Episode 2: The Rage of War

As you close your eyes to sleep, you struggle to keep from focusing on the undersides of your eyelids; small pulses of blue and purple in the seas of black, red lines of veins shuttling your life essence, the fuzz like some winter beast's hide, all drifting in and out of your consciousness. A light begins to pierce out of the veins of your eyelids, deep, purple-red and warm. Brighter and brighter it grows until you turn to shy away, but as you open your eyes, you find you're not in your cots any longer. Cast before you by the overpowering light is an inhuman figure, a monstrosity that hasn't crossed your deepest nightmares. Easily three or four times your height, a hairless, winged centaur-like creature gazes intently upon your form, and you upon its. Its spine is pierced at every vertebra with a long, rusted blade, its wounds seep blackened rot-blood as the blades writhe beneath its flesh. Sinew and muscle tear from its maw as it lets out a wet, rolling breath. Horns jut out in place of its eyes, and it unfurls its wings to their full length, well over twice its height; and though they cover you completely, they do nothing to keep you from the blinding light. Its stinking essence drips down upon your face and chest, its breath warm on your visage. As terror envelops your soul and adrenaline runs heavy on your heart, it speaks to you and reaches out, "Let loose The Rage of War. You are its Champion." Its claws dig into your flesh. You try to scream.

Dawn's light casts long amber shafts through the deciduous canopy, falling upon the cut stone walls of the True Aundarian camp. The scent of roasting potatoes, sausages, and cheese waft through the tied tent flaps of Galinndan's hired mercs. Another day rises, and you to meet it. You can still feel the pain where the creature dug into your hands, neck, or face. Oraam lays on the floor of the tent, passed out between some strewn affects. Looking at each of your companions, you see a tattoo of swirling shapes in a deep purple-red metallic sheen, glowing brightly on their hands, neck, or face. Maybe that strange ritual magic had some effect after all.

Kho'nan awakens with a start. His heart rate had spiked and his breathing came out in ragged huffs. It took a few moments to compose himself.

~~~ You sssssstirred violently. I nearly woke you out of... Concern? Fear? ~~~ annoyance. What did you sssseee? ~~~

The symbiont's curiosity was fair. Kho'nan only imagined what he had looked like to an outside observer, but seeing the colorful - angry - tattoos marking his companions, he realized that he was not alone in that.

He remembered the beast. A creature from the depths of the hells reaching out and grasping his hands. Claws that stank of rank meat and burned like hot iron dug into the flesh on the backs of his hands and palms. Looking down he saw that this was more than a dream.

The mark of the champion of rage was bright and burning still, though the pain was dissipating. Around the mark and up to his forearms, the skin had become tough and scaly, like a dragon.

~~~ Like a Beasssst ~~~

The marks themselves were chaotic. Furious. The patterns alone made no sense, but together they were the elements twisted and churning, yearning to destroy. There was water, fire, earth, wind, lightning, and thunder. Their edges were jagged and twisted, but the symbols were clear.

Kho'nan sighed deeply and walked to Izar.

He gently touched their shoulder to wake them. "Izar...y-you need t'see this."

Oraam's whole body twitched as he woke up, letting out a guttural "UUUUUUUOOOOGH" as he wakes.

His hands immediately shoot to his face where he feels the mark, green-tinged and sickly, scorched across his nose, mouth, and the side of his right cheek. Horror immediately expresses itself on his face almost subconsciously, "This shouldn't be possible." He says, looking with that same look of horror at both Izar and Kho'nan. "What. The. Fuck."

The dream is a familiar one. Despite being nowhere near the front lines, they were surrounded by the dying and the undead. No matter where they turned, or what they did, corpses flowed towards them, a wave of grasping hands, twitching limbs and slackened maws that would inevitably drag them under. They stare out at the wave, desperately mapping the route that would buy the most time, when the terrible sight before them is blotted out by a light that grows ever brighter. Their relief is short-lived however, for before them is an incarnation of the horde’s horrifying, necrotic miasma made flesh. As it closes its hand ever tighter across their throat, they futilely pull at the claws, desperate to be free of the thing, heedless of the fact that their hands are being cut to ribbons.
Just when they think that things could not be more desperate, a rotting hand grasps their shoulder. The undead, indifferent in the face of this monstrosity, had arrived.

Izar makes a soft keening sound in his sleep when Kho’nan begins to wake them, like a hand cranked siren that would eventually build in volume to an ear piercing wail. He wakes with a gasp, seemingly on the verge of a panic attack, before actually seeing Kho’nan, and remembering where they were. He slaps a hand over his face and inhales deeply Gods, how embarrassing. I haven't woken up like that in... Wait 'see' what? Once the words that had been said sink in, his inner scholar and storyteller get the better of him.

He lowers his hand to look at Kho’nan, and in so doing sees strange markings on the inside of his own palm that seemed to be creeping towards his wrists and the backs of his hands; the jagged, angry lines look like a cross hatching of lacerations.  Memories of thrashing against the… thing, come back to him, and he has to fight the urge to try and scrub his hands. Instead, he tilts them towards Kho’nan, choosing to let his nonchalance sound as forced as it felt.
"You too?"

Benobo wrote:

Oraam's whole body twitched as he woke up, letting out a guttural "UUUUUUUOOOOGH" as he wakes.

His hands immediately shoot to his face where he feels the mark, green-tinged and sickly, scorched across his nose, mouth, and the side of his right cheek. Horror immediately expresses itself on his face almost subconsciously, "This shouldn't be possible." He says, looking with that same look of horror at both Izar and Kho'nan. "What. The. Fuck."

Izar looks from him to Kho'nan and declares that the situation required beer, "If not stronger. Khyber wept! This is a right mess."

Kho'nan stayed stoically silent for a moment before addressing the both of them.

"So, I take it that I'm in the company of fellow 'Champions of Rage,' aye?" Once he knew the others were at least safe he allowed his guard to drop slightly, staring intently at his hands.

"Had t'be that Khyber, nae? Somethin' 'bout what they'were up to in'there. Somethin' 'bout that Khyber was off. Now this? No coincidence."

Izar shifts their hands to cover the marks. When said marks persist despite several changes in his hands’ appearance, the Bard gets up and walks, stiff backed, and with increasing urgency out of the tent. Once outside he dry heaves a few times, before ultimately losing the battle with a swell of nausea. One judicious application of a cantrip latter, he rejoins the others, laughing shakily.

“Sorry about that,” he says wanly. “First time that I have ever been unable to choose what my body looks like and it is… he trails off for a moment, his fingers and thumbs gingerly kneading their respective palms as he speaks.

“As to the Khyber, fuck if I know, but your idea is a good place to start. I don’t know how we could try to prove causation, but it is a good place to start,” he repeats, far more upbeat. The prospect of figuring out the origins of what happened to them was a welcome, albeit temporary, distraction from the reality that something had indeed happened to them.

Oraam's lips purse and his eyebrows furrow with what appears to be genuine anger for the first time since you've known him. "I-It should be impossible. These dragonmarks aren't just manifested usually, they're born out of two dragonmarked houses intermingling. Goblins don't get dragonmarks. Period. I am one of - if not THE only one to have a dragonmark. Same for you." he says, gesturing towards Izar.

"It shouldn't be possible. And yet it's happened. What the hell was college even for anyways?" he says, his anger at the situation turning into a visible mix between confusion and regret.

"In terms of the Khyber-lava thing, that's the only thing I can think of that would have had some effect like this. Hell - who am I kidding - I didn't know that there WAS an effect like this. But the only weird thing that happened down there was that."

Oraam's mark is extremely visible on his face, and grotesquely warps the skin around it into a frankly disgusting visage of what was once a decently attractive young hobgoblin face. This fact starts to sink in as Oraam sits there, face in his hands.

"We can't show our faces anywhere, me specifically. You thought people looked at you weird before, Kho'nan? These marks will ostracize us even further from society. Even though the War of the Mark was a couple hundred years ago, people are still deeply disturbed by even the idea of abberant dragonmarks and most will go out of their way to avoid them. We've essentially been branded with something that will ruin our lives as we know it. I don't know if they'll even let me back into the college once all this is over. Hell, I don't even know if these guys will allow us to keep working with them! People don't like these marks - and for good reason, for the most part. But we're the exceptions to that stereotype that all abberant dragonmark wielders are unstable and dangerous. At least, I hope." Oraam looks back up from his hands and his eyes widen. "So sorry. I rant when I'm nervous, mad, angry, anxious, sad..." He continues listing emotions before falling silent once more.

Kho'nan listens patiently. The boy was shook, and rightfully so. He got it the worst out of the lot of them given that his face was now one giant marker for an ages old prejudice. 

"Ostracized or'nae, you're one o'us now, Oraam. Nothin' changes that now."  His typical brogue voice was softer than usual. "Anyone has a word about it, will meet the fury of us all."

It was then that he realized Helden wasn't with them. Likely, he was being tended for his infection or helping others in the medical tent. They would need to see if he was afflicted as such as well.

Kho'nan nods. "You're right though, lad. Cannae jus'go walkin' around willy nilly now. 'Specially not you. I'll go find Galindann and Helden. And Hagen now that I think on it. Owes us money and an explanation." He directs his eyes toward the Hobgoblin.

"Keep your wits about ya', lad. We'll figure this out. If they wanna ostracize us, then we will be paid for our work first. Find our way onwards second."

There is a ripple across his skin as the symbiont moves to cover his forearms and hands. Over this he rolls down his linen shirt as far as it can go before buttoning it. All else fails, he puts on a pair of gloves he keeps in his pack before heading out.

Oraam nods his head. "I'll stay here. Maybe I can finish up enchanting these -" he looks down at the tools he was using to permanently enchant the sending stone and a look of fear shocks across his face. He stays there for a good moment before saying "Looks aren't everything in a relationship, right?" he says to nobody in particular as tears start to well up in his eyes before he buries his face in his hands once more. "I'm sorry. Come back soon, Kho'nan." Oraam tries to compose himself, but it is visible by the sheen in his light brown eyes that tears could appear at any point in time.

Kho'nan stops at the flap to their tent, knowing that this was a transformative and transitional moment in the young Hobgoblin's life. He had somehow become defacto leader. He hated it, but this was the moment where the "leader" had to say something.

He cleared his throat...

"Well, if it doesn' work out with me an' the Princess... Hell, I'll still fuck ye."

He gives a big broad smile. The tattoos on his face momentarily reshape to form phalluses. Likely, it was as terrifying as it was funny. THEN he leaves.

When Oraam asks whether looks are everything in relationships, Izar winces. If life had taught him anything, it was that appearances had an outside impact on just about everything. He sends his companion a quick reassuring message.  Not to the people you matter to, they aren't.

Iron and Metal wrote:

"Well, if it doesn' work out with me an' the Princess... Hell, I'll still fuck ye."

The bard scoffs at the open ribaldry. "Bold of you to assume that Oraam is willing to settle for being your backup plan," he says dryly, all the while sporting a mischievous grin. A smile which fades as his affinities for scholarship and survival win out over the light hearted act that he is putting on.

"You're right about the Marks Oraam. Hundreds of years in the past might as well be yesterday when it comes to some aspects of a culture. We can start with simple solutions for now; gloves, scarves, stage makeup. Eventually, we will be able to do some research. There is likely a concealment spell for Marks. And if there isn't, then it would be quite a coup for us to be the ones to develop it."

His proposals - though pragmatic - are meant as a bit of comfort, as much for Oraam as for himself. Things felt dire and yet again, Izar finds himself thinking about how these kinds of misadventures simply did not happen in cities.

The oilcloth flap flicks closed behind Kho'nan as he turns into the light. The daylight was warm against his skin and clothes, still dim as it rises over the trees. He moves to Galinndan's tent, taps, to no response. Checking inside, he sees Galinndan has moved on for the morning. After a short trip he confirms Hagen has as well. Around the other side of the tent, Kho'nan catches Galinndan walking in to the meeting tent with his morning breakfast. Waving him down, Galinndan waves back, walking up to him casually.

"Morning friend, what seems to be the matter?" He says, between ginger bites of sausage.

Kho'nan signals for Galindann to follow him back to their own tent, making sure to speak quietly.

"Couple things - remember that we go'way back. Saved yer'life 'n all. Keep that in mind for this nex'bit."

As they walk, he only speaks when he is sure no one else is in ear shot. He explains the dream. Explains that he wasn't the only one that had it. Then, assuming he is able to reach "friendly territory" just outside the group's tent, he pauses.

"Aye well, the thing is, where th'fecker grabbed hold of me, in me dream... left'a'feckin' mark. Saved yer life. Remember that." At that point, once again ensuring no one was nearby, he slowly takes off the glove of his left hand revealing the mark.

Assuming Galindann doesn't act like a little bitch, he beckons him inside.

"Come. See the others."

Galinndan follows behind you, nodding gently with a face contorted in deep concern. "My good friend, please don't tell me The Beast ate someone last night... I'd always let you go free, out of debt, but it would mean the end of your employment in the True Aundarians. You understand... right?" He says with a hint of tremble.

When you remove the glove, Galinndan's eyes widen and he covers the mark with his hand. "Kho'nan!" He whispers in a loud hush. "First you have a symbiont rummaging around in your head, now you're getting your dreams invaded by demons and manifesting an aberrant mark? What Sixed actions have you done to the others?"

Galinndan throws open the tent flaps and rushes in, before looking back at Kho'nan in shock. He recomposes himself quickly and bows to Kho'nan, "My sincerest apologies, I simply thought you meant you had..." His voice drifts off as he looks back at Oraam and Izar. "well. No matter. This will certainly complicate your missions... and, well, everything else. None of you have been driven into a murderous rage this morning? U-Unless!" He immediately draws his rapier and points it at Kho'nan, eyes wild, "Sovereign above! I'm your first victim!" He swipes the blade around his reach, drawing out his territory in the air.

Kho'nan, hands on his hips as the rapier is drawn, sighs and stares at Galindann like the Elf just grew a dick on his forehead.

"Thus's why dwarves n'elves aren't typically friends, you know that, right?"

He shakes his head and walks right past Galindann, all but ignoring the weapon. "Put your feckin' toothpick away an' help us figure out what in the Six Hells we're gon'ta'do 'bout this."

Kho'nan moves to his bunk and takes a casual seat, putting the gloves back on his hand. Nearby but out of arms reach was a tankard of ale still half full from the night before. A black mass forms around Kho'nan's left shoulder and reaches out with a similarly inky tentacle. The Symbiont grabs the tankard and brings it to the dwarf as he takes a drink.

"Well? You know the council better than we. They gon'ta ostracize us if they find out?"

Galinndan keeps the blade pointed directly at Kho'nan as he walks by, the loose grip clinks with the tang of the blade as his arm shakes. He swallows deep as Kho'nan sits. Sheathing his blade cautiously, he nods, "All-alright. Well, I don't think you're taking them off... which means those of your unable to hide them are going to be found immediately. I suppose if your wits are still about you, I see no reason why your employ shouldn't be as well. Let's see what the council has to say. I believe we are late for the morning meeting, yes?" He turns and gestures for you all to follow after. I will vouch for you, if need be, my friends. Do try to be personable in the coming hours?"

"Aye, right." Kho'nan finishes the tankard, stands and walks to the front of the tent. If anyone was to accost them along the way, he'd be sure to be a massive deterrent. He didn't think it likely, especially after all they had done for the True Andaurians in the very short time they had been here.

He thinks on that as he sees workers, men and women alike from various races, working on the stone perimeter wall as per his instructions. If they didn't get run out of the camp, he'd like to see it built up proper: stone towers - ramparts - maybe even a moat. Truth was, Kho'nan liked to build and create. Circumstances were that he was always forced in positions to destroy and kill.

The Irony of my existence, he thought bitterly.

During the conversation between Kho'nan and Galinndan, Oraam has already re-immersed himself in working at enchanting the stones. It's quite clear that he is just trying to do SOMETHING to get his mind off the reality of the situation. When Galinndan suggests going to the morning meeting, Oraam's eyes widen at the idea - but he eventually follows suit and walks out of the tent meekly, his gaze towards the ground in an attempt to hide the mark as best as he could without bringing so much attention to it.

Taklinn rubs his beard with a tight grip. He rests his elbows on the table that Callan and Hagen chew the fat of their breakfast at. Beside him, Taklinn observes the object of his ire, a man sitting comfortably. "Alright, alright... five hundred for the resupply, five hundred to pay for passage, and another five hundred for the moorage and wages before the invasion. That's fifteen hundred... You've got a sack twice the size of your Prince. In the meantime, I'm putting you to wor-" He draws the last syllable out in disbelief as the tent flaps of the council tent split and the image of the party illuminates the tent.

The shock burns away from his face, leaving a grimace behind. "Well, someone had better start explaining what in the Dragon Below is going on here. Belina, Kahle!" He calls out to a side room, and the final two members of the council present themselves to the table. Belina stands by her seat, her hand resting calmly on her sword's pommel.

Ignoring the interruption and arrival of the adventuring party a moment longer to maintain the momentum of negotiation, Jorian shrugs indifferently at Taklinn. A faint smirk of victory tugs at the side of his mouth as he is finally satisfied with the amount of coin being offered for his services.

“And it appears the purse finally matches the size of my….sack. Your offer has ventured just a step from insulting to the realm of acceptable”.

He stands, touching his middle and forefinger first to his forehead and then to his chin in what looks to be a silent prayer. Spitting into his right hand, he extends it to the dwarf with a gaze of intensity that almost betrays his words of satisfaction.

“We have a deal then, my friend.”

Whether or not the handshake is completed, Jorian turns to regard those who walked into the tent. His eyes discreetly scan each individual, his eyebrow raises slightly as he catches a glimpse of Oraam. The Hobgoblin himself was of little surprise, it was the markings on his face that caught Jorian's attention. He eyes Oraam a moment longer, idly opening and closing his bandaged left hand. Finally, Jorian's eyes move to an unexpected, familiar face. With a genuinely puzzled look, another smirk begins to tug at the side of his lips. Jorian's intensity succumbs to the faintest of smiles. He speaks the name as a statement and a question both at once.

“Kho’nan….”

Kho'nan was about to explain to Talkinn that he could either pay for this newcomer's fee with the silver from the mine the group had just cleared; or, he could wipe Kho'nan's arse with his beard. Then said newcomer stood up.

Kho'nan would have laughed if the situation wasn't so dire. So instead, he just guffawed and ignored the leader of the True Aundairians.

"Well, bend me over an'fuck me tits. Jorian, you sunnavabitch," he walked forward, hand out in a greeting that could only be described as a handshake/armwrestling bicep supershow.

Jorian flashes his teeth in a wide smile, a gesture that betrays his intensity and one that was likely reserved for those closest to him. He steps forward to meet Kho’nan, kneeling to match the Dwarf’s height and grips his hand in the same manner.

Unlike Kho’nan’s wide muscled arm, Jorian’s arm was made of tight corded muscle, an agile contrast to the dwarf. Despite the difference in size, as the two hands meet and grip in an embrace that oozes toxic masculinity, the veins in Jorian’s arm pulse as definition reveals itself like shattered glass. Locking eyes with the dwarf, the two hold strong in this position for a moment before Jorian brings Kho’nan in, shoulder to shoulder for an embrace and slaps him on the back.

“It is good to see you, my friend.”

My friend is spoken with a sincerity that differs greatly from the tone used with Taklinn.

Kho'nan was about to genuinely laugh and return the compliment when his eyes caught sight of the dragonscale crawling from his wrist up to his forearm. He broke his grip with the pirate "prince," and his face went dark.

"Likewise. Cannae wait get caugh'tup, but more pressin' matters currently." He gestured toward his wrists and forearms with his eyes. He turned to face Taklinn.

"Seems we three have been chosen for, uh, whatever'th'fuck this is." He takes off his gloves and holds up his hands for all present to see.

"Got some new tattoos in me sleep, it seems. An' if it's any consolation, still got our wits 'bout us," he says with an understanding nod to Belina and her hand resting on her weapon.

If pressed, he recounts the same story he told Galindann, regarding the dreams, waking, and seeking out the elf up to this point.

Jorian nods in silent agreement to Koh’nan. Last he’d seen The Beast, the two fought side by side during a naval siege in which Jorian’s ship and services were procured by a small strike force of Dwarven berserkers. Their bond in combat was immediate, only solidified by their mutual love for good drink.

Jorian’s face naturally hardens as it returns to its resting state of intensity; brows narrowed, and eyes as piercing as a blade’s tip. As new voices change the topic of conversation, Jorian steps aside, briefly glancing at the mark on Kho’nan’s forearm, as well as the Kukri at the dwarf’s back. Suppressing any reaction, his eyes subtly scan the room in a manner that was natural to his survival and only noticeable to the most perceptive present.

He glances past Izar, who appears inconspicuous, then to Oraam, noting the dichotomous nature of the hobgoblin’s stature versus his posture. He notes Kahle and Belina as they enter the tent, slowly resting his own hand on the pommel of the elaborate curved elven blade at his hip. Taking stock of each member’s resting gait and weapon placement, Jorian correlates this information to the likelihood of their dominant hands. The ranger turned privateer, a generous term officiated by his service to Prince Sabella, did not survive on chance alone, and despite the relative safety of his current environment, Jorian would not be caught off guard.

With a tense jaw, Jorian’s eyes finally lock onto Galinndan. His thumb idly taps the pommel of his weapon as violent memories beckon emotions long buried. With a slow controlled breath, Jorian draws air through nostrils, and exhales feeling his body relax. Curiosity begged to know where the elf was from.

Izar keeps the loose slouch and affable insouciance of his appearance despite a roiling mess of anxiety sitting heavy in the pit of his stomach. The night's events had brought much turmoil into his life, but one thing was certain: these mindless nationalists would likely just as soon cut them down as make them their champions if they thought that it would serve their cause.

Jorian and Kho'nan's exchange is a welcome albeit brief distraction from the prospect of being pilloried at best. That Kho'nan is on friendly terms with the newcomer Jorian was reassuring, especially given the fact that they seemed to be equally capable of brutal force.

He stretches and yawns, radiating the lazy self-satisfaction of a house cat. "Good members of the council, if you are going to end our employment or otherwise direct us to leave the camp, I would invite you to do so quickly. Not that I've not enjoyed the fine amenities you have on offer here," he begins, deferentially. "But, I would much rather be staying at an Inn! Preferably one that serves their stew with a side of warm butter biscuits. Oh! And a good fruit beer could be nice..." The bard smiles contentedly, as if having just now finished eating the meal that he had described.

Oraam anxiously stands near the tent flap, as if he is ready to run at any moment. Though he had been working for the True Aundarians for a bit, there was no strong familial bond or sense of brotherhood in arms. He was the guy who they came to if they needed to send something cheeky to their partner, convey battle plans, or write a will. The feeling of being an outcast within this camp had only grown since gaining the mark, yet he felt closer to the ones who bared it with him.

"If it says anything about our mental acuity, we all think this is as crazy as you do." he says to nobody in particular, the way that you do when you're trying to interject in a conversation that you don't quite belong in.

Jorian's close bond with Kho'nan brings comfort in the fact that perhaps if they were ordered to be killed they might have one more person on their side. And yet, there was a strange emotion brewing in Oraam at observing the two men's bromance friendship. His awkward smile drops for a moment, before resuming. He would take Galinndan's advice and be as courteous as possible to the people who might currently hold his life in his hands.

Benobo wrote:

"If it says anything about our mental acuity, we all think this is as crazy as you do."

*Crazy's putting it lightly - I'm surprised that we're even sober right now.* The message Oraam hears is punctuated with a bark of laughter that is tinged with an array of emotions, ranging from irritation to disbelief.

In situations such as these, Izar's penchant for survival had the bard practically vibrating; moral panics paved the way for lynch mobs. Almost as a matter of instinct, he opts for one more tone-setting intervention, adding a touch of irreverence to the established insouciance - his contented smile spreads into a shit-eating grin.

"Now, while you good folks process your feelings, we will be standing over here, he shifts by a fraction of a step to one side. "Attempting to reach the height of efficiency. Which is to say having Kho'nan introduce us to his friend, while trying our level best to not give you the impression that we are plotting to lose our minds on the count of three. Oh, and that's on three, not after three... In case you were wondering."

For neither the first nor the last time in their life, Izar performs with a chorus of 'Idontwanttodiehere' providing a familiar accompaniment.

Kho'nan shifts on his foot, not uncomfortable, but stoically ready. He nods as Izar breaks the awkward silence.

"Right, well then. This is Jorian. We go back farther than even meself an' Veil. Hells, even farther than meself an' Galindann. Was part of a Berserker Front-Guard, honor bound to fight for one o'the damned Lhazaarite Princes or'nother. Anyways, Jorian an' I wen'from the fryin' pan to the fire more than once. Fights well. Talks too much. Good lad."

He nodded to Jorian indicating that his introduction was finished.

Jorian bows his head to Izar and Oraam, his face stern as his gaze lingers on the Hobgoblin for just a moment past comfortable. Despite the intensity in his eyes, Jorian addresses the two in a tone that is well mannered, and friendly enough for one who appears capable of dealing death at a moment’s notice.

“Jorian Farrik. Captain of The Severed Fang and second in command to Prince Sabella Vorne of the Sea Geists. Well met, friends of Ko’nan.”

His hand rests comfortably on the hilt of his blade, an elaborate curved weapon. Thinner than a standard scimitar, the length of the grip appears long enough to accommodate a hand and a half. Ebony and gold with ornate construction, the pommel resembles the head of a Valenar steed.

You notice Jorian is currently barefoot, likely the owner of the boots you passed resting outside the entrance of the tent. Dressed in a black tunic that exposes his bare chest, and a sash of blood red, the man is currently unarmored. Gold hoop earrings dangle from each earlobe, and thick jade bangles on his right wrist hang loosely over a leather bracer. A necklace of shark teeth and beads hangs from his neck, the attire synonymous with the dress and style of those from the Lhazaar Principalities. Despite his adornments, the privateer appears to be fairly reserved in his approach.

While Jorian introduces himself to the team, Kho'nan realizes that he hasn't had his morning coffee yet. Since the others were just going to sit there and stare at them, he figured he'd ask Galindann.

"Gali, d'ya think we could mayhaps get some coffee in here? Haven't'ad'a chance t'get my mornin' brew in on'ccount o'the demon marks, as it were." His thick Brogue is accented with politeness.

Taklinn strokes his beard for a long while, face full of rage. Finally, he speaks in a calm monotone, "Quiet. You'll stay, but you'll take a watchdog. I don't expect you'll find an issue. Jorian, if they act suspicious, especially around camp, you are hereby ordered to put them to the blade. I'm trusting your judgement, the consequences of dissent will be steep. We're not here for banter, get your coffee after. Belina, report." Taklinn motions to all of you to sit. He seems confident Jorian can handle your situation and keeps his attention on Belina.

Belina's brow twitches once, the only display of emotion on her face. She looks toward Taklinn before she begins to speak "Yes, of course. Kahle has noted there is a major shipment of simple and luxury foodstuffs, as well as a good deal of trade goods coming in off a Thranish cargo barge from Rekkenmark. Should we procure it, we would deal a heavy blow to the Thranish oppressors of Thaliost while siphoning much needed resources for the outpost. This has the potential to push for rationing among the common folk, a problem we will hope to remedy by giving back as much food as we can spare to the common folk in secret. This should bolster our strength and reputation while also dealing a heavy blow to our enemies in Thaliost. Should all go well, Kahle and I believe we may be able to usher in the fleet from Prince Sabella and begin our direct assault of Thaliost."

Taklinn nods. "Thank you Belina, that is all. With the arrival of Captain Jorian, so too has the mining crew requested by Kho'nan. Glad you have more than combat prowess, my condolences on the casualty." The word casualty hits your ears with a certain indifference that wouldn't register to a veteran of battle. The loss of troops was common, and many of your friends from the start of the war hadn't survived until today. "Hagen, see to it that this new crew is put to work where their talent may be properly utilized. Kahle, do you have a strategy for this boat?"

The half-orc rises from his seat and pulls his coat flat. "Indeed." His voice is higher than most of orcish descent, "Our plan would make use of our new friend's assets. The boat is expected to travel along the remains of the White Arch. Since its destruction, only a few pillars of the bridge have remained intact. Jorian, we'd like to use the Severed Fang to deliver a small strike force onto one of these pillars. We'll outfit the team with these." Kahle reaches into a pouch on his belt and empties a handful of small feather tokens onto the table. "The feather tokens are popular in the City of Towers as protection from gravity. Should you fall more than a short distance, the tokens activate, magically slowing your descent to a safe level. Our team will leap from the pillar and allow their tokens to insert them safely aboard the vessel. The objective from there is to kill everyone on board and hijack the vessel. Sail it to a safe location on the beach of the Silverwood, out of sight. From there, you'll offload onto the Severed Fang, which we'll sail further inland and transfer the goods onto wagons. The barge is too notable to attempt to use, so after we've claimed the wealth of the ship, we'll load some old mining charges in the bilge and set it to sea for a burial. This needs to look like pirate work in order to hold our cover, attract any attention to the woods and we could put ourselves in grave danger. Taklinn?"

The dwarf nods gently. "Right, we'll send the Aberrants. Despite the recent development, the team is still the single strongest squad we've got." "Sir!" Belina slams her fist on the table and rises quickly to loom over the members of the council. "We cannot just ignore their current condition! The three of you should all be put on arrest until we can conduct a -" Belina cuts her words as Taklinn stands quicker than you expected the older dwarf to move. "Quiet! So long as your ass is under my banner, you'll keep your Khyber-damned mouth in line! I won't have you dividing the cause with unsubstantiated rumors. My word is final. Kahle, you have my approval. Let's move forward to questions from the rest of you." Belina drags her gaze across the seated members of the council. A few silent moments pass before Belina calmly sits down with a clang from her dulled plate.

With tremendous restraint, Izar keeps an easy smile plastered on his face as the plan is laid out. Of course these bastards would see no issue with forcing the "common folk" to ration. Building up their reputation by giving back to them what can be spared of their own Khyber-damned goods… Insufferable, flag-humping miscreants. Outrage, along with Taklinn's firm hand over the council, goes a long way towards muting his fears for the time being.

He rolls his eyes when Belina suggests that they all be arrested. Once she is seated, Izar waits until he can catch her eye to raise his arms ever so slightly; wrists touching as if inviting handcuffs while giving her a lascivious smile that said that he knew his way around set of cuffs and would be happy to give her the grand tour.

Jorian salutes Takklin, an impassive gesture but one of respect nonetheless. With closed eyes, the privateer presses his fist to his chest and bows his head slowly. “As you command.” With the contract in place, Jorian now served the True Aundairians and their commander, but while his honor was bound to Takklin’s orders, Jorian was confident the conditional order of death to Koh’nan and his companions came from a place of superstition more than logic. The privateer flashed a quick quirk of the eyebrow to Koh’nan that seemed to say “Is this guy serious?”

Jorian nods pensively as the half-orc briefs the group. Infiltration was Jorian’s speciality and while he preferred to work alone or with a small hand picked team of his own, the privateer had to admit the plan was a sound one. Perturbed but not surprised by Belina’s comment, Jorian’s eyes narrow at the plate clad woman. Out of habit alone, he had formulated several approaches to killing the woman. Truth be told, past traumas and a life of tactical planning caused Jorian’s mind to play out several scenarios as to how he would kill every individual he met, friend and foe alike.

Whether it was the threat to an old friend, or the mysterious mark that Jorian himself had hidden on his left hand, the thought of his blade piercing the flesh of this Belina’s armpit, and driving into her lungs was slightly more satisfying. His thoughts were pacified quickly as he watched Izaar taunt Belina. Only the most perceptive would notice the corner of his mouth turn up in an amused smirk at the small creature in Koh’nan’s company.

Once prompted for questions regarding the operation, Jorian speaks in a tone that is entirely business.

“How many members will makeup this strike force?”

Kho'nan looked away from Galindann when the council finally decided to speak. His eyes locked on Taklinn, and unsurprisingly his gesture nor face backed down even an inch when spoken down to. Those paying attention could see the tattoos on his face ever so slowly form into a visage of storms over his brows, rolling waves on his cheeks.

The leader of the True Aundairians lacked tact, but he was firm in his orders. Kho'nan could respect that. Belina on the other hand...

~~~ They're alwaysssssss sssssso quick to judge what they don't undersssstand... ~~~ The symbiont hissed inside of his mind.

~~~ Driven by fearrrr, why do onesss like thisss alwayssss die sssssscreaming? ~~~

Kho'nan brushed it aside. Catching Jorian's look, he shook his head and sighed.

"Arrest us?" He was calm, but he the annoyance he felt was getting the better of him. "Try not t'forget that we're the reason your operation will be funded. Mine's cleared thanks to us. An' it'll be worked by Dwarves from the Hill Tribes thanks to us. An' the fort's gone from a pile o'timber shite to havin' actual defenses thanks to us. An' when we found out about this-" he says holding up both hands so that the marks were clear to all, "The very first thing we did was seek you lot out. Arrest us?"

He had been hated his whole life because of his "defects." The symbiont he shared an existence with. The Beast that he became. Now this Abberant Dragonmark.

"Nae, you should be thanking your lucky stars that 'The Abberants' are here to help the cause."

Between Taklinn's chastisement, Izar's taunt, and Jorian's smirk, the Beast remained asleep. Kho'nan took a breath and put his gloves back on. The mission was sound, and he was eager to make ready and leave.

As if a lightbulb went off, he leveled his gaze at Hagen. He reached around to a satchel at his side and produced two of the wererat heads, tossing them near his feet. "Told us the mines wouldn't have Therianthropes, Hagen. To a businessperson, this might be time for a contract re-negotiation," he said in his heavy brogue. "But I'm no business-person. Oraam, on the other hand, is."

++++

Unless posed a direct question, he has said his peace. He was eager to meet with the Hill Dwarves and brief them on their situation.

Taklinn chuckles at Kho'nan's words. "Aye, your efforts here are the only reason you aren't suspected Cultists of Khyber, especially considering two unmarked bloodlines sitting at the table. Everyone here would do well to remember who our allies are." His gaze lands upon Jorian, "There are only four tokens, is that right Kahle?" The Half-Orc nods, prompting Taklinn to reach across the table and toss the feather tokens to Oraam.

Hagen grimaces as Kho'nan produces the wererat heads. "Mmm- yeah, looks like there were Therians. Wonder if they were trying to run the mine or something. Still, the deal was to clear the mines, and while I appreciate the sentiment, I can't really budge on the price. Truth be told I'm about finished on coin. How about I give you guys a couple silver bars here in a bit? We should be firing up the furnaces in a day or so."

The preternatural inkwork inspires the Bard, who manifests a tempest from his glammerweave, complete with crashing waves and flashes of lightning.

Whether or not he had intended it when he had set out, Izar was now firmly associated with this crew. That being the case, signaling their unity, even in little ways is important. On the streets of Cyre, the Changeling had learned which colours and symbols to avoid or to make judicious use of.

Murcurie wrote:

"Everyone here would do well to remember who our allies are."

"Some of us did not need reminding," he says sotto voce, pitching his voice to be heard only by his fellows.

Kho'nan nods in agreement at Hagen's offer. Truth be told, he was not trying to intimidate or shake him down. But bad intelligence was bad intelligence. Had that been the reason Veil had died, there would have been much more to answer for.

As it was, Hagen seemed fair enough.

Oraam listens intently to Taklinn's plan. Despite the developments, he was still the leader. However, when Belina erupted, Oraam's face took an unusually deep scowl as he looked Belina directly in the eyes. The scowl remains until Taklinn's reminder about "remembering who our allies are". Kho'nan's acknowledgement of Oraam as an intelligent person also lightened his spirit a bit as he picked up the feather tokens and handed one to Izar and Kho'nan.

"If there's no money, silver will do. Furthermore, once the forges are up and running, I want free access for projects of my own. I can also assist with equipping more of the soldiers with weapons and the like."

Looking at the two feather tokens he has in his hand, he looks back at Jorian. "Are you the fourth?" he says, holding a feather token out.

Jorian nods, satisfied with the information Taklinn provided. The mission details were clear and Jorian knew better than to waste time asking for unnecessary clarification. Fewer parameters meant more room for improvisation should the circumstances call for it, which they always did.

As Oraam offers the feather token, Jorian’s dark eyes bore into his. Though intense, and intimidating to some, the privateer emitted a genuine politeness as his hand very deliberately plucks the offered token from Oraam’s palm. Studying the small item, Jorian bounces it twice in his palm, and then tosses it once into the air once before catching it, as if to test it’s weight. His eyes part with the feather token as they return to Oraam’s with no lapse in intensity. Jorian bows his head to the hobgoblin, just slightly.

“I accept this invitation.”

Whether it was an invitation or merely a question, Oraam had his answer.

Izar follows the exchange between Oraam and Jorian, and then straightens his posture, nodding contentedly.

"So, we are owed a couple of bars of silver, forge-access, and the non-hostility - at the damn well bloody least - of the entire camp, as diligently modeled by their esteemed leadership," Izar punctuates his description of the council with the twitch of a brow when his eyes cross Belina's, ever so briefly shifting the smile from genial to rakish for her benefit
  "For services rendered to date.  With that settled, I believe that there was a mention of us having to get our own coffee. As such, enjoy the rest of your meeting my lovelies. I am sure that you have much to discuss among yourselves."

If no one says or does anything to stop him, the bard strides out of the council tent and heads to his own; at this point, wanting nothing more than to ease out of the bright, light-as-air bravado, and finally let himself sink into the murky depths of panicked hopelessness.

A moment of silence hangs only to be broken by Taklinn's low tone "Seems we're in agreement. Hagen, pay them what they're due. Kahle, get with Jorian and iron out the locations for this plan sometime today. You sail at dusk. Dismissed." The council members begin to gather up their things and make way to exit or the side sections of the tent.

Kho'nan gives Belina one last undecipherable look before exiting the tent. Once outside, he stretches and cracks his neck to both sides, making his way some distance from the tent itself before awaiting the others.

When they've come together, he winks at Izar. "Well, t'was a fine meetin' o'minds." When Jorian makes his way out he says cheekily, "Welcome taskmaster an' Aberrant watcher. Gonna be killin' us anytime soon?"

Jorian exits the tent, taking a moment to put on his boots. Approaching Koh’nan, Jorian briefly scans his surroundings, taking note of Kahle’s location for future reference.

His face set in stone, there was a telling twinkle in Jorian’s eye that suggested humor as he responds to Koh’nan’s jest. “I prefer to wait until after breakfast to execute old friends.” He looks around at those gathered and then back to Kho’nan. ”This is the strike team then, yes?”

Kho'nan barks out a short bit of laughter before smacking Jorian on the shoulder jovially. "Tis good t'see ye'again, Pirate-Prince Jorian." Kho'nan was genuinely happy. It was a nice surprise given their recent bad luck. He did a double take though.

"Missin' one, actually. Healer - called Helden. Good in a fight. Bit by a wererat though. Any idea where Helden's gone?" He directed the last question at Izar and Oraam. He was quite curious if their healer had endured the same dream and, thus, the same mark.

Jorian smiles as his steely gaze softens. “Koh’nan, I explained this. I am not a prince. It is Sabella who I serve, she is a Prince of Lhazaar and commands a fleet… ” He begins slightly flustered, as if this wasn’t the first time he has explained the topic. ”Its fine…it’s fine, we will revisit this again.” He composes himself before continuing. ”It is good to see you too old friend. I am sorry to hear of your companion. May Ollandra’s fortune keep the lycanthrope’s affliction at bay. I suppose we have stories to swap, and casks of ale to conquer once I speak with Kahle?

From the moment they step out of the tent, Izar trades the easy smile for knitted brows, and begins to shedding features with the same sense of relief as one might experience when peeling off overly constricting clothing. When they hear the frankly unsettling cracking of the dwarf's cervical spine, followed by a now familiar gait, they fight to keep their breathing from growing shallow - there would be time for that later.

Kho'nan's wink is met with one in kind, Izar having managed to restore the mien of the careless rake.  He had hoped to get back to their tent without having to debrief the meeting or the marks, or the next mission, or anything really.... But, the show must go on.

He snorts when Kho'nan refers to Helden as a healer. For the time that they had known each other, the latter A war priest had always seemed more likely to swing his hammer than lay on hands.
"We've barely been out of one another's sight since last night. How would we... You know what?  It doesn't matter." Izar gives a tired laugh. "Well met Jorian, all things considered. So more officially, this is Oraam; he's somewhat of a polymath - smart, capable fighter and magic user." He says, gesturing toward the artificer, smiling broadly, the praise authentic. "As for myself," he continues brightly, the mirth in his voice and demeanor not quite reaching his eyes. "I am going to go drink shitty beer until I can no longer feel my face, and then have one more for good measure. Ha!"

At the very least,  drinking would help him to remain in character a little while longer.

Kho'nan listens intently. "Lady cannae be a Prince, Jorian. Everyone knows that." He then casually stares at Izar as his mind worked. The Changeling, whom he affectionately referred to as "Princess" given their form upon first meeting, often took a male form.

But ye still refer to Izar as "Princess...."

The Symbiont sighed inwardly in annoyance. It had no care or patience for such things as they did not allow it to kill nor eat - its two favorite things.

When Izar finally spoke, Kho'nan raised one eyebrow in a look of confusion and annoyance. "Did all the brewin' ye'been doin' with me rot your brain? It's near been a week now. How d'ya think me kin from the Mror holds got here?"

Jorian continues to deliberately avoid the topic of the dragonmarks for now. Having gone through the initial shock of feeling cursed, and the subsequent acceptance of his own brand, the privateer was in no hurry to delve into the topic again anytime soon, nor was he in any hurry to give his employers reason distrust him. For now he would keep his cards close to his chest.

Jorian bows his head once again in sincere greeting, this time after learning the names of Koh’nan’s companions. “Well met Izar and Oraam. If we are to fight side by side, perhaps shitty beer is in order for all of us. I must speak with Kahle to chart our route, then perhaps we can, how they say….make our faces of shit?”

He smiles warmly, confident he used the euphemism for getting blackout drunk properly.

Exasperated and no less tired from the vagaries of the past few days, the Dwarf's quip has Izar raising a hand to his face, covering his eyes.  By the Nine, what am I even doing here? Oh that's right: there is literally nowhere else for me to go.  Especially now, he flexes the wrist on his other hand, and sure enough the Khyber-damned mark is still there.

Izar maintains the overall appearance of bon vivant, but allows his eyes take on their natural hue - the jet black of a moonlit well.

"Rot my brain? If only! Because then, I would not care that I am working for ungrateful jackasses who would like to see us dead, but are stuck with us because they are trash. And speaking of municipal services, I am Host only knows how far away from an actual city, being asked to call the collective bathwater that is used as stock for whatever passes as food here, an amenity. So by all means, please, let's make our faces of shit."

Annoyed at being annoyed to the point of a quasi-tantrum, Izar's lips form a petulant moue; and they fiddle with their viol, gradually regaining their sang-froid through the familiar ministrations.