IC - Village of Yoblora

Two days riding will bring you to the next village along the veil: Yoblora. There is not a lot of visiting between the scattered villages of this hinterland. No-one can advise you as to current conditions in Yoblora.

Not only the frost is thick this morning, but also the clouds look heavy with snow.

Danill gets himself a thick, fur lined cloak for the road.

He also pays a visit to Ciara to tell her of his new duties, but fear not he will visit her when his circuit brings him back this way.

Finally, he leaves a letter at the inn should his family come to retrieve him. It tells how he saved the village and doesn't need to shake people down anymore.

Danill's cloak is graced him by none other than Ibic Panwol. It's quite a bit short, only a little above the knees, given the relative size of Danill and the village elder. "You've done justice for Tiyem," the old man said as he handed over the heavy soft garment. "I'll miss this wolf-skin, but I have a good warm woolen quilt and hardly go out when it's cold. Safe travel."

Danill thinks on this moment as he saddles his horse. My whole life I've done things to be accepted--roughin' folk up for Uncle Delon when I didn't even like it... And it's not 'til I help in a selfless fashion that I'm recognized for it and made to belong...

The responsibility weighs on him.

Like Danill, Quintus Quail begs a homespun cloak for the colder weather ahead. He also seeks a brace of torches, in case the Guardians need to travel by night; and for himself, should any of the villagers be so generous, a top-up of his tobacco pouch.

Quintus saddles his shaggy horse in silence. His lips are thin where they wrap the stem of his pipe, from which smoke rises and ashes fall, now and then, to smolder unheeded on the arm of his robe. He has been withdrawn since Dommic's death put an end to the spirit's terrible wailing. Quail is unaccustomed to murder, even in a good cause, and can't help thinking himself mean and churlish to have fired on Podreg's brother without even attempting to reason with the youth.

Of course that youth sought to kill the Guardians, and came near enough. But was Quintus, then, any better than he, apart from having enjoyed greater success?

For unexpressed reasons, Ciara is watching the four of you leave. She stands on the frosty grass next to her parents' cottage, playing with her hair. Her breath steams in the dawn.

Danill knows she watches him, sad at his parting now that she sees he's a hero. He likes the drama of it all, and she's too late to win him over.

Ognimir offers his Mirror Wolf shards to the various folks of the town. "I can't promise you for certain, but I would but quite surprised if the next Arcanist that comes through these parts wouldn't give at least 50 silver for this bag," becomes his best sales pitch. He hopes to get a nice thick cloak in exchange. He takes extra care of Maple.

You ride quietly through the forest trails, each pondering the recent events.

The day gradually warms. You stop to eat lunch on a hillside meadow above a chattering stream. Nearby, small birds swirl in a big flock that will not settle for more than a few moments in the bare grey branches of the trees. The sky is crystal blue, the sun is bright. The air smells of fallen leaves.

Faintly, you hear the sound of a horn.

Damir pauses and looks in the direction of the disturbance. He has been thinking about the cursed apparition that has plagued Limm, about how the villagers have stood together to face it and about how the source of all the nastiness had only thought about himself and his hurt pride. The Guardian moves his shoulder and feels for the sore spot. So many good souls almost wiped out by one selfish person.

The horn brings him back and he looks at Ognimir, then the others.
"Something is, it seems, afoot.
Shall we go see, oh gentlemen?
Maybe we can do some good.
Let's finish up and ride again."

Sitting atop Madge, his mighting plow horse turned mount, Danill itches his fresh tattoo.

"Aye, I could do for a bit o'excitment." Bravado aside, Danill is nervous but will follow the lead of his fellows.

"Lead on."

"Quintus, what say you? Does that horn sound like a call of distress?"

Ognimir turns to look enjoying the warm sun on his face.

Quintus' pipe has burned down during the journey. He takes the opportunity of this pause to tap ashes onto the mud and fallen leaves, where the stamping of his horse's hooves may churn them into the soil.

"It could simply be a hunter's horn," Quail counters amiably. "But then, this close to the Veil..."

Given the region, and their charge as Guardians, it would be worth checking out the sound.

The horn seemed to sound from the left side of the trail, ahead, which is the side away from the Veil as your general circuit takes you widdershins along the boundary of Khelia. It is not a trivial matter to guess the distance of a horn blow in a woodland, where the trees diffuse the sound. It was ... distant? A couple of miles, perhaps.

You ride in that direction. Cautiously? Rapidly?

If the distant horn is a call for help, as Ognimir supposes, then they would do well to make haste. With a glance at the others, Quintus wheels his mount to the left, off the trail, and heads for the sound at the best gallop he can make, given the forested terrain.

The horses charge through the drifts of fallen leaves, sending up a cloud of dry fragments that hovers behind and around you on the gentle breeze. The sun shines warm in the chill autumn air. The flock of small birds departs with a clamor, alarmed by your speed.

You ride generally along the stream, and not far from the trail, which bends leftward to follow the watercourse.

It does not take very long for your horses to cover a mile - a few minutes. Even Danill's sturdy plowhorse proves its metal.

You ride to the top of a low rise and behold a scene of strife. Two men wielding swords stand back to back amid a ring of six ... seven ... eight strange creatures, shaped like wolves yet gleaming like mirrored glass. Ognimir immediately recognizes them. He also notes there are three scatterings of gleaming, glinting shards near the feet of the swordsmen. They have made their mark on the pack of mirror wolves.

One man has a hunting horn slung about his neck, clearly it was he who sounded an alarum.

As soon as Ognimir sees the battle, he pulls his horn and blasts a reply, and calls a charge.
He then readies his shield, and his pole and cries out to his mount.

"Run, Maple--let's see if you have more fight in you?"

Well we're off then!

Danill kicks his mount into motion, following Ognimir. He jerks his reigns to the left though, intending to ride in a circle round the men, but between the wolves.

Quintus reins up some distance from the fray. The burly Ognimir might charge boldly into battle, but Quail, an urbane tattooist, is more circumspect. At least, that's the term he prefers to use.

Instead he notes the shards that represent the corpses of deceased mirror wolves. He reaches out with one hand, with the magic that has been itching for days now beneath the marks on his fingers and palm, seeking release. He lets that magic go out to one shattered wolf, willing that it might recall the strange beast to some semblance of order and service, however briefly.

"Attack," Quintus Quail murmurs, to pit the resurrected creature against its fellows.

Hoping the reach of the pole keeps the wolves at bay, Ognimir attacks.

Damir is right next to Ognimir, then changes position, so that one of the wolves is between him and Ognimir. He attacks the creature with his longsword and hopes to drive it into the pole on the other side.

Danill holds on tight, with his thighs as his mount refuses his direction.

"No! Move! Forward!" As the horse sidesteps stubbornly, he digs in his pack for his sling. I they haven't put the beasts down with this charge, I'll let a few stones fly in assitance!

Quail winces. Being somewhat versed in mathematics, he counts seven of the mirrored canines remaining, and that is seven too many for his taste and comfort. Still, the creatures seem to be focused on his more gallant comrades-- a fact that may be turned to their collective advantage.

Still mounted, Quintus primes his crossbow and sets a bolt in its groove. From this higher vantage, he may be able to fire upon one of the wolves without endangering his fellows. Should any of the creatures stray far enough from the heart of the melee, Quintus will make his attempt.

Ognimir hopes these wolves know fear. It is no longer a fight of two surrounded by many-- perhaps they can be scared away before they do more damage.

Ognimir wheels around for another pass, but gives out a roar as best his scratchy voice can manage, swinging the pole with as much menace as he can muster. A bit of a performance before he re-enters the fray, with the goal to scatter them back to the veil, where such abominations belong.

Damir takes the hint and makes himself appear taller and broader while swinging his heavy sword once more. He bellows an attack sound and imagines his foes in shards on the ground.

Danill's sling howls as he spins it. He controls his mount with his knees, and let's fly a stone at one of the mirror wolves.

When he sees his moment, Quail raises his crossbow, takes a steadying breath, and lets fly at one of the flanking mirror wolves.

Ognimir screams in horror.

...

With a curse, Danill hops off his horse, rips his sword from its sheath, and takes up his shield. He rushes to stand with Ognimir and Damir, his shield at the ready.

Quintus stares. He mumbles pedantic nonsense under his breath, as if he'd like to scold the creatures for their gory strangeness but can't think his way round the brute fact of their existence. His crossbow trembles as he aims and fires again, hoping to catch one of the beasts that have moved out towards Danill.

Danill sweeps his blade upward, to meet Wolf 4.

In a rage, and mourning the loss of Maple, Ognimir grabs the nearest stone, or stick or heavy object within reach and hurls it at the wolves. Trying to hit any of them, not aiming at a particular one.

"Back to the hells of the veil with the lot of ya! Go!"

Damir lands in a kneeling position, then darts forward sword in hand. He roars loudly with a burst of violent energy as he engages once again.

Breathing heavy, sword still in hand, Danill carefully approaches the Swordsman while wiping at his mouth with the back of his sleeve--the sight and smell of all the blood making him slightly nauseous.

"You sure he's done for," he asks the swordsman.

Danill looks over the man's shoulder and looks at the body to determine if the man is truly beyond help.

If the weird mirror beasts are going to leave, then Quintus Quail will bid them a silent farewell. And good riddance to them!

Once the coast is clear, he nudges his shaggy horse into a walk and descends to the scene of battle. For the moment, Quintus busies himself with stowing his crossbow and dismounting. The other Guardians are still alive-- not so, alas, their horses-- and Danill is looking after the fallen swordsman. From what Quintus could see of the stranger's fate, those offices will be more funereal than medical.

"Everyone alright?" Damir looks at his companions and tries to determine if any of them were severely injured before taking stock of his own wounds. Blasted creatures!

He looks at their fallen mounts and sighs - a bereavement for sure - then walks over to the distraut soldier and puts a hand on his shoulder.
"It was a heavy fight.
But bravely fought.
T'was not for naught -
the beasts have fled,
their brethren dead.

Lorric surely will be missed."

Damir takes a knee and tries to make eye contact.
Who are you, lad? Where is your home?
We Guardians came to assist
all people who battle the fiends that roam
close to the veil-
so tell us your tale."

Ognimir approaches Quintus.
"Perhaps the whole length of the veil has thinned here--allowing these mirrored beasts through. Have you ever heard of such a thing? And why mirrors-- they died differently here, by the way? " And he points to the residue the shattered wolves deposited.

Ognimir gazes in the direction of the veil, can he see it from here?
He then inspects where the mirror wolves dissipated looking for anything interesting.

In response to Ognimir's query, Quintus shrugs his shoulders. "Perhaps you forget, sir, that in matters of Guardianship..."

Quail sweeps a hand to encompass Ognimir and Damir, both of whom have more experience with the Veil's mysteries and horrors than he. Then he puts that hand on the other man's burly shoulder, in silent consolation for the loss of his mount, before turning to Morrin and his more severe bereavement.

"I grieve for your companion," Quintus says. "Let us lash his remains to my horse, and make our way to Yoblora. As we are now too many to ride..."

Ognimir works his way to the bell. As he pulls the frayed rope that drives it back and forth he wonders out loud to Damir.

"Perhaps we should have burnt Maple as well."

Damir lays a hand on his friends shoulder.
"Surely she was deserving of a fire.
Rarely better steeds were found,
than your Maple or my shire.
Trust she'll find true peace abound."

The Guardian then crosses his arms in front of his chest and stands next to Ognimir as he rings the bell. While his features remain neutral, Damir's gaze studies the resigned residents - first as they gather, then disperse to start their work. Truly Yoblora seemed in rough shape. What has happened here?

Damir half turns towards one of the villagers and asks, whether Madame Belle has been informed of Lorric's demise and if they've had trouble with creatures from the cursed veil as of late.

Danill watches the dancing flames, and listens to the exchange. He looks to the other Guardians to see how they want to play this out.

Damir follows the man's eyeline and finds himself assessed by the old woman. Their eyes meet and the Guardian nods, earnest enough to show respect, brief enough to suit his own standing. He watches the goings-on for a moment longer, then moves to meet the lady of the village.

He greets her in a formal manner, expresses his condolences and introduces his fellow Guardians.
"Wolves from the Veil were his dour demise.
Together with Morric we said our good-byes,
- after depleting the pack, and mourning two of our steeds.
Tell me - good lady - of what evil precedes."

Why is the village so run down and gloomy?

"They've called me Belle since I was younger," the old woman answers Damir's introductions. "Years past, the people chose me as the village elder. I have done my best. I have studied much of the Veil, as we stand so close by it. Time was, I went to Khelia's very capital to learn of books ... and rumors. Do you know whom you serve?"

"Now we serve the people of the realm,
repenting for our own sins of old,
to assure veil's creatures cannot overwhelm
what's of this world - we have to hold."

Damir asks her to tell them about the village's troubled past. Maybe they can help the people of Yoblora and give them reason to rebuild. After all they have stayed here, even if the place has not been kept in the best condition. There must be a reason why they have abandoned the upkeep, but not the town.

Belle scoffs. "You serve the masters of the realm," she answers. "As does that." She inclines her head toward the faint distant rainbows of the Veil. "And all its creatures," she adds grimly. "They harry us. They harry us."

Ognimir stops with the rope.
He looks Belle in the eye, "With all the ringing, I must have misheard. Did you just say the veil is controlled . . . by the Arcane Order?"
He wipes his hands on his thighs.
"Speak now some evidence for such a claim, or step back such foolish words!"

"Ah, would you bold Guardians gang up on a helpless old woman?" asks Belle, whose tall and erect posture lend her words a mocking flavor. "And what have you read, in the libraries of Khelia? What have you heard, in the kitchens of the taverns where the servers eavesdrop on the Arcane dinner conversations?"

Danill musters up his own mocking flavor. "We'll, I've heard, in common rooms from here to the city, what all people know: the Guardians protect folk from the dangers of the veil."

"If everyone knows that's true, why would The Arcane control the viel. Or How, for that matter."

Excellent questions! Quintus cannot recall having heard such ill spoken of the Arcane Order in the city where he once worked as a tattooist, before tragedy and the consequent stain on his honor forced him into this errant life. Having tied his horse's reins to any nearby fence or hitching post, he crosses his arms within the gay sleeves of his robe and awaits the elder's reply.

"I've seen this before. It is fear talking, not reason! But if you are wrong. And you are wrong. You risk offending the only force that can protect you! Is that what happened? Have you been brewing up lies and causing the good people of Yoblora to despair? Shame on you. "

Damir looks left to right, then to the folks who have already started to abandon their duty and gather around as to hear what the commotion is about.
Instead of adding to the brewing conflict, he takes a step forward - in between the two contestants. He turns to look at the woman and smiles brightly.

"We don't mean to threaten you or yours, good Belle.
On the contrary, we've just saved one and want to aid the rest.
Why don't we postpone this and say our farewell,
to the fallen lad. Then it's your hospitality that I request."

He then puts a hand on his angry friend's shoulder, tosses Ognimir a warning glance - no need to escalate just now! - and continues.

"It's not only Yoblora that has suffered a loss today.
Tempers rise high, lady Belle, but we'll hold them at bay -
for now."

The old woman slightly tosses her head and lifts her eyes. "If you beg hospitality, it's ours that we must offer," she replies. "I won't have it said that I denied guest right to you, especially after you saved Morrin's life. As to the Veil and its masters, I would be glad to unfold to you what I have learned. It's not surprising that you labor in ignorance. I'll say for now only this: it was after our crops failed, and we could not pay the Order's levy, it was then that the Veil and its creatures encroached on Yoblora more than ever before."

Quintus puckers his lips beneath the froth of his beard and his fine brow furrows. The elder's claim makes no sense to him. Why would the Arcane Order send out Guardians to protect the common folk from dangers that the Arcanes themselves control and direct? If that were so, then the Guardians and their whole creed would merely be some sort of fig leaf to cover the extortion visited upon the land by those magi! It would be churlish of them. Very churlish. More than churlish, it would be dastardly...

Quail restrains an uncomfortable harrumph. It won't do to tut the old woman in front of her people, not when they're mourning the loss of one of their own.

"Let us speak privately after the funeral rites, madam, as my colleague Damir suggests," Quintus says. "Then we'll listen to all you have to say, and help in any way we can. That is our calling, as I hope you know."

The old woman clamps shut her jaw and steps away from the group of you, joining the villagers who stand nearer to the pyre. She appears to talk with a few of them quietly for a while, including the grieving Morrin.

After a time, as the sky darkens, the pyre and Lorric have reduced to ash and ember. Old Belle moves back to you.

"The rites are complete," she says flatly. "Come. Join me in my house. I will serve you the dinner I can offer, and we will talk." She awaits your response.

Damir nods - slow and serious, then follows Belle.

Ognimir follows, but there is no chance he eats anything she provides.

Danill follows with a grumbling stomach. He pats his gut ready to eat.

Quintus waits for the senior Guardians to lead the way, then follows in his turn, as seems proper to him.

Belle's dinner is barley mash that is spotted with flecks of bacon, peas, and chunks of onion and carrot. Those who try it find that it tastes like she thought of putting pepper in it, but found the jar was empty. It does have a reasonable amount of salt.

To drink, she offers a big clay jug of cider. You remember seeing a grove of gnarly apple trees near the village.

She waits for one of you to ask a question. After you don't, she says, "How long have you been Guardians?"

Danill smiles round a spoonful. "About a week, here." He scrapes some more mash from his bowl.

Ognimir tries to retain his stoic nature as his stomach gives a loud grumble.
"This is my 12th Season watching the veil. Ever since I was ... "
He exposes his arm to show the scars in the weak firelight.
"... since an arcanist did this to me."

"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."

Before anyone can answer, the old woman adds, "The other side of that coin is desperation. When the collectors came, we had enough supplies and crops in ground to last the winter. None to spare. If we had met their demands ..." she shrugs.

"So, are you refusing our help then? We are to leave your town to suffer the horrors of the veil? Do you speak for all of Yoblora?"

Ognimir leans toward the small window and gazes out.

Quintus recedes into his chair, and into his thoughts. His chin lowers to his chest; he looks like he's dozing, but his eyes are open and vacant, fixed on the floor beneath the table.

The old woman's tale seems impossibly sordid. It is hard for Quail, who fancies himself a man of honor, to imagine that anyone would concoct a scheme at once so elaborate and so vile, let alone the supposed saviors and protectors of all Khelia! And yet Belle seems convinced of the truth of her words. Whom to believe, the former Guardian or their distant benefactors?

Quintus listens with half an ear as the conversation continues.

"Oh, no," Belle asks, "I don't ask you to turn from your duty. Please, let us scourge back our fellow servants of the Order. For the sake of my kin, let's perpetuate the poppet show, though it no longer fools folk here. For the sake of all our kin, carry with you the tale I have told. Maybe if it spreads far, it will bring change." She sighs. "They'll come in the sunset to worry about the cottages, testing the doors and windows with their icy breath. By myself I cannot defeat them, and I would not put my kin to that test. Stand forth with me, and drive them off. And see what becomes of Guardians who serve too long."

"Well, tonight we should patrol the hovels. Top of each hour, then?" Ognimir asks Damir.

"Then in the morrow, we inspect the Veil, to prove this ... rabble-rouser ... wrong. "

Belle directs the guardians to the darkened cottage. It is vacant and seems to have been that way long enough for dust to settle on everything. Fetching wood from the community pile it does not take long to get a warm fire in the hearth.

Night comes. It is cold and dark. Distantly, wolves howl and bark. Do you imagine tones like glass bells in their voices?

Something moves past the cottage window.

Quintus has been lying awake, staring up at the cobwebs and shadows, failing not to think about the old Guardian's words. If she's right, then how can he, in good conscience, serve such venal wizards? And yet they did help the people of Limm, after a fashion. They tracked down a murderer, laid to rest a spirit of vengeance that might otherwise have driven the villagers to madness. Is it sufficient to be a useful cog in a vicious machine?

Restless as he is, it doesn't take Quintus long to note the movement outside. He rises and creeps to the wall by the window. Once there, he seeks a place where the plaster has cracked and peeks through.

There are three of them. Clothed only in tattoos that glow like the Veil. Two men, a woman. Their steps are smooth and steady. Their faces are calm. They walk past the cottage. They hold swords in their hands.

"Harm only those who dare to step outside," says one of the men, the shorter one. The other two nod.

Then they are out of Quintus sight.

...sound asleep under his moth eaten blanket, feet warming near the fire.

Ognimir, after a quick sweep of the village (to get a sense of the environment), stands guard near one of the buildings, his halberd resting on the wall, thick furs over his armor. "Aye, Yoblora is under guardian protection this night. Name yourself and your purpose!" He shouts loud enough for the others to hear.

The three of swords don't answer but they smoothly turn toward Ognimir, raising their weapons and moving to attack!

Well that tears it. Quintus scrambles away from his chink in the wall and over to his meager jumble of equipment. In passing, he gives Danil's shoulder a firm shake.

"Up and to arms, man! Ognimir stands engaged with three assailants! And we..."

Are dawdling, obviously! Quail shoulders his quiver, fits a bolt to his crossbow, then heads for the cottage door. He takes a deep breath and slips outside, hoping to circle behind the strangers confronting Ognimir.

Waking from a dream in which his teeth didn't hurt as he gobbled a fest of sweet pies, Danill rolls over and grabs his sword and shield.

He sees Quintus slip out the back, takes stock from the chink in the wall and grasps his plan. Ognimir will need me more... he thinks as he charges out the front door, shield raised and ready.

Ognimir sweeps his halberd in defensive arcs as the three approach, using the weapon's reach vs those swords.

Damir takes a quick, deep breath as he readies his sword ...

... and he moves to strike at Revenant 2, the woman, but probably too late to be of help.

Danill sees what Damir is doing. He opts to move on Revenant 1, shield raised and sword thrusing.

It's all happening too quickly. Quintus's instinct is to fire at the naked man charging him, to preserve his own life at any cost. However, honor whispers to Quintus that his own assailant is but one man, and wounded at that, while Ognimir stands beset by two healthy and aggressive foes.

The tip of the crossbow's bolt shifts out of line with the charging figure, trains instead on the back of the woman who seems most to threaten Quail's ally.

Trying his best to ignore the doom descending upon him, Quintus lets fly.

The naked woman with the sword evades big Ognimir's halberd stroke, lunges low and thrusts.

Danill's short sword plunges into the guts of the short man threatening Quintus.

Quintus' bolt strikes and passes through the woman's left trapezius.

Damir's sword catches the woman's thigh as she darts back from Ognimir.

Ognimir staggers, drops his halberd, clutches at his solar plexus, but his hands can't stop the blood.

Three Guardians face two ... others. The woman holds a bloody blade. The taller man has a blank expression. The short man, like Ognimir, sprawls on the hard ground in the frost. The moonlight renders everything in shades of grey.

Damir does not hesitate as he pursues Ognimir's attacker with another attack. No time to think or check on friends. No time until the foes are slain. He vaguely thinks of the old hag and wonders if she has a hand in this.

The woman pivots to receive Damir's attack and respond with her own sword stroke.

Edit to add: She is too slow to survive. Damir's sword takes her blood, breath, and life.

The taller man moves on Quintus.

Edit to add: He is very quick, and his blade is sharp. @ciriaco, what does Quintus do?

Quintus stands flabbergasted as Ognimir topples, as the bodies pile around him. He starts to scold the Guardian's murderer in a harsh, reedy voice, like a schoolmarm to a naughty child: "What-- what did you do? What did you do?!"

Then Damir has slaughtered the slaughterer, and the last of the naked warriors is bearing down on Quintus himself. Quail scrambles backwards, dropping his crossbow and fumbling to draw the dagger at his waist. He slashes in his attacker's direction, hoping somehow to drive the other man back before his blade can land.

@Dunko, what of Danill?

Pulling his sword free from the short man, Danill turns and slashes at the last standing enemy, adding his blade to the other Guardians' efforts.

Danill stands, breath steaming, limbs tired and shaken. He watches Old Belle walk off. Then he turns to Damir.

"W-what do we do?" He shrugs. "I mean, do we just burn your friends bodies? Then what? Two against the veil?!"