IC - Village of Yoblora

"And this is my first year on the road, madam," Quintus follows Ognimir's remark. "I..." the bearded man trails off, uncertain how much he wishes to share of the circumstances of his initiation. Instead he says, "An affair impugning my honor required that I leave my trade in the city and pledge myself to the Order."

Damir leans against one of the walls, arms crossed before his chest. He remains silent, but manages a neutral expression.

"Then you are not yet initiated into the deeper mysteries, any of you," answers Belle. "Such is not given to newlings like yourselves. Tell me, have you shed blood as Guardians?"

Quintus Quail strokes his luxurious beard, as if contemplating the question. In truth it's a nervous gesture, something to do with a hand gone fidgety at the villager's manner and the subject of conversation.

"I have," he concedes. "I regret to say. Not long ago." Quail pauses, then adds, "We were protecting our own lives, madam."

Belle ... chuckles. "And so the bond grows stronger," she replies. "Look closely at your tattoos. Have they grown more elaborate?"

Glancing down, Quintus notices that the tattoo on the back of his right hand, which triggered the bolt slaying Dommic, has a peculiar writhing appearance and additional details that he does not remember from when it was made a few months past.

Ognimir makes an effort to NOT look at his own tattoos. He will not give Belle the pleasure of manipulating him.

Like most peasant cottages, this one is dim - particularly as evening approaches. The cooking fire glows red and orange, giving good heat but not much light. Ognimir notes merely that Old Belle wears a long gown with long sleeves, which is fitting to her age and form. The cuffs of the sleeves mostly cover her hands. He would have to obtrusively examine her hands in order to determine, in this dimness, whether she wears tattoos. @Rabbits

Quintus slowly turns over his hand. He's disturbed to find that the tattoo of a butterfly with wings half-spread-- a decoration of his own design and etching, which he meant to symbolize his metamorphosis from artist to adventurer-- has altered. The wings are now unfurled, but they are more like a moth's than a butterfly's, and they're withered at the edges, as if the creature suffered from some wasting disease.

Quail raises his eyes to Belle's, baffled. "Madam, what is this..." What does it mean?

Belle gazes into Quintus' eyes. In the dim light of the kitchen hearth it is hard for him to perceive her expression, but maybe her face is sad. "It is the mark of the Veil embracing you," she says solemnly. "Each time blood is shed, it caresses the hand that bears its mark."

Damir, as Ognimir, does not move. He already knows what he will see. Indeed his ink has changed. Where it has started out as elegant lines and curls across his upper body, his spine and arms upwards to the back of his neck, the warrior has found smaller, more intricate lines at some places. Like the finer roots surrounding the stronger ones, these lines have spread out from a few places, especially places where Damir has experienced pain or has gotten injured. He has not yet checked around the latest wound, but finds himself quite certain, all of a sudden, that his tattoo will have expanded once more.

Another fact, that makes Damir's blood run cold despite the warmth, is that the tips of some of these new lines seem to lead under his skin. He knows this is not possible, but he remembers more than one incident where a casual look has revealed a kind of slow, lazy motion. Damir has discounted this impression as a consequence of too much drink or a lack of sleep. Right now .. he is not so sure anymore.

His jawbones clench and he feels hostility beginning to seep into his gaze. The outrageous hag might be a test. If she is so wise, why do her people suffer so and why is this place so desolate. She doesn't have a lot of power. So maybe this is how she deals with people - deceiving them with her words, making them doubt themselves until she can easily manipulate them or worse. Damir feels his patience dwindle.

Ognimir grabs Quintus so he will stop fixating upon the moth shape of his mark.
"The Veil causes enough harm and bloodshed on its own. Are you saying our fight against the Veil is what it wants? A changed tattoo doesn't mean any such thing."

Despite himself, Ognimir can't resist. As he reaches for Quintus his attention falls upon his arm with fresh eyes. There, in the swirl of scar and ink, an image of a horse, Maple, eyes wide in terror, falling into death, gaze back at him.

Old Belle sighs. "I think you never have met an old retired Guardian," she says."I think you take your orders from the Arcanes, not from senior Guardians.""Have you wondered, ever, what happens to the really experienced Guardians?"

Damir takes a step away from the wall, further into the room.
He growls:
"Say what you bloody wish to say.
The day has been one of sacrifice and plight.
We do not need any further delay,
especially not any such cryptic shite."

He wants to reassure his comrades ... and himself, etiquette be damned.

"We came to help the people you reign.
A task you don't seem to manage so well.
They're starving and dying in horrible pain.
So what are you on about, mylady? - pray tell!"

"Very well." Belle's voice cracks crisp as a whip by an ox's ear. "Know then, this." She pulls back her sleeves to show tattoos: intricate and colorful, and unmistakably alike to your own. But far more detailed. And where yours merely seem to writhe a bit, hers dance on her arms in a nauseating way. "I am a Guardian who has learned more than the Arcanes would like, and I have retired to guard this village alone from the Veil. My kin are here, and none of them ever will bear the marks that you and I wear. None of them ever will be pledged to the Veil, as are we." She laughs bitterly. "Here is the story of the Guardians. We wander the edge of Khelia, the faces of the Arcanes to the common folk. We bring fear with us, we remind folk that the Veil is dangerous and not just rainbows. We are enforcers for the Arcane, even when we do not ... " she pauses. "It serves the Arcanes for folk to see us wander about. It makes folk willing to pay the collectors who follow our footsteps. But we - Yoblora, this village - we have nothing to spare the collectors. So I turned them away. And then the Veil began to send things, more than I had seen in years as a Guardian. That was what confirmed it for me. The Veil serves the Arcanes, just as we do. To the same purpose. It perpetuates their power over ordinary folk, it serves to impose constant fear that makes folk willing to submit."

She stops talking and looks at each of you in turn. It is not clear what she is looking for.

"Who, of the Arcanes, did you turn away? I need names, not just speculation."
Despite his harsh tone, the nature of the tattoos along her arms, and the seemingly endless task to guard against the veil, have a hint of possible truth. Ognimir has seen enough betrayal and deception while working the docks. Should it not be a surprise that the Arcanists are no better than haggling and manipulative merchants and ship captains, running their own racket?

He turns his attention to Quintus, to see how he is reacting.

Quintus scarcely notices Ognimir, even though the big man jostles Quintus' whole body with his powerful grasp. Quail's gaze wanders to the tattoos that Old Belle displays, and he struggles to make sense of what she's telling them.

"You would have it, madam..." Quintus trails off. His brow furrows and he moistens his lips. "You would have it that the Arcanes created the Veil and all its monsters, then the Guardians to oppose those monsters, squeezing the common folk between..." Quail's voice softens, subdued. "And all for what? For money? All this magic and horror and valor..."

For money. Stamped metal to full a wooden box or buy a sweetmeat.

He opens his palms, spreads his fingers: artist's fingers, alive with his own small sorceries.

"It would be churlish. Dastardly. Low." This seems the greatest insult that Quintus Quail can level. After a moment he asks, "Have you been beyond the Veil? We're told that it's meant to keep the creatures out; you tell us that it's meant to keep the Khelians in. If you're right, then there must be a place beyond. Is that not so?"

Belle looks toward Ognimir and shakes her head. "The collectors are not Arcanes, not even Guardians. Simply ordinary folk put to a difficult task." She turns a little toward Quintus. "You understand exactly what I am saying. No, I have not dared to enter the Veil. I've heard that it has transformative power, and I don't wish to be anything other than myself."

Danill continues to slurp his mush as he listens. He has quite a bit of experience in collecting money--never the one to take coin, though; they would come after Danill had roughed them up.

He asks Khelia, "but someone's been through then? Or tried? Where do the tales come from?"

"Would it not be easier to send someone to dispose of you
than send more predators to kill and prey
on all those people meant to pay?
Don't think us fools and quick to trust where trust's not due."

If the hag's tale is true, the authorities would be killing off the very people they want to pay for protection. This does not seem to be very lucrative a scheme. Lots of people have died already, food is sparse and the village is more or less rundown.

"Also why stay at such a barren, most dangerous place and expose your kin?
Is it stubbornness or pride that makes them suffer for your sin?"

Old Belle's face goes soft and sad. "I guess tis pride," she answers Damir, "or indignation, which is almost the same. The knowledge that I watched my comrades bleed and kill and turn strange, all in service of this cruel hoax - think on it. This that we do, that I have done, this Order, is wrong. I won't abide it."