RP Log

Submit a Backstory

You may submit a background story detailing things like your characters history, personality, skills weaknesses and any other information you feel may be useful.

The staff will then let you know as to whether this has been approved and it may be possible that your attributes or skills are adjusted further based on the information provided.

Be aware that if your character differs significantly from the 'norm' it is compulsory for a background story to be submitted and approved prior to the character entering roleplay. For example, the following things would need a background submitted and approved prior to playing (some of these may also have an additional roleplay point cost or requirement):

- a noble character

- a non-human race

- a character with multiple personalities

- a well-known hero/heroine

- a character with prior experience or knowledge of the darkness/demons

- an atheist

Things that will automatically get turned down:

- characters from other worlds

- characters who do not fit into our mythos (ie, dwarf)

- "super" characters (characters who are good at everything)

You can submit the background via the form on the website or direct by email to: mina@shadowsiege.com or cernunnos@shadowsiege.com

Following is an example backstory which can be used as a guidelines to see what we expect:

Character: Thense
Account: Boondogle
Email: Boondogle@bob.net
Age: 25

Thense Porric was born into the quiet world of a wine-maker's family who dwelled in a great, stone house within sight of the walls of Yarsin. The vineyards did well enough, and Thense's young life could be considered comfortable: money enough for a descent -- but not extravagant -- education; two older siblings to play and fight with; trips on the wine-wagon up the great, wide road up the side of the mountain, into the riotous Yarsin market.

Thense himself had little interest in math and the sciences, or in the long, boring excursions his teachers would take him into the worlds of literature and poetry. Unless, of course, the subject was one of battles, or soldiers, or war. He loved to hear of such things, to sit and imagine himself in columns with his comrades, marching out against the exotic armies of the Tyeni Empire, or the petty kingdoms in the west, or camps of Tir bandits to the east. He would dress himself in shining mail emblazoned with the banner of Yarsin-on-the-Mountain, and return, victorious, to cheering crowds, like those in the market.

Though the romantics of his dreams faded with age, the desire to be a professional soldier did not. At sixteen, he enrolled in the Yarsin Regular Guard, took his oaths, and left the vineyards for training barracks. His parents were, of course, proud. Their worries about Yarsin's decaying relationship with the mighty Kingdom of Viroth to the north, they kept to themselves.

Thense seemed built for soldiering. For his age, he was tall and fair, agile and strong -- if perhaps a little dense. Orders were taken easily, confident that his highers knew better than he. After all, they had seen battles, had known the weight of hundreds of lives (maybe thousands) in their hands. Surely, generals knew best, and chose only the finest captains. So he did what he was told, and even enjoyed much of the harshness of his training with the sword and shield. Long marches and short nights strengthened his constitution, and he learned to cook for himself simple meals, to make simple repairs to his own uniform and equipment.

Soon enough, Under-Sergeant Porric was twenty, and patrolling the trade routes that ran between the major cities in the old but pacified Tyeni Empire, Viroth, Yarsin, and those places far to the west -- places he would hear of from traders, but never see. The first man he had ever killed, two years ago, was a bandit, a raider. Thense was surprised to find rather mixed emotions just afterwards, when the heat of combat wore off. He wasn't good at putting things like that into words, so he never really tried. He was glad to do his duty, glad to protect, and decided that that was all. A few such men had died by his sword since, and he himself had been bitten by steel a few times, though never critically.

With the Cataclysm, everything changed as one would expect; Thense heard news of Yarsin's sudden obliteration, and was rife with woe. Though worry for his family, his loved ones was suffocating, he suppressed the instinct to run home directly, instead submitting himself to the organization of the army. The order to return to Yarsin, of course, did not take long to come.

What was not destroyed was in chaos, burned and looted. Eventually, the Yarsin Regulars were disbanded, all hope of recovery lost, and each man was ordered to return to his family, to lead them through the plains north, towards Viroth, and away from the terrible Darkness. Thus, the Porric family (all of whom gracefully survived) fled their home for northern lands.

Surely, Thense thought, Viroth would need soldiers, too. They would be merciful, and forget the recent troubles with Yarsin. They would need the help.

Example Background

Character: Thense
Account: Boondogle
Email: Boondogle@bob.net
Age: 25

Thense Porric was born into the quiet world of a wine-maker's family who dwelled in a great, stone house within sight of the walls of Yarsin. The vineyards did well enough, and Thense's young life could be considered comfortable: money enough for a descent -- but not extravagant -- education; two older siblings to play and fight with; trips on the wine-wagon up the great, wide road up the side of the mountain, into the riotous Yarsin market.

Thense himself had little interest in math and the sciences, or in the long, boring excursions his teachers would take him into the worlds of literature and poetry. Unless, of course, the subject was one of battles, or soldiers, or war. He loved to hear of such things, to sit and imagine himself in columns with his comrades, marching out against the exotic armies of the Tyeni Empire, or the petty kingdoms in the west, or camps of Tir bandits to the east. He would dress himself in shining mail emblazoned with the banner of Yarsin-on-the-Mountain, and return, victorious, to cheering crowds, like those in the market.

Though the romantics of his dreams faded with age, the desire to be a professional soldier did not. At sixteen, he enrolled in the Yarsin Regular Guard, took his oaths, and left the vineyards for training barracks. His parents were, of course, proud. Their worries about Yarsin's decaying relationship with the mighty Kingdom of Viroth to the north, they kept to themselves.

Thense seemed built for soldiering. For his age, he was tall and fair, agile and strong -- if perhaps a little dense. Orders were taken easily, confident that his highers knew better than he. After all, they had seen battles, had known the weight of hundreds of lives (maybe thousands) in their hands. Surely, generals knew best, and chose only the finest captains. So he did what he was told, and even enjoyed much of the harshness of his training with the sword and shield. Long marches and short nights strengthened his constitution, and he learned to cook for himself simple meals, to make simple repairs to his own uniform and equipment.

Soon enough, Under-Sergeant Porric was twenty, and patrolling the trade routes that ran between the major cities in the old but pacified Tyeni Empire, Viroth, Yarsin, and those places far to the west -- places he would hear of from traders, but never see. The first man he had ever killed, two years ago, was a bandit, a raider. Thense was surprised to find rather mixed emotions just afterwards, when the heat of combat wore off. He wasn't good at putting things like that into words, so he never really tried. He was glad to do his duty, glad to protect, and decided that that was all. A few such men had died by his sword since, and he himself had been bitten by steel a few times, though never critically.

With the Cataclysm, everything changed as one would expect; Thense heard news of Yarsin's sudden obliteration, and was rife with woe. Though worry for his family, his loved ones was suffocating, he suppressed the instinct to run home directly, instead submitting himself to the organization of the army. The order to return to Yarsin, of course, did not take long to come.

What was not destroyed was in chaos, burned and looted. Eventually, the Yarsin Regulars were disbanded, all hope of recovery lost, and each man was ordered to return to his family, to lead them through the plains north, towards Viroth, and away from the terrible Darkness. Thus, the Porric family (all of whom gracefully survived) fled their home for northern lands.

Surely, Thense thought, Viroth would need soldiers, too. They would be merciful, and forget the recent troubles with Yarsin. They would need the help.

Annoymous Backstory

My beginnings, secret as they are for reasons obvious and not, I have designed to reveal to you. Why? I, myself, am unsure. Perhaps it is as simple as the desire to tell a story which has not been told for centuries, lest it leave my own memory, like an article lost in a cluttered drawer.

So let us open the drawer:

The exact year of my birth - my first birth - I cannot tell you. There is no record of it to rely on. Indeed, much the story I have pieced together from varying sources: annals and historians, village tales and bards'. I can tell you that it occurred in the dead of winter, in the last decades of the 15th century, in the hills of Shining, now called Eshek, in Uol. What brought my Idoean mother to such a distant land at that particular period of history can never be declared with any real accuracy. But I have theories, based on what I know of my father. His name was Arill of the Red Hand, a minor footnote in Circe's brief history of man, noted for a particular event which becomes the backdrop for my life.

]]> According to Circe, there was rare interaction between the intelligencia of Idos and the petty human kings of the West through the Tyen Empire at its earliest stages. The Tyen Imperial Consul Dhesle had in his court an Elven concubine - unnamed by Circe, but noted for her skill in the arcane arts. She traveled with him to Eshek the previous summer on a diplomatic mission, an exchange of knowledge. There was a murder in the house of Arill, and (naturally) the Tyen was blamed. A deal was cut: Dhesle was allowed to withdraw to Llyaue to prepare his case with the consulate there in exchange for a hostage, his Elven wife - a common practice amongst the Skrel'eth and Humans at the time. My theory is that the exotic beauty of the Idoean proved too tempting to Arill, and I was conceived. The repercussions would have been disastrous, so Dhesle was delayed until the spring, months after my birth, the case was dropped, and my mother was sent back. I cannot give you by birth name, having sworn against speaking or writing it; it shall remain in that drawer, but it is not forgotten.

I know nothing in person of my father, having been raised at a distance from him in the house of his steward. Seari were, of course, unheard of; my salvation lay in my physique. I was easily passed off has a human boy, if not an eccentric one. I was raised amongst four siblings, all much older than myself. I grew up knowing whom my father was.

Arill, five years later, was lost to war with the Skrel'eth. He drowned with his broken ship, and was never recovered, nor properly buried. Due wrath, I think, for his atrocities. Circe agrees. I and my adopted family were lost to the beurocracy of the civil strife that followed, a hostage myself in the houses of rival lords and Skrel'reth until I was ten. I can recall very little from that time but a great feeling of instability. That ended when my brilliance was acknowledged by one lord or another, and I was sent to the Ferim, an academy for upcoming generals and statesmen. My life was absorbed by study: history, philosophy and law, and all things martial. Began I also my infatuation with magic, at that time. I was brilliant, but lonely. And violently ambitious. Cunning became my solution to my lack of size. I remember being terribly feared by pupils and teachers alike, thanks to a series of threats and pranks. I had powerful patrons, and could not be touched. I had no interest in the opposite sex, until my Sire.

I completed my studies and became an aid to a particular consulate-general on the southern coast of Aartiru, then the frontier, in lew of a seat on the Senate. It was there that I participated in my first battle; an uprising of slaves. I won rank and medals, sat in seats of judgment, even at the green age of eighteen.

One of the criminals brought before me was of (how can I say it?) the most terrible beauty I have yet to still see. It was a dangerous, ominous beauty, devoid of all decency, all ethics, and terrible to look upon. I was, of course, captured, bound with chains that I admit can never be broken. So was her design, her plan.

The name she used then is unimportant; it was an alias, discarded like dirty clothes after an age. I would learn to do the same. Her true name is also not important; my Sire was lost to history and lives on only in my mind. Thus I feel possessive of it, and will not share. What is of import is that she was Kindred, but rogue, having lost the respect of her Clan. Even at war with them, and all Kindred, whom she felt had lost their way. She was a Prophet, and I inherited her separatist mantle. It happened thus:

While awaiting her sentence for her part in the revolt, she escaped into the wilderness. Bound was I already, and I followed. I told myself that I was hunting her, that I would bring her to justice. Even then I knew why I left: she had marked me, somehow, called me, and like a dog I searched for
my Master in the wooded hills. My siring came quickly, followed by my renaming, and my True Education. Now, I the War Bringer - not Consul-Aid, but Priest of the Hunters, Immortal Angel of Destruction. I was a god, and deity ran in my veins - perhaps a false god, but one none the less.

The Mystery of our kind was pounded into my soul; she shaped me like a blade (I was to be her blade) with fire and pressure - and love. A most selfish love, cruel and consuming. Two centuries of history passed. In much of it were we involved, shaping the world of mortals to our design. And a secret history of the Kindred rolled on, also, like a scroll. Until I was ready. Until she had determined I was ready.

I was bound by her commands.

On the peak of Mount Zarsibus, overlooking all of Viroth, she made me swear an Oath: to never use my birthname, fealty to all her ideals, loyalty to the True Faith, to consider myself holy and reject the comforts of mortality, and other things I cannot mention. When I was done, she knelt before me, and bade me kill her.

I refused. She commanded me with all her power, and the choice was no longer mine. I have no clearer memory than her demise, her parts flying below me, off the cliff, through the wet wind. So was her intent. Her blood became cement that still I cannot break, a web I am yet entangled in, though I have made it my home.

It was an evil trick, and effective. Her head was still smiling as it was lost in the fog.

Time moves slowly for me, now: a kind of senility, I think. The mind still grows old, even if the body does not. We were not meant to be immortal, these bodies, and the years pile on like lead. Many more things occurred between then and now, of course, more toying with mortal history, more wars amongst the Kindred over ideology - all my secret accomplishments, as I said, whispers in the subterranean dark. Ask me about some of them, and I will tell you; most shall remain secrets, though, to touch only on immortal ears.

Althea's Arrival

The Common Room of The Dragon's Head Inn
What was once the Northern half of the common room of this Inn is now the main room, the Southern part now 'outside' and littered with debris. The inner room doesn't fare too much better, though a roof and four walls still protects it from the elements. The couches and chairs still are gathered about the fireplace, though looking considerably worse for wear. Gashes and stains of blood distributed across the fabric. The first step of the stair case is missing, though it is still traversable to lead up to the floors above. Several of the tapestries still remain on the wall, hanging oft times at a lopsided angle and only by one nail. A single solitary lantern hangs from the side of an upright post providing, along with the fire, the illumination for the room.
[ Exits: south up ]
A burgundy couch covered with foot long rips and spots of dried blood.
A large, roaring fire sends sparks up the chimney in this hearth.
A man of average height sits at the bar.
A burly man with a shiny, bald head is standing here.

A rosy-cheeked lass walks down the steps and into the room, stretching as she does so and looking around.

"Barkeep; another ale." a man of average height murmurs, his tone almost flat - an echo of brooding melancholy hidden behind his words. Before a burly man with a shiny, bald head has managed to pour his order, a man of average height has already spilt some coins onto the counter, apparently uncaring whether the amount is correct or over the required sum.

"Good day, sirs" a rosy-cheeked lass says cautiously, smoothing her skirt with a nervous hand. Her tongue flicks out to lick her lips nervously. "I hope I don't disturb you?"

A man of average height doesn't turn to regard the newcomer, and it is unsure if he actually heard her words. However, he reacts to the subtle scrape of a tankard being set against the hardwood bar, reaching out to wrap a hand around its middle as a burly man with a shiny, bald head sweeps the scattering of coins from the surface and into a pouch at the front of his apron. He nods in a rosy-cheeked lass's direction.

]]> A rosy-cheeked lass looks at the couch in disbelief, running nervous fingers through her hair in a vain attempt to smooth its wild curls. She begins to speak, and then closes her mouth, folding her hands in her lap and entwining her fingers together.

A rosy-cheeked lass watches the feather with surprise. "Oh, what was that? Are there birds about? Chickens, perhaps, to be tended?"

A burly man with a shiny, bald head steps away from a man of average height, along the bar until he stands nearer a rosy-cheeked lass before replying: "'ello Miss, nay, no chicken's about these parts - not fer a good ol' while.. Can I get ye anythin'?"

A rosy-cheeked lass takes the tankard of ale from the bald headed man and stares into it without making any motion to drink it. "Thank you, sir. No chickens, you say? Perhaps then there are dishes to wash? Or floors to be scrubbed? Something that could be done to earn room and board?"

A man of average height's gaze slowly tilts to the side until he faces a rosy-cheeked lass, though his hood - worn low over his brow - casts pitch shadows over the top half of his face, concealing the majority of his features. After a moment, he asks: "You're new here, then?" Though his tone implies more of a statement than question.

Studying her ale instead of looking up, a rosy-cheeked lass nods and then says in a quiet, nervous voice. "Yes, sir. I am just come... though, well, from what and for what reason I couldn't say. But from the looks of this place, a washerwoman wouldn't be long out of work."

A burly man with a shiny, bald head leans back slightly, his weight shifting as he brings his arms up to cross over his chest, giving a rosy-cheeked lass an appraising look. After a time, he replies: "Well, Miss, ye ain' too far off right, with yer observation. It be true as we need some'un ta tend tha tables, and clear up after tha more.. Boisterous o' our patrons. But truth be told, as I'd nay lie to a lass, coin is in short supply, 'specially with 'aving to repair the front o' the inn an' all.. If'n I did offer ye a wage, it wouldn' be very much, I'm afraid." He seems genuinely sorry as he relates the dire situation.

A rosy-cheeked lass turns her attention briefly to the brawny young man who comes down the stairs, and then back to the man of average height and the bald-headed, with an anxious look on her face. "Surely it could not hurt this place to have a good cleaning, and my back is strong and my fingers quick." a rosy-cheeked lass gestures towards the blood-stained couch. "A good scrubbing won't fix all that's wrong, but it wouldn't hurt. As for coin, if you can give me a room to stay in and enough to keep myself fed, I'll be grateful for it."

Turning back to face forward, a man of average height lifts his tankard, draining a mouthful of the contents before setting it back upon the bar. It seems some time before he finally swallows the ale, when he does the sound of it is clear enough for any near to hear. "Not heard your voice before. And you speak with the enthusiasm of one who's not been here long enough to let the city siphon it all away.." He observes at last.

A rosy-cheeked lass turns from the bald-headed man towards the man of average height, and gently puts up a hand in front of her face, waving it back and forth, and watches him closely.

A burly man with a shiny, bald head draws a long breath, which he seems to hold as if the fullness of his lungs somehow helped him consider the offer. Finally, he begins to release the breath and nods his head, once, decisively. "Well, I thin' we can do tha' aye. I only 'ave guest rooms above - but, if'n ye give me a day er so, I'll speak to tha smith an' ave a new key fashioned, an' get a better lock on one o' the doors. Ye can stay 'ere, then. I'm sure I can 'ford enough coin fer ye to keep fed and watered." He says, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

A man of average height's reaction is less than slight, that is to say, he doesn't react at all to the waving of a rosy-cheeked lass's hand. His regard seems to shift, the tip of his hood indicating the new direction of his 'stare', now set upon a burly man with a shiny, bald head as he speaks. Again he takes a mouthful of ale from his tankard.

A little too loudly and carefully, a rosy-cheeked lass says "I am Althea, and I can see from the state of things that indeed this place could drain a person. Thank you, sir, for the chance to earn board and keep. The toughest of times are always eased a small bit by knowing where ones next bite of bread is coming from, and having a safe place to sleep at night."

You say, 'If you'll tell me where to find a bucket and a brush, I'll set to work right away. And perhaps, if you don't mind, you can tell me how it is things are in this state to begin with?"'

A burly man with a shiny, bald head unfolds his arms and plants his hands on the inside lip of the bar, letting his weight lean forward, though there is no great significance to the movement, simply an idle shift of position. "Right'o, I'll speak to that smith come tha morn-" He pauses, thinking for a moment before nodding to a rosy-cheeked lass's words and begins to walk to the far southern end of the bar and stoops, grumbling lightly about the mess and difficulty of finding things.

"Most of it, in here at least, is the result of arguments that spill over into fights - some with bloody conclusions." a man of average height murmurs, head not turning. "The destruction of the room to the south, at least the broken wall, is the result of one of the tainted -- plague victims, whose condition had been allowed to reach its final stage. The thing almost killed four people, walked through the wall like it was paper.. Took nigh on twelve guards, and all the patrons to end its tortured existence." He adds, his tone tired, as if remembering the occurrence and feeling drained as a result.

Turning to look at the hooded man, confusion and fear creeping into her voice, a rosy-cheeked lass says "The plague, you say? Then I find myself in a plague city?" She stands, if a bit unsteadily, and walks towards the bald-headed man, her hands outstretched to take whatever cleaning utensils he has found.

A burly man with a shiny, bald head comes to a stand, bucket and brush in hand. He casts his gaze over a man of average height as the man relates the story, his own brow becoming heavily creased. Once the man has finished he speaks. "Aye, tha's about tha' sum of it.. It's 'ard to remember them things were ever men an' women like us. 'least ways till they die, an' their bodies melt away until only tha' original flesh is left--- Damn 'ard to know 'ow to deal with it afterwards." He hands the utensils over to a rosy-cheeked lass.

"Some are more fortunate. Some don't have to look upon the bodies left afterwards... But, in answer to your question; yes, you find yourself in a plagued city, the plagued city, the only city left as far as anyone can tell. Though this long after Twilight, it's unlikely there are other communities left intact, that they haven't found us or us them is a sure sign that we alone survived the cataclysm." a man of average height relates, his head dipping forward as if he now looks into his half full tankard.

A rosy-cheeked lass takes the bucket carefully, but still sloshes water over the front of her dress. She seems not to notice, or at least not to mind, as she takes the brush from the bald-headed man. "It sounds ghastly! It took the wall right out, you say? The plague can do that to a man?" a rosy-cheeked lass drops to her hands and knees, scrubbing at a blood stain on the floor near the bar. "How can it be prevented? I mean, is there a way to keep from catching it?"

A burly man with a shiny, bald head leans over the bar to peer down at a rosy-cheeked lass as she speaks. "Not unless ye get yer 'ands on some o' the cure - but them nobles guard it greedily. Not much of it you see, and them that were sent visions o' the cure didn' manage to make much, 'fer the guards ceased the recipe -- Least ways, that's 'ow the story goes.. Maybe just rumour, but them nobles sure seem naturally free o' it, if'n ye ask me." He replies.

"I heard it was that crimson haired fellow, Lunin? Luman? Something of the sort.. I recall tell that he was the one who was responsible for stealing the recipe.. Apparently befriended one of the healer girls working on it, stole it from her while she slept in his bed.. No one saw her after that, well, I certainly didn't.. But.. Anyway, maybe rumour, but he isn't a very trust inspiring chap, that Lumen -- Ahh, yes, that's it, Lumen." a man of average height says, before taking a triumphant swig of ale, apparently pleased at remembering the name.

Scrubbing as hard as she can, her brow wrinkled in concentration, a rosy-cheeked lass muses "But surely it doesn't do them any good to keep it secret for themselves, if they have the formula. Couldn't something that could go through THIS wall go just as easily through a wall in their fancy homes?" She tucks a stray tendril behind her ear and wipes her forehead with the back of her hand. "Why should they kill off those who could heal the plague, even if they were safe from it? Haven't they always lived on the sweat of simple folk? It makes no sense to me, then, to let the simple folk become monstrous, or to kill them."

A burly man with a shiny, bald head furrows his brow, his eyes narrowing slightly in the manner of one chasing after a fleeting memory. At last he simply shrugs his shoulders and replies to a man of average height: "I'd not 'ered of that, meself. Mind, the way them guard are these days - not much would surprise me, not one good man among them, saves Tal'.. Least 'e still as a good 'eart in 'is chest. Much like 'is Da, Cymur bless 'is soul... Aye, Tal's a good lad," He glances back to a rosy-cheeked lass before continuing, now addressing her. "The nobles are scared, tha's 'ow I see it. Scared o' the dark, scared o' the common folk even more -- see, 'for the dark they were secure in their 'omes, but before tha dark, they are just as powerless as peasants. They don' much like tha' so try to cling onto their power any way they can, sometimes by makin' the weak even weaker."

A rosy-cheeked lass wipes her hands on her skirt and then ties her long braid into a not at the back of her neck, getting out of her way. "What a strange place this is... What is this darkness you speak of, the Twilight, is it? And, well, why don't I know what you're talking about. It seems as if I should, but..." Her voice trails off, and she throws herself with even more vigour into her task.

A man of average height's head tips gently to one side, listening to a rosy-cheeked lass's words before finally offering her a reply, his tone perhaps gentle. "To be honest, lass, it sounds likely that you recently returned from the mists-- Many come here that way. I don't mean to sound blunt, and it may feel surreal to hear this - but you likely fell during the first wave of demons as the Darkness spread out from Yarsin, nigh on three years ago now. The mists have been slow to return the fallen." He pauses for a moment, then continues: "You should seek to speak with Taliesin, the captain of the guard, he would likely know better how to deal with such a- delicate situation."

Wet the armpits with dirty wash water and red-faced from her efforts, a rosy-cheeked lass looks from one man to another and then sits down hard on the floor, laughing until tears stream from her eyes. She tries to speak several times, but chokes on her own mirth until finally she manages to get out "Oh, thank goodness! I was just thinking that this made no sense, unless I was dead." She chuckles again, wiping away the tears that stream down her face. "But I thought I wasn't, so I must be mad. It's such a relief! I can't think of nothing worse than loosing your mind. Dead, is it?" Her laughter echoes off the walls of the tavern. "That's much better!"

A burly man with a shiny, bald head turns to glance worriedly at a man of average height for a moment in reaction to a rosy-cheeked lass's hysterics, he seems unsure for a moment, then glancing back to the woman he says: "Per'aps, Althea -- Ye don' mind if'n I call ye tha', aye? 'twould become difficult to draw yer attention with miss if'n the room were full o' folk.." He pauses, grins, slightly, then continues. "Per'aps ye could simple collect the tankards from tha tables fer now, no need to work so 'ard jus' yet. If'n ye 'ave only just returned from tha mists."

Pulling herself together, but still smiling broadly, a rosy-cheeked lass returns to her scrubbing. "You'd have to pry this brush from my cold dead fingers" she giggles "if you want me to serve folks in this room. Death and plague are all beyond me, but that's no reason to sit in filth and gore. No, really, I'm fine. If this is what is, there isn't any changing that. But I can make this floor a mite cleaner, and that's something." She scrubs in broad circles, a small smile lingering on her lips. "Unless there is something about only having just arrived that makes you not want me around?"

A burly man with a shiny, bald head chuckles slightly, some confidence returning and replacing the worry as he shakes his head, saying in a reassuring tone: "Nay lass, jus' concerned ye will over work yerself - the affects o' returnin' can be fairly disorientatin', though brief.. But if'n ye are sure, carry on." He grins down at a rosy-cheeked lass before finally leaning back and glancing to a man of average height, asking him: "Ye wan' fer me to refill yer tankard?"

Moving closer the fireplace, a rosy-cheeked lass scrubs at the soot and grime that has accumulated there, humming quietly to herself. "Oh, and of course you may call me Althea. Its a comfort to hear my name, at least, when nothing else is familiar to me." She smiles up at the bald-headed name. "Have you a name as well?"

A burly man with a shiny, bald head grins even broader as he idly reaches for a worn leather rag with which he begins to wipe the bar. "Aye, though I dun tell folk much, from experience if'n ye tell 'em yer name they thin' they are ye mate an' 'ave a right to free drink." He chuckles warmly, before continuing: "Name's Taris."

A rosy-cheeked lass leaves a dark line of soot across her brow as she wipes away a few stray hairs that fall into her eyes. "It's a pleasure to work for you, Taris, and I assure you I won't be expecting a free drink. No, in fact, I intend to earn every bit of my keep." She smiles and gestures to the couch. "Once we get these floors cleaned, you'll have to let me repair that. I haven't got a needle and thread, but I'm sure I can come up with something. Your patrons might fight less if the place didn't look so much like a battlefield." She chuckles, and stands, carrying the bucket. "This water is too dirty to be any use now. I'll dump it. Where is the pump?"

A man of average height Speaking again, after being quiet for so long it carries the suddenness as if he'd shouted. "The pump.. The fountain just outside will have to do, though it seems somehow odd to use Cymur's fountain for that - though if you feel the need to go elsewhere, the bath-house is just next door, to the east, plenty of water there too.." He finishes off his tankard in one long swallow before slowly dismounting from the barstool backwards. His movements betray a limberness that suggest he is not quite as old in years as his words might suggest. He reaches for a cane which had until now been hidden from sight.

A burly man with a shiny, bald head nods to the words of a man of average height, glancing then to a rosy-cheeked lass. "Aye, ye can fill the bucket at the fountain lass - I need ta be gettin' on with thin's can I leave ye to yer work? I'll be 'ere, jus' busy, right?" He asks casually, already beginning to busy himself.

A rosy-cheeked lass nods, and stands, then looks a bit uncertain of herself. "Actually, I see what you mean about feeling a bit out of sorts. It seems that being dead does something to weaken the body a bit." She chuckles, but not quite as sincerely as she had laughed before. "Would you mind if I took that room now, and lay down for a bit?" She stretches and yawns.

A burly man with a shiny, bald head nods, offering a rosy-cheeked lass a sympathetic smile before saying: "Aye lass, let me get ye a key - it won' 'ave as much privacy as ye may wish yet though, I'll get a unique key an' lock fitted soon though. But fer now ye can rest a bit in though southern room." As he speaks he pulls a key from one of his many pockets and hands it over to the woman.

The Death of Eliss Mao

A couple of cloaked figures sitting at a shadowed table near the entrance to the Inn lean in close. Exchanging quiet words with each other, the taller of the pair passing a shaded glance over towards the bar area.

Crossing his arms over his chest, a tall dark-headed man begins to make his way to the bar, sitting upon an empty stool. He faces the rest of the room, eyes still peering around curiously, though he doesn't speak or acknowledge anyone else's presence.

A crimson-haired human continues to watch the bar carefully, his eyes gazing over every part of it from his vantage point in the south-western corner. His arms remain crossed for a moment or two, before one of them drops down idly to his weapon, the hand lying there idly on the pommel.

]]> A bronzed muscular man sighs and takes another sip of his ale. He clenches and unclenches his calloused hands.

A slim, young woman seems to come out of her reverie a little, looking more curiously around at the patrons now. Her eyes rest for a minute on a crimson-haired human sword, and she smiles a little, as if to reassure her self that she is safe here. Taking in some newcomers to the inn a little more fully, she smiles softly at a bronzed muscular man.

Eventually, the taller man pushes his stool sharply away from the table at which he sits, a drunken nudge given to his companion before he heads over to a slim, young woman. "Hey missy. How bout showin' a lonely boy a bit of a good time hmm? I've got a fair amount of gold ... "

Glancing out the corner of his eye, a bronzed muscular man notices the slim young woman's smile.

"How about you watch your mouth, sir?" a slim, young woman speaks, her voice measured and polite, but her hand noticeably hovering near her ankle sheath.

His upper lip curling a bit, a crimson-haired human haunches down slightly as he watches the taller man approach a slim, young woman. He doesn't make a move to stop him, but he does switch hands on the pommel of his weapon, now prepared to draw the sword. He remains silent save for the noise he makes as he takes a step forward.

A lean woman turns a hard gaze on the man approaching a slim, young woman. "I hope you're not bothering Mistress Arlena, my friend," she murmurs, voice just loud enough to carry her words. "It would be a shame if you were interrupting the young lady from her thoughts or planned on causing trouble."

A tall dark-headed man watches the tall man as he moves across the bar, though he is too far to hear the words that are being exchanged.

A bronzed muscular man lifts his left leg and pushes the nearest chair on his left away from the table. He nods to the woman and asks "Would you care to sit down and join me?".

"Offering to wash my mouth out with your tongue? Why thank ye- miss. I accept. But really, ye've got such pretty eyes.. want to fuck?" At this the man laughs uproarishly at his own joke, the others in the room ignored.

She rises from her seat near the fire, grabbing her bag. Smiling gratefully at the lean woman for her support, she turns to the a bronzed muscular man, saying relievedly, "I thank you sir." Hearing the mans brash comment, a slim, young woman blushes furiously, stumbling a little on her way to the bronzed mans table, but saying nothing.

A crimson-haired human watches a slim, young woman and the man attempting to solicit her services very intently, though he does glance at the table from which the tall man came from every now and then to check on his partner.

A bronzed muscular man stands up as the young woman comes over to his table. He nods his head, "it seems like you need a drink, my treat, what would you like?"

"Ahh, the lady prefers the more subtle approach. Come -here- miss. Sit at -my- table. Then can we fuck..?" He pauses, again to laugh at his own joke, seeming to find himself horrendously funny.

A lean woman rises fluidly from her seat, taking two steps to put herself face-to-face with the tall man. "I said, it would be a -real-shame if you were bothering our young friend." Her tone is all sweetness, but her eyes are hard. "Spend your coin elsewhere. Maybe you could find a little mint leaf to take care of your breath, hey?"

Edging her way carefully past the loud mans table, a slim, young woman answers the bronzed man, "Most kind sir - wine, if you please."

Sighing a bronzed muscular man beckons the young lady to sit. "Ignore him ma'am, he isn't worth it, bartender, wine for the fine young lady".

Having slidden a few feet closer from the bar, a tall dark-headed man now hears the words the man says. He shakes his head a few times, a somewhat disgusted look coming over his face, "What else can ye 'spect in this 'ellhole of a city?" he grumbles to himself.

"Oh sorry miss.. but you're really not my type. I like myself at least a little bit of class..." The tall man turns his head to the side, looking around the lean woman to eye the back of the slim, young woman, "And a bit of ass.."

A crimson-haired human keeps himself at the ready, his weapon still fully sheathed, however. He remains silent as he watches the exchange, generating a bit of tension into the room.

A slim, young woman smiles thankfully at a lean woman, but her eyes show a hint of fear, suppressed in a practised and calculated way. She pauses on her way to the a bronzed muscular man mans table. Turning to eye the tall man she says, "And affronts like that are the only way you can get it hmm? I show no surprise." Her lip curls back.

Glancing over at the drunk once more, a bronzed muscular man walks over to his table and says " the lady obviously isn't interested friend."

"That's all right, I like my men with a little brains," a lean woman replies easily, "and a little less hideous, for that matter. Go back to your table. Maybe your companion'll keep you company for the night if you pay -him-. I doubt anyone would for less than your weight in gold, but it's worth a try." She eyes the shorter of the two men with as much contempt and distaste as she viewed his partner.

Upon hearing the woman's response his banter, a bronzed muscular man grins. And walks back to his table.

A slim, young woman stares levelly at the man, before saying in a low voice. "Before the guard I say this - touch me, and feel my knife between your ribs. Fair warning."

"I'd rather a front like yours..." The tall man leers, his right hand coming up to draw his thumb and forefinger along the line of his moustache. Midway through this piece of grooming, a flash of silver flies through the room, the point of which lands dead in the middle of his forehead. He falls to the ground. Dead.

A bronzed muscular man gestures to the woman, "Please have a seat ma'am, I could use some company".

A slim, young woman screams as the tall man slumps to the floor before her.

A lean woman whips around to find the source of the flying knife, as she simultaneously bends to grasp the hilt of her own dagger, sheathed on her right ankle.

A bronzed muscular man gasps as the man falls over onto the floor. Saying a quick prayer to the gods, he knees down near the body.

A tall dark-headed man crosses his arms over his chest, watching the man fall dead, a smirk comes across his face, a sort of amused look taking hold of his facial expressions.

"By Cymur!" a crimson-haired human says softly as the weapon lands in the solicitor's forehead. He glances around furtively for the source of the blade, his sword easily sliding out of its sheath. "Everybody get to cover! Whoever threw that, show yourself!" He shouts over the screams from the various patrons.

A bronzed muscular man backs away, nervously glancing around the room.

Nothing can be seen in the room, not a flicker amongst the shadows nor any weapons drawn amongst the patrons. A few give the body a weary look though apparently such deaths happen often enough here so as to not draw /too/ much attention.

A slim, young woman looks to be in a sheer panic, as the mans blood seeps around her boots. She is crying openly now, the stress of her day showing in her shaking sobs.

A tall dark-headed man sits back down upon his stool, casually looking around the bar, examining the dark corners and the southern doorway.

Upon seeing the young woman's distress, a bronzed muscular man gently guides her to his table.

A lean woman pulls the dagger free, gripping it firmly in her left hand. Unable to find anything that could qualify as a threat, she expels a long breath and relaxes slightly, right forefinger stroking the length of the blade.

A crimson-haired human takes two long bounding steps and is over the body, and subsequently near a slim, young woman. He bends down slightly, whispering to a slim, young woman. "It's all right, yah aren't in danger." He continues to spin around, grimacing as he does so. "Ah say again, show yerself, -now-!" He raises his voice again, his features hardening.

A youthful female Seari steps through a couple of the patrons, her form becoming visible again as she moves from behind where a crowd had been gathered. She approaches the body of the man, kicking it idly with the side of her knee high boots. "Not good."

A slim, young woman takes a seat beside a bronzed muscular man, removing her dagger protectively from its sheath and wielding it in her hand. She smiles gratefully at a bronzed muscular man and a crimson-haired human.

A lightly skinned, gangly fellow cackles insanely about the death of the moustached man as he leaves south.

A bronzed muscular man Sits down beside the young woman and slides the wine over to her. "I think the worst is over now, lets leave this mess, to the guards."

Trying to calm the young woman down, a bronzed muscular man tries some small talk "My name is Kang and I'm an apprentice blacksmith, nice to meet you. What is your name?".

"A noble. Heh, quite a prominent one too. Dying on your watch Lumen, there likely will be questions asked. Particularly considering the number of you muckraking them earlier." a youthful female Seari says, calmly and evenly. She stares down towards the vacant eyes of the corpse.

A slim, young woman wipes feebly at her tears, her eyes darting paranoidly into every corner in the room. "I am Arlena." The absence of title and family name is noticeable and purposeful, her tone suggesting that perhaps this is a small test for a bronzed muscular man.

A lean woman glances at a youthful female Seari, dagger still in her hand. "And who'd suggest that, face to face, I was able to throw a knife into the middle of his bleeding forehead? That thing missed the back of my head by inches."

"Yah." is the only response a crimson-haired human gives to a youthful female Seari, his body visibly tensing further. He leans over towards her form and whispers into one of her ears, his eyes blazing intensely. Afterwards, he straightens and says a bit more loudly. "Yah, just great."

Lumen whispers to Zarika, 'Is he here?'

"And yet now, you wield a weapon..." a youthful female Seari drops her eyes down to the tip of the blade a lean woman holds. "Not planning murderous intent there are you?"

"Mah job, madam, mah job." a crimson-haired human says to a youthful female Seari as he straightens fully. He takes in a deep breath as he looks around the inn again. "Ah think we'll just 'aveta get 'is body ovah to 'is family, an' Ah'll 'ave ta file a report on it to..."

"So you'd be suggesting it, then," a lean woman replies, not answering her question. "And in a place like this, you'd need precious little evidence to convict a refugee, wouldn't you, Officer Lumen?" Her eyes never leave a youthful female Seari, even while addressing a crimson-haired human, nor does her grip on her dagger slacken.

"Nice to meet you Arlena." a bronzed muscular man glances at the dead body again and sighs. "Well, how long have you been in this fair city? I've been here almost two years, but rarely get out. My master over at the smithy has been working me quite hard. He thinks I show some promise one day in weapon making." Blushing at his ranting, he scratches the back of his head with his right hand."

A youthful female Seari withdraws sharply back from the whispered words of a crimson-haired human. The shock of his words enough to distract her from any further jibe she was going to give a lean woman. "Elbahn... do you really think this is _his_ style? Gods." Then several pauses between words: "No. He. Is. Not. Here."

The sound of armour clad boots thumping against the floorboards of the southern room announce the entrance of two guards, one a tall, and equally broad man in a white tabard with a silver crest, the other a shorter man, though senior in years as well as rank; a Sergeant. They quickly glance around the room before the sergeant turns to address the other guard present, the crimson-haired human. "What's 'appenin'? We 'ere a screa-- Bloody 'ell! Is tha' Eliss Mao?" He asks.

A slim, young woman "I have been here but a few days; a refugee like many..." Her introduction is cut short by the sudden entrance of the guards.

As the guards enter a lean woman steps a few paces back from the body and from a youthful female Seari, though she still refuses to take her eyes from the woman, even as she bends to replace her drawn weapon.

A lightly skinned, gangly fellow takes a seat at the couch.

A slim, young woman seems to feel safer with the entrance of the guards, sheathing her dagger and dabbing away the last of her tears with the back of her hand.

"Really why, what happened. Like I said I don't get out much, so I barely hear any gossip. My master is a hard man to get into a conversation." At the guards entrance a bronzed muscular man visibly relaxes. "Thank the gods, finally order is here."

A crimson-haired human looks up quickly at the approach of the other guards. "Ah, a murder. Noble." The man steps over the body to approach the two guards, walking over to the one that wears the same tabard as him, the one that spoke. "'e was attemptin' to solicit that woman's, ah, services" He gestures to a slim, young woman "when a dagger came from nowhere an' struck 'im in tha 'ead. Nothin' Ah coulda done ta stop it." The man purses his lips slightly as he finally remembers there was another part to the guard's words. He glances over his shoulder.

The taller of the two guards who now all but block the exit to the south eyes the lean woman as she slips her dagger away. He then starts to approach the corpse, glancing down at the hilt protruding from the centre of his brow.

A youthful female Seari nods once, a wayward curl falling from behind the right of her long elongated ears. She smoothly slides a dagger out of it's sheath and using her foot, rolls the back onto his stomach. She plants the heel of her boot upon the small of his back and leans down. A quick flick of her blade tearing the shirt - and with enough skill it is only the shirt that tears - to reveal the prominent tattoo of a styled rose that runs up the centre of his back.

A slim, young woman smiles softly at a bronzed muscular man, watching the guards with a nervous curiosity, hearing her name. Regaining her usual composure she takes a clam sip of wine.

"Eliss Mao. His family will be grieved. Three children. One just a babe in the mothers arms." a youthful female Seari says, her words lowering in tone to show a hint of perhaps, sadness? Her eyes suitable drop down to the ground.

A sharp intake of air is audible from a lean woman as a youthful female Seari identifies the body. Her eyes, still fastened on the other woman, are slitted with suspicion and bemusement.

A bronzed muscular man returns the young woman's smile. "Looks like this mystery is still unclear. I wish I knew what that tattoo meant. I think I remember hearing about that name. Maybe he was one of my masters customers, but it is hard to remember with everything suddenly going on.

About to intervene as the seari takes her dagger to the corpse's back, the tall guard suddenly realises her intent, and calling back to the two sergeants he says. "Aye, as she says, Eliss Mao, no mistakin' 'is mark, I say, no mistakin' 'is mark... There'll be 'ell over this an' no mistake.".. Hearing this the sergeant who entered only recently spits a foul curse before snapping toward the crimson-haired man. "Right so ye let 'im die then, right in front o' ye? Bloody oath - fine, where's tha body o' the murderer?? Least tha' may quell any calls fer yer 'ide from 'is family." He says, as he starts peering around for a second corpse.

A crimson-haired human takes in a deep breath, raising his chin and sticking his chest out slightly. "Ah could not apprehend a murderer." is all he says, as he swallows harshly.

A bronzed muscular man listens intently to the guard as he talks. Remembering he is just a stranger still after so long , he concentrates on the young woman and his drink which he continues to sip.

"Of course, it is obvious who did it." a youthful female Seari muses, her slim leather clad body drawing gently down into a crouch. Her movements retaining the grace of her fae ancestors. If she notices the attempted approach of the guards, she makes no indication of such.

"So....ma'am, why and what were you fleeing from. If you need to get something off your chest, you have my ear." a bronzed muscular man smiles warmly to the young woman

Glancing down nervously a bronzed muscular man says "I am sorry for all the questions, but when I get nervous I tend to talk and rant."

A slim, young woman raises an eyebrow at the female seari, awaiting further comment. Turning to the bronzed man she replies, "I do not wish to seem ungrateful for your kindness, but until such time as I deem otherwise, my business is my own." Her voice holds no malice, just a friendly warning.

Realizing he was fast approaching crossing the line a bronzed muscular man takes a long swig of ale. "Sorry about that maam, like I said it's just how it is. I completely understand, and I won't ask anymore."

Brushing a few strands of hair out of her dark green eyes, a lean woman's interest shifts over to a crimson-haired human's predicament. For once, a youthful female Seari is going unheeded.

Attempting to change the subject a bronzed muscular man says "Nice weather, huh? Looks like it might rain soon."

The look of angered disbelief on the sergeants face is so acute it is almost as if someone had carved the look into his features with a chisel and hammer. "YE BLOODY USELESS ARSE OF A MAN.." He bellows, and appears to be restraining himself from striking at the crimson-haired man. "So ye say ye din' 'ave the murderer, yet ye were over the bloody body, leavin' this exit open fer anyone ta vanish frum.. Yer reputation for bein' a skirt chasin' fool dun nearly do ye credit.. Get out o' me bloody sight an' pray tha Captain' is in a good mood when 'e finds out or ye'll be the corpse 'anging from tha gallows fer this.. Now get out." With that the sergeant steps away from the door, dismissing the crimson haired man as much by the way he turns from him as with his words.

A slim, young woman face softens. "I do not wish to seem rude. I am a cook and a craftswoman in this city. I am unmarried, and I am usually not quite so defensive. It has been a hard day..."

A crimson-haired human takes the tirade with a hardened face, though he does not stand at attention as the two are of equal rank. Without responding, he nods once to the sergeant, and leaves.

"One of the three." a youthful female Seari states, though it seems that no one is longer paying attention to her. "My uncle.. such a kind hearted soul. Was like a father too me.. really.. Sure, he chased the ladies a bit, but it was all fun for him.. he never actually did anything, just saw it as a laugh." A long and depressed sounding sigh is released.

"I am sorry for your loss." a slim, young woman says softly to a youthful seari. "I am sorry it ended like that...I had no intention or wish for this to happen..." Her eyes softly search the female seari, for any sign of anger.

A bronzed muscular man says "I completely understand ma'am. Sometimes my tongues waggles before my brain catches up. I should be the one to apologize, I sometimes come across to strong. Please forgive me and don't worry any more about it."

A bronzed muscular man says "So your a cook, well if your looking for a job, maybe I could see if my master can ask around."

Clearly still enraged, the sergeant turns his attention to the private, scowling as he snaps: "Well? Go get sum sorta sheet frum upstairs an' we'll use it as a stretcher to carry the corpse out o' ere." The private snaps to attention, nods and without even consulting the barman he quickly makes his way to and up the stairs.

A slim, young woman smiles sweetly at a bronzed muscular man. "Let us just forget it and start afresh." Off his comment, she adds "I am not a cook by trade, but it is what I will do here - for now. You master has connections in this town?"

"Right, none of you lot are actually interested in WHO did it?!" a youthful female Seari raises her voice, her tone having a hysterical edge to it, the comforting words of a slim, young woman seeming to have had little or no effect.

A slim, young woman rises from her table to place a light hand upon a female seari's shoulder. She says nothing, seemingly thinking there is nothing more to be said. However, her eyes seem to echo the woman's sentiment.

A lean woman turns again to face a youthful female Seari, still silent, still doing her best not to call attention to herself. One of her hands is clenching and unclenching slowly.

Walking further from the door toward the female seari, the sergeant states flatly: "If'n ye 'ave any clue then I'd be willin' to 'ear it. Did ye see tha' one who threw the dagger?" He glances fleetingly about the room, before commenting: "No 'opes 'e'd still be 'ere mind.. Not if'n 'e 'as any wits about 'im at all."

Looking at the seari, a bronzed muscular man says "I'm just a simple apprentice. As you notice I'm not even armed. I didn't see anyone as my back was turned. I do with I could be more help, but I'm a foreigner in this strange land."

A flaxen-haired male seari Vendir hesitates at the entrance to the common room. Hearing the hustle and bustle of the patrons therin he decides to stand for a moment to listen. A hand travels habitually to his chin which strokes his thin goatee for a moment before moving back down to drape on his rapier pommel.

A youthful female Seari 's shoulder muscles tense, before slowly starting to relax, her upper body slumping a bit as she says, "It was the three.. you know of the Nine right? I mean, who in their right mine would not. The destruction of them brought about by the war between the Nine and Mao is not unheard of in the right circles.. well, three members.. three of the elite members broke off and swore revenge. All this week this has been happening. My older brother - Thein, died three days ago."

A bronzed muscular man Seeing that this seems to be more than a simple murder. He turns slightly towards the Seari woman.

A slim, young woman still says nothing. She returns to her seat, her gaze resting on a lean woman who had so valiantly supported her. She gives a thankful smile.

A flaxen-haired male seari just now noticing the body of an obviously murdered man to the north. He shrugs his shoulders and reaffirms his grip on the rapier pommel straightening his posture and lifting his chin up as if preparing for the theatre.

The private returns from above with some bedding folded over his arm. The sergeant doesn't notice however, his attention lies fully on the seari woman as she speaks. After a moment he asks: "Ye saw any o' em? Clear enough to identify the murderer?" He sounds hopeful.

A lean woman catches a slim, young woman's smile and flashes a reassuring one of her own back at the girl. Her eyes flick for a moment to a bronzed muscular man and back, and gives a slim, young woman a tiny wink before her attention returns to the body and a youthful female Seari's story.

"No.. but everyone knows what is going on. Head out of your office for a couple of hours and into the underground. You'd find out sure enough..." a youthful female Seari releases a second long sigh, her eyes pressing closed for a moment, "He had a babe.. three kids and one of them was jus' a wee babe. And poor Alishille... If you will excuse me, I need to bring word to his family."

Smiling at the young woman, a bronzed muscular man says "I do thank you for your company, miss. But unfortunately I should be going. I have to get up early and get some orders done for my master. I hope everything works out for you. I hope to see you again. If you are bored come by and visit me sometime, I will be one of the smithy's."

A slim, young woman smiles happily. "I would be glad to, sir."

A bronzed muscular man reaches into his pockets and puts some coins on the table. Nodding towards the young woman "Remember my offer for an ear and friendship if you ever want it. My pa always used to say you can never have too many friends."

A slim, young woman nods briefly, seeming a little distant. "Thank you for your company, it was much appreciated."

A flaxen-haired male seari is carried in from the south on a calculated and long gait. His posture is proud and rigid and his left his is affixed to the pommel of his gleaming weapon. He takes a moment to view the scene before him, not making any reactions towards the realm of surprise, but more careful consideration. He glances around for a moment at the occupants taking in each face as if attempt to divulge their level of guilt in this crime. "What of this?" He says in a grave, calm tone. "What's happened here?"

A bronzed muscular man smiles, "I am glad miss, have a nice night, and see you soon. Anytime miss, anytime. "He waves good-bye.

The sergeant sight, frustration clear. He beckons for the private to come closer as he says: "Aye, right then.. Best clean this up, then go report it to tha captain." The pair waste little time laying the rolled bedclothes on the floor and lifting the corpse up and onto them.

A youthful female Seari passes a brief glance over a flaxen-haired male seari on her way towards the entrance of the Inn, her gaze glaring as usual as it meets the form of the Seari. She does not slow her steps heading out the door and promptly onto the street.

A slim, young woman removes her boots, examining sadly the bloodstains upon them from her previous unfortunate stance beside the deceased.

Having placed the body on the bedclothes, the two guards grip each corner firmly, before hoisting the whole mass up and slowly making their way backward, toward the exit, and beyond.

A flaxen-haired male seari gives a visible and almost forlorn sigh as Zarika passes him by. Noticing then the guards here a flaxen-haired male seari puts on a scowl. He passes up the entirety of the crowd not giving much more then a glance to the body before coming to the bar, without more then that a burly man with a shiny, bald head understands to place three short-glasses filled with brown liquid right in front of him.

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