controlled phases punctuated by bold stances and postures, a demonstration of physical control, mastery, and vigor. Mine I augmented with the presence of the humble shrine bell from Hu Zhuang Wu, a precious reminder of the Great Spirits’ presence I’d kept with me from the very beginning of my most recent journey. I took up each sword in turn, and completed my ritual, chanting the Transitories for my kesh’tam and rash’tam as I named them: CLOUDPIERCER ravenous clouds consume the sky a black wing blots out the sun then, the spirits sing an azure bolt splits the heavens— light like the sun— and the thunder roars its glory. My shining sun is Cloudpiercer—Great Spirits bless its name. RIPTIDE pale shadows lurk under the sickle moon silver flickers on the water now, the light cuts at their ankles— a fang against the dark sky— and the ghosts sink beneath the gentle waves and their ripples fade as they glide into the night. My guiding moon is Riptide—Great Spirits bless its name. I am proud to say that, while there were some nearly imperceptible flaws I will be reconciling and Hikora may be teasing me about for years to come, my tam’ur were named immaculately. Cloudpiercer: the longsword with which I had struck down vile evils even as their profane clouds darkened the sky. Riptide: the faithful blade which had guarded me even when all else was lost, and toppled even giants in the rush of its current. Precious to me are these moments in which my joy feels earned, when I know my victories are the product of tireless work I myself have invested. This was the sensation I felt here. I would have liked it to have lasted longer, though. Immediately as I completed the consecration of Riptide, an interloper came bursting into the fold—Inobu, the Fourth Blade, fuming to avenge his dignity. I had been hasty in challenging him, certainly, but this… the fury was uncalled for. He challenged me to duel him on the spot, in a sacred space before my time of rest from the ceremony had even begun. On top of that, he had drawn his tam’ur in a place where their use in battle is strictly prohibited, especially not against a fellow Blade. To shed Draconian blood in a temple… I could not imagine the repercussions. He approached me wantonly, without the slightest thought for precedent, his booming challenge ridiculous and offensive against the still temple air. How my blood boiled! There was a fury inside me now that crackled amidst the clouds in my mind. How I would have liked to show him his place! How dare he? Even the rites involved in challenging a Blade for their place were much more than a simple duel. He would not be securing his position as the Fourth Blade through rightful ceremony—he would only be cutting down his competition. Impudence! It was heretical impudence! I was ready to cut him in twain… In moving to respond to him, though, I jostled the shrine bell which remained in my hand. Its clear ring pierced the haze in my mind, and I remembered where I was, remembered the debt I owed to the Great Spirits. I would not dishonor them, would not dishonor my family, now of all times. I remained calm, and requested he sheath his naked blades. My named swords were at my side, their heft reassuring me. I could feel the magitech exoskeleton bracing my body. There was a sense of betrayal I felt here, though. We were surrounded by warrior monks, military officials, dignitaries—and yet no one saw fit to stay his hand? No one acted out against his gross misconduct, restrained him?? No one save Hikora moved to my side or spoke a word on my behalf, but even then, I realized I could not have my sister fighting this fight for me. I tried a decisive bid to take Inobu’s legs from underneath him with my grapple, but I was unsuccessful, and I saw now there was no staying his wrath. I would not draw my swords and taint the legacy of their names so quickly… but I would not go without a fight. We squared off. It had been some time since I had dueled another trained in Draconian swordsmanship, outside of training, that is—there is practice with one’s family, and then there is genuine strife, which may only be resolved with the drawing of blood. My mind raced—how could I, unarmed, account for his reach, his lethality? I could attempt to duck under his opening blow and sweep his legs, but a miscalculation would result in my head being taken off. I could attempt a Winding Tail, Broken Wing to intercept his blow, but the attack was coming from the wrong side, and its alternative forms to account for that had fled my mind. I resolved to strike as hard and fast as possible, rush inside his strike to deliver a Crooked Wing to his head. As soon as I found this course of action, though, we were already moving towards each other. I saw the fury in his eyes as the gap between us disappeared and we opened our hearts in that split second. CRACK! My elbow strike connected with his snout, but so too did he twist his slash to rake across my torso. We were locked in this tangle of violence for but a second before twisting away, and I felt blood pool in my wound as I did. No time to waste. I determined quickly, as I struck out with another blow, that simply attempting to render him unconscious before he killed me would not be any path to victory. Instead, I resolved to disarm him. He came at me with both blades drawn: his first mistake, for I had sparred Amiri many times, the unorthodox style being my friend’s favorite. His first blows were wild, sending me staggering back—but he lacked focus, and I realized that if only I could hone my senses to him, his rage would render him predictable. As he came at me with another series of blows, I listened for the discord in his strikes, that particular way one’s blade sings when it is dissatisfied with a cut, and caught him then—his kesh’tam went skittering to the ground! Amiri was saving my life, even unknown miles apart. Even as his Sun had set, yet he persisted under the light of his Moon. Wretched. As he came at me again, I noticed another stirring in the air. Dark wings. But he did not care, and he was upon me again. This time, I wrenched at his arm and sent his rash’tam flying from his grasp, demanding he cease. A murder of crows had darkened the sky, and we had greater concerns. For a moment, int he close quarters of our grapple, I saw his eyes shift, his mouth parted in hesitation… And then he unleashed his breath upon me, and I found myself reeling back. Amidst the cloud of his breath, the crows descended upon us, and I found myself staggering their onslaught. The sigil on my leg burned. I could barely see, barely breathe; talons raked my hide. One set of the sharp sets of claws caught Inobu in the throat and face and he gagged amidst the swarm. And then, as soon as it had begun, I saw Hikora rushing forward, heard her tam’ur ring and flash with light, and the crows were banished. The ceremony was brought to a prompt conclusion, and my sister whisked me away without another moment’s hesitation. She had few words for me as we hurried from Bladesinger Temple. When I asked her how she achieved such a thing, she urged me to silence myself before speaking another word. What she told me next chilled me to my core— The sigil on my leg is no simple mark. Through it, I have become a pair of eyes for this… lord of crows. Hikora could not tell me more, for obvious reasons, but she did give me one directive: go to Idran, in the Green Sea, and seek a man named Maximov, who I believe she referred to as a “windcaller.” I swore to her I would cut off my leg if I had to—I would give anything to not be an aid to this dark being, swear any oath. Draconian prosthetics are formidable things. She assured me, though, that it would not be necessary. I set out now, with the company of her aide, Kyliko, and a private Draconian airship. Well, almost private. Apparently word reached the Emperor quickly, and I am to travel with the company of a squad of Drop Troops. I can’t say the thought excites me—I’ve no desire to put up with their snooping, nor their lack of subtlety. But I have few other options, for now I act to keep my family safe. I am loath to leave them again. For a while, I had hoped… silly thing though it is… I had hoped I might have even just a little more time with them. A few more weeks to spend in the light of their company. This was just all so… sudden. A foolish hope, I know, for the life I live, but an earnest one. Well… another quest it is! It would appear even my very senses betray me this time—it’s never easy, isn’t it? Besides, what would the fun in that be? And so I offer praises to the Great Spirits as I depart! At least this time Hikora offered me a speaker bauble, and approval of my Naming Ceremony. And with Cloudpiercer and Riptide at my side, well… I think I’ll manage. I’d be eager for the opportunity for more renown, if only it weren’t so personal this time. And then there are my… traveling companions. We’ll see. We shall certainly see. It’s shaping up to be quite the new adventure. May the Great Spirits watch me through the gleam of my blessed swords, enlighten me in the hidden places of the world, guide me in the words of the strangers I've yet to make familiar, and bless me in the light of sun and moon. May their deeds echo in my actions and their will echo in my wishes. May I honor them in the paths I follow and the waters I tread and the mountains I climb. I am but a transient pilgrim walking the tracks of this past and future world, my blood the blood of my lord and my father and my people.

Armed With Wings, Armed With Lightning: Storm's End

AT LONG LAST!! Words cannot describe the joy in my heart I feel as the great complex of the Floating City appears before me on the horizon. After trials, tribulations, tests of faith, tests of resolve, new friends, old enemies, new threats, and countless rich lessons, I have completed my formidable mission and lived to return home with the spoils in tow. The Draconian Imperial Republic will yet prosper. As we made our way from the burning shadows of the mine, we came across a wounded Flynn who had not yet breathed his last. It was unexpected, but not surprising, to learn he was in fact familiar with Orlando—who he called Oren, it should be said. I learned something of Orlando’s history and lineage during our encounter with Mai Lin, but each new secret piques my curiosity further still. Especially where Orlando referred to this bloodied old pirate as “the closest thing he ever had to a father.” It would do us no good for him to die here, not for us or for Orlando’s state of mind—an application of nirnroot did the trick to stabilize him. I could see the relief in my friend’s eyes when the pulse of this “Markhorn” steadied (nilwort is a potent coagulant, and it also helps regulate the beating of one’s heart when applied properly by a trained individual). Apparently, he had helped Orlando’s father recover Mai Lin, so I’ve him to thank for my success as well. Another note in the Harmony of the Great Spirits. Once he was coughing up less of his own blood, he had more to say about the current state of affairs. The Crossbone Council had convened early in response to the Imperium’s invasion—the Maycomb pirates, coordinating with the invaders, now sought to steal the Flynn’s secret project and wipe out the Council while they assembled, their efforts sponsored by the infamous Meiser, a powerful and secretive fence who had worked his way into Del’Ortan society like a parasite. The Flynns had named their new ship The Ebon Storm, and it was powered by the technology I had been sent to retrieve—dangerous, in the hands of pirates who had consorted with dark spirits and the Imperium. Markhorn mentioned as well that he had been constructing another project in secret, an aircraft he called The Storm Chaser. Fittingly named, and potentially a great boon to us if we could not catch The Ebon Storm before it took off. And so, it seemed a choice was presented to us: we go after The Ebon Storm, or save the Council. The choice was laughably easy—I care nothing for the council of scoundrels—and as a further blessing, no matter the choice we made, Del’Orta was finished. Orlando was initially resistant to abandoning the scum’s hierarchy, but Nobler’s goals aligned with mine, and we set out to chase the Storm. The bard would come around—or so I thought. Outside the Flynn’s mansion, we were met with the sight of Armitage coordinating relief efforts—bizarre altruism, from a pirate. Still, he lifted our wanted notice from the rest of Del’Orta’s crews, and he had healing supplies to offer us. I left my comrades to manage that, though, as there was one more familiar face I saw there: Ariel. The tiefling woman was, remarkably, recovering, enough where her wits were once again her own and she had the energy to refer to me as “sailor boy.” I don’t know where the title came from; she had never seen me sail in her life, unless she had glimpsed us in our dinghy making our way to the stack ships while she was still seized by the trance. I was just… relieved to see her well. The question of why she helped us so readily still burns in my mind, as do the memories of what she suffered as a result. I hated to deliver more bad news to her, tell her that her home was close to being overrun, but she seemed as if she had come to terms with the necessity of moving on—she did not despair at the news. I asked her in some way to meet in Doylin. Someday. It seems a better environment for someone of her sensibilities than Del’Orta, though I am hardly one to say what is best for her. All I could do was see her off. I made sure she did not leave empty-handed: Nar’Shen’s jewelry, which I kept when I defeated him ages ago, looked far better on her than they ever had on that cur. And then we said goodbye, and the notes of her song slipped beneath louder chords. We made our way with haste through the forest, unmolested by guards. The trees opened onto a massive swath of paved earth, as if a great creature had stomped through in a rage. The sounds of combat seemed oh so very far away compared to the roar of engines—The Ebon Storm was taking off! The three of us ran, charging across the open ground as a large craft emerged from a hangar, about the size of an ironclad frigate, its hull the shape of a plunging bird. I could tell just by witnessing it here that it was considerably more advanced than anything which existed currently—its incomplete frame allowed glimpses at its inner workings, a beast of steel and floatstone and something else entirely. And it was about to get away. I had no desire to commandeer The Storm Chaser when we could cut straight to the source, and bolted for the ascending craft. Making good use of my old rope and grapple, Orlando had already hooked onto the aircraft, but Nobler and I had yet to secure a means. I fired my magitech grapple once and it skittered off the side of the craft, its hull deflecting the anchor. The Ebon Storm was gathering speed now, rising as it went. A low roar filled the air, and the sky reverberated under its engines. another grapple shot fell off again, as Orlando began to make his way up alone. The Storm, my objective all along, was beginning to climb out of my reach, and panic began to set into my limbs. It could all be in vain. Orlando might have to go it alone. All of my efforts to this point may have been for nothing. In that moment, my sister’s words echoed in my mind. It was a response she’d had for me when I questioned just how she could possibly manage all the pressure, all the stress, of her meteoric rise to prominence, staring down duelists with decades’ more experience than her. “I don’t succeed because I don’t feel those pressures,” she said. “I succeed because I never feel they are enough to defeat me.” I muttered a prayer to the Great Spirits with my sister’s word in my heart, and fired my grapple one last time, and watched as it coiled around The Ebon Storm’s landing gear. Grabbing Nobler, I reeled us in as our quarry took off, carrying us with it. It was no easy feat getting aboard simply because we had gotten our hooks in the craft. My magitech strained under the weight of my companion and I (Nobler’s sheer muscle mass was quite the challenge for the mechanism, in addition to my wiry frame). As it reeled us slowly in, the skies began to darken—a swarm of crows fell upon us to harry our passage. We were practically helpless in midair, as we were—their claws and beaks scoured my flesh, a beating cloud which filled my vision with darkness. The light of the sky was blotted out almost entirely, my vision blacking out. Nobler and Orlando were similarly beset, Orlando slipping down his rope and almost falling. Would we be minced to pieces by these unholy pests before we even entered the ship?? NO! There was one element of their foes the crows could not quench, and that was the breath of lightning in my lungs as I opened upon them with a roar and sent the shadows spiraling from the sky. My last firecracker rang through the air in quick succession, scattering the fiends. We hoisted our way aboard the ship. A healing elixir barely dulled the aching in my body. I would be returning home with countless new scars—no matter. The better I bear them for my people. Clambering our of the cargo hold we had found ourselves in, we were met with three Maycombs who barely had time to react before we cut most of them down. The one which remained, though, kept a zealous surprise for us: a bomb that he gleefully detonated before we could finish him. The blast was point-blank, and it set my ears ringing as it tore through the unfinished hull. A howl filled the cavern and we found ourselves being torn out of the compartment. Orlando and I managed to hang on before we were sucked out entirely, but Nobler began to tumble out into the open air. He was hanging on for dear life, the yells of all three of us swallowed by the wind. Orlando tossed him a rope, and he grabbed for it once, twice, as it whipped through the air—to no avail. He was about to fall, with nothing but an open plummet for hundreds and hundreds of feet if he let go. A wild look was in his eyes, Orlando’s eyes—mine too, probably. Orlando and I had the same thought in the same moment, and he moved like a bolt, bringing his arm back and hurling his chain spear, that gift from Gaku, and Nobler, harpooning him in the meat of his leg. Frankly, I was relieved and amazed that he didn’t hit an artery, but I certainly wasn’t about to complain. As we hauled the writhing nobler inside, I opened us a door and we clambered into a pressurized space. This empty mess hall we found ourselves in allowed us a moment to breathe. It was funny, I thought, how even hulking machines of war require a place for their crews to eat. I couldn’t say my appetite was on my mind, though. We didn’t stay long before we were pushing forward to our next objective: take the ship. The longer we waited, the closer this new weapon got to innocents and the farther it got from where I saw fit to take it. Orlando took point—wise, in relation to how each of us was managing in terms of our wounds, but unwise in that the crewmate in the next room was quickly alerted to his presence. I didn’t give him much time to call for help; he was, unfortunately for him, strapped into the harness for a massive weapon in the ship, which left him rather helpless to resist my rash’tam silencing him. A call came from above—Tusk—and the hapless Maycomb pirate who crawled down in response was butchered just as quickly. In this hall, there was a shaft leading up, where the man had come from, as well as the massive aforementioned weapon. It was a formidable sight, if this is the engine that Mai Lin’s schematics had spoken of: lightning arced between two massive coils, the air sharp with the scent of ozone. I was seized by the desire to reach out and touch it, embrace the energy of my heritage, see what sort of charge might power my veins if I channeled its power, but I would not risk damaging the machine or myself when victory was so close. There was just a long climb up the ladder, and Tusk at the top. There was only one point of access we had without compromising the hull and risking the grasp of the rushing air again, and my wounds were severe enough as they were. Tusk might have had to be certain he piloted The Ebon Storm along its trajectory, but a ladder with such narrow access gave him a position he could have held for days, had he needed to. My body was stretched to its limits, and Nobler’s leg was still oozing blood (although he was healing remarkably quickly, as well). There were no grenades for us to toss his way. Orlando’s audacity won the day, as he agreed to lead the charge up the ladder. He hurled himself up the rungs, springing far ahead of me and launching himself up in what seemed to be a perfect spiral. I heard the roar of a pistol reverberating in a closed chamber, saw thick smoke flood the chamber, above, a flash of fire… and then I saw Tusk hurtling down the shaft. I pressed my body to the side, waited for the rush of displaced air and the crunch of him hitting the ground, and then I leapt after him, seeking to finish him with a Whistling Fang. Tusk, for all his might, could not resist the three of us as we cornered him—and he knew it, because in that moment, he regarded us cooly, spoke a praise to the Lord of Crows, and slit his own throat. I butchered his remains. There would be no rise from the dead for him. We took the controls of The Ebon Storm—FINALLY!—and I called for my friends to set a course for Drakkon. They would welcome us with open arms. Orlando had other plans. He must have been taken by the same love of captivity which enraptured Nobler and Nema, because he insisted we turn course and make our way back to Del’Orta. I cannot begin to understand why he might wish to do such a thing—we had nearly everything we needed, the Imperium forces would attempt to bring us down, The Storm Chaser, as we had learned from Tusk, was patrolling the skies, eager to seek us out… and he wanted to go back? To rescue some number of pirates. Scoundrels. Worthless thieves, swindlers, and murderer, a cityful of them. We were this close. We needed only to leave. And as I looked into Orlando’s eyes, some ridiculous stubbornness was yet set in them. His words rang empty in my ears—civilians don’t live in Del’Orta unless they choose such a life. It’s not as if one can simply wander in. Foolish! Del’Orta was doomed, praise the Great Spirits, and he still wanted to return and risk our goals—damn it, my goals—to help them. Katsuhito and Morikage perched upon my shoulders. Nobler, the other fighter among us, seemed to lean more towards my views. He would tip the scales in either direction. And yet, Nema waited below, and he would be loathe to leave her. I could not rely upon his joining my cause. I had the most training in close-quarters fighting. Orlando had run dry his reserve of sorcery. In single combat in an enclosed space, a fight against him would be laughably easy to win—only I was severely wounded, and we might not be the only combatants. Not to mention he can be counted upon to always have a trick up his sleeve. And could I bring myself to strike a seemingly-fated comrade? I could not risk attempting to render him unconscious—too much could go wrong, and then it would be all over. I would have to strike to kill. My hand wandered towards the hilt of my kesh’tam. We were high in the air, no support nearby in the slightest, save for Nobler. There was no telling what Baltos might do if Orlando’s life was threatened, whether he could find him, or whether the loss of his life would unleash some hellish fury in the little imp. And if he died, there would only be myself and Nobler to steer our course, a dangerous lack of personnel to fly an advanced warship. Still. A Blade is an agent of the Sun and the Moon. The moon shines where the sun may not. And I had a duty to my country, a duty to my name. My wounds throbbed. Hairline fractures ran through the windshield of the cockpit; a struggle could damage my prize further. Not to mention, the will of the Great Spirits seemed to have brought us together. His father had been instrumental in saving Mai Lin, and Orlando had saved my life but a few hours ago. He had led the charge up the ladder. Duty to the will of the Great Spirits must be my guide always, beyond even the call of duty to my country, and the loss of Orlando’s tune would sour the harmony of their music. As if that weren’t enough, my goddamn cat was still down there. I took the lightning lance, and was rewarded, as we turned around, with the sight of the absolute destruction we were able to wreak upon the enemy. The Imperium ships’ few deck guns could not manage to penetrate our hull, and when I opened up this superweapon upon them, it was like the breath of a hundred dragons, a bolt from the heavens. We carved a swath through their fleet as their shots pinged off our hull—they hadn’t prepared for an aerial threat. Even The Storm Chaser dared not engage us. I switched places with Nobler to get a better view, let him try dragon’s breath out for size. Below, I saw a line of Del’Ortan ships punch through the Imperium lines, taking a pummeling as they went but fleeing nonetheless. Just as the battle seemed turned in our favor, though, I caught an ominous bubbling in the water, and in a few moments, a massive beast burst through, what could only be a horrible Imperium chimera the likes I had never seen or studied before. Its thick tendrils churned the air, ravaging the Del’Ortan ships, and from its body, arcs of energy lanced forth. That would be our cue to leave. Even as I said this, though, I saw a distant, tiny shape upon the shore, barely in view. As I squinted, the realization stunned me: it was the dwarf we had so carefully kept safe and hidden all along! That mysterious inhabitant of the karsts! As I watched, she reached out, and the very bones of the earth shot through the ground and impaled the great beast… and then the dwarf woman sank to the ground again, no doubt in another coma. The Imperium forces had been cleared for the time being, and we took the opportunity to land and retrieve her. Who was there waiting but Baltos, Nema, and Bastet, having tailed us from the ground. The six of us reunited with our seventh ward, we lifted off again and got out of there. Away from Del’Orta, aboard our prize, towards the center of my homeland, alive and victorious, away from a detested city forever destroyed, onwards, in triumph. I felt a swelling in my chest as we set off towards the horizon. We made it. I was homeward bound, at long last—I would see my family again, after a long separation. Perhaps Amiri had made it home, as well; maybe Hikari had recovered further! It would be grand to see he and my father again, one of the best feelings I could imagine. Not to mention, I was eager for the opportunity to share with my new companions the splendor of Draconia. Who knows—I might even show them my room. And then I could reflect on my journey. How I’d learned trusting capable companions can pay dividends—especially if they have magic songs and beastly fangs. How the harmony of the Great Spirits may even be found in the most seemingly-unworthy places. How evil will just as soon find kindred evil as it will destroy itself. How what has been killed may not truly die. How, even in my darkest moments, even when I am battered and scarred, even when my will ebbs—I have the capabilities I need to enact the will of my gods, of my people. I am my own armor. I am my own sword. I am a Blade. May the Great Spirits watch me through the gleam of my sword, enlighten me in the hidden places of the world, guide me in the words of the strangers I've yet to make familiar, and bless me in the light of sun and moon. May they walk in the stride of those I walk amongst, and touch the world through the hands of my companions. May their deeds echo in my actions and their will echo in my wishes. May I honor them in the paths I follow and the waters I tread and the mountains I climb. I am but a transient pilgrim walking the tracks of this past and future world, my blood the blood of my lord and my father and my people.

The Fires Below

Few other choices remained before us; we had to venture into the Old Town. The place was haggard and ramshackle, as much from old age and disrepair as from our earlier bombardment. The air seemed to simmer, and I felt a sensation as if fingernails skittering down the length of my dorsals. None of us had any desire to linger long. We made it to the destroyed fountain unmolested. Five tunnels lay before us, gaping mouths poised to swallow us whole. Some had even collapsed. I wondered—was such obstruction a consequence of our artillery barrage, or a calculated effort to check our advance? There was a stirring in the air, a sensation which pulled at me through the gaps in the fallen rubble; we would have to push through the detritus, make our way into the dark. Back towards Del’Orta. Great Spirits! I can only hope my stay in this hive is nearing its conclusion. I am glad for the companions I have met along the way, but I’ve slain enough pirates for a lifetime. As we ventured further down, the air became thick with heat and smoke. A wistful admiration came over me of Lord Fraxiros’ scarlet heritage—he would have remained unbothered down here, so hot that the dark air shimmered. But I am not of such ancestry, nor should I aspire to be what I am not. Not in that way, at least. Making our way through the dark, we came upon another collapsed aperture, and on the other side, a hallway roaring with fire. Beyond that, a vast precipice which seemed as if someone who tumbled haplessly into it would fall to the center of the earthly sphere itself. A feeling of trepidation took root in my heart. One wrong move in my weakened state, and I could be overwhelmed by flames, or strangled by smoke. One slip, one tumble, and my journey would meet a violent end. Orlando, with his typical audacity, did not seem perturbed. In fact, as I watched from my perch on the other side of the rubble, he wrestled through and strode straight across the blaze. I watched in awe—I knew of some sort of blessing he carried with him, but a feat of this nature? It was beyond words. I watched as flames clawed at him and the thick smoke clouded him, and still he carried on, barely flinching. I knew then, truly, that the Great Spirits were with all of us—but I could not yet shake the sense of fragility I felt. Finally, I used my grapple to swing to the other side of the hallway, at the edge of the precipice where Orlando now stood. As I did so, his brow furrowed with effort and he actually managed to quell the inferno as I passed over. It was not to last, though; as we attempted to spirit Nobler on over, Orlando lost control and my grapple lost its grip, sending our friend tumbling through the fire and nearly being consumed! My heart leapt out of my throat for but a moment before I was by his side, batting at the fire which licked at him. He was singed, his fur almost comically frizzled and smoking, but he was alive. So it would appear, were some old adversaries of ours. As Orlando shouted above the fires to be heard, we saw from the other side the silhouette of a ruffian we’d met a few times before: Tusk. But he was with the Maycomb pirates… What did they know of this assault? Why was a procession of them now marching out of the other side of this precipice, making their way towards the surface? How had they crossed the abyss? Any questions I had were consumed by what Tusk yelled back at us: An old adversary waited for us, further within. The dead, undying. Blasphemy done against the harmony of the Great Spirits in order to halt our progress. I would not let whatever horror lurked within this grotto crawl out again. Despite my loathing for these pirates… I was still wounded, and I had no idea where these dark, burning caverns would lead us. We delved further, into shadow. The tunnels here were crumbling, every patch of earth on the brink of collapse, seizing beneath our feet. As we passed through this desolate place, its nature became clear—it was a coal mine, abandoned, its dark blood smouldering in its veins. A single wrong move, an excited breath on my part or a twitch of the mind on Orlando’s part or a claw of Nobler’s skittering off the wrong surface, would send us all up in flames. As it turned out, that is exactly what happened. Making our way through the twisting mines, we chanced across the dead body of a Red Devil, eviscerated on the spot. Seeing it, Orlando, assuming it would reinvigorate like a number of others we’ve encountered, wasted no time in enveloping it with a jet of flame from his rifle. Now, I cannot say his suspicion was unfounded, or even unwise. But his resulting action proved to make things very, very dangerous as the tunnel we were standing in, thick with unmined coal, erupted like a hellmouth, and with only a moment’s hesitation we were rushing back out to the central chamber from whence we came. I am thankful for my magitech grapple—it spared me many times from being consumed by fire or swallowed by the dark abyss of these dilapidated caverns. After shaking ourselves off and wracking our brains a moment for the best way forward, we delved back in. Again, into the dark, into the maze, into this perpetually-smoldering hellscape with nowhere to move and no clear destination, drained and harried. Would this even aid my mission? Would this even get me where I needed to go? I would have wasted my soul if I were to die there, underground, in the burning dark. When our feet carried us blindly to another dead end, a crow’s nest wrought in twisted metal, I practically turned back all at once. Now, there were dark powers again present which we had no true idea how to confront, especially not in our weakened states. I might have left, fled the stifling tunnels to the surface where I might await the coming Crossbone Council. I might have left, had it not been for my friends. For there was Orlando, weaving inspired words and charging me with determination. There was rugged Nobler, who had simply grit his teeth and pushed forward no matter the toll on his mind and body. Here were people I had weathered tempests with, ready, against all confusion and doubt, to press forward into the unknown. And here was an unholy enemy who tampered with life and death itself and had been following us the length of our journey, presenting itself to me proudly, and I wished to turn back? I thrust my blade into this profane icon and uttered an oath to the Great Spirits. Despair would not seize my heart today. We found our way to the belly of the mine, and, ahead, I heard the clashing of blades. I was simply a ghost among shadows as I slipped through the dark—when two Red Devils ran by us, I blindsided one in hopes of interrogating him about what lay ahead, but such was the terror which propelled him that he slipped through my grasp. I got a general sense of what stood before me as I proceeded down the hallway: broken bodies lay strewn about the place in pools of blood, butchered very, very recently. My friends were behind me as I stepped across the threshold into a large chamber, and saw before me a familiar face. Or, rather, what remained of a familiar face. Just as Tusk had promised, a ghost from our past stood before us in this vast cavern, hunched over a corpse. Nar’Shen. But not as he had been—his body was twisted and scarred, his limbs mangled and emaciated, marked by old wounds I had dealt, and his head… his head had sprouted a beak of twisted bone, like some freak mutation. His body was draped in a dark cloak which I realized with a start were ragged feathers. He had taken on the aspect of the crow, revived as Gaku had been. Getting the drop on him would be essential to winning, as I had before. I had no time to wait. If Nobler and Orlando startled him, the advantage would be lost. And so, steadying myself with the breathing techniques Master Izem had taught me, I crept forward, took aim… and let fly my rash’tam from my hand. Eternity seemed to pass as it spiraled end over end, its gleam flickering off the rivulets of coal which streaked the cavern… … And like a flash of lightning, like a wave crashing upon the shore, it found its mark, burying itself in the montrosity’s head. And then all hell broke loose. Nobler and Orlando rushed in as my attack staggered this once-Nar’Shen, and they readied their weapons (and instruments) as I stared this creature down. As I locked my gaze on it, I let loose a roar which sent lightning arcing towards it, and the ground beneath it burst into flame, the coal ignited by my fury. As it was about to move towards me, Orlando’s drums beat yet again and I saw, just for a moment, a haze wash over it. I charged. The Nar’Shen-thing fought with whirling torches and its cruel beak, the latter of which I could just barely deflect and the former of which were tossed gleefully about the room, hedging us in fire. Very well, I thought. Two can play at that game. When it retreated for a moment, I hurled my last torch after it; arson is one of an infiltrator’s most useful tools. It hardly reacted as the fires behind it roared, lapping at its feathers. a wall of fire separated myself and my companions, a barrier which Nobler leapt through moments later when his firearms let him down. His true prowess lies in unarmed combat, where he may bring his Haretal-blessed might to bear in full force. Together, we closed in on our twisted foe. Orlando’s drums had ceased their sway over him, and we found ourselves in a pitched battle as each side struggled to wear the other down. I barely avoided several blows, as the flames closed in and my scales began to radiate enough warmth to incubate an egg. A brutal strike from Nobler sent the creature reeling, and I realized that the body of the former Nar’Shen itself had been practically torn apart—more crowlike features burst eagerly forth from the shell, and its fiery dance intensified. Each side was on its last legs, and now I wove desperately between nimble talons to find the opening which would end the fight. Izem had taught me and Hikari and Amiri had shown me: I battle, whenever possible, must be ended in a single, decisive blow. I darted around this beast, desperate to find the opening to do so. My kesh’tam flashed as I hacked at our foe, and Nobler’s snarls echoed in the darkness. Nobler landed a resounding blow, and the fiend’s defenses seemed broken. I rushed in, ready to deliver the strike which would smite the profane monstrosity. As suddenly as the opening had appeared, it closed, and I was met with a gnashing beak barreling towards me, driven by an unearthly speed and force. I don’t remember the impact. Light speckled my vision like flower blossoms, as if I had dug my knuckles into my eyes. I saw the courtyard of the Pavilion of the Wayfarer, spring. Nori Igrin-Senhotep, muttering an underhanded comment about my father’s relationship with Munirah, the White Tear. I heard myself rearing to my full height, challenging him. I saw his eyes, narrowed to slits as he sized me up, our hands at our sheathes. His hand twitched on his hilt—I watched, sure I would register any movement. I saw the wind shake the trees, I saw the bright leaves fall. We charged. my kesh’tam leapt from my sheath, eager to strike true. I was not ready. I was so fixed on his hands, obscured by the sleeves of his blue-and-orange robes, that I never noticed them dart from his sleeves to draw and strike at an angle from which I was entirely vulnerable. I saw my blood, glittering in the air like so many scattered jewels. And I felt that old pain shoot through that scar on my arm as I jolted awake, the last searing trickle of a healing elixir splashing down my throat and blossoming in my chest. Orlando hovered over me, eyes wide. His robes were caked in soot. But I… I was alive. As was our enemy, if barely. Nobler had held his own as Orlando attended me, and I watched as he brought the Nar’Shen-thing to its knees. Blow after blow rained down on it, but it shook them off, somehow, and the fires were raging all around us, consuming everything. Soon, we would be cooked alive. The creature’s eyes popped in its sockets as Orlando took his go, but his rifle shot went wide—the thing was just too nimble. We began to retreat from the room, pursued by the wall of fire and the slavering crow-monster. It lurched out of the way of bullets, brushed aside claw strikes. How could we break its defense? The answer came to me all at once. I used my magitech frame to launch myself over the wall of fire, and finally got a clear shot at the thing. My explosive movement jostled my aim, but I wasn’t aiming to hit it with this strike. Again, my rash’tam spiralled end over end, streaking towards the fiend. I saw it lock its eye on the blade and twist out of the way, feathers scattering sparks as they rustled. And as its gaze was fixed on my rash’tam, my grapple caught its chin, shattering what remained of its beak, and with a pneumatic screech, reeled the thing into my waiting blade. It twitched for but a moment before falling still, and I wrenched my sword free. For the glory of the Great Spirits. I hope he stays dead this time. We wasted no time scrambling back through the mine’s corridors as the fires chased us out, a hair’s-breadth behind us at every step. The three of us emerged at the surface, bruised and bloodied, at the other end of the crevasse which had barred our passage. Before us were… slain Flynns?? It could not be! And yet it was. Out of the fire, and into another fire—and yet, precisely the one in which I wished to be. Just the trial I had sought to face, from the moment I reached Del’Orta. My tenacity had guided me to the very place I had been seeking all along, the heart of my objective, the gauntlet at the end of which lay my ultimate prize: We had reached the lair of the Flying Flynns. May the Great Spirits watch me through the gleam of my sword, enlighten me in the hidden places of the world, guide me in the words of the strangers I've yet to make familiar, and bless me in the light of sun and moon. May they walk in the stride of those I walk amongst, and touch the world through the hands of my companions. May their deeds echo in my actions and their will echo in my wishes. May I honor them in the paths I follow and the waters I tread and the mountains I climb. I am but a transient pilgrim walking the tracks of this past and future world, my blood the blood of my lord and my father and my people.

Converging Shadows

It would seem we made our way through the thorns to pluck a rose or two for ourselves; I yet bleed, but we all have something to show for it now. The brothel hid a handful of potent treasures in its stores. Orlando walked away with a rifle and a set of drums, Nobler with a mysterious skull, and I with a pair of daggers—which I gave to Neema—and a set of slippers which, while ragged, grace my feet with a nimbleness I have not known before. The cost was… well on top of the demons we encountered recently, a charm I suffered in which I found myself thoroughly paralyzed attempting to claim these items. A parting trick. It was a jarring reminder—even after all I overcame moments before, I might have had my breath stolen away by a simple spell to foil petty burglars. A harsh reminder, to be sure. We did not have long to examine our gifts—as the red mist fell about Del’Orta, it drove ordinary folk mad with bloodlust, and a mob of them made their way towards us. Neema and our now-sober companion did a good job of barring the door before they fell upon us, but they were moments from crashing through the makeshift fortification. I had no desire to be a fish in a barrel here, and hurried to the outer quarters. My wounds stung with every motion, my head throbbed, my muscles ached—but there was no time to preoccupy myself with external hardship. It was not Master Izem, not Hikari or Amiri, but my father, who taught me how to push away such physical distractions. The funny thing is… I don’t remember the first occasion I learned that lesson from him. It is one which has been ingrained in me, present in my mind from bee stings and sword wounds alike. I will remember his words always, and the eyes upon me as he spoke them: “Pain is your body telling you something is wrong, my son. It is an alarm, a cry for you to listen, but it cannot be an obstacle. Do not fear it: greet it, accept it, and tell it you understand.” The words of a being with an intimate understanding of pain; they have helped me persevere through my most grueling trials. I understood this agony. The luxury rooms on the edges of the ship were designed with rather… eclectic… tastes in mind. But it was a design that proved useful. A set of cuffs was available to restrain Ariel, who was still gripped by the curse which had befallen Del’Orta. I felt reprehensible subjecting her to such bindings, but she threatened to harm us and herself in such a state, and they proved useful when we had to pull her up through a hatch in the roof. It was a small thing with a rope ladder; rather inconvenient for our purposes, but better than nothing. I was able to ascend without issue and begin the process of seeing the rest of my companions through. As we were hoisting Ariel, though, the mob burst through the barricade and began to assail us, assail her—I would not have it. Civilians or not, they would kill us, kill the woman who had sacrificed so much for me, and I would not have it. My breath withered them. Standing upon the roof, we had a better view of this horde of possessed folk. They filled the streets, ravenous, tearing into each other when no other prey presented itself. The only way to get away from them was to descend the heights we stood upon, make for the docks. Again my grapple proved handy—I wish Ariel could hear my apology in the moment for the rough landing, but perhaps it was better that she was not aware of the situation to begin with. The boat we had hired to The Ship—these Red Devils aren’t too imaginative, are they, the bastards—still remained on the dock. We would need it to escape to Del’Orta proper, or anywhere else for that matter, stuck as we were on the northeastern island now. Unfortunately, despite it being present, its availability was limited due the threat of a roaming dockmaster under the curse’s grip. As it turned out, though, the rifle Orlando had claimed was quite sufficient to dispatch him: it shoots gouts of fire, apparently. If ever there were crude instruments unworthy of the touch of magic, firearms are the prime example. But it was useful, certainly. We decided there that our objective from what was now the previous night remained: destroy the Red Devils, using the chaos to our advantage. They had two stack ships docked at Old Town, ripe for the taking. If we were quiet and decisive, we could seize one ship and turn its guns on the other, as well as any other Red Devils present. There was one other thing to take care of, though. Katsuhito’s Queries of Embodied Light ask a warrior how they can possibly capture the hearts of those around them by partaking in their deeds of glory without considering the consequences to others, and at this moment I saw with us a person for whom the consequences of our actions had been quite severe, and I saw a way out for her. Our once-drunk companion, Lysander, had done an effective job of keeping Ariel out of harm’s way for the time being, and I saw no reason that might not continue for a while longer. I offered him a generous sum—some fifteen gold and fifty ninesilver I would have no use of—to ensure she remained safe until this perilous situation was resolved. Orlando, for reasons I cannot comprehend, seemed to take offense to this, going so far as to threaten our acquaintance with his new rifle when I made the offer. MY offer. He talked as if this man was extorting me, was attempting to swindle me, threatened his life based upon an offer I had put forth. Looking back upon the encounter, I suppose he could have been speaking as a concerned friend, unwilling to see me taken advantage of. I can appreciate that in retrospect. In the moment, though, I had to force my anger down yet again as I saw callous threats being made towards a potential ally. We’d already seen too many lives unnecessarily lost as a result of such reckless pride, and I would not see it happen again. I promised Lysander his sum, shook on his slimy hand (such an odd custom to spit on one’s hands when we could have simply bowed respectfully from a distance) and saw them off. I was glad to see Ariel go in the arms of a resourceful soul determined to live to see their payment. I hope I see her again; Orlando and Baltos keep insisting that I am smitten, but I play the fool less than they would seem to think. It was simply the right decision, investing myself in an innocent’s safety, especially after the aid she gave us out of nowhere, with little promise of reward aside from a reasonable stack of gold. I still don’t believe that such a sum would have been sufficient alone to buy her into our conspiracy, and my hope is to eventually understand what would have. Not to mention… I still find myself haunted by Neema’s expression after she first saw the slain circus members. Their colorful bodies strewn about the floor, framed in crimson. Casualties of foolish, reckless pride. An adherent to the Pilgrim’s Way cannot afford to leave death in their wake. Such a person would be a harbinger, not a holy one. I cannot claim to follow the way of the Great Spirits and spread echoes of unjust death in their great harmony. My mind was heavy with such thoughts as we embarked for the stack ships in the distance. That bloody mist hung heavy in the air, and profane horrors lurked in the waters. I was weary—I still am weary. My spirit remains strong, but caution is of the essence—my body has reached its limits. Still, there was yet beauty in this dark place, that of the love between Neema and Nobler. They truly are a pair for the ages—my quiet utterances of my prayers only served to magnify their words in my ears, not drown them out. It’s as if the Fireheart Cinder was whispering in my ear… “Look no further, faithful one, than the love of your companions, the convictions of those who have fought beside you. Your warrior’s hands need not be clapped over your dreamer’s eyes.” For now, though, they needed to remain at the ready. One of the Imperium’s monstrosities stirred beneath our boat, eager to sate its hunger. There was no time to waste in confronting this monster, nor could we afford to make too much noise; taking a cue from a certain variety of ferrymen, I shot a grapple to the stack ship and pulled us through the water as fast as the magitech could while the creature tore at the boat in our wake. We rocketed through the water at remarkable speed, but our assailant had plans of its own for us, and tore at our tiny vessel as it went. Creaking and groaning, strained to its limit, my grapple flew from the hull of our target, with nearly twenty feet to go. The wondrous device smoked upon my wrist—I couldn’t risk any further strain to it. The eel chimera bore down on us. Our window was closing… our window! A porthole in the hull of the boat before us proved just a large enough target for my conventional rope and grapple. I began to pull my way up, Neema making an even faster pace than I. As I climbed, the beats of a drum cut through my focus—Orlando was trying out his new toy. I almost shot a reprimand over my shoulder, but I wasn’t the one engaging the beast, and, strangely enough, it seemed mystified by the spell this drumset was putting it under. As I watched, a cavalcade of shots rang out, blowing precise holes in the creature’s head—brilliant marksmanship from Nobler. The Imperium’s experiments would not taste our blood today. The ship’s furnaces were quiet, but footsteps rang in the silence above us—there were yet some crew members left. My footsteps lightened by the embrace of the slippers, I disappeared into the darkness again, prepared to execute these scoundrels. It would have gone cleanly, too, were it not for a sneeze which tore the silence apart. Holy Haretal. I was prepared to wait behind the stack where I’d found a hidden vantage, wait while my quieter companions regrouped and Orlando talked these five Red Devil’s ears off… but I never heard such honeyed words slip through the air; only a gunshot rang out. Ah… such potent tools seem to be an irresistible temptation for some. Regardless, we dispatched our foes quickly. One pirate who attempted fruitlessly to shoot me discovered my rash’tam in his skull, and the rest were slaughtered with efficiency. I watched as Neema felled not one, but two adversaries—she has grown quite capable. One might expect a person in her condition staying huddled within her room, tending to our comatose charge, but she had apparently spent the time practising relentlessly. Her spirit is rather remarkable. WAIT—our dwarven friend… she must have been left behind when Neema came to rescue us! Is she still in our room at the Bridled Mare? Such measures were simply necessary at the time, but I fear what may happen if the Imperium is searching for her—if the Imperium is aligned with the dark forces who aligned themselves with the Maycomb pirates. There are a dizzying number of factions pursuing their own machinations here. I would be incredibly grateful for even something as simple as a Blades-compiled briefing right now. She may have to be our first priority upon our completion of our goals here. Once we had control of the ship, manipulating it to our desires was straightforward enough—after all, each of us possesses at least some measure of nautical experience. The other stack ship withered under our cannonade. That just left the remaining Red Devils, seemingly holed up in Old Town itself. For a moment, I feared the potential of civilian casualties, but a quick reminder from Orlando assuaged that concern; this place is cursed, with not a living soul in the whole superstitious town who would willingly approach it, much less live there. Desperate rats in need of somewhere to hole up, though… I was perhaps all too happy to bombard the place. Such is the just reward for pirates. The square crumbled beneath our shelling, and from beneath, what seemed like the entrance to a bunker poked its head. Went sent a couple more shells its way for good measure, striking true and dealing even further damage to the structure. They were loosened up—now, it’s time to deliver the final blow. I only hope the superstitions about this place are neutral towards outsiders, or at least hostile to the Red Devils within, as well… my stamina is depleted, and my body is at the breaking point. I shall approach with utmost caution. The Blades are relying upon me, the prosperity of the Republic itself perhaps hanging in the balance. There are dark shadows converging… May the Great Spirits watch me through the gleam of my sword, enlighten me in the hidden places of the world, guide me in the words of the strangers I've yet to make familiar, and bless me in the light of sun and moon. May they walk in the stride of those I walk amongst, and touch the world through the hands of my companions. May their deeds echo in my actions and their will echo in my wishes. May I honor them in the paths I follow and the waters I tread and the mountains I climb. May their might see me through to duty’s end. I am but a transient pilgrim walking the tracks of this past and future world, my blood the blood of my lord and my father and my people.

The Fog of War

My path was set the moment I saw our Red Devil jailer drive a knife into Ariel. Dully, I could hear Orlando divert him from us, buy us more time, but there was a shroud about my mind. I saw only her, bloodied and beaten, as the figure of my companion shifted about in the corners of my vision. And then I was free. Perhaps I ought to train as an actor for a spell—they seem to possess no shortage of useful tricks. Though they don’t necessarily know the finer decencies of society; my temper flared when he denied Ariel the basic decency of an apology, but there was no time to argue. With a flicker of my will, my rash’tam was in my hands again, guardian of my honor. It would taste blood before I returned to its sheath. I set about patching us up and preparing us for what was to come. Our weakened states would prove extremely perilous unless magical healing could be found to restore our resilience. Ariel allowed me to bandage her wounds after a brief moment of uncertainty. I could understand why—my presence had only led to harm inflicted upon her. What good would my hands do? But I managed to provide adequate first aid to her ghastly wounds, and with each wince of pain I heard from her my resolve to kill these Red Devils intensified. We were not stuck in the cell for too long. Baltos’ prior absence yielded a fortunate return, with Neema alongside him. Our resourceful companion found her way into the depths of the lair by exploiting one of the greatest weaknesses of most folk, that which this place was built upon, and when she appeared before us in dress that would make Nobler blush, I saw a new determination in her eyes, the likes of which I had not quite witnessed in her before. She told us of the path ahead: eight heavily-armed Red Devils, the rest having fled to pursue a score with the Maycomb pirates. My kesh’tam was nowhere to be seen, but Ariel knew it may be found on the crew deck. It was time for us to do what we came here for. We left an example of our former guard as a warning. Morikage’s most useful secret: fear is the greatest weapon. It is a shackle we freed some fellow prisoners of when we made our way to the brig. Orlando spoke a brilliant oration of a chance for escape and freedom, while I spoke of crueler opportunities. The Paradoxes each had their moments of wrath in the span of their adventures, but the spirit of vengeance soared within me on the wings of Bir’kaa, he who knew only chaos and destruction, he who would hunt unfortunate souls to the ends of the earth. Our fellow prisoners were eager to escape, indeed, and with them, we completely overwhelmed the first wave of guards. Crude improvised weapons broke their bones and bled their bodies as Orlando and I cut down the rest. The Red Devils were on their guard, but no one expects a distraction from the likes of Baltos. One of our new allies was a Maycomb cur, offering no promises of peace upon his exit. He would be one to watch carefully, but then again: we were his only way out. We passed around the guards’ weapons—firearms, crude as ever—and used their keys to pilfer their storerooms, where we found the potions we needed, as well as some other useful herbs. I kept them close at hand. A sturdy iron door barred our passage to the other room, a door which we had no key to, but there are other ways to eliminate a lock. Perhaps a finer lock would have weathered the small explosive I fashioned with gunpowder, but these are pirate locks we’re referring to—the way was opened, and once inside, Baltos was able to slip through and grab the rest of our things. The fine balance of my kesh’tam in my hand again invigorated my spirits, and we proceeded forward… Into a bloodbath. Where Ariel had led me into her perfumed room hours before had been drenched in blood and viscera, omens of a slaughter. Corpses of pirates and innocents alike littered the ground, and I felt something waver within me, the spirit of my fury which I had embraced so eagerly before causing my body to seize. Izem had warned me of such things, long ago. There are spells and poisons which can inflict such conditions upon the mind and body, which can cloud a soul beyond its own parents’ recognition. He gave me this warning as we sparred one bright spring day, my frustrations at my failure overwhelming entirely ability to bring my training to bear. My master warned me that if I were to ever lose control in such a way, be it through toxin or arcana or my own bloodlust, I risked never finding it again, and I risked easy defeat at the hands of those who could weather such an imprecise storm. I administered my newly-found muscle relaxant without a second thought. If I were to choose between losing an edge and losing control entirely, I saw the former as the lesser of two evils. We had a job to do. I saw a similar haze fall over three companions of ours, Ariel included, but there was no time to worry about that now. We had to press onward. As it turned out, I wished we hadn’t. The same Black Bishop faced us upstairs as before, the Blakc Bishop who had evaded us initially, but he was not the greatest horror I looked upon. No, what wracked my spirit was the sight of Nobler, red fur redder still with blood, with a collar upon him, bearing down upon us with the same fury beyond his control that I had nearly succumbed to. Seeing my noble friend before me shackled and bound, compelled by a mind which was not his own, surrounded by fire and death and the pain of those I held dear, I wished for only one thing: I wished a hideous death upon the Black Bishop. I charged past my overwhelmed companion, heedless of his feral assault upon me, and made directly for the Imperium scum. He would not escape this time. He would feel the full devastation a Blade of House Senhotep could wreck. He barely turned aside my first blow, some stroke of fortune diverting my strike, and when he rallied himself, his retort was ferocious. I felt again his claws sinking into my flesh, his rampant disregard for his own safety allowing him to pursue openings any typical warrior would not dream of exploiting. My offensive was fierce, too, however, and even as he withstood my assault, I forced him to give ground. Flames erupted about us as his form turned more bestial. Behind us, I could see Nobler fighting to resist the crush of the Imperium’s collar, as Neema held onto him for dear life and Orlando’s song bolstered our spirits. It seemed for a moment this was a fight I would have to fight alone. Izem taught me not to fear solitude. After all, though the harmony of the Great Spirits echoes brightly within our bonds with our companions, it resonates still in the quietus of distraction which is discovered in solitude. And I had another with me—my mother was certainly watching. As this fell emissary of the Profane Faith bore down upon me, I discovered I still had one trick up my sleeve: my last firecracker, obtained what felt like ages ago. The Bishops’ slavering, fiery maw seemed the perfect receptacle for it. My aim was true, and the firecracker exploded within his gullet, staggering him for a moment. In that split second, above the din, I could hear a shout from Neema, and saw a brief moment of stillness down the stairs. Something in the air changed. And then the Black Bishop rallied himself and turned back towards me, full of wrath, fires hedging my back. There was nothing to do but grip my kesh’tam, my sun, and steel my nerves for his attack. A blur of movement caught my eye, and Nobler fell upon the monstrosity before me, ravaging him with claw and fang. the Black Bishop reeling and turned back towards him—the tides seemed, finally, to be shifting. Orlando found his way up next, and his biting song lashed our adversary. We were at last again, three friends united, facing down impossible odds turned ever so slightly possible in our unity. I redoubled my efforts. In one perilous moment, the Black Bishop snapped again at Nobler as he had the night before and forced him to his knees. I saw my friend’s will buckle and waver under the psychic onslaught of this monster. Our fortunes seemed to sway in the balance. But then perhaps the most extraordinary thing of the day happened. Neema, the Great Spirits’ deeds echoing in her actions, took Nobler’s head in her hands and professed her love for him—and in that moment, light overcame dark and we crashed upon the Imperium heretic in a wave. Nobler surged forth, cutting a deep gash in the Bishop as Orlando’s magic caused the fire which he had embraced to consume him. Your wrath will swallow you whole if you allow it. And I, while this fiend was harried and distracted by my companions, put my grapple and my blades to use bringing him to his knees. I don’t remember if it was my sword or Nobler’s claws, or Orlando’s song which opened the Black Bishop’s throat, but I knew the explosion was coming, knew to tuck and tumble as the shockwaves rolled over me. When I stood, I saw before me: Nobler, fur singed and matted with blood. Orlando, fighting for consciousness, coat torn and sullied. Neema, fighting for composure with a determination as fierce as ever. Ariel, unnatural bloodlust still upon her, restrained by our surprisingly capable drunken prison-mate. Baltos, Baltos. The ruins of the Red Devils’ brothel burning around us, consumed by fire. And the war-chimeras of the Ember Imperium, emerging from the water as they lay siege to a blood-shrouded Del’Orta. When did things get so complicated? May the Great Spirits watch me through the gleam of my sword, enlighten me in the hidden places of the world, guide me in the words of the strangers I've yet to make familiar, and bless me in the light of sun and moon. May they walk in the stride of those I walk amongst, and touch the world through the hands of my companions. May their deeds echo in my actions and their will echo in my wishes. May I honor them in the paths I follow and the waters I tread and the mountains I climb. I am but a transient pilgrim walking the tracks of this past and future world, my blood the blood of my lord and my father and my people.

A First Time for Everything

A fool I am for being tempted by an extravagant plan. The relief that I yet draw breath is tempered by the shame at the loss I have suffered. Well… shame? I… I’m not sure. I can’t say I’m certain. It’s something which burns with the same intensity as fury, and yet, it is not born of a fear of the judgement of others, no. It is something I direct the flow of. Disappointment—in myself, in my allies—and anger. But not defeat. Never again, as I live, will I be whispered lies in the guise of defeat. The night began with me seeking advice from Orlando, which should have been the first indication things were about to go awry. His plan for us to invade the brothel of the Red Devils required a certain degree of commitment to the particularities of the setting on our part. Involved commitment. I, for one, wished to keep a clear head and avoid becoming entangled in the carnal opportunities the Red Devils’ headquarters would present. For one, it would disrupt the circulatory equilibrium in my body and cloud my judgement and my attention. But then, there was the ideological stance… I am no prude. I am quite familiar with the epic romances of history. I am not squeamish about the topic of physical pleasure. I am also not particularly practiced in the actualities of that domain. Of that subject. This is mainly due to my dedication to other things—while Draconian Imperial Legion cadets and ministry apprentices are rolling about, fooling around, making full use of their “caves and horns,” a Blade is spending their time dedicated to their training. Now, are there advanced areas of study for a courier who wishes to bring their charms to bear in a more substantial way? Certainly. My passion—and my respectable capability—was and has always been as an infiltrator and a swordsman. The arts of the more conventional twinned swords. More useful, in my opinion. In addition to my substantial reasons for desiring to abstain as described above, the Draconian Imperial Republic takes distinct pride in producing a strong draconic lineage. Now, this isn’t a major state-mandated requirement of the citizens, but I feel special pressure as a member of House Senhotep and a scion of one of the eldest lines of our people. My sister and Amiri have always told me that such concerns shouldn’t stand in the way of romance, but it’s just… easier to not bother. Easier to not concern myself with it. My heart lies in service to my people. I’ve had a few attractions in my life, it’s just always easier to concentrate when I don’t concern myself with their pursuit. So what I suppose I’m trying to say is, I asked Orlando if it would kill our cover for me to not partake. After much ribbing on his and Baltos’ part, he recommended I seek a “lapdance” if I didn’t want to distract myself with more rigorous activities. Fine by me. I have to wonder if the mission was the first thing on his mind. When Nobler returned from getting the hair cut off his face—must be a nightmare, growing hair—Orlando revealed more wrinkles in his plan: a code phrase to commence our attack, a set of false identities. I had to convince him to not have me parade about this seedy place as the Second Adjutant to the Princely Order, Haru Hakoshima, and I had had to convince him some more to not make me dye my scales. I wanted to tell him that the notion of obscuring one’s true draconic heritage, whether another’s or oneself’s, is one of the most hideous insults to a dragonborn’s pride in the world, but I didn’t want to seem hostile; blood runs hot before a dangerous mission, and berating a comrade would do no good. It is Katsuhito who said a true ally is one who takes responsibility for understanding your ideals, but Morikage said in the same breath that words are secondary to intent, and there was no ill intention behind what he spoke—simply misunderstanding. And a certain glee. For a Blade, disguise, deception, may be part of the job when called for. For actors, it is the job. A veritably bizarre lot. So It was set. I was Yu Hakoshima, traveling with Harry and Winston, and we were to walk in, do our business with as much discretion or mayhem as warranted, and rendezvous back at the Bridled Mare. Another thing which unsettled me: Orlando’s devil-may-care attitude towards who our targets were. My mission is to make an example of pirate scum, not the innocent people under their thumb. Orlando and Baltos chuckled when I used the word “innocent” to describe prostitutes, but… there are few comparisons to the impact of physical violence, in any form, on a living being. Being the target, or the perpetrator. Especially the perpetrator. The perpetrator makes a choice. There was another reason for my hesitance. When my mother first passed away, a draconian courtesan who was visiting House Senhotep offered to take care of Hikari and I. Munirah, the Winter’s Tear of Kokkyo. A remarkable dragonborn with legendary tact and grace—I like to think my sister and I learned some of her poise while she helped our family. I was very young, but I remember gentle arms rocking me and a soothing voice and gaze to lull me to sleep. It was not to last—my father quickly grew concerned that folk would misinterpret Munirah’s proximity to our family, in spite of the care she took to be discreet. Few things escape the attention of a community of Blades. And so she left, not long after she arrived. No. I do not assume those of such work are less innocent than any other civilian simply due to the nature of their work involving their body as much as their mind. And I do not assume they are helpless, either, and that it is my responsibility as a noble being to defend them and bury them in tasteless flatteries. But they will not be subject to my violence. Morikage’s teachings state some objectives may demand unorthodox methods, some goals unusual targets. I say I won’t stain my blade with any more innocent blood. We entered the gaudy hive with little issue. The bouncer seemed formidable, to be sure, but no longer in a way which intimidated me. Still never a reason to drop my guard. The interior was a hazy mess, naturally; six Red Devils minimum, as well as a number of civilians. Orlando got to work right away, working the bartender and the regulars like a natural. I realize I’ve sounded almost scornful in the past, but I cannot emphasize how remarkable he is. And Nobler! Nobler maneuvered the crowd with great confidence, if not in the setting itself than in his own capabilities. It’s usually something I am able to do, as well, just… not in a place like this. I made a decision I saw as purely tactical which I realize in retrospect may not have been—purely. I made my way over—well, she found me, almost as much, to be fair—to a tiefling woman of a vibrant pink complexion. I instantly began to doubt the draconian national proclivity to limit procreation to dragonborn. Ach, listen to me… I sound so crass. Writing about a mission should not impart the same flippancy as writing a cheap penny novella! And yet here I am… This woman I began to talk to did not speak with sophistication, but she certainly spoke with a wryness which struck me. Struck me very directly, I should add—she, like my companions, saw fit to prod me a few times when she saw my hesitancy! But I decided the best decision would be to play along. There was much I could learn from an insider about this unfamiliar setting, many secrets she could reveal to me. What confused me was her perpetuation of this pattern I’ve seen in Nobler first, then Neema, then even Orlando—this sense of belonging to one’s captors. For this prostitute considered herself a Red Devil! I could only wonder—was it simply due to a mix of her heritage and her location? Did she feel an affinity towards them? Care for them? I had heard the Red Devils make some of their captives their playthings, though not all those who work for the Red Devils are so directly compelled to do so. She certainly acted with an ease which suggested free will. Anyway, I followed her downstairs. A certain eagerness propelled her steps; dragonborn often encounter this… enthusiasm when traveling abroad. So, to briefly demystify the dragonborn body: Yes, they come in pairs. No, they’re not both used at once—usually. No, there are no “spikes.” Yes, hitting them produces a rare breed of agony (though not, admittedly, as much as for humans, or so I’m told—or maybe dragonborn simply manage it better). No, we are not barred entirely from premarital relationships. Yes, I do feel there are better things to talk about as well, especially when I am recording my thoughts here for my own good. I don’t often get sidetracked in such an inexplicable manner. Perhaps some foreigner will chance upon this journal some day, find my writings and my sketches. And my lessons in dragonborn anatomy. Ahem! The underbelly of the Red Devil’s lair showed no means of escape from the vessel in a pinch, and three guards whom I would certainly have to contend with later. Two of them guarded a sturdy door that my escort told me led even further down, where a meeting between important figures was taking place as we spoke. Now would be the perfect opportunity to strike! Strike off the head and the serpent will wither. But my companions were nowhere to be seen, and the woman attending me—Ariel, I learned her name to be—was eager to begin. Let me tell you, I stalled as much as I could. Now was no time to lose myself in simple pleasures, not when our target lay directly beneath me (well, not like that). Great Spirits, this Ariel went so far as to put off my payment for later! It seemed my heritage and my hesitance both were compelling challenges to her. She knew I wasn’t an ordinary customer with simple wants and complimented me anyway. Was it genuine? I couldn’t tell, but I wanted to know. She knew I was someone to not be bought easily with such honeyed words, so why would she bother with falsehoods? No matter! I remembered Orlando’s recommendation at the last second—a lapdance. It was my best chance at buying myself more time. As stalling tactics go, lapdances are effective. For buying time. But when that came to an end, she sought more than simple conversation. And I… Great Spirits, I felt foolish because I didn’t want to disappoint her. I didn’t want to wound her pride by simply walking off and I didn’t want to… ach, not live up to her expectations. Expectations I’ve never really felt the press of before. It frustrates me that such things were deterring me from such a simple goal. But I was cognizant, too, that I would have nowhere to go if I abandoned this little cloister downstairs; there was only the hallway, the rooms, and the door. And the guards. The few guards… A plan began to form in my head. Pretending to play into her expectations, I asked Ariel to gather more of her friends for a… proper appreciation of the occasion. And to accommodate a friend of mine. And when she gathered her coworkers, lo and behold, did Nobler appear before us! He has his way with women, I thought, he’ll know how to get us out of this situation. As is turned out, his only words served to reveal complicating factors. The Black Bishops were in attendance. Which could only mean two things: First, our objective had become substantially more dangerous. My experience with direct confrontation of the Imperium has been minimal, but I know even Blades view entanglements with them as rarely worth the potential risks. Knowing this… We should have left immediately. But I was too stubborn, too set on the goal apparently so close to me, as always. I often forget the Illusion of the Summit: a mountain’s peak often appears to be just ahead, even when there are many steps left to walk. But the presence of the Black Bishops in this place also must have meant they were consorting with the remnants of the Red Devils, plotting against the bedlam equilibrium of Del’Orta. The Red Devils with their Imperium contacts, the Maycomb crew with their strange crow patron, the Flying Flynn’s in their pursuit of an apocalypse engine… it seems every faction in Del’Orta has sold their soul to someone. I can’t wait to never see this place again. They need a truer faith in their lives. Nobler’s news brought an abrupt end to my tepid facade. There were no more impressions to be made, no more prides to plump—we had to act decisively. I appealed to the woman who had, moments before, pronounced herself a Red Devil, to aid us in working against her kin. I expected no sympathy, I expected no joy, but I hoped that my coin would speak for me… and apparently it did. Or, something did. Because Ariel and her two friends, a half orc and a cat (I could have never gotten involved with someone who shared Bastet’s features, anyhow) saw to it that their martial friends outside were thoroughly distracted, and Nobler and I silenced our last obstruction. I must remember to ask him what the hell “jazz” is. I felt a strange twinge, watching Ariel coax another person so quickly into her chamber. But it passed. Mostly. As we searched for a place to hide the body, our rummaging caught the attention of the Devils we had just treated to a good time—maybe sex isn’t quite the distraction I had chalked it up to be. Still, I managed to remain hidden and provide us the drop we needed to dispatch them quickly as well. When Ariel heard the ruckus outside, she seemed shocked at first, but not surprised—and none too shaken, as well. The mystery of this person, admittedly, fascinated me; after giving her some more gold, she agreed to work to keep the last of the guards very busy, and even let us use her room as… storage. She essentially agreed to be complicit in our murder of people she swore herself to. Why? I regretted that there was little time to consider what her story may be. Nobler and I had just finished hiding the bodies, and begun to search them for a key, when Orlando burst in from upstairs, having kept all the patrons distracted for an impressive span of time. He knows how to work a crowd. When I enlisted his aid in keeping us concealed, though, he revealed there were other things on his mind. First of all, he was roaring drunk. He was disappointed to have missed the bloodshed, and on top of that, began to argue with Nobler about how to split the belongings of people we had just killed. If it had stopped there, we would have managed fine—but instead of moving beyond the argument, Nobler entrenched himself even deeper, and they both refused progress! Two grown men, squabbling over knives they didn’t need and gold they possess in spades! Comrades through our share of trials arguing over minutiae of no relevance to our mission! It was absurd. My blood began to boil in a way it seldom has before. These are people who I see reflections of the divine in. These are people who have saved my life and whose lives I have saved a number of times each. These are men who I trust to accompany me on missions of state, for the love of Cinder! I very nearly exploded on the spot, but such an action would have compromised our position entirely. As it turns out, it already was. Dark figures emerged through the door, figures whose presence compelled us to scramble for cover. The Black Bishops. And they came for Nobler. An ignoble thought crossed my mind for but a second… If Nobler was to go with them, would they leave Orlando and I to our original objective? I refused to ponder it. The life of a steady companion, a friend, far outshines the value of achieving a short term goal which may change with the tides. Orlando conjured a bawdy illusion, and we hunkered down together, desperate to escape notice. These Black Bishops… their senses are unnaturally keen. What’s more, they seemed to touch the mind of Nobler in a way which frayed his senses. And they don’t die easy, I learned as I plunged my blade into one’s throat, a perfect White Dragon’s Transfixiation. Despite my mortal strike, they retaliated, unerring, lashing out with startling speed in a manner similar to that with which I often see The Red Fang of the North attack. At least my blessed kesh’tam and rash’tam could wound them—I kept waiting for Nobler to bring his silver claw to bear, Mai Lin’s gift, but he appeared too shaken, and soon fell into a fugue. Orlando lit up the room with crackling spells and biting song laced with magic, but none managed to fell the beasts, and they consistently evaded my blows. At one moment, Orlando strummed a soporific tune on his new harp and caused one Bishop to keel over in slumber, but the onslaught of the second was relentless, like a cornered dog. In one swift movement, he pushed his way through to Nobler and took my friend in his claws. That would not do. Botched operation be damned, they would not steal away my companion. I poised myself in the doorway. If this cur was to take him, it would have to go through me. One last spell of Orlando’s surged through my body, and suddenly I could keep pace with this beast. My kesh’tam was an arc of silver lightning as I scored one hit, then another, driving the beast back. In one moment, I was rocked by an explosion as his cursed blood combusted, but it seemed naught but a desperate trick. I was gaining ground. I made him bleed. If I struck this one down, we could strike off his friend’s head where he lay. He was an Imperium wretch. I am the Fifth Blade of House Senhotep. I am my armor. I would not be defeated here. I would not lose Nobler to those who sought to corrupt him. We traded one, two blows, and then I, fast as the wind, dealt him one more than he could evade and my sword slipped by his defenses like silk through a needle’s eye and I cut his head from his shoulders. Then he exploded. His blood burst where it had sputtered the ground and threw me into the air and then the world went dark. ### I awoke—praise be to the Great Spirits, to the embrace of my mother with her starry arms about my soul, for I am but a transient pilgrim walking the paths of this past and future world— I awoke in a cell, tied to a chair, in the dark… the shadow of a Red Devil standing over me.

Riding the Storm

To think after spending most of my time here killing pirates, my mission would require I become one! Before we really got to planning the Red Devils' demise, I wanted to make sure Nema had a means to defend herself and our dwarven friend There is a type of twinned sword whose art was first practiced by ascetics in Draconia and became popular with the political class, swords known as choko'tam--butterfly swords. It seemed fitting for me to obtain these for Nema; they can be worn hidden or displayed, and are best wielded through fluid movement and agile form, something Nema showed promises of. I managed to find a backroom dealer--Samuel, he called himself. I included Nobler in the giving of this gift--his relationship with her will be most essential for the comfort of them both, kindred spirits as they are. They are beautiful swords--it was always a privilege watching a master practice with them! Nema seemed enraptured, though I could not tell whether it was from the workmanship of the blades or the act of having been given a gift. Either sufficed; I just hope the awe shifts to resolve should she ever need to wield them. It is far too easy to assume or feign confidence when one is equipped with the cutting-edge; now my responsibility to her is to make sure she knows how to use them competently, if not adeptly. There's another thing--though Orlando, Nobler, Baltos, and myself entered Samuel's shop, only Nobler and I seemed to exit. Orlando had slipped away again, taking his companion with him. I cannot pretend to have know why at the time. It was dismaying, especially after we had agreed together that the safest way to traverse Del'Orta was as a group. But here we found ourselves abandoned by him. Orlando is as fickle as the storms which seem to follow him. We waited for him back at the Gilded Lily while Nema examined her gift. Well, actually, we waited a bit separately--I left Nobler in their room alone while I waited in our adjacent room. I could certainly get used to quarters such as this while traveling; a hot bath and comfortable beds far surpass anything I've ever experienced at sea! I was raised to be comfortable on the road and abroad, to not expect luxury, but I must say--it's nice where I can get it! I wonder what transpired in that other room while I was absent. Nobler is a charming man, who I understand to be rather ruggedly handsome by human standards. And Nema the same! They seem an excellent fit. I reflected on the Great Romance of the Latter Age in my brief meditation then. Adeline the Huntress was the capable defender of her small town of Miscop, a Guardian spirit, and Cinder the Firemind a transient mage without a place, a Wanderer. When they united, she saved his life, and he helped free her town from the clutches of a fell evil, and from there their bond blossomed as their mutual respect brought each of them to greater heights. What goes on between my two companions seems none too different in the scheme of cosmic harmony, and it is a saga I would like to see through. It is my duty to let ring the echoes of the Great Spirits which surround us and permeate us. In the moment, though, Baltos burst in, with Orlando following shortly after. The most shocking thing Orlando gave us was not our gaudy costumes--I'll explain, I promise--but his apologies. He is wracked by doubt that comes not from a lack of faith in one's own abilities, but a lack of understanding of the care of others, a piece of the puzzle which seemed finally to fall into place and make the shape of the thing clear. I cannot pretend to understand such a complex desolation as being unwanted. Though I lost my mother a a young age, and my family was busy with the great responsibilities vested in us, I never felt as if I was without care--Amiri, Izem, Hikari when she could, my father to the best of his abilities, and the spirit of my mother which watches me still. Many others, as well, all invested in my success in some way or the other, even in rivalry. To be alone... Perhaps the presence of faith in his life would be valuable to him. Even a transient pilgrim may carry many cherished echoes in their heart if they understand how to listen. For now, I made sure to let him know I was with him, in body as in spirit. And he told us his master plan to destroy the Red Devils... Frankly, I should not be surprised he conceived such a wild scheme. We are to disguise ourselves in elaborate attire and make our way into the very heart of the Red Devil territory--their brothel. Once inside, after seeing the sights and assessing our enemy's home base in great detail, we will strike swiftly to dismantle the Red Devils where they are most confident. I can call my swords to me if relieved of them, and no such problem exists for Nobler in the first place; with the chaos Baltos and Orlando can create, we'll be able to tear them apart as we wish. The tight spaces of a brothel should restrict their ability to bring firearms to bear and allow us to control how many we engage at once, as well as creat a number of choke points and hideaways as needed. I like it. It's absurd, but I like it--the sort of scheme Morikage themself would approve. Perhaps I could even make use of arson to create additional chaos, although Orlando seemed fond of the prospect of owning the brothel for himself. We shall see. It's nothing I intend to do without consulting them first--one can't begin lighting fires without alerting their comrades beforehand! And so, the Stormbreakers--the Stormbringers? Who knows, I haven't the patience for names at the moment--shall raze destruction upon the Del'Ortan status quo. I cannot wait to finally be paying these pirates back their due. May the Great Spirits watch me through the gleam of my sword, enlighten me in the hidden places of the world, guide me in the words of the strangers I've yet to make familiar, and bless me in the light of sun and moon. May they walk in the stride of those I walk amongst, and touch the world through the hands of my companions. May their deeds echo in my actions and their will echo in my wishes. May I honor them in the paths I follow and the waters I tread and the mountains I climb. I am but a transient pilgrim walking the tracks of this past and future world, my blood the blood of my lord and my father and my people.

What's to Come

I will keep this brief, and write in such a manner that no one else will hope to understand--discretion is key in the coming days. Further discussion with Mai Lin revealed a few things. The first is that, incredibly enough, the very one to free him from the Flynns was none other than Orlando's father, Sir Starlight. Now, the lexicon of cultural icons is not unknown to me, but I've always been struck by how... ostentatious a name "Sir Starlight" is. I suppose a stage name has no need for subtlety. This detail was astonishing to me, though, because it echoes my same experience with Orlando, in a sense. The Great Spirits work on a cosmic scale, and harmony may be found in the least likely combination of notes. I feel it portends miraculous things. Bas'tet will not leave me be as I write this, perhaps she senses it, too. Mai Lin's betrayal of my identity at this moment seems to have been no more than a necessary move for his survival--I can sense no ulterior motive at this juncture. Not to mention, the intelligence he shared with me was of massive import: The Flynns are creating an engine using floatstone capable of generating unprecedented power. Such a machine would exceed the capabilities of anything which currently exists, even the brilliance of current Draconian design. I can't imagine where these scum mustered such genius, but it concerns me, and it is not something which belongs in the hands of pirates. Speaking of hands, Mai Lin had an exquisite gift for Nobler, a silver claw used to slay werewolves; apparently my friend is hunted by profane cultists of Haretal, those who would pervert a Great Spirit's worship. I knew he was capable... I did not know he had such a history to him. Such factors could complicate our journey. And then there is the matter of my history, my present situation. I am a Blade of House Senhotep, typically known to the world as couriers and military ambassadors. They have seen much too much of my abilities, become much too interwoven in my tale--perhaps on a spiritual level, if I interpret the omen of Sir Starlight and Mai Lin correctly. Will there be a time where I must reveal my purpose to them? They already know my capabilities, but my allegiances, my ultimate duties? I do not yet know how I would possibly reveal such things to them. My duty is to the Imperial Republic. And yet I feel such a time may be soon approaching... Mai Lin blindsided me with another fact--he had been in contact with Hikari! My sister, the First Blade herself! If only I could do the same. He says it was sparse, certainly not enough to relay the blueprints through--after all, why else, then, would I be here? But yet again on top of that... he says there is a good name for me circulating my people's ears. A good name for my family. Pride for the Blades. I will prove this new legacy to them. I will do my country proud. So, our plan: we must assemble a crew (done), assert our legitimacy (a feat aided by our destruction of the Red Devils and thwarting of the Maycombs), and stake a claim on the Crossbone Council (no idea how that may happen). Once that is completed, we will make our way to the decadent banquet to be held afterwards--where Orlando will do what he does best, dazzling and perplexing the pirate crowd--and steal away the blueprints for this new engine from under the nose of Armitage himself. It seems crazy, all of it. Mai Lin was not raised a Blade; the best-laid plans are those which contain the least opportunities to go wrong. On top of this, I abhor the thought of declaring myself a pirate cur for the sake of a harebrained deception. Not to mention (even still), Orlando appears wildly opposed to the scheme, apparently captive of that same syndrome which compels Nobler and Neema to regard their former captors with deference. Odd that Orlando would be the hardest to convince of a mad caper; something troubles him. But for all the uncertainty, all the perplexity, all the complication... I am eager to take everything I can from these damned buccaneers. May the Great Spirits watch me through the gleam of my sword, enlighten me in the hidden places of the world, guide me in the words of the strangers I've yet to make familiar, and bless me in the light of sun and moon. May they walk in the stride of those I walk amongst, and touch the world through the hands of my companions. May their deeds echo in my actions and their will echo in my wishes. May I honor them in the paths I follow and the waters I tread and the mountains I climb. I am but a transient pilgrim walking the tracks of this past and future world, my blood the blood of my lord and my father and my people.

Enter the Dragonborn

I COULD SING!! I could sing like the birds in the Pavillion of the Dawn, like a canary free from a mine, like Orlando in one of his rousing performances!! MAI LIN LIVES—and my solemn duty, for as long as I must, is to keep things that way. Allow me to explain as I gather myself. When I returned from the wretched Del’Castan Square, I was met by Nobler in the boat—no sign of our jongleur friend. Our dwarven friend was still asleep, and had not woken, he said, mentioning that he’d found a journal of hers. It is written in Old Doylin; not a tongue I am familiar with, but one the likes of our Loremaster might easily decipher. Reaching the Blades became a matter of still greater importance. Nobler sought a missive service while I remained behind, meditating on my new discovery. My body feels so light without my armor, even more so than with only my shozoku upon me. Nothing burdens me aside from my trousers, this wondrous exoskeleton, and my swords. I feel how the air moves, in silence and in noise, how the sun and the moon shine upon my scales. It is liberating, exhilarating. There was only one thing left which concerned me—our charges. I worked up the nerve to talk to Nema. I know not why it was so difficult for me to open my mouth, but it felt as if something were clamped about my jaw. I broke through eventually—I am trained as a courier, after all, as out of my depth such a role may be. Nema told me much—her history as a thief, her training as an acrobat, her feeling of being trapped between two paths she has no desire to walk. And she told me of the circus, her family, the kindness she and Nobler found in the cracks of society. The Great Spirits echo in the darkest chambers. She seems to still be searching for her faith. I resolved to train her, but I didn’t wish to embarrass her. It was put forth as more sparring for my own sake, a request she was gracious to accept despite her own confusion. What I told her was that “some sparring partners train the body, and some the spirit”; an inspired bit of poetry, if I do say so myself. What I didn’t tell her was that the best ones train both. Hikari. Amiri. Izem. I was surprised, though; she took naturally to swordplay. I gave her my kesh’tam to use, my sun—the rash’tam, the moon, guards the inner self, and should not be given as lightly. We trained for a long while, and I glimpsed the glow of someone becoming more of themself. She does have some of the heroes of old in her. After his initial shock at the sight of Nema and I clashing swords, Nobler returned with modest news: our two options for contacting my family were the Post, or baubles. Had we considered such a grave outcome, we might have considered making communications baubles more standard issue among the Blades, but the assumption was that I’d meet Mai Lin and return posthaste. We really ought to discuss that… especially after Amiri’s disappearance, we’ve nothing to lose from preparing ourselves with such utilities. I had tried to convince my sister to obtain a pair with me in the past, but she values her privacy; she wants to be available, but not too available. Which I understand. I am disappointed, but I understand. Within this motley band we’ve assembled, though, a network would be just the thing. Especially to prevent Orlando from coming and going unannounced, as he did shortly. He had set us up with accommodations at a local inn. I was hesitant to accept such an invitation, especially after Armitage’s suspect offer of accomodation, but Orlando had emphasized it would be a discreet place, where few questions are asked. When training as a courier, I was taught two things of utmost importance: Someone is always watching, and someone is always asking. For now, though, we had no better place to keep our companions, conscious and coma-stricken, safe—and none of us longed for another night spent upon the rocking of a boat. The question of the hanged dragonborn still echoed in my mind as we made our way to the inn, and it was a question I realized I could not answer alone… but we had a companion who could easily slip about to discern minor details about a hanged corpse: It was time to strike a deal with Baltos. I am rather aware I continue to put the weight of subterfuge upon his invisible shoulders, but his stature and his capabilities just make him such an ideal candidate, the little imp! So a bet—if he could report back to me the appearance of this dragonborn and the presence of a certain scar on his face, I would owe him homage as the strongest among us, as well as a couple gold pieces. And sure enough… NEVER TRUST A GODDAMNED PIRATE! For the scar on this corpse’s eye was a fresh wound, a fabrication, which could only mean its presentation was a show of smoke and mirrors. I pity the wretch they slew for the deception. On the subject of smoke and mirrors, though… Orlando had an audition to attend, and Nobler and I certainly weren’t about to let him slip away unattended again. The bard’s apparent openness veils a strange reserve, the like I experienced in my diplomatic training: often, those with the most to hide tell you so much that you wouldn’t think there was any more to ask—and that is where the true secrets are buried. I left Nema with my kesh’tam again and instructions to keep the door locked—I didn’t want to get into any fights, anyhow. I really must buy her her own sword. She has a pistol, I am sure, but a gun at the hip doesn’t suggest competence in the same way that a blade does in this day and age. There is value still in her appearing unarmed—one often finds more violence when they appear prepared for it than when they do not. That, though, is a risk I find worthy of taking, when it comes down to being able to defend oneself. Certainly something to ponder. The Bridled Mare is a gaudy place, the smell of roses thick in my nostrils as soon as Nobler and I entered. I must say, his presence next to me is reassuring in a way only a handful of others are. Such a den of decadence was no place I could see anything good borne in. I sought Orlando as he apparently drank his nerves away. I have utmost confidence in his frankly remarkable skills, it’s just the whole matter of causing a scene which concerned me. Now was a time for us to keep our heads low. I told him there were other ways we could find his father, other avenues to explore, people I could contact—I came very close to telling him of my connections in that moment. He was undeterred. Despite his extraordinary potential, he remains glued to the stage and the parlor tricks. Whatever he seeks is enough for him to risk everything, and despite my frustration, I know exactly how he feels. He proceeded to the “green room”; but not without a pair of guardian angels. If a Blade in the dark may be considered that. I wish I could say my friend’s performance was excellent—I certainly imagined it was, but the room was completely soundproof, and I was left waiting on a couch which seemed to swallow me more than seat me. But when he finished, we were—all of us—offered audience with a “Mr. Z.” I didn’t know who Mr. Z was or what he wanted, but I didn’t bode well to me that he knew our names. The only factions in Del’Orta who knew our names wanted to kill us. I practically had my rash’tam drawn when I saw three figures approaching through the shadow, but when I saw who they were, it was as if I’d been struck by lightning: Mr. Z was Mai Lin, alive and waiting for me! He must have escaped the Flynns or sought some vengeance, because now he wanted us to steal from them, and frankly? After they tried and failed to deceive me, to check my quest? I couldn’t be more eager to rob them. Great Spirits, it was a joy simply to speak my own tongue again. I can’t wait to tell Hikari. Still, I mustn’t get ahead of myself. I must remember my mission. Mai Lin, or somebody, told the Flynns everything about me. Somehow, he escaped, and now he wants me to delve straight into the heart of their lair. If it is for the only copy of the schematics he had, I’ll do anything—but I’d prefer to ask him what he knows, first. The less trouble we get into, the better, and I can’t help but feel as if there are pieces to this puzzle I have not fitted to their respective spots. Time will tell. But now, more than ever before on this mission, I know the path I walk is the way forward. May the Great Spirits watch me through the gleam of my sword, enlighten me in the hidden places of the world, guide me in the words of the strangers I've yet to make familiar, and bless me in the light of sun and moon. May they walk in the stride of those I walk amongst, and touch the world through the hands of my companions. May their deeds echo in my actions and their will echo in my wishes. May I honor them in the paths I follow and the waters I tread and the mountains I climb. I am but a transient pilgrim walking the tracks of this past and future world, my blood the blood of my lord and my father and my people.

Storm Over Tranquil Waters

My mission is in a dire state. It is in a position such as this when I long for my sister’s advice now more than ever; I must find a way to contact my family as soon as possible. The way forward is no longer as clear as it was. But first—an explanation. We crept back to the inn in Yokozu, only to find it empty, abandoned in a hurry. I find myself thankful for Nobler’s nose and Orlando’s keen wit; the two of them traced the tracks of this revived Gaku back to the docks. By the time we arrived, he had already taken off—he was sailing off into the distance some ways away, rowing our longboat with strange, stiff, strokes. I attempted to grapple him with my exoskeleton, to no avail—I must continue to develop my capabilities with this wondrous technology. Before despair could threaten my heart for a moment, though, Nobler took careful aim and obliterated the head of this serpent. Triumph! …Or so we thought. But indeed, this monstrosity simply kept rowing, regardless of the mangling Nobler had dealt it with his shot. We gave pursuit, commandeering a boat a villager had no current need of. The fiend kept a swift pace, even headless, and it was a pace undeterred by the many mortal wounds Nobler peppered it with over the course of a few minutes. Our own boat was heavy with the weight of ourselves and this strange dwarven woman, and our pace lagged. It was then I realized we needed to destroy the boat, not Gaku. I lit a pair of torches and set Baltos to work; it is truly a strategic marvel, having a flying, quasivisible imp at one’s disposal. Even having set flame to the longboat, however, Gaku’s corpse continued to row, undeterred, and we had the grim realization of the presence of Nema, unconscious within the ship. What seemed an advantage turned to a dire threat within moments. Thankfully, though, Nobler proved relentless in his aim, another volley devastating the ship’s hull. Gaku’s still-churning remains toppled into the sea, Nema in tow. Nobler and I wasted no time—we jumped in after them. Some foul force yet beyond my comprehension propelled this emaciated mess through the water, woman in tow, at speeds which seemed to me simply absurd beyond my imagining. This freak became a fish in the water, and it proved slippery in its pursuit. Even harried and torn asunder by the agents of the Protector Spirit, it persisted, persisted unto the open waters. Eventually, though—after we had harpooned it multiple times and it had almost pulled Orlando into the water with it—Nobler crippled the monster, we pulled his love loose, and I fried the thing with my breath. It seemed a grim reminder of the might of the world’s more fell spirits. Evil beings exist in this world, beings beyond light or dark with no deference to harmony or balance. Beings which would echo even through the body of a corpse to wreak mayhem. But there was no time to reflect; Nema wasn’t breathing. It was with the aid of Nobler’s breath that I purged the seawater from her lungs. Strange, how even without lightning lapping at his teeth, his breath may serve to save a life instead of take it. It’s in these odd moments where I find life’s mysteries to be most amusing. That said, saving Nema was a close feat; we very nearly may have lost the poor woman. I left her to Nobler to tend to after that. I was trained to heal the body, not the mind. We’ve put her through much, without much say of her own. I tell myself it is in the interest of her own safety, but frankly… she’d likely be safer on a dinghy in the open ocean with broken oars than with us. We returned to the vicinity of Yokozu. Even after all we had encountered, it was Orlando’s desire to return in a brazen swath of glory directly to the town. I cannot claim to understand his reasoning—I was struck, rather, by what seemed to be two manifestations of Orlando. There was the charming swindler and charlatan which I had often known him by, as I had met him, but now I was faced with a strangely altruistic young man who said he wished to see our commandeered boat returned to the people and the Yokozans comforted by tales of our excellence. It bears remembering: one does not require training as a Blade to possess a Sun and a Moon within their heart. And Nobler! Nobler had that fire in his heart again as he spoke of the wrongs done to his “family.” It bewilders me still how he refers to people who caged and abused him as “family,” but perhaps it is simply a concept in human terms beyond my reckoning. Ah, humans. Though I understand neither of my companions may entirely be called such, they maintain the same bizarre quirks of the species which I myself simply do not understand. They argued about our next course of action as if it were a problem which lay between us instead of ahead of us. Had I a draconian team, a simple dispassionate tactical assessment would have sufficed. This debate was more fiercely fought by my companions than it was by myself. I was struck by the passion by which they approached it, taken aback. We had experienced misunderstandings due to confusion and doubt before, but there was a heat here which concerned me. I knew not what to say, only that I did not desire it to continue. I offered to slip back into town to pay for the boat and obtain rations, and left quietly. Orlando accompanied me, taking the boat with him. Still so many mysteries to unravel about this man. Yokozu was quiet, it turned out. I was relieved to see no pirates to be found within, and was greeted at the shrine by the same shrinekeeper who spoke to me earlier. She confirmed my earnest hope: harmony had been restored, and deference for their valiant protector spirit would be maintained. I joined her a moment in prayer, in peace. I felt a renewal I had not felt in what seemed like many days. As I returned my spirit to the physical realm, I noticed a shape upon the water, washed ashore by the foam. Despite its odd appearance, I could not mistake its purpose: magitech. A plate for the exoskeleton I now wear. Still, I could not yet discern its specific purpose, and some discovery was beginning to surface in my mind—I stowed the mysterious artifact for the time being, and went to see what sort of hijinks Orlando had initiated. We had a buyer—Sneer, I believed was his name? An ironic title, considering he had not enough teeth to make such an expression convincing. Still, he had a small sailboat, and we had gold. Orlando regaled him with tales of my encounter with the Protector Spirit, and we made off with the vessel. I felt strange about my relationship with the spirits being leveraged as a bargaining chip. Valuable a move it was, certainly, considering the old man’s piety, but… I felt reluctant to buy into the ploy. Such a thing is not a token to be proven. It is a strength to be held within, and perhaps a doctrine to share. Orland managed the talking just fine. We loaded the rations he’d obtained onto the ship—strange, as they seemed more than might be readily available for sale anywhere in such a small town—picked up our companions, and set off… back to goddamned Del’Orta. The seas were calm on our journey back, but grim ships were poised on the horizon—Imperium ships. And they were surrounding the very waters where we knew Del’Orta to be, some form of blockade. Nobler looked upon them with a sense of solemn familiarity; as it turned out, he told us, he had grown up in the Imperium, been raised with an unfortunate familiarity with their ways. There would be no bargaining our way past their blockade, and no monstrosity of theirs apt for us to confront. We took the long way around. The coastline was marked by abandoned shacks and a whale slain by some unknown illness, one we had no desire to get close to. The waters themselves, it seems, are choked with poison. Still, it was four days of rest, with gentle waters and enough food to go around. I meditated as we went, musing upon the week’s events and the road ahead. A realization was near at hand for me—I had for many days now been reconciling the apparent need for my armor to protect me, even as it hindered my ability to go discreetly. Every time I have donned my shozoku, I have felt an acute sense of vulnerability, a sensation which creeps into my mind every time I must make decisive action. My hesitance to engage Akl-Go, my shock at having been caught off-guard by Gaku, my captivity by the pirates—in each, I was hindered either by the ostentatious presence of my plates, or the vulnerability I felt at a lack thereof. In each scenario, it is my attachment to these physical concerns which prevents me from acting decisively. The key to freeing myself from this attachment… it was close at hand. In the meantime, the Pirate’s Den greeted us with casual violence and general unrest. Something was in the air with the Imperium, and the De’Ortans knew it, too. We decided to split up. Nobler would work with Nema in an attempt to rouse our unconscious dwarven charge, while Orlando would pursue his own leads—something about finding his father? I had a contact to meet. Approaching the house of the Flying Flynns, I was greeted by a pirate who knew me by name, a scoundrel I had never met before. Mai Lin, apparently, had been talking, which did not bode well at all. Still, the leader of the Flynns agreed to meet me regarding my captive friend. The head honcho was a formidable-looking man named Armitage—it was easy enough to see at a glance that he had not won his position through kindness or trust. I offered information in exchange for communication with Mai Lin; I could, after all, tell them about the encroaching force of the Imperium, or how the Maycomb crew was consorting with demons, or how the Red Devils had been overcome entirely and their holds were ripe for the taking. But Armitage had nothing to offer in return, nothing except for a single fact which shook me to my core: Mai Lin was dead. Executed for spying, only after having been tortured for information about me and the knowledge I sought. Knowledge that the Flying Flynns now possessed as documents in their very hideout. I could not discern any lies. Armitage spoke evenly, beyond my capabilities to parse away. Beyond that, he even offered me comfortable rooms at a local inn—ridiculous, a mockery. A safe haven, perhaps, but only another way they might keep tabs on my friends and I. There were, he claimed, two ways I might discover what secrets the documents contained: stay for the approaching confrontation with the Imperium, or persuade the Draconian Imperial Republic to recognize Del’Orta as an independent state. The latter was impossible, though not worth asking my superiors about. I must find a way to contact them as soon as possible—too much has transpired to not. The former, though, was much more foreboding in its possibility. What lay upon these documents the likes of which Armitage thinks he could turn aside the Ember Imperium with?? The gravity of this turn truly shook me, and rocked me with dismay. If only I had attempted to free Mai Lin sooner. If only I had acted more swiftly, more boldly. If only I had been more decisive. I feel a burning desire in my chest to seek the help of my mentors, and yet I fear reprisal at the thought of delivering such grave news. It would not speak well for my house’s reputation to have my sister still recovering and me having lost substantial ground in my assignment. My sister… I must contact Hikari. The more secure the missive, the better. I need your guidance now more than ever. I left Armitage with words which felt hollow, and returned to the square to see my hopes hanging from a noose. When I was briefed on my assignment, I had been told Mai Lin was a dragonborn with a distinctive scar over his right eye—but now a bag was thrown over this corpse’s head, with orders not to examine it. Was Armitage attempting to deceive me? Was Mai Lin still alive, battered in the Flynns’ brig, still overflowing with secrets? My hopes hung by a thread. But seeing him hanging there, the realization which had been growing within me finally bloomed: I live in a world or gods and spirits, where a needle may prick as sharply as a sword and word can kill just as surely. In this world, it is not my armor that will protect me; I will protect me. The only being in this world who carries the last word in my sanctity is myself, and as long as I have my kesh’tam and my rash’tam, my fang and my claw, my sun and my moon, I have all I need. No shield. No shell. I am a Blade. May the Great Spirits watch me through the gleam of my sword, guard me in the plates of my armor, guide me in the words of the strangers I've yet to make familiar, and bless me in the light of sun and moon. May they walk in the stride of those I walk amongst, and touch the world through the hands of my companions. May their deeds echo in my actions and their will echo in my wishes. I am but a transient pilgrim walking the tracks of this past and future world, my blood the blood of my lord and my father and my people.

Blood and Lightning

“When the sword is broken, the fangs emerge.” It is a favorite proverb of dragonborn soldiers, and particularly beloved by House Senhotep—by Amiri. When Amiri was completing his final Trial of the Blades—the spiritual and martial ceremony in which a Blade challenges the one above them for their position—he found himself in particularly dire straits. The alloted time for their duel had passed, and it had been agreed upon that they would settle the duel the next day, or else Kohaku the Third Blade would retain his position. The duel had left Amiri with a shattered kesh’tam, raised in desperate defense of Kohaku’s unconventional tetsubo. In this instance, the proverb was rendered quite literal for him—the duel was to commence at sunrise the next day, and Amiri was not allowed outside assistance in any form, even in obtaining a new sword. As he strode forth the next day, rash’tam and broken kesh’tam in his sash, I asked him what he would do, and he simply told me that. He won the duel in the first five minutes using the twinned blades style I used to defeat Akl-Go, taking the seat of Third Blade of House Senhotep with a sword in each hand. When the sword is broken, the fangs emerge. When the sun sets, the moon rises. When the body is broken, the spirit will blaze. I miss my friend. With Nar’Shen defeated, a one loose end remained. Orlando’s illusion began to dissolve, and Akl-Go appeared before me. Eager and emboldened by my recent victory, I challenged him directly—I thought I might lure him onto the bridge and take the advantage with my grapples, but he was not as dim-witted as first impressions would have it. He took me head on, and I dealt him a devastating blow with immediacy; he fights like his brother. Retreating inside to the safety of his men, he was wary to commit to a fight against me after that, bloodied and winded as he was. And he accused me of cowardice. Once this mission is complete, I never wish to lay eyes on a pirate again. I disengaged and gave them the slip. Having a grapple readily available on my wrist allows for a freedom of movement I could only imagine before. I made my way around and up the side of the carth. Outside, a storm was gathering, a storm of thunder and fury heralded by a murder of crows. I cannot imagine what such an omen entails—I seem to have been followed by these dark birds throughout my journey in Del’Orta, and it has all come to a head with my curse and… well, and with what happened next. Thick smoke rose from the adjacent carst—perhaps the adept handiwork of Orlando and Nobler. I wasted no time in scaling this carst and slipping inside again through the top, a feat made practically easy with the aid of the magitech frame. Pirates buzzed about within, Akl-Go barking for them to abandon their stations as a lackey began to bandage his wounds. That would not do. As I approached the thug again to deal the final blow, again he spotted me, his shotgun erupting in a blaze of fire and thunder the likes of which rivalled the storm outside. Our blades clashed. I had an old duty to see through. Akl-Go fought ferociously, aided by errant shots from his attendant. I saw in his form the keen edge of Draconian basic swordsmanship worn perilously jagged by his years spent as a brigand—just like his sword. I had no desire to be rent by such a blade. We presented our draconic heritage to each other, his crony sent reeling but neither of us shaken too terribly. The little pirate fled, leaving Akl-Go and I alone. The Codex of Sun stresses that the truest victory is one which sets the greatest example. The Codex of the Moon asserts that the truest victory is simply the most decisive one. I realized as the furious brother weathered my assault that this fight could no longer be won by Morikage’s tenets, and steeled myself for the drawn-out duel. Certainly the traitor must have sensed this, too, as he began to resort to all manner of deceptive tactics to gain the upper hand. I recognized an attempt to batter my sword from my hand moments before he could disarm me, but a sly reversal of one of my overcommitted strikes saw me reeling on the ground, desperately ducking around his furious blows. I found myself scrambling to win the initiative, struggling to bat aside each blow at the last moment. I barely got to my feet again before his jagged sword was hurtling towards my unguarded flank… But this—this I was ready for. Claw presents such a tempting target for a brash warrior—many assume breaking its defense is a simple matter of coming down hard enough on top of it to crush the guard, or attacking horizontally towards the undefended side. Akl-Go, apparently, turned traitor before he had the opportunity to learn better. I checked his blow with a Winding Tail, Broken Wing, and brought him to the ground, bringing my blade down upon him. It was in this moment he abandoned swordplay and set his shotgun against me, and I was forced to abandon my advantage to evade the blast. Before I could rally myself, he fired again—this time the pellets buried themselves in my hide. It felt as if a thousand angry wasps were scourging my shoulder, my chest, my arm. He barely evaded my next few wild swipes as he shoved more shells into his gun. I’ve never felt so close to my own death before as I have in that room, with nothing but a brute and his gun. My mind raced. If I were to flee now, there would be no finding him alone again. Akl-Gowould escape, and my work would be unfinished—I would have failed. A traitor to the Imperial Republic who I neglected to kill before would walk free to continue his barbarism. And if I stayed, broken and bloodied, my scales sundered and my arm burning with every movement… I could very well die. I greeted Death. I watched the Unpredictability Gap narrow to certainty. And I drew my rash’tam, blade in each hand like my friend Amiri had shown me. When the sword is broken, the fangs emerge. Akl-Go’s gun roared again, but I was beyond his shot, already upon him. my blades whirled and danced with more desperate fury than calculated skill, and he withered before my shining sun. He fled. The fool dared turn his back to me, desperate to call his lackeys. And I struck him down. As I had his brother. As I had Nar’Shen. As I will every other scum who bars my path on my way to do right by the Draconian Imperial Republic. Death had weighed us in the balance and found Akl-Go wanting. There was no time to waste searching the corpse. I flung myself from the carst just as the sky erupted, the talons of a great crow sweeping the battlement from the great rock—and my grapple with it. I fell. Above me the sky was wreathed in brilliant lightning, and I saw the grandeur of my own breath setting the clouds ablaze. The wind roared past me as that great and terrible bird opened its wings, and the foam of the waves sizzled as I plunged downward. I offered a prayer to the spirits. I heard the chime of my bell and a murmur in my ear. And then I hit the water. The impact drove the breath from my lungs, and for a moment, I saw stars… but they were not stars. The messengers of the Protectors Spirit lifted me from the water, dazzling points of light in the dark sea. As I burst from the quiet abyss, back into the world of noise and shadow, I saw the crow poised above me, ready to deliver its final blow to my battered body. But this was not the night I would die. The Great Catfish erupted about me, dealing a blow to the fell bird which scattered its essence to the gale. I had done right by the spirits. I had seen my promise through, upheld my bargain. And the spirits echoed their assent. I carried myself in a slow, agonizing swim, towards the shore, my withered armor creaking in protest. Meeting me in the reeds were Orlando and Nobler and Baltos, with a strange dwarven woman in tow. A captive? It didn’t seem possible. Nobler was unharmed, a testament to his prowess—Orlando was scorched and bleeding. His wounds were difficult to tend. As were mine. The weeks have taken their toll on my body. The wounds dealt upon me have been filled with exhaustion, and my bandages grow ragged. If we are to stay alive in our perilous travels, we will need an opportunity to rest very soon, for a while. That rest certainly was not to come now. As long as there was a pirate vessel in the harbor, I felt neither relief nor comfort in returning to the inn in town. Too easily compromised. Pirates are a crafty, vengeful sort, and it was clear from the initial attack on us by Gaku that they already knew where we were staying. We made our way to the woods beyond, strange dwarven woman in tow. It didn’t occur to me to question that—I certainly must, at the next opportunity I get. Having rendezvoused a safe distance from town, we sent Baltos—at the cost of a small bribe—to fetch Nema and Bastet. The news he delivered in turn was not good news. In fact, the only good thing Baltos returned with was Bastet, tucked away in his maw. I swear, the way he treats my cat… but I can only be grateful. He got her out alive. Not a given, considering what he saw back at the inn. Gaku was apparently returned to life, after having been very thoroughly killed by me. Only this time, he had sprouted crow’s feathers, bulging veins coursing with some facsimile of life. And he was waiting for us, with a captive Nema. I considered simply leaving. There was hardly anything we could do for a girl we had made miserable through our actions. If she was being held captive in anticipation for our return, I thought, we might then be able to slip away now, while the pirates were still disoriented. We had more important matters to attend to. The counsel of my brave companions urged otherwise. Dangerous as Gaku’s uncanny new form may be, they said, we simply could not abandon a person we had taken into our care and failed to protect. Gaku’s apparent connection to a man known as the Miser, the horrible man we’d learned of at the circus, also proved to be a compelling thread, one we cannot ignore. So. We are to steal towards the inn, execute Gaku all at once, and retrieve Nema. Done. Over. Resolved. And then—perhaps—we’ll have an opportunity to catch our breath before returning to the fray. Several questions remain in my mind. Who is this dwarf woman? Where does she come from? Who is this crow, and why are both my ankle and Gaku apparently marked with their emblem? And when, Great Spirits, when will I be able to contact Mai Lin and get what I need? So many knots to untangle, so many threads to chase to their terminus. So many miles from home. Onward. May the Great Spirits watch me through the gleam of my sword, guard me in the plates of my armor, guide me in the words of the strangers I've yet to make familiar, and bless me in the light of sun and moon. May they walk in the stride of those I walk amongst, and touch the world through the hands of my companions. May their deeds echo in my actions and their will echo in my wishes. I am but a transient pilgrim walking the tracks of this past and future world, my blood the blood of my lord and my father and my people.

The Only Good Pirate...

Today's deeds are the like of which I wish to write my legacy upon. It began in fog. The cloud which had fallen over my mind led me yet further into darkness, a darkness which soon enveloped me. Into the marshes I went, into the waters, and I fell into a watery murk which seemed possessed by fell spirits. As it turned out, such was the case. As I forced my eyes open against the sting of the depths, I marveled at the sight of the protector spirit of Yokozu, a great catfish. Glowing servants of his swirled about him like stars. Its mind touched mine through the waters. Long ago, the people of Yokozu had made a pact with the protector spirit, one in which they'd care for the natural world in return for safety. Of late, though, that promise had apparently been abandoned; pollution poisoned the water, smoke choked the sky. And so, the great catfish cursed the town with a nightly fog which would rob a person of their senses and steal them to the watery grave of a catfish belly. It almost consumed me. It is here where I thank the Great Spirits for their approval of my piety. The visit I had paid earlier to the shrine demonstrated my commitment to the spiritual harmony of this land--instead of consuming me, this noble spirit made a pact with me: I would go free, and walk through its mists unchecked, if I swore to destroy the source of the defilement. I shall not break a pact to the spirits themselves. Empowered by the opportunity to prove myself, I rose form the depths, finding myself amidst the cattails of the marsh. Alone, and yet surrounded by the phantoms of wolves, I returned to my companions. I was greeted by incredulity. When I told them of the catfish, they shrugged it off. When I told them of the pirates we had left to destroy, they balked. When we saw the stack ship of the Red Devils in the harbor... well, all the better reason to retreat, they said. While their desire t keep distance from a ravenous crew of pirates is reasonable, I cannot understand their lack of deference for a promise made to the spirits. I am no great orator. Faced by cynicism and doubt, faltering in my own ability to represent myself, I felt a charge go through me which, like a bolt of lightning, roused me into a brief state of brilliance. One which I am... not proud of. My friends--for I do truly believe I can call them as such now--did not deserve suffer the static of my outburst. I should not have crowed my allegiances to the night air in the first place, even despite or being indoors. I stormed off, to meditate, and to attempt to mend the unacceptable tear in my demeanor. It was not long before Orlando followed me in, and then Nobler. I am thankful the worst heat of my anger is like that of my breath, a flash which fades. Instead of reprimanding me or cutting themselves off from me, they expressed a degree of admiration for my passion. And that... was different from anything of which I'd been taught. A Blade learns to be a courteous representative of the State. A Blade learns to seek glory to inspire their people. And a Blade learns discretion; the brighter the light, the deeper the shadows. For me to upset this balance, and gain confidence as a result? Was unusual. But not unpleasant. I realize in the course of... two short weeks? If that... I have weathered much with these folk. Somewhat less so with Nobler, I suppose, but his valor speaks for itself twofold. Our plan--we would infiltrate the pirate base atop the karsts, those rocky spires over the water, with Orlando rendering himself and Nobler invisible while I snuck in from the base at the water, Baltos serving as an intermediary. Orlando would create an illusion of Gaku, returning triumphant from slaying me, to create a gap for them to enter. From there, they would seek artillery to destroy the boats and the facility while I ventured deeper to slay whatever leader remained. My ascent went smoothly, my grapple serving me well. At the top of the defilement, beneath the highest smokestack, I saw what appeared to be a forge, staffed by a crew of pirate-smiths. Damn Del'Ortans. The only thing worse than traitors and pirates are traitor pirates who have become organized and developed manufacturing capabilities. There was nothing more I could do here--the object of their smithing was out of sight, as was any captain. I had Baltos alert Orlando and Nobler and kept moving. Just as I did, an uproar arose--a familiar green snake staggered across the bridge, hissing his hollow victory to the masses. I was prepared to end his life with a Windpiercer before I realized he was an illusion. In the ruckus, though, I saw his companions leading him towards... his brother. I'm glad Orlando had the sense to make his illusion seem wounded--what an insult would it have been if this lowlife had returned unscathed from besting me. There was only one way to reach where I needed to go by foot: the bridges. Exposed, highly visible. Not an option. At least, not an option to walk... Murmuring a prayer to the Great Spirits and wishing my father and Hikari could see this, I took my grapple in hand and swung to the bridge. I have felt no greater rush than the wind whistling upon my scales as I flew through the air. So this is what the great dragons nested within my bloodline have experienced when they felt, when they feel flight. It felt... natural. The wind called to me. Careful to not be seen, and careful to contain my fear and my exuberance, I climbed beneath the bridge and swung to the next, climbing beneath that one as well. The water was a long way down, churning against the karsts. But I made it, made it to the structure atop this other spire. And from its roof, I saw a familiar face. Two of them. Nar'shen, alive and well. His crew had foiled the Red Devils and stolen their ship, cunning bastards. And next to him was Akl-Go, brutish brother of Gaku. I should have known. Their conversation answered some questions and raised more. It was indeed Nar'shen's warrant which sought our demise, and now the crew of the Maycomb lent the Bearded Dragons the requisite resources to forge equipment and supplies, the nature of which I could not discern. Do the pirates mean to go to war? It was the drow's warrant which had sought our lives, and, as it would seem to be, his signature tied to that missive I had found in earlier days which Hikari had been unable to discern. Now, Nar'shen sent Akl-Go to finish the job of finding and killing my friends. Leaving himself alone with a Blade. My Windpiercer found its mark, but the pirate captain twisted as it flew and it missed his heart. I leapt down to face him, before I felt a surge of something within me. Here I was, looking out over the vastness of the ocean from a sheer spire, the faintest cracks of the morning sun beginning to blaze over the horizon. It was time--time for the moon to fall and the sun to rise. And so, framed by the dawn, I challenged this pirate perhaps the first worthy one I've met, to a duel. His vile eagerness might have warned me of what I faced, but I knew this was the right way. His hand went to his blade. A cruel smile twisted his face. Determination narrowed his eyes. My thoughts returned to my home, my father tapping my limbs with his scabbard to adjust my form. My prior duel with a pirate, the perils of Ha-Jun Ka. The look of triumph on my sister's face when she defeated the First Blade of the time and took his place. In the crash of the ocean I felt the spirit of Zephyros wash over me, in the red gleam of the sun I felt Cinder light my path, and in my heart I felt Fraxiros, my ancient sire, propelling my hand. My kesh'tam leapt from its scabbard. Nar'shen was snakelike, slipping from the path of my blade as I felt his open a long wound upon my torso. But I struck his neck, even barely! Rubies danced in the air as we wheeled about to face each other again. I was bleeding. The wound was deep, a severe blow. If I did not finish the fight quickly, I was done for. I pressed my assault. My speed took him aback, and I sank into his shoulder before he was able to strengthen his defense. He shoved me away, reared back to finish me off. But for all his craftiness, he was not raised by the Sun Arts as I was. His cutlass slid off my Falling Waters defense and I took his footing, finishing him off. He cursed me as he went, grasping my leg. Even as sought to wrench myself away, I saw the sigil of a crow's feather burn itself into me. At first, I was shocked--what hold can the profane keep upon the pious? His scoundrel's superstition struck me as ridiculous, until it scorched my scales. A raven... What portent could that entail? He possessed on him his flamboyant riches, a heaping handful of coin, and two pistols I'm certain Nobler and Orlando will put to good use. The real treasure? The magitech exoskeleton I found upon his body. I have heard of such technology spoken of in awestruck tones back in Draconia, but to find such finery on a pirate? It makes my worry who spoke into his ear from above--he can hardly have obtained this on his own. It appears to house a grapple system of its own, one with a steel cable, which should prove... very useful, given my fulminous inclinations. I tossed the rest of the heap into the sea. The only good pirate is a dead pirate, and I've quite had enough of them. Now, to bandage myself, find my companions, finish off Akl-Go, and destroy his operation; a task for the heroes of old. Such feats are still spoken of in legend, bold defiance of impossibility... I think we're ready for it. May the Great Spirits watch me through the gleam of my sword, guard me in the plates of my armor, guide me in the words of the strangers I've yet to make familiar, and bless me in the light of sun and moon. May they walk in the stride of those I walk amongst, and touch the world through the hands of my companions. May their deeds echo in my actions and their will echo in my wishes. I am but a transient pilgrim walking the tracks of this past and future world, my blood the blood of my lord and my father and my people.

Into Mist, Into Shadow

My thoughts race. I've little time. I am hunted even as I hunt. We made it from the Sidean Coast easily enough. Cannonfire harried our exit, but Nobler--a capable oarsman, as it turns out--and I were able to navigate a way through, and we made our way to open waters. Stormy waters, as it would turn out. Orlando, his time spent so long on the sea, detected the hand of Zephyros even before a cloud was in the sky. We made our way towards land--few things are more perilous than being in a small boat tossed about by wind and waves. Yokozu was our refuge, a small town in a bay crested by a pirate's nest. But we didn't know about the pirates yet. Mooring our longboat, Orlando finagled some sake from the dockmaster--nothing like the Dragon's Dream from home, nor even Mirrormoon, but a pleasant enough echo. My companions found accommodations, while I sought the shrine of this place's guardian. It was a well-kept place, a shrine maiden watching over my prayers as I held my vigil. She was familiar with my faith, knew it to be one frequented by Draconians. And the Draconians she knew... My first trial as a Blade of House Senhotep, my first mission for my country, was to track down the Bearded Dragons, a pirate crew comprised primarily of traitors and mutineers from the Draconian Imperial Navy, and make an example of their leader. Dragonborn slaying dragonborn, we mused, would demonstrate internal strife and bitter weakness, but to make an example of one to quell the rest? An ample demonstration of our will. The captain, Ha-Jun Ka, was a foul copperhead full of hatred and spite, but that made him overestimate himself--and I only had everything to prove. Chasing the pirates for days with a small team--Amiri was with me that day, my friend's pride was priceless--we incapacitated their crew while I challenged Ha-Jun Ka. A stray shot from the crew attempted to find my head, but Amiri killed the man and sent the bullet astray. To this day, I still keep the scar on my aural fringe, modified though it has been. It reminds me forever of my scorn for the implements. Ka would have been humiliated to refuse the challenge of a hot-blooded youngster such as myself, and his crew shamed even among their breed of scoundrels. So he accepted my challenge, cutlass in hand, and I killed him in the resulting duel. The first of my own people I have killed. It was an elegant feat, one which garnered me much praise in the following weeks. One which also gained me an enemy, it would appear. Gaku was the quartermaster of the Bearded Dragons, a poisonous figure with an exotic array of weapons. A cruel and capricious vermin with a love for visiting his captain's punishments upon the crew. When we initially took the Bearded Dragons' ship, Gaku was responsible for the death of one of our people, another wasting away at the hand of his poisons. This is the dragonborn whom the shrine keeper knew. And apparently, he had made a home with his crew in the rocky outcroppings near Yokozu. She informed me that, aside from a weekly tithe the rats demanded of the townsfolk, Gaku was here for other reasons, reasons much more malign than simple coin. I thanked her and left, leaving a sketch for the shrine. She spoke to me as I went: "You do not have the hands of an artist. You have the hands of a warrior." It seemed an odd jab at my art. As this journal keeps, I've tried my hand at poetry. I've tried my hand at music, as well. Nothing feels so natural as the smooth scratches of graphite on parchment--save perhaps the lightness of a sword in my hand. I wonder if she knew that. As a Blade of House Senhotep--as a servant of Draconia--I have embraced a life of asceticism, of simplicity. I was raised with a sword in my hand, and pursued art, culture, politic and humility in an attempt to temper that blade. One who kills without code sows disharmony in the world. The first tenet of Katsuhito's Sun Arts is as follows: ONE. My Blade is the blade of my People. It is drawn by Duty, guided by Righteousness, and tempered by Conscience. The first tenet of Morikage's Moon Arts is this: ONE. My Blade is the blade of my Country. It is drawn by Necessity, and kills by Necessity. I have lived my life tempering my blade with a fondness for the arts, for companionship, for society. I am dedicated fully to my faith. I trust the will of the Great Spirits. And yet I do not know what they wish of me. I wish sometimes to wield a pen, and yet I am a Blade. I was raised to fight with duty, defend the righteous with word and deed, follow a conscience which speaks of honor and mercy. And yet I kill by necessity. It is not lost on me that I wielded my rash'tam, my Moon Blade, when I killed the second of my own countrymen. It was not long after a returned to the inn that a mist swept over town, a gloomy miasma. This was no storm. There was a knock upon the door. I opened it, and I was seized by a demon from my past. Gaku is a burly scalefolk, and I wiry for our kind--but as soon as he dared lift me into the air, I unleashed our heritage as a scourge upon him, adding to his scars. Scars which should have reminded him always to cower. He was upon me again in another instant, two of his companions slavering like dogs outside. He wields his unorthodox weapon with skill. But I had a song in my heart and lightning in my spirit. Even as his chains cinched my throat, my rash'tam found his gut. My companions opened fire even as I growled for them to leave him to me. Either they care too much for my safety, care nothing for honor, or they, too, were too fixed upon the kill. Orlando's song filled me with the strength of a hundred dragonborn. I would right this wrong. A green dragonborn, Gaku belched poison upon me, which my o-sode absorbed the brunt of. Would that I could better maintain it--it has seen me through much. And I felt this poison course through me, fire in my veins, fever in my head, and with this I rose. Using his own bind against him, I used a River Spirit Reversal to flip Gaku upon the ground and finish him, taking his other eye. Nobler sustained another devastating shot before he and Orlando leapt upon one crewmate and killed him. That fierce warrior really must keep himself away from the receiving end of firearms. The other crony's pathetic shot went wide, shaking in fear as he was, and I killed him with a Rising Sun cut. It was as if he'd never faced a true swordsman before. It was uncanny seeing the floor of this rickety inn painted in Gaku's blood, knowing I had made it so. But I had set the past to rest. One loose end bound shut... until I saw what the worm held with him. A gimmick weapon, a coward's implement--no use to me. I almost broke it over my knee, before remembering my companions required implements with which to defend themselves. Orlando had no qualms wielding a traitor's weapon. A strength of his, perhaps. I also found a note upon Gaku, another phantom from years past. A four-pointed symbol at the bottom of a warrant ordering our deaths--ours specifically. It looked like the talon of a bird, scratched dark upon the paper. I had seen writing with a similar marking after my first assignment, taking it immediately to my sister upon my return. Hikari augments her tremendous skill and social aptitude with a practical knowledge borne of much experience. When I gave it to her, she told me it was nothing, and I never saw it again. "Nothing" does not demand the blood of four travelers. Perhaps my sister sought to protect me--even more ominous, perhaps she did not know herself what this symbol heralded. But that it should appear again before me... There was no time to waste. Now was the perfect time to strike at the heart of these pirates, with the poisonous head of the snake severed from its writhing body. I left my lamellar armor in our room, favoring the subtle capabilities of my shozoku. Nobler came with me, into the night, after I tended our wounds--he is remarkably resilient. The fog remained, drums echoing in the gloom. I heard wolves howl, saw their stalking bodies in the dark. The murk shifts and stirs. I melt into the shadows. Nobler is gone, the beasts too cunning for him. Too late. Too late. I must press forward. The moon is my friend. I am beset on all sides. My blade glows in the dark. The water is gone. The waves are silent. The fog remains. The beasts are close. Answers whisper to me across the bay. The pirates are near. Always more damn pirates. Always more damn dogs. Now they are near again. I smell their rancid breath. I see the flashing of their fangs. I hear them howling at the moon--the Moon. I am a Blade. I am drawn by Necessity. I kill by Necessity. Great Spirits protect me.

Island-Hopping in Paradise

Well! I must say, even if we are simply retracing our missteps back to Del'Orta, we made fruitful progress today, and our misadventures very well may have unified our sense of purpose a bit. At the very least... I feel as if I understand these strange bedfellows of mine a bit more, now. After yesterday's carnage, we made a break for the trees on the northern shore, hoping to find concealment from the pirates. Before we could slip into the woods, though, Nobler spotted his lady-love stuck in a tree, harried by pirates. We had vermin swarming us from all sides, and no time to waste, but... despite our peril and my warning, he dove in, a feral passion driving him towards his goal. For a moment, I was tempted to leave him to his brazen toil, but in that same moment, I saw reflected in his struggle echoes of the Great Romance of the Spirits, the love of Cinder Firesoul for Adeline the Heavenly Archer. I knew then that I would not let him toil alone. He scaled the canopy and dealt the pirates severe blows while I gave them their last rights. The fall the acrobat-woman took was less than some ideal spirit of love, but the look they shared afterwards was not. We continued our movement north, gunfire scathing the trees as we ran. Ignoble tools. Avoiding the brazen gunfire, we made a long swim to the northernmost island of the Sidein Coast. I was glad for the relatively short distance it was demanded we swim--the wider and more daring my travels, the greater the toll on my beautiful armor. It has protected me well these years, especially these days, and warded off many a fell-handed blow, but I must wonder if there is a way I might spare it the toll of my misadventures. It was my father's accoutrements when he was a youth, and I fear I sully its spirit by drenching it in brine so often. As I do inevitably Bastet. My poor companion! I'll be sure to treat my feline companion to proper respects as soon as the opportunity arises. Once again, Orlando took me by surprise with his feats of athleticism. He is nearly as strong a swimmer as he is a talker. Arriving on the northern island and hauling our sodden bodies up the small escarpment, we made our way to the high ground, seemingly free of pirates. A large rock marked the cover for our campsite. All accounted for, we began to set up camp and get our first moment of rest for what felt like ages. Shortly after moving at ease, Nobler pulled me aside. "You have gained my trust." What an odd thing it struck me for him to say at first! Our efforts had been for the sake of mutual survival, almost shared pity--and yet! And yet those mutual efforts had brought us through the sundering of ships and the shedding of blood, of wind and waves. I knew not how I felt of Nobler at this juncture. A beast of a man, with a wild fury within him. A man chained in mind and body to a horror show, loathe to lose his prison even as we freed him. A man who would put the reckless desire to save a circus woman before our own escape. I realized something, though. Nobler is not one driven to escape. Escape is not a desire native to his heart. And as I bound his wounds, his grievous scars of the past and present, I realized escape was not native to his body, either. His form writhes at the thought, turns bestial. And here Orlando had been, here had I been--fleeing from one point to the next in the hopes that our--that my--prospects would improve at each new opportunity. Attempting to pursue my mission by fleeing from its present toils. "Nobler" is just that--perhaps much more so than I. I perceive the echoes of many Great Spirits within him: the passion of Cinder, the blades of Haretal, the unbroken dignity of Fraxiros. I wasn't certain what I could say; I hardly even know how much I understood of these things in that moment of quiet dusk. As it turned out, I was not one who would have to carry the weight of that exchange. Orlando strode through, cocksure as ever, and set about interrogating our new companion, an interrogation which only confirmed my suspicions. A pious boy--something I understand--Imperium-born, abused by their malign perversion of the faith. Turned bestial by a man he trusted. I knew something else in that moment, as well: that I would make it my mission to wreak havoc against all those false demagogues who would taint the word of the Great Spirits. Orlando, too, revealed a depth I previously would not have grasped--the bastard child of an elven maiden and a father of great fame, each who wanted nothing of him. His flamboyance was not borne of privilege or wealth, but of a profound sorrow. And a gift with fire... a power held by each of the Great Three in their own right. A gift which gives name to empires. Curiouser and curiouser. For now, he used his aptitude to light our campfire. That, of course, is when all hell broke loose. The rock, as we discovered, was not a rock but an anthill, its residents an evil sort, surging forward like a dark tide. I grabbed Bastet and ran. I saw the ants fall upon Nobler, biting his tail raw. It seemed inevitable they would overtake us, drag us back to their hole. They sacrificed their own numbers in droves to quench the campfire I scattered in our wake. We would need a bigger blaze to deter them. What would Hikari do... Using the forest as kindling on the run, I used my Gods-given breath to interpose a pyre between us and the flesh-eaters, an action which cost me the scourging bites of the swarm as they seeped beneath my armor. I hope I don't need to clean too many bug carcasses from my family scales. I saw the swarm burn behind us, but my ploy worked too well--the blaze began to consume the whole island behind us, heavily-wooded as it was, until it became our pursuer in lieu of the insects. I spent the few moments we had upon the cliffs to tend my companions' wounds again before we dove once more into the waters. I fear I will never be dry again! My scales yet chafe with seawater. Desperation filled our friend Orlando at this juncture. He began to swim madly back toward the Red Devils encamped on the shore, certain as he was that he could reason with them. I suspect the abuse he has suffered at the scoundrels' hands has wounded him deeper than he knows, helpless as he appeared in this desperate moment. Nobler and I managed to struggle with him in the water for a moment without drowning before convincing him against his haste. The den of the Red Devils would be glad for my prowess, but I've no desire to offer it so freely to them. I communicated in that moment the possibility of us secreting a dingy from the Red Devils' ship in the night, but my friends did not have the strength to undertake such a heist, and Orlando remained frail from his gunshot wound. We elected to return to the central island, but keep moving under the cover of darkness to avoid the vermin which swarmed the place. We went south, chancing upon the camp of the Maycomb crew as we went. It was no time to risk an encounter with them, battered as we were, and we pressed onward. A smuggler's cache caught our eyes as we proceeded, a little grave for some scoundrel's petty dealings, poorly-concealed and filled with sugar and rum and other junk--but, filled even still with opportunity: these crates would float. Fashioning oars other such things, my companions pocketing as many riches as they could, we cast off, ready to float and kick and paddle the long way back to Del'Orta. Or we would've, had some dark beast not chased us from the water. Indeed, the pale light of the moon revealed a lithe, powerful shape slipping into the water from the southernmost island, headed straight towards us. Great SPIRITS, could we gain no solace this long night? As it turned out, my weary wishes were answered. Two pirates stood guard outside a solitary temple they had no right to, pissing into the starry flowers outside. Their talk was of weapons and coin, naught but typical pirate drivel. In this moment, I learned Nobler could kill as quietly with his claws as he could spectacularly. A bizarre distraction from Orlando provided us the moment we needed to put down the guards, a Windpiercer killing my mark. Nobler was cruel in his execution. I was overcome by revulsion for but a moment... but then I remembered my own hasty wrath of the days before, and the vile deeds of the scoundrels. My judgement faded. The curs carried the ninesilver and arlings upon them, as well as the firearms my companions took. I care not for pirate coin, no matter its subtlety, but they were worth their value in silver and gold. The temple was a single point of absolute peace and beauty upon the island, perhaps a temple to the Great Spirits. A statue in the center depicted a noble bird with a bell, reminiscent of that which I carried with me from the Hu Zhuang Wu shrine. I was reminded of the Phoenix of Zephyros the Stormcaller. I ought to have taken more time attempting to decipher the meaning of the place, and its purpose; frankly, though, I found myself much too overwhelmed with relief and reverence. Devoting the opportunity to prayer, I felt the Great Spirits hum within my pilgrim's body, and felt my strength renewed. I sketched an offering to the sanctuary, and slept happily. A sense of renewed purpose came with the morning, and we set out towards the diminished encampment of the Red Devils. Four remained to guard the dugout--and the boats--as the rest stalked the forest for their enemies. Nobler and I stole like ghosts towards them, the familiar charms of Orlando masking us from their eyes. I was careful to step softly across the sand--another distraction from Orlando diverted their eyes from our footsteps. We tore out their throats so their companions would not be privy to their screams, and the veil upon us vanished--just as the Maycomb pirates burst from the treeline. The beach erupted into gunfire, bullets buzzing through the air like angry wasps. Our escape was tantalizingly close as Orlando and I charged for the boats on the shore, guarded by the remaining two Red Devils. Not zealously guarded, mind you--I convinced the remaining villains to join our escape after swatting away one's guard. Orlando dove onto the boat, arms bound by the now-dead pirates, as the Red Devils pushed it free into the water. We were moments from freedom. And then I heard Nobler's shout and saw Nema beset by the Maycomb crew. The pirates' numbers were overwhelming, too many for even two competent warriors to chance--the blazing firearms, coward's weapons as they are, sullied our chances. There exists yet no Art of the Sun nor Moon nor any other tradition that I know of to turn aside bullets. Perhaps such a feat may be attained only through the graces of the Great Spirits. They did not grace Nobler in that moment. A shot guided by cruel misfortune dealt a vicious blow upon him, and I saw his blood spatter the sand. I was torn between two ideals. I cannot die while my mission for my country remains incomplete. And yet I could not fully abandon this hero upon the coarse sand. Horrid fate demanded I choose, and I chose my people first, heaving myself aboard the boat at gunpoint while I threw a line to Nobler. I saw my grapple sail through the air as a Maycomb leveled his rifle at the man. The line thumped the sand, on target, as the rifle cracked. I heard the bullet hiss as Nobler, by mere millimeters, twisted from the path of the shot, and ran towards the boat to freedom. I hauled him aboard with his Nema, relieved beyond my own expectations, to see this daring fighter shake the water from his fur. as he joined us, triumphant. The Maycomb bastards' shots were naught but nuisances as we rowed away, protests to the sky. A sly gleam in Orlando's eye caught my attention, and this time I provided the distraction as my friends slew the wretched fools who thought they held us captive. And with that, I bound our wounds as we rowed to freedom--to Del'Orta. May the Great Spirits watch me through the gleam of my sword, guard me in the plates of my armor, guide me in the words of the strangers I've yet to make familiar, and bless me in the light of sun and moon. May they walk in the stride of those I walk amongst, and touch the world through the hands of my companions. May their deeds echo in my actions and their will echo in my wishes. I am but a transient pilgrim walking the tracks of this past and future world, my blood the blood of my lord and my father and my people.

The Daring and the Damned

I should have waited. I should have waited. I should have waited. The night began with that blasted pirate moving us to his ship, the Maycomb. How I wish my abilities as an envoy were better-developed; the indignity of being led by gunpoint is absurd. But not all was lost! En route, we were waylaid by another gang of thugs, the Red Devils. Aptly, if not on their part, lazily--named. It would appear they are fond of brothels and of haranguing the Maycomb crew, because they claimed the vermin had stolen a trophy or treasure of theirs. Ordinarily, I would not have paid mind to their petty squabbles, but the advice of my sister, may I see her soon, echoed in my head: "When the cats fight over yarn, the mouse goes where it will." Orlando desired us to go as a contented family to the scum's brothel, but I had another mind, and sought to set the pirates against each other. Perhaps my notion bore some of the cunning of heroes of old, or perhaps it was simply that the notes I struck only resonated later in the song, but I believe seeds were planted then which later bore fruit. Perhaps, though, it was only coincidence that we would see the Red Devils again. For now, they left without a fight. My disappointment was only stifled when I saw the fury in Nar'shen's eyes, and perhaps--just perhaps--a bit of fear. They left two vermin to guard us belowdecks aboard the Maycomb. When Orlando attempted to perturb them, they dealt him a dishonorable blow that left him swooning. When the wolf-man, Nobler, attempted to escape, they took him abovedecks to lash him. When I made my move, they never saw it coming. Curse my damned impatience. It is not a trait my father gave me. It is not an obstacle which plagues Hikari as it plagues me. It is not an affect I received from Amiri. No, perhaps it is from my mother: an unwillingness to stand by. Hours had passed, hours were yet to pass, and I drew farther and farther away from Mai-Lin. I cut my bonds and killed my guard. I did not have the time to lie patiently in wait, but I slew him with a Whistling Fang before his friend came down and I killed him, too. I am thankful Baltos regards me with something resembling trust, now--his distractions were invaluable. Not to mention I do pity the scaleless, forever short one shaft. In a fit of goodwill--although I'd hoped they'd serve more as a distraction for the pirates--I freed the other two circus freaks who traveled with us, along with my two companions. One was grateful, seemingly, and she fled without another word. The other mourned her dead kin and attempted to shoot me. I am continuously caught off guard by Orlando's strength--his airy voice and his apparent nimbleness belie might which exceeds the ordinary. He wrested the gun from the hand of the goblin before she could shoot me, but vengeance burned in her limbs and she took up a sword. I showed her the path to her brothers with a Moonshadow cut which might've made my people proud; I had to adjust the height of the cut on the spot to account for the goblin's short stature. I killed the next hapless pirate as well, but two more of his friends took his place, leveling their guns at Orlando and I. We were running out of options, one of our party unconscious, and yet... and yet Nar'Shen had said we were too valuable to him alive. So it was escape, bloodied and battered, or surrender to pirates who would indulge in their cruelties. I am no cur's prisoner. My roar washed over them, and their pistols raged back, striking down Orlando. Striking down my opportunity to escape. I studied the waters of Del'Orta for my first assignment some time ago, but some voice in my head--not Baltos--cautioned me that the high seas would be measures more treacherous without Orlando's familiarity. So again, I let my blade rest. I had killed many pirates, and I needed to tend to Orlando. Again. AGAIN I had tainted my name with failure, AGAIN I was at the mercy of these fools. And yet... the blood upon my blade tempered my shame. They had paid in blood to hold me--and they would again. Before Nar'Shen could indulge any evil which clouded his thoughts, another matter called to his attention. He brought us up to watch, me hastily binding my companions' wounds, as the Maycomb closed upon a merchant ship. The merchants were quick to surrender as the pirates overtook them, the captain even greeting the drow himself. As if he expected honor and mercy from these mongrels. It was not to be granted; as soon as the Maycomb crew found what they were looking for, an ornate chest the merchants hadn't even anticipated the pirates would find, they executed their prisoners. The way the two sailors spoke of the chest, it made it seem as if it was indeed an artifact much sought-after, and very jealously guarded. I can't help but wonder if it holds any relation to my mission. There was no time for the pirates to celebrate their score, however--the Red Devils of the night before just as quickly closed upon us and opened fire, tearing the Maycomb and its crew apart. I have witnessed ship-to-ship combat before, but not to this gruesome savagery. I saw a man's chest blown through with a cannonball in the same instant I saw another two men shred to pieces by shrapnel. There was no honor, no assassin's finesse, just slaughter. A crude, horrible way to kill and an equally gristly way to die. But it meant our escape. I was spared harm in the hail of gunfire, the Great Spirits guiding me through the clangor, but my retreat did not carry the same grace, and I was pinned beneath the water by the ruins of the mangled galley. The water was cold and heavy and dark. The smell of brine choked my nostrils as I struggled against the weight of the wreckage. I could not help but wonder if the sea sought to claim me. It was not to be. Again, Orlando's strength saved me, narrowly, as he pulled me to the surface and we swam to shore. Nobler searched for his lady-love as we went. She was nowhere to be found. The Red Devils were still upon us, however, as they directed their barrage towards the beach. No time to spare. The Maycombers have fled into the trees, the beach is being torn up by the Red Devils, and we are faced with what seems to be a single path: escape into the trees, and hope that we don't run into any more of these pirates... May the Great Spirits watch me through the gleam of my sword, guard me in the plates of my armor, guide me in the words of the strangers I've yet to make familiar, and bless me in the light of sun and moon. I am but a transient pilgrim walking the tracks of this past and future world, my blood the blood of my lord and my father and my people.

Carnival Carnage

I failed House Senhotep today. I failed my house today. Not in my mission, Spirits spare me that dishonor, but... I strayed from the Pilgrim's Path. The day began with a setback. A minor one, at that; my attempt to reach Mai Lin in the Flynns' dungeon was checked by two mongrel guards, children of Gladios who'd nothing better to do with themselves than be watchdogs for pirates. But, with them barring my entrance--it is a shame I've no greater ability in the silvertongue's arts--I had no way to proceed aside from infiltration, or a direct assault. The former would've gotten me killed, I am no fool; as Orlando was dissuading me from the latter, I caught the curs tailing us back, and we fled through the streets. It's funny--ofttimes Orlando runs as if he's trying to lose me. Perhaps he is! His ability to get into trouble is something remarkable, but he inexplicably always seems to find his way out. Almost always. We lost the thugs by ducking into a circus. Simple enough affair--acrobats, athletes, the whole bizarre lot. Orlando seemed rather jealous of it all, quite frankly! But then they loosed a massive scorpion in the ring with a man-beast and it all went downhill. The wolfman was--is--an impressive specimen, even despite how he is kept. Bloodred fur like the scales of Fraxiros, gritty determination the likes of some finer dragonborn I know. He dealt a series of sore blows to the scorpion, before it made a break for the stands; perhaps the blows he dealt it put it into despair? I needed to keep my head down, certainly, but I could not stand by while civilians were under threat. My first mistake. That was the first opportunity to flee which I let slide between my fingers. The bard struck up a tune and I found myself enchanted. He tamed the heart of the beast as if it were the strings upon his guitar he plucked. Even as folk fled the tent, he performed on, with his usual foolhardy bravado. Even got a few silvers, the minstrel. The ringleader... did not share his enthusiasm for the craft. We found ourselves confronted by six of these circus thugs. The scorpion was still under Orlando's control. It seemed a ridiculous, petty squabble for them to pursue, but then again... was that also not the case for us? It would've been easy enough to leave. Pragmatic, no doubt--I need to remember that a low profile will always suit me better while I'm in pursuit of state secrets--but something about this peacock's braggadocio spurred me on. I wanted to take a stand here. And I was frustrated from my earlier failure, I was impatient, I was eager, and father I was everything you trained me not to be. I'm sorry. Hikari would've done better. I stepped into the spotlight and roared death upon them. Two were killed the instant my echoes of Zephyros' wrath left my jaws, the others hurt badly. The performers' little bodies looked so lanky and small, writhing on the ground. The ringleader stung me with his whip, and I killed his companion, cut into him, urged him to cease--but he did not. Some mad fury drove him onward, some hope that, even in death, he would see me punished. His head fell from his body almost eagerly. Again we offered mercy, and again they persisted. Orlando's new pet dealt the penultimate thug, one of the few truly cruel-seeming ones, a gruesome death, and again we offered mercy to the last man standing, a half-orc. He seemed a simple soul--he treated the wolfman with kindness even as he led him back to captivity, and took modest pride in his impressive physique. I offered him mercy again and again. His fists were mighty, but untrained, and his blows rolled off me like water. He told us his family was captive of these folk, that his children would be killed if he fled or failed. I offered to help save them, some desperate, ridiculous offer, and yet he would still not put his wife and his children at risk. So I turned aside his helpless blows and gave him an honorable death. I will remember his strength as I continue. His soul echoes with the noblest spirits I can name. I will find his family and let them know their father, even in another's thrall, was a great hero. In his final breaths, he told me how to free the man-beast. Their bodies were some horrible gleeful spectacle, lying dead on the ground in their gaudy attire. The smiles painted upon their faces were twisted into screams. There was no harmony there, no peace. Whatever spirits hummed within them had been quashed. I can't help but think of all the chances I offered them to stop. Why, as their companions fell around them and their hope of victory died, did they keep fighting? Why would they persist in this mad, hopeless endeavor? Why didn't I walk away? We freed the wolfman as his troupe-mates cam upon the carnage--we'll have to be responsible for some acrobat-girl now, get her on the next boat to Hu Zhuang Wu. I hope we can trust him. Someone of his tenacity would be very useful in a confrontation. What struck me was that the wolfman saw us in spite, as if we were responsible for his companions' frenzied persistence in the fight. I offered them mercy time and time again. I am very adept at killing, father. I learned that tonight more than ever. Not good enough to escape what was waiting for us outside: a row of guns and a drow who made even Orlando cower in fear. Another damn dead end. More entanglements. More complications. Every moment's delay, my mission grows more and more desperate, and I seem to grow more and more reckless. I was to infiltrate the Flynns' tonight, and now I have to find my way out of the Maycomb brig. I will right these wrongs soon. I will complete my mission. I will reclaim my honor and my discipline and my purpose. And then, my blood, I will see your proud faces again. May the Great Spirits watch me through the gleam of my sword, guard me in the plates of my armor, guide me in the words of the strangers I've yet to make familiar, and bless me in the light of sun and moon. May the souls I see from this place of waking linger not in the echoes of the dust, but find their way to groves of peace. May the songs I cut short ring with harmony as they fade. I am but a transient pilgrim walking the tracks of this past and future world, my blood the blood of my lord and my father and my people.

High-Sea Headaches

Well I can't speak for anyone else, but I continue to impress myself with these tricks of the tongue--what alliteration in that title there! I truly ought to invest more in poetry. Today... I faced dishonor in defense of the Draconian Imperial Republic. Setting out to Del'Orta with Myuko and Orlando (and Bastet and Baltos), we were confronted by a sinking vessel on our way into a winding set of waterways to the hidden city. Now, I'd seen this trick before--the pirates send out a struggling vessel as bait (or, seemingly struggling), and when you move to the rescue, they seize upon you and surround you. And so we left the ship to sink. Being a servant of the state entails making many difficult decisions. Ultimately, I couldn't risk being drawn into a dangerous trap, and we'd already lost enough time after Orlando was shot. We dropped some crates behind us which would float well enough for survivors--if the wreck was honest--to float upon if need be. Perhaps the Great Spirits did not smile upon my indifference, though, because we were soon after set upon by crafty pirates flying a swallow flag. This... this is where the true tactical embarrassment begins. Upon my insistence, Orlando threw up an illusion of a false, matching flag upon our mast. Such was my previous experience with pirates that I expected they'd see the friendly flag and pass us by; but the ragtag organization of these glorified water gangs is such were there is pathetic few enough of them to have a full account of all their boats and crew at a glance. And so they remained unconvinced. The spirits of vengeance and honor tempted me to strike back. So close was I to demanding a duel of these pirates, to challenge their disgusting captain face-to-face and striking him down for this dishonor. But I have a duty to my state. And that duty requires sacrifice. So I sacrificed gold, trinkets, rations, to these scaleless mongrels. I even gave them my rash'tam, knowing for certain it would return to me once they were out of sight. I truly handed my dignity to them. And yet, as we left, they shot our boat full of holes anyway. It is my solemnest vow that, when I muster the forces needed, I am scouring the Del'Ortan seas for the swallow flag and burning every last rickety ship. We reached Del'Orta unmolested after that. The city is a clangor of disharmony, every other building resonating with the desires of divided interests. The filth of these pirates claims no kindred spirits of mine. After seeing Myuko off--gods guide his journey--Orlando marched us to where his debt was owed. The crew was gone--someone named Tusk?--and only their petty magister remained, but that man, strangely enough, was able to point me in the direction of my contact, Mai Lin... the brig of the infamous Flynn crew. As I push further along my mission, I find nothing but confusion and ill spirit. I cannot help but be wary of the echoes of Hikari's injury and Amiri's disappearance--failure is never happenstance. And then there's the matter of the magician. His presence is...mostly a boon here to be sure (spats with ferry masters notwithstanding). But my business with Mai Lin is a matter of state secret--and it cannot be anything more. And how am I to get Mai Lin out of the Flynn's dungeons? Troubling times ahead. May the Great Spirits watch me through the gleam of my sword, guard me in the plates of my armor, guide me in the words of the strangers I've yet to make familiar, and bless me in the light of sun and moon. I am but a transient pilgrim walking the tracks of this past and future world, my blood the blood of my lord and my father and my people.

Bizarre Beginnings

Journal my journal, what a strange turn my mission has taken! Upon arriving in Hu Zhuang Wu, I met a flamboyant half-elf and his impish familiar in the local tavern who apparently took a liking to me. Despite his rather ridiculous demeanor and penchant for grifting, I can't help but find him amusing. On top of that, he says he can get me into Del'Orta... Which is part of what served to complicate things. Strange lights had been seen across the water, and this bard, Orlando, refused to depart for Del'Orta until we'd examined them--a debt he owes, apparently. Still, he's my best ticket in--if I can trust him, which I believe I can--and he insisted on going and getting himself killed anyway if I wasn't to come, so we left at nightfall and rowed across to a settlement marked on my map as Daopian Hai'an. I remember how still the night air was despite the eerie lights weaving about the sky. I utilized my Moon Arts, my grapple proving a reliable friend once again as we scaled the tower wall of the central keep. The man in possession of the lamp Orlando sought was a pushover in and of himself, but he had two golems as guards which could pierce the veil of the invisibility Orlando had thrown over himself, and they shot him as attempted to flee. His familiar and I managed to scurry down the wall and feed him down my rope as I struck down one golem with a Diving Crescent, and the second I dispatched with a Waning Moon Cut. The lamp was ours, and we just barely managed to stanch Orlando's bleeding before he crossed the Grey River. As we rowed back, I saw a messenger pigeon break away. Had I not had a delirious, half-dead man in the boat with me, I might've taken a go at bringing it down, but apparently someone else did the job for me later; I saw a crow with a pigeon feather in its beak as we docked at Hu Zhuang Wu. We commissioned the help of the stern Ma Sing, a woman graced by Bahamut with echoes of my mother, in reviving Orlando. While he recovered, I took it upon myself to track down a missing rice shipment, intercepted en route by two highwaymen tipped off by the Maycomb crew. I slew one with a Veiled Crushing Fang and subdued the other, bringing back the rice and taking in the bounty on the outlaws' heads. Now I must decide how I may use the firecrackers I got from him. This village has a shrine to a protector spirit which I have been able to find some peace at. On the first day, a spry fox left a delicate bell with me, and I've been praying and meditating at the shrine every day since, doing my due diligence to the Platinum Guardian and the places where the spirits of this realm resonate. I'm eager to move on. Orlando's close call set us back a few days, but with the help of Ma Sing he's looking spry as a samisen again, and we're ready to embark to Del'Orta on Muyko's ship. That little imp had better keep his claws off Bas'tet. I've some sketches of this place I'd love to send to Hikari. I hope I am able to find a place where I might send them. May the Platinum Dragon watch me through the gleam of my sword, guard me in the plates of my armor, guide me in the words of the strangers I've yet to make familiar, and bless me in the light of sun and moon. I am but a transient pilgrim walking the tracks of this past and future world, my blood the blood of my lord and my father and my people.

PIRATES AGAIN!!

Back in Del'Orta! It would seem as if I am cursed to drink the stench of the sea like a paramour's perfume. At least I have Bas'tet for company. My journey has proven an excellent opportunity to finish some drawings which were pulling at my mind. We'll see how they turn out; any good ones, I can send back to Sister and Father, and any which turn out like shite I can say the ocean rattled my stencil! My aim is to have this over with as soon as possible. Naturally, given the gravity of the assignment I want to invest my all in it, for my family's honor, but... with these whispers of war, my deepest wish is to keep my family close. HAH! Hikari relishes the opportunity to prove herself by jumping back into the action, but frankly, I don't think she has anything left to prov, and that strange wound of hers is proving slow to heal. Typically, I'd be worried someone else--aside fro myself!--would be raring to step up and take her place as First Blade, but... everyone else is scattered about as well. The Blades of House Senhotep are more now like the Autumn Leaves of House Senhotep, swept apart by the four winds. My my... I really ought to pursue poetry those days where I can't find the muse to draw; that was really quite good. Amiri is a top-tier poet. Ahh, I can't help but think of him. It's not unheard of for a Blade to go missing on assignment, but with the nature of what he was doing... it makes my swords heavy in their scabbard. I'll keep my eyes sharp for him. Bas'tet refuses to leave me alone, so I think my entry ends here--may the Platinum Dragon watch me through the gleam of my sword, guard me in the plates of my armor, guide me in the words of the strangers I've yet to make familiar, and bless me in the light of sun and moon. I am but a transient pilgrim walking the tracks of this past and future world, my blood the blood of my lord and my father and my people.