[Placeholder Title Screen]

Chapter 7

*page_break

"Alright, then. Let's get you looking like a living @{pronvar man|woman|person} again."

Faustus presses on your shoulders as he sits you down on the strange iron chair. You've never seen an implement quite like it before—a high-seated, three-legged thing that could make a full rotation when swung around. The glint in Faustus's eye as he showed it to you spoke of an almost paternal pride. You can't help but to wonder if he's begun to lose his marbles a little, now that Myst has flown the coop.

Faustus's parlor is homey, quiet, and massive—much more so than the humble trickle of business trafficked through it should rightly allow. A row of large wooden shelves line the space from wall to wall, filled with an impressive collection of mismatched tchotchkes, seemingly having been sourced from all over Arvanand, and perhaps beyond. It seems to you that Faustus is the well-traveled sort; you've little doubt that his true trade isn't that of a barber.

"I know what you're thinking," Faustus says gruffly as he eyes your expression in the mirror. "I don't look like someone who'll know the trade well, eh? Everyone what comes in through those doors says as much. I should be glad to show you—as I've shown the rest of them—how wrong you are."

Faustus grins affably as he says this, clapping you on the shoulders twice for good measure. His demeanor seems a mismatch to his features: bald and sharp-eyed, with a muscular build and scars that mark him as a warrior of no small mettle. Myst had mentioned after some prodding that her father had once served as the Saber's commander, though his advanced age and a particularly grievous leg injury had seen him retire some years prior. ${yusuha} and ${falco} have since assumed his position as co-commanders, leaving Faustus free to devote the whole of his time to his shop.

*choice
    #"You have to admit, though—you've had quite the career change."
        *set charming %+ 15
        *if (pronvar = 1)
            "I don't know about that," he shrugs. "The razor's its own kind of blade."
        *else
            "I don't know about that," he shrugs. "A pair of scissors ain't too far a cry from a blade, by my measure."
        
        *if (pronvar = 1)
            "I should be wary of you pressing it to my throat, then."
        *else
            "Then perhaps I should find a different barber. I should hate to lose my head, should your old instincts decide to kick in."
        
        "Oh, come off it. You should know a harmless elder when you see one, eh?" he says, grinning. There's a genuine warmth to his voice—one that prevents you from telling him he has the devil's own smile. "If I had designs for your throat, it'd be right stupid of me to claim it here. Spray blood all over my shop? Not [i]bloody[/i] likely."
        
        He meets your gaze hopefully in the mirror, and after a beat, decides he doesn't like what he sees. "Tough crowd," he says. "Fine, fine, I get the message. Look ahead, then, eh? Let's be on with it."
    #"You'll hear no complaints from me, at least. Thanks for doing this."
        *set noble %+ 15
        You're thanking him for more than just the haircut, in truth—though if the older man's caught on, he doesn't show it.
        
        "Polite," Faustus remarks, sounding mildly surprised. "They still make brats like you these days?"
        
        "I'm well into my adult years," you protest.
        
        "From where I'm standing, you dropped out of your mother's womb yesterday," he says, shaking his head. "In any case, don't worry about it, eh? Just make sure to go to Old Faustus's when you need a snip. And pay me next time!" he lets out a hearty laugh, the sound reverberating through the room. You cringe at the sonic assault, though self-restraint keeps your hands from reaching for your ears.
        
        "I'll…keep that in mind,' you promise.
        
        "Swell," Faustus replies, satisfied. "Look ahead, then, eh? Let's be on with it."
    #"You'll forgive me for not holding my breath."
        *set optimistic %- 15
        You hear Faustus sniff behind you, offended. "Downright hurtful, that. Everyone's so quick to judge by the covers these days."
        
        You scoff at that. "On the bright side," you say, "if this barber thing doesn't work out, I'm sure the Karosa Theatre'd be happy to take you in."
        
        He gives you a light tap on the side of the head. "You sound just like Myst, telling me I'm dramatic all the time. Maybe it's [i]you[/i] what's emotionally stunted, eh? Food for thought."
        
        "Myst and I both, then? Speaks volumes on your parenting."
        
        Faustus gives you a look in the mirror. "I have a response," he says after a while. "But something tells me you'll run circles around me regardless."
        
        "A defeatist," you say, clicking your tongue. "I can imagine the Saber was glad when ${falco} and ${yusuha} took over."
        
        "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up," the man says, clicking his tongue. "Make a mockery of the man giving you free shit. I swear, kids these days…"
        
        "Sorry things have changed in the days since [i]your[/i] childhood. How many centuries has it been again?"
        
        Faustus presses his lips together so hard you fear he might draw blood, and sagely decides that he did not hear your barb. "Look firmly ahead, eh?" he says, smiling beatifically. As beatifically as his grizzled features allow, at any rate. "Let us be on with things."
    #I don't say anything. He looks like the type to enjoy the sound of his own voice.
        *set charming %- 15
        Faustus's expression twists into something that might have passed for a pout, were it not for his grizzled features. "Aye, I find that many tend to clam up in my presence. But I thought we had something of a camaraderie, you and I."
        
        You fix your gaze on his reflection and sigh, deciding to humor him. "Camaraderie? I leaned on you for ten minutes, if even that."
        
        Faustus lights up. The older man appears to have tallied the reply, surly though it may be, as a win. "All the more reason not to be a stranger, eh?" he says. There's a genuine warmth to his voice—one that prevents you from telling him he has the devil's own smile. "Might be that we'll become thick as thieves with a bit more time. I'm a good one to have in your corner—ask anyone in the Saber."
        
        You give him a withering look. "Don't you have any friends your own age?"
        
        "None that can hold their own in a fight," Faustus replies, sighing. "But from what the grapevine tells me, you'd give me a run for my money. Might be that you'll run circles around me, even."
        
        "I thought you were retired?"
        
        "That I am. Doesn't mean I can't still swing a blade, eh?" Faustus laughs good-naturedly, the sound echoing in the spacious room. "Bad leg or not, I can still run circles around most of the Saber. Reckon you'd be any different?"
        
        "Why not just carry on fighting?" you say, in lieu of answering him. "Clearly you still have the appetite for it."
        
        "For a round or two, aye. But a whole campaign on the road'll put me six feet under right quick." Faustus shakes his head, sighing. "But look at me blathering on. You're here for a reason, eh? Let's get on with it, then."
    *if (garilolives = false) #I don't say anything. Seeing Faustus brings back memories of that night.
        *set charming %- 15
        Faustus stares at your reflection with an unreadable look in his eyes, his grip tightening around your shoulders. "You've been through a lot," he says at last, heaving a long sigh. "I wish this world wasn't so intent on putting good kids through it."
        
        You feel the tension release as his hands leave your shoulders. Faustus busies himself with inspecting the tools of his trade—scissors, hairbrushes, the works. They slot in oddly in his large, battle-scarred hands. "It's not much that I can do for you beyond these walls, but I'll make sure to take good care of your here," Faustus says, smiling hesitantly. "I know it ain't much. But out there, you'll be going with ${yusuha}, and that @{yvar guy|girl}'s a good one, at ${yhis} core. $!{yhe}'ll do a proper job of looking out for you."
        
        Faustus places his hands upon the chair and swivels it to face the mirror. You catch sight of your own reflection, those eyes which seem to reflect so little—a violent contrast to the way they once were, before everything went awfully, irreversibly wrong. The same ${build} frame, that same slant of your jaw. And yet all of it seems a little skewed, a little crumpled, as if whatever lies underneath couldn't fill you all the way up.
        
        Perhaps that change is only visible to your eyes. In truth, it's shocking how little this vessel of yours has changed since that first night in Leaf End, when the very same face stared back at you through ripples in the bathwater.
        *choice
            #Right down to the last strand of hair.
                *goto hairsetnew
            *selectable_if (hairlength != "long") #Actually, my hair had grown longer during the war. I had other priorities then.
                How long is [i]longer[/i]?
                *choice
                    *selectable_if (hairlength = "bald") #Buzzed.
                        *set hairlength "buzzed"
                        *set hairgrow true
                    *selectable_if ((hairlength = "bald") or (hairlength = "buzzed")) #Short.
                        *set hairlength "short"
                        *set hairgrow true
                    *selectable_if ((hairlength = "bald") or ((hairlength = "short") or (hairlength = "buzzed"))) #Bobbed.
                        *set hairlength "bobbed"
                        *set hairgrow true
                    *selectable_if (hairlength != "shoulder-length") #Shoulder-length.
                        *set hairlength "shoulder-length"
                        *set hairgrow true
                    #Long.
                        *set hairlength "long"
                        *set hairgrow true
                    #Now that I take a closer look, I think it's actually around the same length it's always been.
                        *goto hairsetnew
        *label hairsetnew
        *if (hairlength = "bald")
            "Normally this is the part I offer you a haircut, but obviously that's not an option for you," he says, lightly tapping your shaved head.
            *goto haircutset
        "Hair like this might not be good to keep around," Faustus says, gently rubbing the locks of your ${haircolor} hair between his fingers. Choppy. Coarse. Memories of the war still linger on every strand, and the week you spent in the dungeon certainly hasn't done it any favors. And though your life in Thulrum has, but for one day, been peaceful, it had hardly been enough to undo years and years of accumulated damage. "I'd suggest a trim, at the very least. Or, if you prefer, we could just chop it shorter for good measure. Some folks like that, when they first come here."

        Faustus pauses his explanation there, as if allowing space for you to interject. And when you meet him with silence, he continues his explanation swiftly, as if to overwrite that missing beat of conversation. "The refugees, I mean. And the migrants. Even the odd Saber or two—always some messed up shit they left behind, so it's something of a symbol for them. A fresh start." The man shrugs, pulling out a pair of scissors from the pockets of his belt. "Some of them say it helps. Figured you might like to give it a go."
        *choice
            #"You can do as you like."
                Faustus nods softly, the motion nearly imperceptible.
                *if (hairlength = "buzzed")
                    *set hairlength "bald"
                    "I'll shave it all off, then. Hair like yours grow back quickly; if you're looking to keep it that short, it'll be good to start fresh. And who knows? You might even grow attached to having no hair. Wouldn't be the first time it happened…"
                *elseif (hairlength = "short")
                    *set hairlength "buzzed"
                    "Then I'll shave most of it off, leave a bit behind. The part up top isn't as bad as it is near the tips. It'll grow back to its old length before long, healthier than ever. Or you could keep it that length, if you prefer…"
                *elseif ((hairlength = "bobbed") or (hairlength = "shoulder-length"))
                    *set hairlength "short"
                    "Then I'll chop most of it off, leave the healthy parts behind. I won't lie to you, it's a bit of a drastic change; but it can always grow back to its former length with a little patience. Or you could always keep it that length, if you prefer…"
                *else
                    *comment long
                    *set hairlength "shoulder-length"
                    "Then I'll chop around half of it off, leave hair down to your shoulders. Damage isn't so bad this high up, and it can pull through for you with a bit of care and patience. 'Course, that's easier said than done, but with me around…"

                Faustus's spiel fades into white noise as he begins to work, scissors snipping away at tangled clumps of hair.
                *label oddtransfix
                You find yourself oddly transfixed by the sight, your eyes following the strands as they break free of their tethers and fall lifelessly to the ground. You feel something cold and unpleasant curl at the pit of your stomach, grasping futilely to give it a name. You come up empty, even when Faustus finishes his work, a stale silence taking up space where his mindless banter once was.

                "There it is," you register Faustus saying, the man looking down at his handiwork. "It's a different look, but not a bad one—by my reckoning, anyhow. Here's hoping you grow to like it yourself." Faustus waves his hand to summon a small gust of wind, then, and you feel it brushing over you, blowing away at the stray strands still clinging to your clothes.

                "And that takes care of the hair," Faustus says, smiling beatifically—though not without a hint of smugness nestled in there. "That only leaves Myst. Strange, though—that girl should've been along for a while now…"
                *goto haircutset
            #"Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that."
                When Faustus speaks next, his tone is laced with relief. "How much shorter are we talking about?" he says, just a touch too quickly.
                *choice
                    #Bald. I want everything chopped off.
                        *set hairlength "bald"
                        "That so?" Faustus says, an eager glint in his eyes. "Your wish is my command, kid."
                    *selectable_if ((hairlength != "bald") and (hairlength != "buzzed")) #Buzzed.
                        *set hairlength "buzzed"
                        "That so?" Faustus says, an eager glint in his eyes. "Your wish is my command, kid."
                    *selectable_if (((hairlength = "long") or (hairlength = "shoulder-length")) or (hairlength = "bobbed")) #Short.
                        *set hairlength "short"
                        "A good choice," Faustus says, his smile widening. "You can rest easy. I'll do a good job of it."
                    *selectable_if ((hairlength = "long") or (hairlength = "shoulder-length")) #Bobbed.
                        *set hairlength "bobbed"
                        "A good choice," Faustus says, his smile widening. "You can rest easy. I'll do a good job of it."
                    *selectable_if (hairlength = "long") #Shoulder-length.
                        *set hairlength "shoulder-length"
                        "A good choice," Faustus says, his smile widening. "You can rest easy. I'll do a good job of it."
                    
                *label faustushum
                Faustus hums a slightly out-of-tune ditty to himself as he works, scissors snipping away at tangled clumps of hair.
                *goto oddtransfix
            #"Just the trim."
                "Your wish is my command," Faustus says, giving your shoulder one last pat—a slightly awkward gesture, but not an unkind one—before beginning his work on your hair.

                *goto faustushum
            #"I'm fine how I am."
                Faustus's brow quirks up. "Change of heart?"
                    
                "Mm," you confirm.
                    
                Faustus makes no move to lower his scissors. "You sure, kid?" he says, the ghost of a whine underlying his gruff voice.
                    
                You give his reflection an apologetic smile. "I'm sure."
                    
                "Alright," Faustus says, sighing. He stows his tools on a cabinet flanking the large mirror in front of you, reaching instead for a hairbrush and some sort of bottled liquid on the boudoir. "I'll get you freshened up, at least. But when the time does come that you need a snip, be sure to swing by, yeah?"
                    
                You grunt noncommittally, and Faustus seems happy to settle with that. He slides his gaze towards the doorway, then, one foot tapping a steady rhythm against the wooden floor. "All that remains is Myst, then. It's strange, though—she should've been along for a while now…"
                *goto haircutset

You do as he bids and find yourself reflected in the mirror. The same ${build} frame and keen ${eyecolor} eyes, if a bit jaded now from all that you've been through. It's shocking how little your reflection has changed since that first night in Leaf End, when the very same face stared back at you through ripples in the bathwater.

*label rightdown
*choice
    #Right down to the last strand of hair.
        *goto hairset
    *selectable_if (hairlength != "long") #Actually, my hair had grown longer during the war. I had other priorities then.
        How long is [i]longer[/i]?
        *choice
            *selectable_if (hairlength = "bald") #Buzzed.
                *set hairlength "buzzed"
                *set hairgrow true
            *selectable_if ((hairlength = "bald") or (hairlength = "buzzed")) #Short.
                *set hairlength "short"
                *set hairgrow true
            *selectable_if ((hairlength = "bald") or ((hairlength = "short") or (hairlength = "buzzed"))) #Bobbed.
                *set hairlength "bobbed"
                *set hairgrow true
            *selectable_if (hairlength != "shoulder-length") #Shoulder-length.
                *set hairlength "shoulder-length"
                *set hairgrow true
            #Long.
                *set hairlength "long"
                *set hairgrow true
            #Now that I take a closer look, I think it's actually around the same length it's always been.
                *goto hairset
*label hairset
*if (hairlength = "bald")
    "I've said it before, but I really [i]am[/i] good at my craft. Shame that you'll be missing out on it, really," Faustus says, lightly tapping your shaved head. "Still, I'll get you freshened up, eh? Least I could do." Faustus rifles through a cabinet flanking the large mirror in front of you, from the depths of which he retrieves a set of sprays and oils. He proceeds to give you a fragrant, relaxing massage, his expert touch at once firm and gentle. Unwillingly, you catch yourself almost dozing off in the seat—evidence of Faustus's skill, surely, but also your own dulling instincts. Over the course of the war, you'd found it difficult to slumber in your own cot; it's something of a miracle that sleep could come so close with a virtual stranger close by, affable though he may be.
    
    The massage lasted some fifteen or so minutes, by your estimation, and at the end of it Faustus meets your gaze in the mirror, looking downright smug. Doubtless, he'd managed to catch your lapse in lucidity. "Not half bad, eh?"
    
    *if (noble > 50)
        "You've a real talent," you agree. "What possessed you to be a warrior at all? You should have your own parlor in the upstreets of Salantira City."
        
        Faustus guffaws at that. "Aye, flattery will get you everywhere. You can swing by whenever—I'll give you a right generous discount."
        
        "Ah, there it is—the sales pitch."
        
        "I run a barbershop, not a charity," Faustus says, clicking his tongue. "At any rate, I s'pose we're done here. Strange, though—Myst should've been along for a while now…"
    *else
        "Not half bad," you begrudgingly agree. "Perhaps you should abandon this haircut business altogether. It's clear your talents lie elsewhere."
        
        "You've a mean backhand," Fautus complains. "And at any rate you've yet to see me in my element."
        
        "And from the looks of it," you say, sliding your gaze to the empty parlor, "neither has anyone else."
        
        "I'll let you have this one," he says after a while. "Because I'm wise and generous."
        
        "And I bet you'll let me have all the others, too," you sniff. "Because you're wise and generous."
        
        Faustus shakes his head, refusing the chance to get another jab in. "At any rate, I s'pose we're done here. Strange, though—Myst should've been along for a while now…"
    *goto haircutset

"You've been through some messed up things, huh," Faustus says, trailing his fingers through locks of your ${haircolor} hair. Choppy. Coarse. Memories of the war still linger on every strand, and the week you spent in the dungeon certainly hadn't done it any favors. And though your life in Thulrum has, but for one day, been peaceful, it had hardly been enough to undo years and years of accumulated damage. "You're in dire need for a trim, at least. Or, if you prefer, we could just chop it shorter for good measure. Some folks like that, when they first come here."

"Who's folks?"

"Migrants, refugees, even the odd Saber here and there. Always some messed up shit they left behind, so it's something of a symbol for them. A fresh start." The man shrugs, pulling out a pair of scissors from the pockets of his belt. "Some of them say it helps. Figured you might like to give it a go."

*choice
    #"Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that."
        Faustus gives you a soft, almost fatherly smile. "How much shorter are we talking about?"
        *choice
            #Bald. I want everything chopped off.
                *set hairlength "bald"
                "That so?" he says, an eager glint in his eyes. "Your wish is my command."
            *selectable_if ((hairlength != "bald") and (hairlength != "buzzed")) #Buzzed.
                *set hairlength "buzzed"
                "That so?" he says. "Your wish is my command."
            *selectable_if (((hairlength = "long") or (hairlength = "shoulder-length")) or (hairlength = "bobbed")) #Short.
                *set hairlength "short"
                "I hear you. Watch closely—this'll be the best damn cut of your whole life."
            *selectable_if ((hairlength = "long") or (hairlength = "shoulder-length")) #Bobbed.
                *set hairlength "bobbed"
                "I hear you. Watch closely—this'll be the best damn cut of your whole life."
            *selectable_if (hairlength = "long") #Shoulder-length.
                *set hairlength "shoulder-length"
                "I hear you. Watch closely—this'll be the best damn cut of your whole life."
        
        Faustus immediately gets to work with his scissors, snipping away at your hair with unexpected skill. True to his promise, his mastery isn't too far a cry from that of royal Salantir barbers—another facet of this graying old warrior that you hadn't expected.
        
        It is roughly fifteen minutes before he puts his scissors away, looking down at his handiwork with a satisfied gaze. He swivels the strange chair around with his feet, his smile growing increasingly smug as he inspects your new haircut. "What'd I tell you? I'm an old hand at this," he says, laughing heartily as he does. "What say you, kid? Not half bad, eh?"
        *goto nothalfbad
    #"Just the trim sounds good to me."
        "Aye, and it'll be the best damn trim of your life," he says, teeth flashing in his grin.
        
        Faustus immediately gets to work with his scissors, snipping away at your hair with unexpected skill. True to his promise, his mastery isn't too far a cry from that of royal Salantir barbers—another facet of this graying old warrior you hadn't expected.
        
        It is barely ten minutes before he puts his scissors away, looking down at his handiwork with a satisfied gaze. He swivels the strange chair around with his feet, his smile growing increasingly smug all the while. "You seeing this, right? So much neater already," he says, laughing heartily as he does. "Not half bad, eh?"
        *label nothalfbad
        
        *if (noble > 50)
            "You've a real talent," you agree. "What possessed you to be a warrior at all? You should have your own parlor in the upstreets of Salantira City."

            Faustus guffaws at that. "Aye, flattery will get you everywhere. You can swing by whenever—I'll give you a right generous discount."

            "Ah, there it is—the sales pitch."

            "I run a barbershop, not a charity," Faustus says, clicking his tongue. "At any rate, I s'pose we're done here. Strange, though—Myst should've been along for a while now…"
        *else
            "Not half bad," you begrudgingly agree. "Perhaps you should abandon this haircut business altogether. It's clear your talents lie elsewhere."

            "You've a mean backhand," Fautus complains. "And at any rate, you've yet to see me in my element."

            "And from the looks of it," you say, sliding your gaze to the empty parlor, "neither has anyone else."

            "I'll let you have this one," he says after a while. "Because I'm wise and generous."

            "And I bet you'll let me have all the others, too," you sniff. "Because you're wise and generous."

            Faustus shakes his head, refusing the chance to get another jab in. "At any rate, I s'pose we're done here. Strange, though—Myst should've been along for a while now…"
    #"I'm fine, thanks."
        Faustus's brow quirks up. "Change of heart?"
                    
        "Mm," you confirm.
                    
        Faustus makes no move to lower his scissors. "You sure, kid?" he says, the ghost of a whine underlying his gruff voice.
                    
        You give his reflection an apologetic smile. "I'm sure."
                    
        "Alright," Faustus says, sighing. He stows his tools on a cabinet flanking the large mirror in front of you, reaching instead for a hairbrush and some sort of bottled liquid on the boudoir. "I'll get you freshened up, at least. But when the time does come that you need a snip, be sure to swing by, yeah?"
                    
        You grunt noncommittally, and Faustus seems happy to settle with that. He slides his gaze towards the doorway, then, one foot tapping a steady rhythm against the wooden floor. "All that remains is Myst, then. It's strange, though—she should've been along for a while now…"
        *goto haircutset

*label haircutset

*page_break "Sorry I'm late!"

Myst bursts through the door like a small whirlwind, a stack of three boxes stacked precariously in her reedy arms. She teeters to one side midway, owing to her haste; you bolt forward in your seat out of instinct, though Faustus beats you to the punch.

"Easy there, girl," he says. He places his hands on Myst's arms in a bid to steady her—the girl, for her part, only gives him a look.

"I had it in hand," she complains, though there's no bite in her voice. "And I'd appreciate it if you didn't talk to me like I'm a [i]horse[/i]."

"You used to be so cute," Faustus sighs wearily. "But your manners went away when your youth did, it seems. Your mother would weep if she saw you today, daughter."

"Better my manners than my hair," she says, squinting up at Faustus's head, clean as a freshly-washed plate. "I'll bet my savings she'd weep harder at [i]that[/i]."

*if (hairlength = "bald")
    Faustus slides his gaze briefly to you, and then back towards Myst. "Daughter, you're being insensitive."
    
    Myst knits her eyebrows, before turning her head in your direction. Her eyes widen when they meet your eyes—or the spot just above them, anyhow. "Oh," she says. "Sorry."
    
    You give her a wordless shrug, gesturing instead to the boxes she holds in her arms. "Faustus said you had something for me. I assume this is it?"
*else
    "You'd cast your own mother as so shallow a woman," Faustus says, clicking his tongue. "When you were but a lass, she said to me herself—"
    
    "Later," Myst interrupts, swiveling around towards you, rather pointedly showing Faustus her back. "We've business to attend to."
    
    Your eyes shift between her and the boxes she holds in her arms. "Faustus said you had something for me. I assume this is it?"
    
"You assume correctly." Myst strides across the room and sets her boxes down, one at a time, on the table in front of you. You rise from your seat as she does away with the covers, and find that nestled within are…a bunch of fabric. It isn't until Myst unfolds one of them—a tunic with a thin, iridescent sash pre-sewn onto its hem—that you realize that [i]all[/i] of them are clothes. "I'm sure you're tired of wearing acolyte fare at this point, so I pulled some strings with the Church tailors. With the [i]ashai's[/i] permission, naturally." She holds the tunic up against your torso and, satisfied that it seems to fit you, moves on to a couple of other objects. Pants that tighten and gather around the knees and ankles, a light jacket that clasps twice on the chest, and flares out down at the thighs—all clothing in the Thulrum style, which blends Old Arcadian and modern Salantir fashions. "Hm, this one has to be taken in, I think."

*choice
    #"I can well afford my own clothes. The Church [i]does[/i] pay me a stipend."
        "But you haven't. Purchased your own clothes, I mean. I'm sure you've had other priorities—I hear you've been busy lately—so I thought I'd strike down one thing from your to-do list. I owe you a bunch and then some, and this is well within my purview as Quartermaster."
        
        Faustus peeks over Myst's shoulder, and whistles when he catches sight of the piece in her hands. "Oh, that one's rather nice in make, isn't it?" You follow his gaze down—it's a longshirt he's looking at, made of thin, see-through fabric that branches out into metal-ringed braids behind the waist. A popular style among the Salantir nobility during summer months, typically paired with a buttoned jacket cropped below the chest. "That material…sillasilk? Obon cotton?"
        
        *label bothalchemi
        "Both. An alchemical polymer, two parts silla to one part obon. Real top-shelf stuff," Myst answers, looking rather proud. "It wasn't easy prying this material from the [i]razerai's[/i] allotment, but I'll be damned if that old witch gets her grubby hands on this over the hero of the hour. It'll be cool and smooth to the touch; perfect for the season." She holds it up against your torso, again nodding in satisfaction. You wonder briefly if she won't get in trouble for her reckless requisition, but decide in the end that Myst likely knows what she's doing. To say nothing of the fact that she's apparently backed by Tahlia herself.
        
        You watch as Myst get to the last box—the smallest of the bunch, and the only one to not have been opened. "Ah…this one, I can't take credit for, I'm afraid."
        
        You step forward and around her, fingers brushing against the box's cover. "What do you mean?"
        
        "The [i]ashai[/i] arranged for this one herself," Myst says. "I'm given to understand that it's not for day-to-day use."
    #"You've more than repaid what favor I'm owed. This seems...excessive."
        "I disagree," Myst says quickly. "You saved innumerable lives that day, and preserved the dignity of the Day of Arrival besides. And—take it straight from the horse's mouth—you've saved us Church workers from weeks and weeks of damage control and paperwork. Those of the acolytes in the know sing your praises to this day, you know. As for me, I'll do what I can on the practical side of things."
        
        "Daughter," Faustus says, shaking his head. "You've always spoken highly of ${fname}, but I fear you've slipped into hero-worship proper, now."
        
        "Nonsense. What I worship is [i]meritocracy[/i]," Myst says, unbothered by the blasphemy in her words. She holds up a piece against your torso, then—a longshirt, made of thin, see-through fabric that branches out into metal-ringed braids behind the waist. A popular style among the Salantir nobility during summer months, typically paired with a buttoned jacket cropped below the chest. "Old man, you see this material?"
        
        Faustus peeks over Myst's shoulder and whistles, apparently impressed. "That's rather nice in make, isn't it?" he says. "That material…sillasilk? Obon cotton?"
        
        "Both. An alchemical polymer, two parts silla to one part obon. Real top-shelf stuff," Myst answers, looking rather proud. "The [i]razerai[/i] put in a request the moment this material hit our stores, that shameless witch. She always was a quick one—quick to hide in the Seat sanctum, too, while ${fname} fought and bled in the streets. Like hell I'm going to let her have it." She holds the longshirt up against your torso, again nodding in satisfaction. "It'll be cool and smooth to the touch; perfect for the season."
        
        You wonder briefly if she won't get in trouble for her reckless requisition, but decide in the end that Myst likely knows what she's doing. To say nothing of the fact that she's apparently backed by Tahlia herself.
        
        You watch as Myst get to the last box—the smallest of the bunch, and the only one to not have been opened. "Ah…this one, I can't take credit for, I'm afraid."
        
        You step forward and around her, fingers brushing against the box's cover. "What do you mean?"
        
        "The [i]ashai[/i] arranged for this one herself," Myst says. "I'm given to understand that it's not for day-to-day use."
    #"Well, if you insist, I won't say no to your generosity."
        Myst smiles—a small, lopsided thing. "Good. I came prepared for the whole song and dance, but I'm glad you've saved us both the trouble."
        
        "Some strings you must have pulled," Faustus remarks, watching passively as Myst measures the clothes up against your body. "These are of fine make, one and all. That one in particular," he says, pointing to a garb Myst now holds in her hands. A longshirt, made of thin, see-through fabric that branches out into metal-ringed braids behind the waist. A popular sttyle among the Salantir nobility during summer months, typically paired with a buttoned jacket cropped below the chest. "That material…sillasilk? Obon cotton?"
        
        *goto bothalchemi
    #"Who's to say I haven't grown attached to these acolyte garbs, hm?"
        Myst gives you a withering stare. "There's no accounting for taste," she finally says, shrugging. "Still, it wouldn't hurt to have a full closet."
        
        "And what a fine closet it will be," Faustus remarks, watching passively as myst measures the clothes up against your body. "These are of fine make, one and all. That one in particular," he says, pointing to a garb Myst now holds in her hands. A longshirt, made of thin, see-through fabric that branches out into metal-ringed braids behind the waist. A popular sttyle among the Salantir nobility during summer months, typically paired with a buttoned jacket cropped below the chest. "That material…sillasilk? Obon cotton?"
        
        *goto bothalchemi
        
After a moment of hesitance, you hook your fingers under the flaps and nudge the box open. There's a garment there, neatly folded; you pull it free from its container and give it a good shake, eyeing the material as it cascades down to its full length.

Not for day-to-day use, Myst had remarked, and you can see it plain now. The garb is clearly meant for the road, when you'd be sent out to run Tahlia's errands for her.

It is…

*choice
    #A simple hood-like robe, paired with a belted, high-collared tunic and sensible trousers.
        Easy to move around in, while still affording you a large degree of protection against magical attacks. There's a reason why most mages regard this style as the old faithful.
    #A silky, flowing robe, with a form-fitting torso area and loose, flaring sleeves.
        A bit difficult to move around in, but worth it given the larger amount of protection it affords you against magical attacks.
    #A two-piece ensemble that will leave your midriff bare, covered on all sides by an embroidered, see-through robe.
        The robe's thin material means that it will compromise some of the magical defense robes would normally afford you, but it's very easy and pleasant to move around in.
    #A sleek form-fitting one-piece that will cover your whole body, paired with a simple sheet robe to be affixed to your right shoulder.
        The one-piece will be a bit uncomfortable, no doubt, but will minimize the possibility of assailants using your garment against you. The material offers little purchase, and the sheet robe is easily shed, if it comes to that.
    #A robe fitted in the shape of a dress, with a puffy knee-length skirt and a plunging neckline.
        A bit impractical, given how it compromises the degree of magical protection you'll glean from the garment. But it's quite easy to move around in, and certainly stylish.
    #A bulky, old-fashioned robe generally favored by older members of the Mage Tower.
        Second-to-none in terms of how much magical protection it affords you, though you imagine it'll be a bit unwieldy to move around in.

Looking over the robe, you find that the color Tahlia has apparently picked out for it suits your tastes to an uncanny degree. The garment is largely...

*choice
    #...black in color...
        *set robecolor "black"
    #...indigo in color...
        *set robecolor "indigo"
    #...burgundy in color...
        *set robecolor "burgundy"
    #...forest-green in color...
        *set robecolor "forest-green"
    #...violet in color...
        *set robecolor "violet"
    #...gold in color...
        *set robecolor "gold"
    #...bright red in color...
        *set robecolor "bright red"
    #...tangerine in color...
        *set robecolor "tangerine"
    #...bright yellow in color...
        *set robecolor "bright yellow"
    #...sky-blue in color...
        *set robecolor "sky-blue"
    #...sea-green in color...
        *set robecolor "sea-green"
    #...silver in color...
        *set robecolor "silver"
    #...white in color...
        *set robecolor "white"

The garment is largely ${robecolor} in color, with...
*choice
    #...black accents.
        *set robeaccent "black"
    #...indigo accents.
        *set robeaccent "indigo"
    #...burgundy accents.
        *set robeaccent "burgundy"
    #...forest-green accents.
        *set robeaccent "forest-green"
    #...violet accents.
        *set robeaccent "violet"
    #...gold accents.
        *set robeaccent "gold"
    #...bright red accents.
        *set robeaccent "bright red"
    #...tangerine accents.
        *set robeaccent "tangerine"
    #...bright yellow accents.
        *set robeaccent "bright yellow"
    #...sky-blue accents.
        *set robeaccent "sky-blue"
    #...sea-green accents.
        *set robeaccent "sea-green"
    #...silver accents.
        *set robeaccent "silver"
    #...white accents.
        *set robeaccent "white"
    #...no accents.
        *set robeaccent "none"

The sight of the thing leaves you feeling…conflicted. On one hand, the garment's been made completely to your taste, in style and color both. But it goes without saying that you've never talked shop over the matter with Tahlia—leaving you to wonder how the priestess could have grasped your preferences with such uncanny accuracy.

Even as you marvel over the garb, something manages to catch your eye at the box's base, only visible now that the clothes have been removed. Faustus, following your gaze down, falls into a pensive silence when he beholds what lies there.

"A Saber mask," he says, after a while. "So that's the way of things."

Beside him, Myst's expression has taken a similarly somber turn. "Par for the course for the [i]ashai[/i], I suppose," she says. "Wouldn't be like her to let such a talented fighter pass her by."

"You joined on your own terms, then, @{pronvar lad|lass|brat}?" Faustus asks, concerned. "The [i]ashai[/i] can be pretty single-minded when it comes down to it. Wouldn't do if she pressed you into her service against your will."

*choice
    #"Tahlia and her people are doing good work; I chose to do this of my own free will."
        Faustus gives you a smile, though that hint of worry never quite leaves his eyes. "Bless your heart, then, kid," he says. "It's a rare thing, finding one proficient enough to be considered for the Saber's ranks. Rarer still that they'd be in it 'cause they saw the vision."
        
        Your brows knit as you chew on his words. "Then what moves the others? Coin?"
        
        "That'll do the trick, for some. The Church certainly isn't exacting when it comes to funding the [i]ashai[/i]'s operations, and that trickles down to the rank and file," Myst says. "Others still are…burned by what they experienced under the Parami and Salantir. And they're out there because they've a thirst for something money can't buy."
        
        "But there [i]is[/i] a consensus—that Arvanand as it stands now is on the wrong path. That Arcadians ought to be freed of their misery," Faustus says. "The disagreement is on whether they hold the people's concerns over their own. And that is a disagreement that the [i]ashai[/i] is happy to work with, so long as it brings her results."
        
        "In any case, it remains a fact that the Saber does necessary work," Myst says. "And it puts my mind at ease that you'll be in their ranks."
        
        "Which brings us back to this," Faustus says, peering back into the box. "Try holding it, eh? See how it feels in your hands."
    #"Would be a lie to say I'm pleased about it, but she and I have an arrangement."
        Faustus nods thoughtfully. "Aye, that's the way it should be," he says. "You must know already that the Saber isn't one to do light work. If she's promised some reward for you in exchange…"
        
        "Then you'd be among friends," Myst finishes. "There are plenty in the Saber that's driven by righteous fervor, that Arvanand as it currently stands ought to change. But the [i]ashai[/i] is a pragmatist, and her net has reach beyond the idealists."
        
       You tilt your head, considering. Tahlia's promise to you—that is, the Song's continuation—is certainly a manner of reward, but you can't imagine it's something Tahlia doles out in handfuls. "What moves them, then? Coin?"
       
       "That'll do the trick, for some. The Church certainly isn't exacting when it comes to funding the [i]ashai[/i]'s operations, and that trickles down to the rank and file," Myst says. "Others still are…burned by what they experienced under the Parami and Salantir. And they're out there because they've a thirst for something money can't buy."
       
       "She has violent killers on retainer, then," you mutter grimly.
       
       "None that don't respond to culling from the Saber's leadership," Faustus says. "And take it from me—they run a tight ship. Excesses are consistently disciplined, else all hell would have broken loose a long time ago."
       
       "In any case, it remains the fact that the Saber does necessary work," Myst adds. "And though I wish your joining them were under more ideal circumstances, I'm regardless at ease that you'll be in their ranks."
       
       "Which brings us back to this," Faustus says, peering back into the box. "Try holding it, eh? See how it feels in your hands."
    #"It almost seems like you've a bad opinion of the Saber, saying it like this."
        Myst and Faustus share a brief glance. "It's not like that," Myst begins, her jaw tight. "It's just that—the Saber gets up to some pretty dangerous, unsavory business. They typically recruit from with the Church ranks, or born-and-bred Thulrum citizens. Knowing that, I can't help but feel that you've been pressed into the Saber's service prematurely."
        
        "The Saber does necessary work, and I think it's a force for good when all's said and done. Wouldn't have spent half my years in its service, otherwise," Faustus says. "But the missions they get up to carry tremendous dangers, and even as powerful as you are, it'll pay to be careful."
        
        You've gathered as much through your conversations with Tahlia, in truth. The Saber's charge is to solve Thulrum's most pressing problems, whatever the cost may be. It follows, then, that there are times that the ledger is balanced with their own lives. "Then the Saber's members risk a great deal, if they enter Tahlia's service willingly," you say.
        
        "Many find the cause well worth the sacrifice," Faustus says. "Though there are plenty in its ranks moved by more pragmatic concerns."
        
        "Coin, then."
        
        "That'll do the trick, for some. The Church certainly isn't exacting when it comes to funding the [i]ashai[/i]'s operations, and that trickles down to the rank and file," Myst says. "Others still are…burned by what they experienced under the Parami and Salantir. And they're out there because they've a thirst for something money can't buy."

        You swing your attention towards her, eyes hard. "Vengeance? And Tahlia lets them have their fill?"
        
        "She curbs their excesses, as does the arcanists in her service," Faustus answers. "But a certain level of bloodlust can be helpful when the mission calls for it, and the [i]ashai[/i] is not above leveraging it, if it brings her results."
        
        "Perhaps we're worrying overmuch. Those missions—necessary though they are—tend to be few and far between, and the [i]ashai[/i] isn't likely to press you into doing them, if you're opposed," Myst says. "And for all our reservations, it remains the fact that the Saber does necessary work. And I feel at ease that you'll lend your power to their ranks."
        
        "Which brings us back to this," Faustus says, peering back into the box. "Try holding it, eh? See how it feels in your hands."

You decide to do as much. The mask's surface is smooth and cool to the touch, its size perfectly tailored to your face. It is…

*choice
    #A plain oblong mask, narrow and dull gray, with eye slits that curve upwards in a sinister manner.
        *set mask "plain"
        "As far as Saber masks go, that one's pretty simple. Then again, that lot could certainly tone it down with the dramatics," Myst says.
    #A finely-crafted mask of Imperial make, with slight, delicate features painted with swirling gold colors against a black-and-white surface.
        *set mask "venetian"
        "Isha-on-high, but that [i]is[/i] beautiful," Myst says. "A silver piece says some poor craftsman is nursing his hands from the effort it took to put this together."
    #A deep orange mask inlaid with a smattering of gemstones, its textured surface flaring out around the eyes like wings of flame.
        *set mask "flame"
        "Those gems look as if they're cut by Salantir masters," Myst comments. "A noble could give you a pretty penny if you've a mind to pawn it. Not in Param, though—given recent events, wearing a flame mask to a ball would amount to social suicide."
    #A solid black mask fashioned in the shape of a dragon's head, a faint ruby-red glow shining from underneath its snout.
        *set mask "dragon"
        "You'd be easily mistaken for an Imperial dragoon, I think. Though I suppose, if you're to work in secret, it might help to obfuscate your trail," Myst says.
    #A full-faced helmet fashioned of black steel, featuring prominent horns that glint menacingly as they catch the light.
        *set mask "helmet"
        "You'll look like a proper knight, wearing that," Myst says. "And given the strength you have at your disposal, they ought to be pleased with the association."
    #An intricate mask of preserved flower petals, carefully arranged and bound together by an enchanted twine.
        *set mask "flower"
        "These are rylstalk petals," Myst remarks, eyes wide. It's a name you know well—the nectar is top-shelf material for alchemical poison-making, though you had yet to lay your eyes on the bloom itself. Until now, that is. "I suppose it's apt, given that it's a Saber mask…"
    #A pitch-black veil that would drape down to your neck, to be affixed to its place by a silver circlet.
        *set mask "veil"
        "Obon cotton—enchanted, at that," Myst says as she eyes the material. "The mesh is thin enough that you'll be able to see out clearly, but your features would be properly obfuscated by the spell."

"Catarina worked on this herself, by the looks of it," Faustus says. "She's the Church's best craftsman—you can trust that she did a fine job."

Myst motions for you to place the mask back in. "I'll have these boxes sent to your residence soon," Myst says. "Someone discreet. Wouldn't do for people to see you with your new gear in public."

"Then s'pose our business here is done," Faustus says, turning to address you. "You come round every now and again, you hear? Especially if you need advice on this whole business you're getting into."

*choice
    #"I'll be sure to do that. Thanks for the offer, Faustus."
        "Aye, always happy to help," Faustus says, before shifting his attention towards Myst. "You see that, daughter? Ain't so hard to listen to your father once in a blue moon." 
        
        "$!{theyre} new to your nagging," Myst says, waving her father off. "Give it a couple of months and see if that holds up."
        
        "Your heart's a cold, dead thing, lass," Faustus replies, mournful. "I wonder where it all went wrong…"
    #"Myst, I think your dad's about to adopt me. You really should visit more often."
        *set charming %+ 15
        "Oh, leave him be," Myst says, waving a hand impatiently. "You passed that tavern down the street on your way here, yeah? That whole joint's in love with him and his iron liver. He's not wanting for company, I assure you, just prone to sticking his nose where it doesn't belong."
        
        "Your heart's a cold, dead thing, lass," Faustus replies, mournful. "I wonder where it all went wrong…"
    #"I'll do just fine on my own, thanks."
        "Wasn't my intention to cast doubt on your abilities. We're all aware you can hold your own," Faustus says, sighing. "Still, you get to my age and see what I've seen, and you can't help but to become a worrywart. So just keep the offer in mind, eh? Door's always open."
        
        "Alright, old man. That's enough of your nagging," Myst says, hitting her father lightly on the arm. "And you wonder why I ran for the hills soon as the Church took me on."
        
        "Your heart's a cold, dead thing, lass," Faustus replies, mournful. "I wonder where it all went wrong…"
    #"Aren't you a little [i]too[/i] interested in my business, Faustus?"
        *set optimistic %- 15
        Faustus meets your gaze, considering. "You get to my age and see the things I've seen, and you start to pick up on things," he says after a while. "You don't get that look in your eyes without having been through something twisted and awful. And the way things shook out, you've been made to jump back into the fray."
        
        You feel your jaw tightening. "So you're making a project out of me. Swell."
        
        "It's just that I see a lot of my younger self in you," Faustus confesses, smiling wrily. "I'd have done a lot of things different then, and I thought you could use some perspective. I won't press the issue anymore, but you just remember that the door's always open, eh?"
        
        "Alright, old man. I think that's quite enough," Myst says, hitting her father lightly on the arm. "We had a talk about you sticking your nose where it doesn't belong—now would be a great time to remember it."
        
        "Your heart's a cold, dead thing, lass," Faustus replies, mournful. "I wonder where it all went wrong…"

Faustus and Myst bicker for a while longer, before Myst eventually declares that duty calls, and that she really must be going. You take that opportunity to excuse yourself as well, and Faustus sends you off with a wave as you duck out of his shop and into Thulrum's bustling streets.

*page_break

And it [i]is[/i] bustling, for the events of the Day of Arrival did not keep the city off-balance for long. Once the assailants were dispatched, the Church's personnel began pouring into the streets in droves, quietly sectioning off the ruined parts of the city and burying the bodies they found within. A public funeral procession was held in one of Thulrum's many Ishavak temples, culminating in a second, miniature Arrival, after which the Seat all but strong-armed the city into a state of calm.

It did so by maintaining a constant presence of knights-templar across the city. They performed their roles so valiantly that you wouldn't have known they were run ragged and understaffed besides, had you not been privy to the internal goings-on of the Church. Coupled with the swift reconstruction of entire city blocks, owing largely to the use of artifacts and other magical means at the Church's disposal, order was soon restored with such totality that the night of the attack became but a blip in the average citizen's memory.

So it was that Thulrum returned to its misshapen, disorderly peace, the winding thoroughfare choked with bodies and stalls, the snarl of protruding gables overhead providing welcome shade from the merciless heat. And far beyond the district skyline with its chaotic web of dyed tiles and mud-brick flat tops, the landscape crests upward into a stately hill, upon which the Seat of Isha rises to look over the city entire—a crystalline guardian glittering in the midday sun.

Deep within the structure, Tahlia must be scheming and drafting plans to advance Thulrum's interests, in consult with the Archbishop whom she's all but admitted parrots her every whim. Her machinations had managed to turn destitute, ruined Thulrum into a city of considerable fortune—and all this despite it being open to any refugee that manages to rap on the gates. She has proven herself a consummate tactician, with a ruthless streak she is proud to wear on her sleeve.

Where Thulrum's fortunes are concerned, that may be just as well. It is a silent war that began that night, and Thulrum is still smarting from this first blow, which came like a knife in the dark. Tahlia isn't liable to take this lying down, and her perch in the Seat must currently be a whirlwind of information and firmly-worded missives as she sets out to forge her blood-soaked justice. Whatever course she decides on will likely send shockwaves ripping across Arvanand, and you've a feeling that she'll bid you stand at its center.

*choice
    #Well and good. I've been idle for too long, and I'm itching for the road.
        There is something to be said about a long, well-deserved rest, one in which you could lick your wounds and steel yourself for what lies ahead. But in the end, prolonged recuperation ill suits your habits, formed through a life spent chasing down criminals and monsters, as well as fighting a full war under Leon's banner. It has always been your way to jump from one quarry to the next, slowly but surely whittling the world into a better place. And now that you've been made to twiddle your thumbs, you find that an unpleasant antsiness has begun to gnaw at your being.
        
        Tahlia has made it plain that she plans to use you, though the scale of your deeds during Arrival had bought you a reprieve from her most immediate plans. You suspect what grace period she's willing to extend will soon expire, and you will be made a piece on the chessboard once again.
        
        And that suits you just fine.
    #She's pledged that I'll only move against the deserving; I will hold her to account.
        If Tahlia stays true to her word, then what she asks of you is not so stark a departure from what you chose to do of your own free will. During your years in the White Fang and the war after that, you've erased a great many villains from this world with a burst of spellcraft and magefire, your conscience assured by the terrible weight of their crimes. Bandits who preyed on the innocent and defenseless, nobles who crushed the common man under their heel, bloodthirsty mercenaries easily given to torching and pillaging—you felled them all in your righteous fury, and sleep still came to you easily in the night that followed.
        
        With any luck, the enemies you'll face at Tahlia's behest will be cut from a similar cloth. Certainly there is no shortage of nobles in Param and Salantira both who cling onto the old tales and grudges, who look upon Arcadians with such disdain that the basest of their instincts resurface. It would not be such a bad thing, to remove them from the board rather than leave their victims to their fate. Even the Parami kings of old would have agreed on that point, so long as the victim were not of Arcadian blood.
        
        And were Tahlia to go back on her word—or apply a pathetically lax interpretation of 'deserving'—you are still fully capable of resisting her. She may choose to strong-arm you into the deed should push come to shove, but that will destroy what goodwill she's earned through her treatment of you so far. And while it is difficult to fully trust the priestess, you [i]can[/i] trust that she'd be loathe to engage in such a wasteful act.
    #I earn my freedom in one year; I can grin and bear it until then.
        *set optimistic %+ 15
        Granted, as it stands you can do naught but take Tahlia at her word. She has paid a great deal to buy your assistance, of which only one year is guaranteed. It is a foolish move, all told, but you've been shown time and time again that Tahlia is no fool. Worry pulses in the back of your mind of what she has in store for you, should in the end you choose to break away from her designs.
        
        And yet, if it is her intent to strong-arm you into her cause, she's taken a painfully roundabout way of doing so. She holds your lifeline in her hands, and can use it as a leash anytime she pleases, unleash you like a rabid dog upon Thulrum's enemies. That she's elected to allow you such a wide berth echoes the kindnesses she's' afforded the refugees coming into Thulrum. That they may leave their dark past behind in full, and lead their new life without burdens.
        
        Is it too much to hope that she will treat you just the same? You suppose you'll find out, in due time.
    #Better at the center than at the edges, unaware of the storm to come.
        *set optimistic %- 15
        You look around at the throngs of people surrounding you on the streets, caught in a brash mixture of conversation and commerce, perfectly at ease despite what had happened mere weeks prior. The Church had woven together a fine narrative to explain what happened during the Day of Arrival, an unremarkable tale of common banditry and illegal explosives which allowed them to sweep things under the rug. The common citizen—and indeed, many among the Church's own ranks—have been made ignorant to the true conflict which presently simmers under the surface, threatening to boil over as soon as Tahlia makes her move.
        
        And indeed, perhaps that is for the better. It would do little good for Tahlia to pull a veil of tension and terror over the fair city, especially if she's confident she can shield them from whatever comes next. You, on the other hand, cannot be afforded such bliss. You've pored over tomes of public policy under Salantir masters, and debated Param's leadership on controlling the flow of information in and out of Leon's warcamps. Tahlia plays her hand neatly, and her control over the Church and Thulrum at large is so firm that people would rush to take her at her word. You, on the other hand, can catch the reek of a brewing conflict from leagues away, and know for certain that something foul is on the winds.
        
        You've prepared as best as you can, and now it is all you can do to watch the turning of the vane.

*page_break

The riotous hubbub of Thulrum's commerce district dulls to a murmured din as you cross over to the residential West Ward, easily distinguished by its uneven skyline. Here gathers in a disorderly sprawl single-family estates with ample garden space and tall Church-owned tenements with fifty souls to each building, so tightly bunched together that they can't help but trespass upon one another. The district's narrow roads carve a labyrinthine path through the snarl of buildings, hugging what shade is offered by the wind-buffeted fabrics overhead, clinging for dear life onto the spiderweb of clotheslines.

Farther to the west, the landscape would begin a steep descent into Thulrum's Ancient Ward, a collection of sun-bleached ruins sitting upon a manmade valley carved by magic now lost to time. Along its sides rise walls of packed earth nearly as tall as the Seat, mud-brown and shot through with fissures, looking at any given time mere moments away from caving in. The prevailing scholarly opinion holds that the cliff face was once the site of a hanging garden, housing red and green shrubs dotted with long-stemmed blooms, which cascaded down towards the valley like a waterfall. Nothing remains which could prove the theory, but you're inclined to believe it all the same. Such ostentations would be well within the realm of Old Arcadia's nobles, and it just so happens that the Ancient Ward's ruins were once the compounds of Arcadia's three noblest houses, the Mateus included.

Alas, the Parami invaders were thorough in their destruction of estates and gardens both, and not even decades of abandonment allowed greenery to reclaim the shattered valley. The Ward now offers nothing of value for the residents of Thulrum, excepting the scant few scholar-priests who plumb the ruins' well-trodden depths, hoping to unearth some new window into the past, to Arcadia's days of glory.

The scholars' makeshift shanty hugs the edge of the West Ward, resting upon an incline that overlooks the valley proper. Your journey, on the other hand, ends earlier in the path. Near the West Ward's outer reaches stands a quaint fountain square, around which gathers a collection of shops too humble to claim a spot on Thulrum's true markets. Still, the clusters of residential buildings in the area offer steady traffic along its thoroughfare, and in turn nourishment for this small heart of commerce near the city's edge.

You walk over now to one of these shops, a small brick building with an arched gable and a muddy red roof. The house had sat abandoned for months after its former owner moved uptown into the markets proper. The deed was purchased some weeks prior to your resurrection by the Ishavak Church, who offered it to you at a very low price on account of services rendered.

You elected to take them up on their offer, because…

*choice
    #I was eager to earn a peaceful living through a respectable trade.
        Whether you had intended it or not, your path in life has turned you into a career killer. Time was that not a tremble visited your heart as your spells extinguished dozens of life in one fell swoop, for you had learned to tune out that screaming in the back of your head, even as your foes had joined it in chorus. When you served in the vanguard, you molded fortresses and chokepoints into the waiting arms of a maiden, eager to welcome death into the fold. When you brought up the rear, you paved a pathway of destruction which followed the army like the venomous trail of a serpent, leaving naught but charred trees and broken earth in its wake.
        
        It's all for a good cause, is what you had told yourself—and even now, those words carry the sonorous ring of truth as you think of them. And yet even with a righteous fire burning in your heart, it's impossible to shake the acrid reek of singed flesh and war-smoke, to behold a thousand broken bodies stretching beyond the distant horizon, and not wish that things could be [i]different[/i]. That you could ply a peaceful trade in a city beyond ravage's reach, and be quit of the blood-soaked path you had inadvertently chosen.
        
        With Tahlia having pressed you into her service, such a dream lingers farther still in the horizon. But in securing the shop, you've taken that important first step, and stoked the embers of a dream you had thought impossible to fulfill.
        
        And so it was that when the deal was offered, you immediately collected your things from the Seat, put down roots in your new residence, and got to work.
    #I wanted something to busy myself with, take my mind off the bigger picture.
        You've spent the past few weeks being assailed by questions of justice, loyalty, and necessary evils, and for all that you've allowed them to keep you up at night, still you've yet to arrive at a conclusion you can unabashedly stand behind. Like as not, it's simply your lot to throw your weight behind one side and accept the sacrifice of the other. Certainly you hadn't any quarrel with the thought when you washed the Salantir out of Param in a tide of blood, all in the name of Leon's rebellion. And yet with all you have seen, all you have learned, ever do you grow more uncertain with what is right and wrong. For the bitter truth is that you see them, and you see them [i]all[/i]. People—just people, informed by a hundred different circumstances and mired by a hundred different troubles, trying to make their way in an uncertain world.
        
        You worry incessantly about the way things are headed, the lives that will be lost and destroyed when the clash is inevitably joined. And though unclear, you will also have a role in this tableau, one way or another. The prospect makes you sick to your stomach, and desperate for something—indeed, [i]anything[/i] to do—if only to allow you reprieve from your troubling thoughts.
    #It was a good deal, and an even better investment.
        *set noble %- 15
        Thulrum is far and away the most quickly-growing city on the continent, helmed by competent leadership which seeks to further populate its streets. The West Ward, already burgeoning with refugees and long-time residents alike, is currently the site of multiple city development projects, and land has been marked for use halfway down the slope to the Ancient Ward. You purchased the building for a pittance compared to its current value, as a humble shop in a quaint but well-trafficked corner of the city. But that gap will only widen as Thulrum continues to swell and grow, and the humble fountain square may well be on its way to becoming a city center in its own right.
        
        You would be a fool to pass up on the deal, and you are anything but. With the property having all but fallen into your lap, you collected your things from the Seat a short while after the Day of Arrival, put down roots in your new residence, and got to work.
    #I loathed residing in the Seat; I couldn't be out of there fast enough.
        *set emotional %+ 15
        The Seat fancies itself austere and serene, a holy house within which dwells servants of god who watch over a broken people and offer them salvation. And while that may be true to a certain extent, it has also endowed the clergy with an insufferable, self-important air, where they saw themselves as a savior entire—rather than a mere gear in Tahlia's machine.
        
        You occupy an odd position within the Church's hierarchy, for despite being a fresh recruit you've also plainly earned the favor of the [i]ashai[/i], and shown notable prowess on the battlefield besides. And, true to their bureaucratic natures, the Church's middle ranks had approached you with a frustrating mixture of censure and praise, at once hoping to curry favor with you while also keeping you in check. You've been pulled by your sleeves in the hallways by aspiring sycophants, and whispered about in the mess hall between spoonfuls of Church-issued slop. It has induced in you a longing for your days as a quiet recluse under Senz's watchful gaze, when the Church personnel had thought you some manner of leper and steered well clear of you in fear of contagion.
        
        And that's to say nothing of the fact that the Seat is firmly Tahlia's dominion, and staying there would place you further under her mercy. You harbor no illusions that putting distance between you and the priestess would in any way impair her surveillance, here in a city which sits meekly upon her palm. Still, you find not having to entertain the possibility of running into those red eyes and pale blond locks every time you turn a hallway to be its own kind of liberty, and one that you've learned to be content with.
        
        And so it was that when the deal was offered, you immediately collected your things from the Seat, put down roots in your new residence, and got to work.

*label pastimechoice
*choice
    #I opened a small tavern selling bottom-shelf ale dirt cheap.
        Arcadians' love of ale is well-documented, and opening a tavern at the heart of Thulrum's busiest residential district seems as intuitive an idea as they come. Unfortunately, you'd be swimming into a red ocean, as even in that small fountain square two other taverns have already laid claim to the market. Luckily, the larger of the two is a specialty shop specializing in foreign liquors and aged wines, a place the average resident would only come to when in the mood to splurge. But when it came time to lay down the burdens of the day and toss back a mug that tasted of bathwater—and importantly, fetched its price, too—they would invariably patronize Old Gogia's tavern, which sold so much of the slop each day that the old man could get away with a razor-thin margin.
        
        Perhaps it is this, above all else, that keeps his shop busy—for the man's tongue matches an icicle's sharpness while his personality matches its warmth. As a mere upstart in the business without the sales volume to justify it, you've no hope of matching his prices. But such a small and intimate tavern calls for a good proprietor just as much as it does good ale, and perhaps there you'll be able to make the difference.
        
        Did you open a small tavern?
        *choice
            #Yes, that's what I did.
                *set thulshopvar 1
                *goto tavernpastime
            #No, I did something else.
                What did you do?
                *goto pastimechoice
    #I opened a botanical shop selling flowers, medicinal plants, and alchemical ingredients.
        It's easy to underestimate the versatility of a well-run botanical shop, and easier still to dismiss it as a trap for some besotted village boy attempting to woo a fair maiden. But while you wouldn't be above profiting off of said village boy—for how easy they are to grow, the pretty pink erialis sell for a truly staggering amount—you would also be able to offer more practical plants. Despite being a relatively fledgling state, Thulrum plays host to a score of pharmacists and alchemists, many of whom primarily conduct their business with the Church. Having asked a well-placed question or two during your time in the Seat, you discovered that these alchemists source their ingredients from southern Salantira. The journey down to Thulrum will have compromised part of the ingredients' efficacy, meaning there's a massive hole in the market for a fresh goods supplier—that is, a venture such as your own.
        
        Running a successful botanical shop will require a great mastery of plant biology, including such concerns as water intake, preferred soil types, disease purification, and harvest windows, among other things. The botanist running the shop will typically need to be a specialist with years of intense study under their belt, likely gleaned from internship under a true master. However, you possess the advantage of magic, which may well assist you where conventional methods would have failed. Still, no amount of enchantments will make healthy a dead bloom, and so a baseline knowledge of the process is still necessary for the venture to get off the ground.
        
        Did you open a botanical shop?
        *choice
            #Yes, that's what I did.
                *set thulshopvar 2
                *goto botanicalpastime
            #No, I did something else.
                What did you do?
                *goto pastimechoice
    #I covertly supplied Thulrum-made artifacts to Salantir customers.
        Salantira is known the whole world over as the leading authority on artifact engineering; in truth, however, much of its present expertise had been gleaned from Arcadian knowledge, pilfered by Salantir mages during the sacking of Thulrum. Salantir knowledge of the art had advanced at a turtle's pace in the decades since, and in recent times, they appear to have been eclipsed entirely by Thulrum.

        This is a secret so fiercely guarded that it's taken on the sheen of rumor, and one only a select few will have ever heard of, at that. You yourself had dismissed the whispers with a laugh when you came upon it as a Salantir royal ward. It was only when the goods began to trickle into the hands of Salantira's artificers that the Grand Duchy's worst fears were confirmed. This new breed of Thulrum artifacts appeared to defy the most basic of the art's principles with callous abandon, and yet functioned flawlessly despite it all.
        
        Both out of political necessity and genuine safety concerns, knowledge of Thulrum's superior artifacts have been throttled by Salantira, until such a time comes that they themselves are able to recreate the items. Yet even the ironclad gag order surrounding this secret was no match for Salantira's notorious grapevine; and so it was that the knowledge began its slow trickle through the Grand Duchy's upper crust, leaving them in constant want of the latest and greatest in Thulrum artifacts.

        A well-placed series of inquiries during your time in the Seat yielded the contact of one such artificer working in the Church's employ, who was willing to craft the artifacts for you at a reasonable price. All that would remain is to secure and maintain a pathway to Salantira's black markets—not so difficult a feat, for one with experience in the field.
        
        Did you smuggle Thulrum-made artifacts into Salantira?
        *choice
            #Yes, that's what I did.
                *set thulshopvar 3
                *goto artifactpastime
            #No, I did something else.
                What did you do?
                *goto pastimechoice

*label tavernpastime
You close the remaining distance to your humble watering hole, spying the freshly-painted sign hanging over the porch roof. Perhaps Thul Rums had been a bit on the nose—or subversive, given that the taps offer no rum to speak of. Regardless, you've grown rather fond of the place in the week since it opened. And importantly for your ledgers, so too have many of the locals. It turns out that Old Gogia's customers didn't [i]prefer[/i] seeing his gnarled, scowling visage between chugs of their ale, nor were they a fan of his rambling complaints, shrilly uttered between spittle-shots into an urn on the bar counter. By comparison, your affable and obliging service must have marked you as a barkeep sent by Isha herself, and your tables—admittedly modest in number—see full occupancy nearly every night.

A sonorous, thrice-rung bell in the distance marks the hour as three past noon, meaning you've another hour yet before your establishment opens in earnest. This is a fact that should be well-known to all your regulars, and yet as you come upon the tavern's doors, you spot a muscular older woman who's slung her body over one of your porch tables, cheek pressed against the surface and snoring softly. She stirs at the sound of the door's opening, and turns to regard you with a heavy-lidded gaze and dry, chapped lips. When you take your first step into the tavern, she lets out a whine like a kicked dog, and gives you the stare to match. Sighing, you turn the sign nailed onto the door around. [i]Open.[/i]

"Bless your heart, ${fname}," the woman croaks, trailing into the tavern after you. "I'll name my firstborn after you."

"You already have three children, Norra," you point out, strolling behind the counter and reaching for a mug. Norra watches hawkishly as you fill it to the brim, and takes a swill before deigning to respond.

"I'm a woman of my word," is what she eventually says, wiping ale from her mouth with her forearm. "Guess Rop'll have to do with a change of name. He could do a lot worse than ${fname}, don'tcha think?"

*choice
    #"How is the lad, anyway? I've not seen him around in a while."
        Norra's expression twists, mockingly aghast. "You let my wee boy into your [i]tavern[/i]?" she says, clutching at nonexistent pearls. Her 'wee boy' turns seventeen this year—well past the age of needing such coddling. "I should have the templars called—"
        
        You slap her on the shoulder with the rag you've been using to wipe down the bar. "I mean in the square, you buffoon," you reply. "Poor Salle has been hanging around the fountain with a downright wretched look on her face. A silver piece says she's besotted with your boy and misses him something fierce."
        
        "Ah, she's a good girl, that Salle," Norra agrees. "Too good for Rop. Better he break her tender heart now than when she's already too far gone."
        
        You shrug, finding that you're unable to disagree. Even as the newest resident of Fount Crossing, you've heard plenty of rumors about Rop's philandering ways, which has left a trail of broken-hearted maidens all throughout the West Ward. Rop the Fop is what they call him, and he certainly lives up to the title.
        
        "Not even you'd refute that, huh?" Norra laughs, knocking back another swill of her drink. "Rop, my boy. You've gone too far…"
    #"You're right—'Rop' is about as bad as it can get."
        "'You ain't playing nice today, eh!" Norra says, barking out a belly laugh. "You watch that you don't become too much of a grouch. And call on good old Norra if you start itchin' to buy a spittoon. I'll knock the Gogia right out of ya!"
        
        "Just run me through with a blade and be done with it," you say, reaching for a rag with which to wipe down the bar. "If I ever got myself a spittoon, I'd deserve it."
        
        "And ain't that the truth," Norra chuckles, taking another deep swill of her drink.
    #"He'll be thrilled to know that his name's been pawned for a good cause."
        "An extra hour on the taps for his dear Mama," Norra says, raising her glass high. "A toast to my most filial child!"
        
        "Hip hip, hooray," you deadpan, reaching for a rag with which to wipe down the bar.
        
        Norra pouts at that, taking another swill of her drink. "You're no fun."
        
        "If that were the case, you'd still be painting my porch table with your drool, rather than in here nursing a full mug."
        
        "Ha! Can't say nothin' to that."

Before long, Norra is joined in her drunken ramblings by a score of other patrons, dropping by the tavern after a hard day of work. Many among them, like Norra, are laborers for the Church's countless civil projects, including the West Ward's expansion down towards the Ancient Ward. The work had doubtless left them physically spent and exhausted, and with their desperation for something to whet the throats, even your bottom-shelf slop must have tasted of ambrosia.

The night wore on for many hours yet, the air laden with slurred conversations and complaints, and a rowdy spat or two you had to break up yourself. Still, in the warmth of the tavern's hearth, its glow seeping like sunset into the room's farthest reaches, you couldn't help but feel fulfilled. Sure, the work wore down on you, and you'll likely be in need of a proper barmaid before the week is out. But when all is said and done, this little slice of the West Ward had begun to feel like home.

In the far side of the hall, a pair of burly men who had earlier nearly come to blows now lean against one another's shoulders, weeping and swearing that they would be brothers for life. You pour out two mugs of ale that they'd doubtless soon call for, not even bothering to hide your contented sigh.

*page_break

*set rfalco %- 10
*comment f pieced together the mage's identity

You close up shop well beyond midnight, when the uniform black sky has yet to show signs of the coming dawn. You're in the midst of wiping down ale-spills and picking up fallen tankards when the door creaks open, letting the cool night air slip into the room, scented of dew and—strangely enough—of blood.

You do not bother turning up to face the intruder, focusing instead on fashioning a magic circle in your mind's eye. "We're closed," you say flatly, betraying no tension. "We open again at four past noon."

There's a rustling of fabric, and in your peripheral vision you catch the figure lowering their hood. "Peace," they reply, their voice pleasantly smooth and—familiar. "It's me."

You swing your gaze onto the figure proper, behold ${fhis} shock of white hair and piercing golden eyes, and feel tension and spell both release. ${falco} may be but a stranger to you, but one with a clear and singular reputation—that of unwavering loyalty to Tahlia. That makes ${fhim} a predictable creature. And right now, you predict that ${fhe} wouldn't do anything to harm you, less ${fhe} draw the ire of ${fhis} beloved master.

You rise to your feet and slip into the slice of moonlight offered by the open door. Convinced that ${fhe}'s past the danger of falling victim to your spell, ${falco} slips in and shuts the door behind ${fhim}. It does not escape your notice that the @{fvar man|woman} is thoroughly tainted by road grime and specks of dried blood. By your guess, ${fhe} has only just returned from ${fhis} weeks-long mission chasing down Heesa, the girl kidnapped from the refugee caravans. A mission which has, apparently, come to an end.

Upon ${fhis} first step into the tavern, ${falco} immediately moves a hand to cover ${fhis} nose. You find yourself unable to blame ${fhim}—humble Thul Rums currently reeks of cheap ale and the sweat and grime of laborers, a stubborn haunting which lingers in the air long after the source returned to their hovels. "Ugh," ${fhe} says simply, scowling.

*choice
    #"Oh, come off it. You likely don't smell any better yourself, you know."
        ${falco} scowls at that, but doesn't contradict you. Unconsciously ${fhe} reaches for the base of ${fhis} neck, upon which clings a clot of dried blood. $!{fhe} rubs it vigorously, and it peels off in chunks.
        
        "Rough night?" you ask, waving a hand as you do. Spellfire catches upon the wick of an oil lantern, set above one of the tavern's back tables. Occupying a spot behind the steps up to your attic bedroom, the table affords some privacy from the view of your windows. The state of ${falco} suggests to you that whatever discussion ${fhe} seeks would best be held in confidence. And for your part, it would not do for the tavern to cultivate a reputation for welcoming blood-soaked vagrants in the middle of the night.
        
        "Something like that," ${falco} mumbles. $!{fhe} looks approvingly at your choice of venue, and follows as you duck under the stairwell and squeeze into the seat. You feel an enchantment settle in the space around you, then—a Glyph of Silence, which protects your words against would-be eavesdroppers. Jove, but ${fhe} is thorough.
    #"${falco}, right? Care for a round of ale?"
        *set noble %+ 15
        ${falco}'s brows twitch at your offer; the incredulous look in ${fhis} eyes makes clear what ${fhe} refuses to voice.
        
        "Yeah, that's probably for the best," you say, chuckling. "I don't exactly have the finest selection."

        You wave a hand in the air, then, and mutter a simple chant under your breath. Spellfire catches upon the wick of an oil lantern, set above one of the tavern's back tables. Occupying a spot behind the steps up to your attic bedroom, the table affords some privacy from the view of your windows. The state of ${falco} suggests to you that whatever discussion ${fhe} seeks would best be held in confidence. And for your part, it would not do for the tavern to cultivate a reputation for welcoming blood-soaked vagrants in the middle of the night.
        
        "That's a kind way to put it," ${falco} mumbles. Despite the barb of ${fhis} words, ${fhe} looks approvingly at your choice of venue, and follows as you duck under the stairwell and squeeze into the seat. You feel an enchantment settle in the space around you, then—a Glyph of Silence, which protects your words against would-be eavesdroppers. Jove, but ${fhe} is thorough.
    #"Say, has anyone ever told you how rude you are?"
        "Yes," ${falco} says, flat and unabashed.
        
        You cross your arms at ${fhim}. "It was a rhetorical question."
        
        The look ${falco} gives you is one you normally reserve for lackwits and bumbling nobles, and you rather mislike being on the other end of it. Regardless, you set a spell into motion with a wave of your hand, chanting softly under your breath. Spellfire catches upon the wick of an oil lantern, set above one of the tavern's back tables. Occupying a spot behind the steps up to your attic bedroom, the table affords some privacy from the view of your windows. The state of ${falco} suggests to you that whatever discussion ${fhe} seeks would best be held in confidence. And for your part, it would not do for the tavern to cultivate a reputation for welcoming blood-soaked vagrants in the middle of the night.
        
        "Obliged," ${falco} mumbles. $!{fhe} looks approvingly at your choice of venue, and follows as you duck under the stairwell and squeeze into the seat. You feel an enchantment settle in the space around you, then—a Glyph of Silence, which protects your words against would-be eavesdroppers. Jove, but ${fhe} is thorough.
    #"You have business here, surely. Let's hear it so you can be quit of this place."
        *set noble %- 15
        If ${falco} takes offense with the shortness of your tone, ${fhe} does not show it. Not that ${fhe} would have the right to, of course, given ${fhis} own foul temper.
        
        "Fine," is what ${fhe} says, arms crossed. "To business."
        
        Obligingly, you wave a hand in the air and mutter a simple chant under your breath. Spellfire catches upon the wick of an oil lantern, set above one of the tavern's back tables. Occupying a spot behind the steps up to your attic bedroom, the table affords some privacy from the view of your windows. The state of ${falco} suggests to you that whatever discussion ${fhe} seeks would best be held in confidence. And for your part, it would not do for the tavern to cultivate a reputation for welcoming blood-soaked vagrants in the middle of the night.
        
        $!{fhe} nods approvingly at your choice of venue, and follows as you duck under the stairwell and squeeze into the seat. You feel an enchantment settle in the space around you, then—a Glyph of Silence, which protects your words against would-be eavesdroppers. Jove, but ${fhe} is thorough.

*label flickerfire
Under the faint flicker of firelight overhead, the planes of ${falco}'s features make themselves clear. A relatively fresh gash runs from ${fhis} cheekbone and disappears underneath ${fhis} collar, and ${fhis} lip is split as if struck by a fist. $!{fhis} hair, damp and matted with sweat, clings tightly to ${fhis} forehead, upon which sits a rippling wound which speaks of potent poison. $!{fhe} catches the way your eyes travel over ${fhis} injuries, and dismisses you with a wave. "Looks worse than it is, else I'd have asked for Senz to patch me up," ${fhe} says, scowling. "Pay it no mind. We've more important things to attend to."

"If you say so," you say after a while. "But before you begin…whatever it is you've come here for, I want to know what happened in your previous mission. Is Heesa safe? Did you find out who was responsible for the kidnapping?"

*set rfalco %+ 7
${falco}'s eyes widen ever so slightly—as if it's a farfetched thing that you'd ask after her, with how involved you were in the caravan incident. After a moment's consideration, ${fhe} elects to allay your concern. "Heesa wasn't in the bandits' stronghold, but a trail was left of her. One we followed to some noble's mansion along the Parami border. We found her within its dungeon, alongside five other children of Arcadian descent. They were scarred by their experience, and weak from hunger and exhaustion, but in all other matters safe." Here ${fhe} pauses, and you catch ${fhim} fighting the glint of anger in ${fhis} eyes. "They're on the road to Thulrum as we speak, escorted by the knights-templar."

You glance at ${fhim} sharply. "You went ahead of them, then."

"By Spirit Gate," ${falco} confirms. "I had important matters to report to the [i]ashai[/i]."

"Which in turn brought you here?"

${falco} nods wordlessly.

*choice
    #"Then Tahlia's assigned me my first mission."
        ${falco}'s eyes narrow sharply as ${fhe} hears you call the priestess by name, but ${fhe} says nothing of it. "We're in need of competent fighters. You fit the bill."
        
        "So I do," you sigh. "Brief me on the mission, then."
    #"I would hear the report you gave Tahlia, as well."
        It looks as if ${falco} takes issue with your demands, but ${fhe} sagely bites back ${fhis} complaints. It appears to you that ${fhe} had intended to keep you abreast anyway.
    #"I must find someone to fill in for me in my absence."
        "The Church will assign someone. They've got more acolytes than they know what to do with," ${falco} says, taking a cursory glance around. "A place like this shouldn't be difficult to run."
        
        That remark earns ${fhim} a withering stare from you, which ${fhe} pointedly ignores. "Fine," you sigh. "Brief me on the mission, then."

${falco} leans forward, resting ${fhis} arm on the table. "Our last mission revealed much about Thulrum's present troubles," ${fhe} begins. "We've known for some time that there's a well-hidden force actively trying to undermine our efforts, but they've always played a clean game, left nothing behind. Not the case this time, for we have two leads to follow."

"Two?"

${falco} nods. "That bastard of a viscount managed to end his own life before we could make him squeal, but he left behind a fair number of plans and correspondences. Seems he hadn't counted on us committing all our best trackers to find a single missing girl, and so was short on time to obfuscate the trail," ${falco} says. "This viscount is not where the scheme ends. Someone more powerful is using him, and much of the evidence seem to incriminate the lord of Calinger, in the Parami south." Here ${fhe} pauses, meeting your gaze meaningfully. "[i]Too[/i] much, in fact."

You catch ${fhis} meaning instantly. "You think it's a red herring."

"A well-crafted one, but overzealous—it reeked of planted evidence, likely placed there ahead of time. The viscount was a backwater noble, and his masters only ever thought of him as a sacrificial lamb," ${falco} says. "With that in mind, we dug through the whole of the estate, leaving no stone unturned. And it paid off: we found mentions of an Arcadian prisoner in Reglaire, in the Salantir south, and whoever's holding ${ehim} hostage looks to be the viscount's superior."

You cross your arms, considering. "And you're convinced this lead is the real deal?"

"The Saber maintains a presence in Reglaire, which feeds us intel from the region. What we found in the estate was entirely consistent with it," ${falco} answers. "Further, the trail it paints also merges into another—one which we're already pursuing." You hear ${falco} tapping ${fhis} foot impatiently. "A full explanation would only waste both our times. We have the full measure of their feint, and we will move accordingly."

"You suggest we strike against Reglaire?"

"Yes and no. We will move on two fronts," ${falco} responds, steepling ${fhis} hands on the table. "A number of Saber members will leave with a contingent of templars, to go after the bait they've laid out in Calinger. Meanwhile, a squad of elites will quietly pursue the true trail to Reglaire, in numbers small enough to avoid detection. You, ${yusuha}, and I are to number among them. With any luck, we'll catch them on the backfoot and oust the threat once and for all. Failing that, we will at least be able to keep them from obfuscating the trail further. That alone would make the pursuit worthwhile."

It's a sound enough plan, all things considered. And yet… "You've been informed that Thulrum suffered an attack from some unknown group, yes?" ${falco} cringes at your question as if dealt a physical wound. Likely ${fhe} had heard the news from Tahlia herself. "And yet you'd have the city's strongest combatants—not to mention a good portion of its peacekeepers—out in force. Wouldn't it be reckless to only leave the city with a skeleton crew?"

"The [i]ashai[/i] will stay in the city," ${fhe} says, gritting ${fhis} teeth. "That will be enough."

"She was also here during the Day of Arrival," you point out. "It didn't stop them then."

"She was caught unawares, but she now knows what to expect," ${falco} says, growing curt. "The city will be safe."

You lean back in your chair, unconvinced. "You trust in her powers a great deal."

"And why shouldn't I?" ${falco} snaps, scowling. "The [i]ashai[/i]'s strength is well beyond any of our reckonings. You ought to know that better than anyone else, given that you only draw breath at her mercy."

You rise from your seat with such force that the chair teeters back and falls, loudly slamming onto the floorboards below. ${falco} doesn't look up, doesn't even flinch from the sound; ${fhe} only sneers at the table, ${fhis} finger tapping an irregular beat. "The mighty Demon of Sienan. No, they've taken to calling you the Hero instead now, haven't they?" $!{fhis} lips pull into a smile, all teeth. "Breaker of Salantira's legions, heritor of ${phant1}'s power. And a Mateus, at that—of course the [i]ashai[/i] would use the Song on you. The greater wonder is that it took me so long to realize it."

*choice
    #"I don't know what you're talking about."
        *set optimistic %+ 15
        "Save your breath," ${falco} scoffs, shaking ${fhis} head. "Even if I weren't already convinced, you've given yourself away."
        
        You bite your bottom lip, looking down at the fallen chair with scorn. "I thought it'd be a boon for the [i]ashai[/i] to keep this secret."
        
        "She's told me nothing," ${falco} begrudgingly admits. "But signs linger in the Seat long after [i]aresei[/i] are cast. ${yusuha} and I both know the tells, as you are not her first resurrection. From there, it was a simple matter of connecting the dots."
    #"How did you find out about this?"        
        "[i]Aresei hath aorea[/i] is a spell unlike any other," ${falco} says.
        *label itchanges
        "It changes the space in which it was cast, even long after it expires. And as the [i]ashai[/i] is still using the Song to bind your soul, the whole Seat reeks of the magic."
        
        You give ${fhim} a sharp glance. "Who else knows of this?"
        
        ${falco} barks out a wry laugh. "That the spell even exists? Only ${yusuha} and I, aside from the [i]ashai[/i] herself," ${fhe} says.
        
        You shift uncomfortably in your seat. "Then ${yusuha} knows."
        
        "$!{yhe}'s had weeks to connect the dots. Only a fool would remain ignorant," ${falco} says. "$!{yhe} knows the tells as well as I do, for you are not the [i]ashai[/i]'s first resurrection."
    #"You know about the Song of the Dead?"
        "[i]Aresei hath aorea[/i]. The greatest of the Songs," ${falco} confirms.
        *goto itchanges

You had expected as much—a power so great is an asset, and Tahlia isn't liable to let it languish in disuse. Still, it surprises you that ${falco}'s decided to tell things plain. "I've a predecessor, then."
        
There's a glint in ${falco}'s eyes; you find that you don't know what to make of it. "The selfsame @{evar man|woman} held in Reglaire Castle's dungeon. It will be our charge to liberate ${ehim}."

You nod, though something bitter hangs in the back of your mouth. It strikes you that since ${fhe}'s brought up the matter of your identity, ${falco}'s tone has grown more curt, even bordering on combative. With how solidly ${fhe} is in Tahlia's camp—and in turn, how fiercely ${fhe} stands by her ideals—it's not difficult to make out the reason behind ${fhis} hostility. Here was the archmage who had blazed open the path upon which the Parami walked, in their thousands, in their legions, avoiding the call of their supposedly just demise. Worse still, you had leveraged the power of arcana to achieve the feat, that sacred legacy of the once-proud Arcadians. Unwitting or not, your deeds must seem to ${fhim} a great treachery, and it appears ${fhe}'s past the point of caring to hide ${fhis} dismay.

You can see that flash of anger now, bubbling under ${fhis} piercing gaze, pulling taut every inch of ${fhis} musculature. Addressing ${fhis} ire will hardly make for a pleasant task, and yet you must perform it all the same.

*choice
    #"You have a bone to pick with me, I take it. I'm all ears."
        For the time being, ${falco}'s managed to put a lid on ${fhis} emotions—shaky though it may be—but ${fhe} looks close to bubbling over. Rather than have it explode in your face at a time where you can ill afford it, better that you confront ${fhis} ire here and now.
        
        ${falco} crosses ${fhis} arms and gives you a severe stare. "There's nothing to discuss."
        
        "That's a lie and we both know it." You feel a headache coming on, and fight the urge to massage your temples. "We'll have to watch each other's backs out there if we're to make it out alive. Right now, I've reason to believe that yours is the knife which will be planted in my back."
        
        "Are you suggesting that I'd willingly undermine the [i]ashai[/i]'s operations? You may be a bigger fool than I'd initially thought," ${falco} says, scoffing. "I know my duties well, and I will fulfill them. Of that you can be sure."
        
        You find your fears surprisingly mollified by ${falco}'s outburst. You still wouldn't trust the mage any farther than you can throw ${fhim}, but you [i]can[/i] trust that ${fhis} loyalty to Tahlia will keep ${fhim} in line. "I'll hold you to that."
    #"Let's leave the past where it belongs, shall we? Else we risk endangering the mission."
        Tahlia went to great lengths to recruiting you, all the while knowing that ${falco} would be able to deduce your identity. She must have believed that the young mage wouldn't let ${fhis} emotions get the better of ${fhim}. And while you're not certain you share her opinion, you must nevertheless attempt to defuse the tension. The mission is dangerous enough without having to worry about an allied knife finding its way into your back.
        
        "Do you always flit between causes so easily?" ${falco} asks. $!{fhe} keeps ${fhis} tone kept carefully neutral, though you don't miss the belligerent look in ${fhis} eyes.
        
        "Perhaps I do. It doesn't change the fact that, for the foreseeable future, I will be fighting for yours," you say coolly. "We will have need of one another's trust, and clinging onto old grudges will serve neither of our interests."
        
        "Don't patronize me," ${falco} snarls, though there is no bite in ${fhis} voice. "I know my duties well, and I will fulfill them. Of that you can be sure."
        
        You find your fears surprisingly mollified by ${falco}'s outburst. You still wouldn't trust the mage any farther than you can throw ${fhim}, but you [i]can[/i] trust that ${fhis} loyalty to Tahlia will keep ${fhim} in line. "I'll hold you to that."
    #"I won't apologize for anything I've done. I have no regrets."
        There may be wisdom in allaying the tensions between you and your soon-to-be ally, but such an attempt, when built on lies, is liable to explode in your face. Better that ${falco} gains the full measure of where you stand. And if indeed ${fhe} finds working with you disagreeable, then that matter would be between ${fhim} and the [i]ashai[/i].
        
        ${falco}'s expression darkens at your words, ${fhis} jaw tightening so fiercely that you fear it might poke through ${fhis} skin. You can feel rather than hear the choice words ${fhe} must have for you—utter fool, traitorous scum, Parami lapdog, and so on—and yet ${fhe} sagely confines them to ${fhis} thoughts. "I see," is what ${fhe} ends up saying, perfectly neutral in tone—though you don't miss that belligerent look in ${fhis} eyes.
        
        "Our opinions of each other ought to matter little, if at all," you say, meeting ${fhis} gaze evenly. "Tahlia has secured your loyalty, and my cooperation. Both will function just as well for this mission. For both our sakes, let us agree not to let personal grudges get in the way."
        
        "Fine," ${falco} says coolly. "I know my duties well, and I will fulfill them. Of that you can be sure."
        
        You nod, satisfied. You wouldn't trust ${falco} any farther than you could throw ${fhim}, but you [i]can[/i] trust that ${fhis} loyalty to Tahlia will keep ${fhim} in line. "I'll hold you to that."
    #"Is this going to be a problem? Must the [i]ashai[/i] be notified?"
        It is a juvenile threat, all told, not unlike a child threatening to bring their parent into the feud. Yet this mission is full of unknowns, and will likely have you at an absurd numerical disadvantage. You will be in need of compatriots whom you can trust with your life, and right now ${falco} appears to be anything but.
        
        Still, at the darkening of ${falco}'s expression, you can't help but wonder if you've gone about things the right way. The mage's jaw tightens so fiercely that you fear it might poke through ${fhis} skin, and it is a while before ${fhis} words return to ${fhim}. "There will not," ${falco} hisses through grinding teeth, "be a problem."

        You wouldn't trust ${falco} any farther than you could throw ${fhim}, but you [i]can[/i] trust that ${fhis} loyalty to Tahlia will keep ${fhim} in line. "I'll hold you to that."
        
${falco} rises abruptly from ${fhis} seat, then, and makes to leave the @{thulshopvar tavern|shop|workshop}. "The finer points of the plan are still being debated in the Seat," ${fhe} says, not meeting your gaze. "Someone will be along tomorrow to provision you with details. We will move that same night, and move quickly. With any luck, we may well be able to save that precious friend of yours."

You catch the back of ${falco}'s cloak, halting the mage as ${fhe} tries to leave. "What do you mean by that?" you demand.

It is a while before ${falco} responds at all, and when ${fhe} does, ${fhis} voice is laced with incredulous glee. "So you really are unaware, The poor @{evar sod's|fool's} chased your rumors across half the continent, and you never even knew."

Your eyes widen at that. There has only ever been a handful of people to have shared such an intimate connection with you. Names and faces race through your mind, whirling at such speed so as to leave you dizzy. For ${fhis} part, ${falco} seems intent on letting you stew in the confusion, and makes a show of moving towards the exit.

*choice
    #I grab ${fhim} by the collar and slam ${fhim} against the wall, demanding answers.
        *set emotional %+ 15
        The mage offers no resistance as you do so, and the sound of the impact echoes in the empty @{thulshopvar tavern|shop|workshop}. ${falco} rasps wordlessly as fluid travels up from some unseen injury upon ${fhis} body, and when ${fhe} smiles ${fhis} teeth are coated with blood. "Tell me what you know," you snarl. "Now!"
        
        "It was difficult in the beginning, you know," ${falco} says, sneering down at you even as ${fhis} hands form a grip around your clenched fist. "The Saber's lot is a dangerous one, and even with two arcanists in our midst, injuries and casualties piled high over the years." ${falco} gathers up a spit and expels it, painting a red streak on the wooden floor. "So the [i]ashai[/i] took action. Healing arcana rarely manifests, often skipping multiple generations at a time. But one such talent all but fell into her lap, and wouldn't you know it? It came by way of one Thaubal Altinier."
        
        You stagger backward and loosen your grip on ${falco}'s collar, leaving ${fhim} to sag weakly against the wall. You know of only a scant few arcanists, and among them just one commanded the power of healing. And if ${falco} speaks true, that this quarry of the Church had found their powers under Thaubal…
        
        *if (alias)
            ${falco} regards you with satisfaction. "Prepare well, [i]${fname}[/i]," ${fhe} says, spitting your false name out with distaste. "Tomorrow we leave to rescue ${elias} Revelois."
        *else
            ${falco} regards you with satisfaction. "Prepare well, ${fname}," ${fhe} says. "Tomorrow we leave to rescue ${elias} Revelois."
    #I quietly rise and stand in ${fhis} way. $!{fhe} will not leave before ${fhe} explains ${fhim}self.
        *set charming %- 15
        ${falco}'s steps slow as ${fhe} hears you shuffle out of the seat, and when you bar ${fhis} exit ${fhis} sneer grows smug. $!{fhe}'s enjoying this, savoring the taste of your desperation. "Stand aside," ${fhe} says, arms crossed. "I've places to be."
        
        "I'll be happy to let you go, believe me," you say through gritted teeth. "But I think I'm owed an explanation."

        ${falco}'s golden eyes gleam with malice, and for a while you're certain that ${fhe} intends to leave you in the dark. You can't help the relief you feel when ${fhe} deigns to answer you instead. "It was difficult in the beginning, you know," ${falco} says, lips pulling up into a smirk. "The Saber's lot is a dangerous one, and even with two arcanists in our midst, injuries and casualties piled high over the years. So the [i]ashai[/i] took action. Healing arcana rarely manifests, often skipping multiple generations at a time. But one such talent all but fell into her lap, and wouldn't you know it? It came by way of one Thaubal Altinier."
        
        You stagger backward, eyes wide. You know of only a scant few arcanists, and among them just one commanded the power of healing. And if ${falco} speaks true, that this quarry of the Church had found their powers under Thaubal…
        
        *if (alias)
            ${falco} regards you with satisfaction. "Prepare well, [i]${fname}[/i]," ${fhe} says, spitting your false name out with distaste. "Tomorrow we leave to rescue ${elias} Revelois."
        *else
            ${falco} regards you with satisfaction. "Prepare well, ${fname}," ${fhe} says. "Tomorrow we leave to rescue ${elias} Revelois."
    #I urge ${fhim} to cease the dramatics, given that I'll find out with or without ${fhim}.
        ${falco} scoffs as you tell ${fhim} as much. "If that's the case, why are you wasting my time?" ${fhe} says. "Go and find out yourself."
        
        You eye ${fhim} momentarily, and then slowly rise from your chair. "If you insist," you say. "You are headed to the Seat? Allow me to accompany you. I suddenly have business there, myself."
        
        It takes a second for ${falco} to latch onto your meaning, and ${fhe} snarls when the dots connect. "The [i]ashai[/i] has no time for your petty concerns."
        
        "Indeed? My pity for her grows by the second. She deserves a subordinate willing to see to these petty concerns in her stead," you say, staring ${fhim} down. You realize from ${fhis} expression that you've struck exactly the right nerve. ${falco} would hate nothing more than to be seen as petulant and unreliable by the priestess ${fhe} serves so faithfully, as evidenced by the faint horror sweeping across ${fhis} features. "Alas, she is instead stuck with you."
        
        ${falco}'s golden eyes gleam with pure, unadulterated scorn, and for a second you fear that ${fhis} pettiness would triumph, even over ${fhis} outsized pride. Thankfully, reason wins the day, and ${fhe} elects to answer you instead. "It was difficult in the beginning, you know," ${falco} says, ${fhis} lips pulled by a manic sort of glee. "The Saber's lot is a dangerous one, and even with two arcanists in our midst, injuries and casualties piled high over the years. So the [i]ashai[/i] took action. Healing arcana rarely manifests, often skipping multiple generations at a time. But one such talent all but fell into her lap, and wouldn't you know it? It came by way of one Thaubal Altinier."
        
        You stagger backward, eyes wide. You know of only a scant few arcanists, and among them just one commanded the power of healing. And if ${falco} speaks true, that this quarry of the Church had found their powers under Thaubal…
        
        *if (alias)
            ${falco} regards you with satisfaction. "Prepare well, [i]${fname}[/i]," ${fhe} says, spitting your false name out with distaste. "Tomorrow we leave to rescue ${elias} Revelois."
        *else
            ${falco} regards you with satisfaction. "Prepare well, ${fname}," ${fhe} says. "Tomorrow we leave to rescue ${elias} Revelois."
    *selectable_if (enchantment > 60) #I use a barrier enchantment to keep ${fhim} from leaving.
        *set glyphofconfinement true
        ${falco} perks up as ${fhe} feels your mana surge, and ${fhe} even goes so far as to drop into a battle stance, lance drawn from the back of ${fhis} cloak and brandished at you. But soon the nature of your spell makes itself clear, as a wall of invisible force closes in on ${falco} from all sides. Scowling, ${fhe} tests the strength of it with ${fhis} lance; it bounces off harmlessly.
        
        "Strong," ${falco} begrudgingly admits. "Though I'm sure you know this isn't enough to stop me."
        
        "At your prime? Certainly not," you allow. You had witnessed ${falco} in ${fhis} element back during the caravan incident, when ${fhe} rained death and judgment over the hapless bandits. Were ${fhe} to come at the barrier with that same tenacity and force, you would have no hope of maintaining your Glyph. "But you're injured, exhausted, and in need of conserving your strength ahead of the mission. Under these circumstances, I quite like my chances." You walk towards the younger mage, stopping just short of the barrier's perimeter. "The barrier falls when you give me the explanation I'm owed. I suggest you do so with haste."
        
        ${falco}'s golden eyes gleam with malice, and for a second you grow certain that ${fhe}'ll keep you in the dark out of spite. Thankfully, reason prevails, and ${fhe} elects to answer you instead. "It was difficult in the beginning, you know," ${falco} says, lips pulling up into a smirk. "The Saber's lot is a dangerous one, and even with two arcanists in our midst, injuries and casualties piled high over the years. So the [i]ashai[/i] took action. Healing arcana rarely manifests, often skipping multiple generations at a time. But one such talent all but fell into her lap, and wouldn't you know it? It came by way of one Thaubal Altinier."
        
        You stagger backward, your barrier flickering for a moment as your focus slips. You know of only a scant few arcanists, and among them just one commanded the power of healing. And if ${falco} speaks true, that this quarry of the Church had found their powers under Thaubal…
        
        *if (alias)
            ${falco} regards you with satisfaction. "Prepare well, [i]${fname}[/i]," ${fhe} says, spitting your false name out with distaste. "Tomorrow we leave to rescue ${elias} Revelois."
        *else
            ${falco} regards you with satisfaction. "Prepare well, ${fname}," ${fhe} says. "Tomorrow we leave to rescue ${elias} Revelois."

*goto postelireveal

*label botanicalpastime
You close the remaining distance to your humble shop, weaving past the large potted plants crowding around the porch area. Known as ranch twists, the plants sport small, knotted trunks and drooping canopies shot through with tangles of blooms. Purely ornamental, one and all, picked out only for their size and responsiveness to magic-borne care. The farmer you had bought the things off of had asked for a high price, but you still found yourself pleased with the purchase. For if ever there were doubts that Thul Bloom put up on offer botanicals galore, then these eye-catching plants would do wonders to dispel them.

A sonorous, thrice-rung bell in the distance marks the hour as three past noon, meaning you've managed a punctual return from your midday break. You move past the twists and turn over the sign nailed to the doorway—[i]We are OPEN![/i]—and sweep into the shop, drinking in the sweet, pollen-riddled air. A large rectangular display table was set on the shop floor's center, boasting a host of flowers populous enough to put true groves to shame, interspersed occasionally with pots of decorative succulents. Crowding the shop's edges, meanwhile, are flat white boards affixed onto the walls, offering such things as houseplant saplings and pleasant-smelling aromatics. And finally, behind the proprietor's table stands a massive shelf, hewn of brown oak and broken up into palm-sized cubicles, upon which sit jars and urns filled to the brim with top-of-the-line alchemical ingredients.

You heave a long, wistful sigh, and break from your fanciful imaginings. Alas, it is impossible for those in your trade to boast such a robust stock a mere week since opening, and so much of your displays currently sit sad and barren, waiting in faithful silence for the plants still growing in your backyard. Fortunately, not all is lost, for you are still able to populate the shelves with wildflowers and herbs foraged from the nearby forest, down in the territories declared unsafe for passers-by. It had been no small chore to make the trek back and forth, repelling the assault of wild beasts all the while, but by employing a bit of preservation magic Thul Bloom now possesses enough stock to its name to last a full week. And while margins will be pitiful, the important thing will be for your shop to make its presence known. And judging by the flurry of customers already perusing your wares in these early days, it's done so with resounding success.

*page_break

Your custom for the day largely consists of those in search of loose flowers and full bouquets, which are thankfully in plentiful supply given your trek just the day prior. You dole them out in generous amounts and accept your customers' coin with a smile, contentment budding in your chest as you spot their own smiles blooming amid the flowers.

You had just sent off yet another satisfied customer when the shop bell jingles and a new one enters. "Come back from ${their} break, is Master ${fname}. The waiting is over!"

Madam Ehlys strides towards you with intent, steps limber in spite of her hunched posture and creaking joints. From this distance she appears a caricature of an old, gnarled witch, with her prominent nose, wiry silver hair, and a hooded cloak dyed a deep shade of burgundy. But as she comes closer you can make out the carefree joy in her smile, the way her eyes twinkle with playful mirth. Despite her eighty years of age, the Madam seems to you as lively as any teenager—and slipping that thought to her had earned you a loud cackle, and grown her custom by two whole silvers.

*choice
    #"It's good to see you, Madam Ehlys. What can I get you?"
        *set noble %+ 15
        "Kind words of Master makes heart of Madam grow glad," she rasps amidst her cackling. "What is sought by Madam? Misthils and jyllweeds, but Madam fears Master will fail in the getting!"
        
        Your lips edge into a grin. The plants she's asked for are top-shelf ingredients prized by alchemists the world over, and as owner of Thulrum's premier alchemy atelier, the Madam has been eager to get her hands on them. Still, even though the plants are presently off to a good start in your backyard, you've made no promises that you can fulfill her advance requisition. They are notoriously rare and fussy, and it takes a great many weeks before they can be harvested. With your magic-assisted expertise, you stand a good chance at seeing them to maturity—but even then it's far from a sure thing.
        
        Thankfully, Madam Ehlys has found the rest of your stock plenty diverting in the meantime. She has all but monopolized your stores of foraged alchemical herbs and those quick-growing plants that you've managed to harvest within the opening week. Her unabashed greed has left many other alchemists and pharmacists in constant want of your stock, which happily gives you leverage to sell your future harvests at a premium.
        
        "Sorry to disappoint, Madam," you reply. "The plants haven't grown any since you checked in this morning."
        
        "Ah, but expect of this, Madam did. No visit will disappointment make, if door is opened not by expectation. Master ${fname}, remember well wise words of Madam!" she says, giving you a firm slap on the shoulder. You recognize her saying as belonging to Thayle, a kingdom on the overseas Imperial Continent. It appears her residence on Arvanand, which will allegedly come up on five decades this year, has eroded neither her accent nor syntax. Indeed, you would've marked her as a passing Thaylian merchant were it not for her potion shop, which occupies a huge slice of Thulrum's main thoroughfare.
        
        Bemused, you decide to humor her. "I'll keep that in mind, Madam," you say, offering her a businesslike smile. "In the meantime, can I interest you in anything else? Items that we actually have in stock, if you please."
        
        "Indeed! To settle for this, agree to vainness of trip already made, Madam will not. Good Master, throw cabinets open and let Madam browse!"
        
        You do as she bids, and she spends a full hour rifling through the ingredients and grilling you on their properties and acquisition. In the end, she peruses your wares with such ferocity that your shelves are left depleted. She waves happily at you on her way out, the porter she'd called to carry her purchases huffing and puffing from the weight of his load.
    #"I knew it would be you. I could hear the cackling from down the street."
        *set charming %+ 15
        The Madam clutches at her heart, offended. "What cackling? Laugh of Madam is most girlish, like plucking of harp, like sweet melody! Must face cleansing are Master's ears. Full of wax, and how the stench wafts!" she huffs.
        
        You laugh at that. "Madam, you're hurting my feelings."
        
        "Fair is everything, yes?" the Madam says, pointing an accusatory finger at you. "For Master seeks hurting pockets of Madam! If not, why grow in Master's backyard misthils and jyllweeds?"
        
        Your lips edge into a grin. The plants she's mentioned are top-shelf ingredients prized by alchemists the world over, and as owner of Thulrum's premier alchemy atelier, the Madam has been eager to get her hands on them. And it is as she says—the harvest will relieve her of multiple gold pieces if it comes to fruition. Still, even though the plants are presently off to a good start in your backyard, you've made no promises that you can fulfill her advance requisition. They are notoriously rare and fussy, and it takes a great many weeks before they can be harvested. With your magic-assisted expertise, you stand a good chance at seeing them to maturity—but even then it's far from a sure thing.
        
        Thankfully, Madam Ehlys has found the rest of your stock plenty diverting in the meantime. She has all but monopolized your stock of foraged alchemical herbs and those quick-growing plants that you've managed to harvest within the opening week. Her unabashed greed has left many other alchemists and pharmacists in constant want of your stock, which happily gives you leverage to sell your future harvests at a premium.
        
        "If it is your wish, Madam, I will be happy to remove you from the waiting list," you tease. Madam's features twist into an expression of horror, and you fight to stifle a laugh. "I believe Qurna of Qurna Potions had been next in line…"
        
        "Thoughts of Master must perish!" she says, slapping you urgently on the arm. "Full of gold are pockets of Madam. Pockets of Qurna? Full of lint! A store is run by Master, a charity is not. Have wisdom!"
        
        "Alright, alright, Madam," you chuckle, fending off her clumsy assault. "You're my best customer—I'd never dream of leaving you out to dry."
        
        "Remember Master's words, Madam will," she says, finally withdrawing her hand. "For promise of Master, Madam offers reward: her custom. Throw cabinets open and let Madam browse!"
        
        You do as she bids, and she spends a full hour rifling through the ingredients and grilling you on their properties and acquisition. In the end, she peruses your wares with such ferocity that your shelves are left depleted. She waves happily at you on her way out, the porter she'd called to carry her purchases huffing and puffing from the weight of his load.
    #"You should be aware of my break hours by now, Madam."
        *set charming %- 15
        "Does Master think Madam ${their} keeper? Flattered is Madam, but honor is rejected," Madam tuts, shaking her head. "Full of success is Madam, and empty of time."
        
        "Madam, this is your second visit of the day," you point out.
        
        "Please! Madam comes not for seeing face of Master, for keeping ${their} schedule," she huffs. "Madam comes for true beauties of store: misthils and jyllweeds."
        
        Your lips edge into a grin. The plants she's mentioned are top-shelf ingredients prized by alchemists the world over, and as owner of Thulrum's premier alchemy atelier, the Madam has been eager to get her hands on them. Still, even though the plants are presently off to a good start in your backyard, you've made no promises that you can fulfill her advance requisition. They are notoriously rare and fussy, and it takes a great many weeks before they can be harvested. With your magic-assisted expertise, you stand a good chance at seeing them to maturity—but even then it's far from a sure thing.
        
        Thankfully, Madam Ehlys has found the rest of your stock plenty diverting in the meantime. She has all but monopolized your stock of foraged alchemical herbs and those quick-growing plants that you've managed to harvest within the opening week. Her unabashed greed has left many other alchemists and pharmacists in constant want of your stock, which happily gives you leverage to sell your future harvests at a premium.
        
        "You're welcome to look upon them, if you wish," you say, jerking your head towards a nearby door. The pathway beyond opens up into your backyard, where grows the merchandise you've been cultivating for your shop. Your offer is a formality more than anything, as the Madam has helped herself to its access more times than you can count. "Though I fear they've not grown any since you checked in this morning."
        
        "Ah, but expect of this, Madam did. No visit will disappointment make, if door is opened not by expectation. Master ${fname}, remember well wise words of Madam!" she says, giving you a firm slap on the shoulder. You recognize her saying as belonging to Thayle, a kingdom on the overseas Imperial Continent. It appears her residence on Arvanand, which will allegedly come up on five decades this year, has eroded neither her accent nor syntax. Indeed, you would've marked her as a passing Thaylian merchant were it not for her potion shop, which occupies a huge slice of Thulrum's main thoroughfare.
        
        Bemused, you decide to humor her. "I'll keep that in mind, Madam," you say, offering her a businesslike smile. "In the meantime, can I interest you in anything else? Items that we actually have in stock, if you please."
        
        "Indeed! To settle for this, agree to vainness of trip already made, Madam will not. Good Master, throw cabinets open and let Madam browse!"
        
        You do as she bids, and she spends a full hour rifling through the ingredients and grilling you on their properties and acquisition. In the end, she peruses your wares with such ferocity that your shelves are left depleted. She waves happily at you on her way out, the porter she'd called to carry her purchases huffing and puffing from the weight of his load.
    #"Please pipe down. Your being so loud is bad for business."
        *set noble %- 15
        Madam Ehlys leans forward and schools her voice into a conspiratorial whisper. "From lips of Master ${fname} fly no lies." She breaks out into a grin, then, and her words' volume returns in force. "But a truth known to us both, is this: that Madam herself is great for business!"
        
        Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately—you find it difficult to contradict her. The Madam is perhaps Thulrum's finest
        *if (alchemy > 75)
            alchemist, barring yourself,
        *else
            alchemist,
        and the one most in want of the fresh ingredients you promise to supply. She checks in daily to ask after the growth of the misthils and jyllweeds in your backyard, those rare and fussy plants prized by alchemists the whole world over. It will be many weeks yet before they can be harvested, and indeed even with your expertise they stand a good chance of perishing well before. All the same she eyes them with the hunger of a hound at hunt's end. You've caught her licking her lips more than once, in fact, though you're only too happy to pretend you'd seen nothing.
        
        In the meantime, the Madam has all but monopolized your stock of foraged alchemical herbs and those quick-growing plants that you've managed to harvest within the opening week. Her unabashed greed has left many other alchemists and pharmacists in constant want of your stock, which happily gives you leverage to sell your future harvests at a premium.
        
        "Fallen to silence, the Master has. For truth is spoken by Madam Ehlys, and this has been realized," she says, satisfied. You recognize her manner of speech as belonging to Thayle, a kingdom on the overseas Imperial Continent. It appears her residence on Arvanand, which will allegedly come up on five decades this year, has eroded neither her accent nor syntax. Indeed, you would've marked her as a passing Thaylian merchant were it not for her potion shop, which occupies a huge slice of Thulrum's main thoroughfare.
        
        "The jyllweeds haven't grown any since you checked in this morning," you duly inform her. "Are you here for ingredients?"
        
        "Full of shame are jyllweeds reluctant to grow," Madam Ehlys mourns, shaking her head. "But to settle for this, agree to vainness of trip already made? Surely not Madam! Good Master, throw cabinets open and let Madam browse!"
        
        "A simple yes would have sufficed," you grumble tiredly, though you show her your stock all the same. In the end, she peruses your wares with such ferocity that your shelves are left depleted. She waves happily at you on her way out, the porter she'd called to carry her purchases huffing and puffing from the weight of his load.

Bereaved of your stock, you decide to close the shop early, to the complaints of the alchemists and pharmacists following in Madam Ehlys's wake. You instead devote that time into a hard day of gardening, finding yourself content with the mindless chore of it. Here in your garden, your most pressing concern is to ensure that the misthils and jyllweeds get just the right amount of water and sunlight. Thoughts of war, missions, and brokered deals fall by the wayside and fade beyond your mind's eye, allowing you to take what seems to be the first deep breaths since your awakening.

*page_break

*set rfalco %- 10
*comment f pieced together the mage's identity

Once the sun has set, you retreat back inside your shop to work on growth-boosting magic, weaving together theorems from tens of different tomes in hopes of finding the perfect brew. You perform the task with such single-minded focus that you neglect to notice the sun setting outside, or the hours of the night slowly ticking past the partition between days. In the end, what finally draws you from your work is neither hunger nor exhaustion, but the sound of your door creaking open. As it does, the cool night air slips into the room, scented of dew and—strangely enough—of blood.

You do not bother turning your gaze up to face the intruder, focusing instead on fashioning a magic circle in your mind's eye. "We're closed," you say flatly, betraying no tension. "We open again three hours past dawn."

There's a rustling of fabric, and in your peripheral vision you catch the figure lowering their hood. "Peace," they reply, their voice pleasantly smooth and—familiar. "It's me."

You swing your gaze onto the figure proper, behold ${fhis} shock of white hair and piercing golden eyes, and feel tension and spell both release. ${falco} may be but a stranger to you, but one with a clear and singular reputation—that of unwavering loyalty to Tahlia. That makes ${fhim} a predictable creature. And right now, you predict that ${fhe} wouldn't do anything to harm you, lest ${fhe} draw the ire of ${fhis} beloved master.

You rise to your feet and slip into the slice of moonlight offered by the open door. Convinced that ${fhe}'s past the danger of falling victim to your spell, ${falco} slips in and shuts the door behind ${fhim}. It does not escape your notice that the @{fvar man|woman}  is thoroughly tainted by road grime and specks of dried blood. By your guess, ${fhe} has only just returned from ${fhis} weeks-long mission chasing down Heesa, the girl kidnapped from the refugee caravans. A mission which has, apparently, come to an end.

${falco} takes a cursory glance around your shop, seemingly unimpressed by the meager selection you have on offer. "This is what you choose to do with your time. I see."

*choice
    #"There's such a thing as being too successful. 'Fraid all my best stock is gone."
        ${falco} appears unconvinced by your words, but says nothing. $!{fhe} slides ${fhis} attention from the display, regarding you with that set of piercing golden eyes. "I'm not here to shop, in any case. There's business to discuss."
        
        "I gathered as much," you say, sighing. "Let's be on with it, then."
        
        *goto shutcurtain
    #"${falco}, right? Care for a cup of tea? I'll put the kettle on."
        *set noble %+ 15
        ${falco}'s brows twitch at your offer, and ${fhe} replies to the offer just a beat too soon. "Not necessary," ${fhe} says. "I'm here on business."
        
        "I gathered as much, but it would only be polite to offer," you say, chuckling. "Let's be on with it, then."

        *goto shutcurtain
    #"Say, has anyone ever told you how rude you are?"
        "Yes," ${falco} says, flat and unabashed.
        
        You cross your arms at ${fhim}. "It was a rhetorical question."
        
        The look ${falco} gives you is one you normally reserve for lackwits and bumbling nobles, and you rather mislike being on the other end of it. Regardless, it is clear what ${falco}'s come here for, and so you obligingly fall into step with ${fhim}.
        *goto shutcurtain
    #"You have business here, surely. Let's hear it so you can be quit of this place."
        *set noble %- 15
        If ${falco} takes offense with the shortness of your tone, ${fhe} does not show it. Not that ${fhe} would have the right to, given ${fhis} own foul temper.
        
        "Fine," is what ${fhe} says, arms crossed. "To business."
        
        *label shutcurtain
        You shut the shop's curtains and blinds and motion for ${falco} to follow you to the parlor table, where you had been working on your theorems just seconds prior. The sheets containing your work are shoved into a messy pile on one side, while a second chair upon which ${falco} is to sit is produced from behind the proprietor's counter. Finally, you trade candlelight for the overhead oil lantern set just above the table, the wick of which you set afire with a simple cantrip.
        
        ${falco} looks approvingly at the state of the room, and adds ${fhis} own contribution: a Glyph of Silence, which will serve to protect your words against would-be eavesdroppers. Well and good. The state of the mage suggests that whatever discussion ${fhe} seeks would best be held in confidence. And for your part, it would not do for the shop to cultivate a reputation for welcoming blood-soaked vagrants in the middle of the night.
        
        ${falco} takes the place that's been offered to ${fhim}, breath heavy with exertion.
        *goto flickerfire

*label artifactpastime
You close the remaining distance to your humble shop, which puts up on offer assorted knickknacks and local specialties from all over Thulrum. In this section of the West Ward, with a population dominated by manual laborers and low-ranking scholar-priests, your shop of oddities sees little and less patronage each day. Such is your intention, for your true trade involves not the shop's front shelves, filled only with curios you've extracted from the merchant caravans passing through Thulrum's thoroughfare. That honor falls instead to your [i]alternative[/i] catalog, accessible to patrons only through a conversational signal you've established with the most discerning eyes in Thulrum and beyond.

A sonorous, thrice-rung bell in the distance marks the hour as three past noon, meaning you've managed a punctual arrival back from your midday break. You pass under the board declaring the shop's name—The Thul Room, the lettering suitably garish so as to match your cover—and sweep into the shop, beholding the shelves upon shelves of minor artifacts which rise to surround you on all sides. You take your place behind the shopkeep's counter, which proudly displays on its surface self-replenishing snowglobes and eternally warm mugs. 

You sell a few of them as the minutes tick by—word about your shop has been making the rounds in West Ward lately, and custom's seen an unfortunate uptick. But eventually, in comes a customer of a more specialized persuasion. His attendant had come ahead of him to notify you of his arrival, and yet the man obligingly submits the first part of your signal. And so it was that the man known as Fez launches himself into the routine with marked dispassion. "Do you carry anything from beyond the Sailgraves?"

It's the first movement of your established song and dance, and rote though his delivery may be, you have to respect him for committing to it.

*choice
    #I urge him to skip the formality.
        "Come on, now. We both know what you're here for."
        
        "That right?" he sniffs. "Odd that you bothered with a signal at all, then."
        
        "It'll still come in handy, in my line of work," you say, shrugging. "But I'd never get in touch with the madhouse's shadow if I weren't sure I'd recognize him on sight. Far too risky—might end up with a dagger in my back."
        
        "There's wisdom in that," he admits with a sigh. He then looks towards the inconspicuous wooden door behind the counter and jerks his chin. "To business, then."
        
        "To business," you agree. "Bar the doors, will you? This'll take us a while."
    #I answer with the next part of the code.
        You answer him with a businesslike smile. "It's suicide to cross this time of year. The Sailgraves is so called for a reason."
        
        "I'm not hearing a no," he says. "Fair to assume there's a reason for that."
        
        "So there is," you say. "Bar the doors, will you? This'll take us a while."
        
Fez does as you bid, the wooden plank grating as it's slid into place. He follows you then into the back room, which holds the small trove of artifacts you'd managed to glean from your supplier. The whole place is rigged up with magical tripwires and barrier enchantments—a fact you had relayed to your contacts from the very first meeting. Most of the artifacts are of very fine make, and you shudder at the thought of having to clean bloodstains from each cog in the machines.

In the dim glow of the magical artifacts, Fez's features become more pronounced: he's a middle-aged man with a hawkish nose and sallow, pitted skin, with long hair that sprouts from a prominent widow's peak. His haggard appearance, you know, is by design—for among the man's clientele are some of Salantira's most discerning nobles, who deal in profitable ventures operating outside of the duchy's stringent laws. Though his operations have ballooned too much in scale to avoid the palace's notice, the authorities have yet to put a name and face to his shadowed deeds. And certainly, even in their long years of investigation into Fez's activities, they have never thought to look at the residents of Salantira City's biggest madhouse, among whom resides one of the duchy's finest—and most dangerous—informants.

Fez's existence had been known to Param's innermost circle, who had dealt with him in order to exploit what few weaknesses Salantira had left exposed. He had on a number of occasions sown discord within the duchy's borders, leading to widespread unrest which distracted its frontline efforts. Despite his instrumental role in Param's victory, Fez made no direct contact with the resistance, speaking instead through missives and intermediaries. It was only upon purchasing intelligence from Thulrum's netters and extracting information from the Church that you were able to connect the dots, and trace the spiderweb back to the man in the madhouse.

A spirit gate trip to the north, a cornered informant, and a firmly-worded missive later, you've managed to force Fez onto your turf. Though given the profits he stands to reap from your partnership—coerced though it may be—he really has no cause to complain.

"So these are Thulrum's famed artifacts," he says, scouring the room with a discerning gaze. "Though if they're genuine articles, I don't see why you went to such lengths to find an intermediary. Most netters would jump at a chance like this."

"Few have the connections you do to the High Houses, and fewer still have your bargaining power," you say. And then, after a moment's consideration, you decide to go for the throat. "And you weave a far-spanning web, besides. The Siege of Aurogard would have been impossible without your interference—it stands to reason that you retain contacts in Param, as they'd have need of your continued services."

You hear a rustle as Fez rapidly reaches for something in his doublet, though a surge of oppressive mana from you puts an end to his designs. It takes a moment for him to find his words, though it speaks highly of him that his voice still betrays no emotion. "You've made some dangerous inquiries."

*choice
    #"You should be happy, then, that I seek partnership rather than extortion."
        Fez, as expected, is not easily convinced. "One must wonder why that is."
        
        "Should we come to blows, I will be the one to emerge the victor," you say, meeting his gaze evenly. "But I've always been averse to risks, you see. And you would be a powerful enemy indeed to make."
        
        "Is that right?" he asks, head tilting. "Then your terms must be quite lucrative."
        
        "They will be fair," you say, wandering over to an end table pressed up against one of the room's corners. You reach into one of the drawers set against it, and produce a parchment from its depths. You feel Fez's gaze following your movements all the while, doubtless with fingers still wrapped against his dagger's hilt. "But don't take it from me—see for yourself."
    #"Consider it a safety precaution on my part. This is a vulnerable business, after all."
        "One would typically seek to eliminate volatile variables, in that case," Fez says grimly. "But you've instead chosen to court me."
        
        "Salantira is a lucrative market—one I cannot afford to pass up," you say. "Our paths were bound to cross one way or another. Better that I nip things in the bud, rather than risk an unpleasant encounter later down the line."
        
        Fez eyes you evenly. "This encounter is to be a pleasant one, then?"
        
        "My terms will be fair, if that's what you're asking," you say, wandering over to an end table pressed up against one of the room's corners. You reach into one of the drawers set against it, and produce a parchment from its depths. You feel Fez's gaze following your movements all the while, doubtless with fingers still wrapped against his dagger's hilt. "But don't take it from me—see for yourself."
    #"It pays to know who I'll be working with, and I'm impressed with what I've seen."
        "That [i]anything[/i] of my business has been seen should bode ill for my talents," he says grimly.
        
        "That's quite a put-down," you remark. "But humility ill suits you. You're among the best of your trade, and you know it."
        
        "Whoever is keeping the score must reevaluate, given how exposed I've evidently left myself," he says easily. "Unless, of course, I can right this wrong."
        
        You tilt your head, smirking. "Is that a threat?"
        
        "An observation, for the time being," he replies. "Whether anything comes of it will hinge upon the extent of your demands."
        
        "My terms will be fair," you say, wandering over to an end table pressed up against one of the room's corners. You reach into one of the drawers set against it, and produce a parchment from its depths. You feel Fez's gaze following your movements all the while, doubtless with fingers still wrapped against his dagger's hilt. "But don't take it from me—see for yourself."
    #"You're in no position to be posturing like this, you realize."
        "You have enough on hand to ruin me, especially if you leverage your connections with the mighty Church," he says, matter-of-fact. "The fact that you haven't means that I'm still of use to you. Why should I grovel, then, when my power is my biggest asset?"
        
        "You'd turn what power I let you keep against me?" you ask, amused. "A mangy mutt would know more of honor and gratitude."
        
        "If you were in want of those qualities, you would not turn to me."
        
        "I have time yet to reconsider," you say, smirking. "Perhaps I'd like you ruined, after all."
        
        "Given the tilt of the scales, I suspect I'd be ruined either way."

        You match gazes with him, for a while, breaking away only when you spot the conviction in his eyes. A useful trait, that. "My terms will be fair," you say, wandering over to an end table pressed up against one of the room's corners. You reach into one of the drawers set against it, and produce a parchment from its depths. You feel Fez's gaze following your movements all the while, doubtless with fingers still wrapped against his dagger's hilt. "But don't take it from me—see for yourself."

*page_break

Fez affects a stoic air as he snatches the papers from your hand, though you know for certain that you've pushed him off-balance. The man is used to holding court from the shadows, and silences inquiries into his activities with all the finesse of a viper. He must feel as if you've dragged him kicking and screaming into the light, and forced him to writhe under the glare. Doubtless he's already thinking of ways to double-cross you, tie up the loose end you represent. But you've put in the work to establish the necessary safeguards, as he'll discover should he look into your affairs. Besides, with the terms of the contract, he will have no cause to do so.

"Generous," Fez proclaims, brown eyes scrutinizing.

You give him a shrug. In truth, the terms still lean heavily towards your side, given that Fez will be doing so much of the legwork in Salantira. But you have enough dirt on him to rob him blind, and despite your reassurances, he seems to have expected you to collect without mercy. "I'm not looking to purchase a duchy," you say. "These terms serve me well enough."

Fez's gaze shifts between your physical inventory and the fine print of your contract. "You peddle your wares to others, as well," he concludes, frowning. "How many?"

"That is my business," you say, perfectly pleasant. "I advise that you stick to yours."

Fez gives you a look. "You will bar me from making independent inquiries?"

"You would be welcome to observe the repercussions," you reply. "I've no intention of tightening your leash, but it's best you don't mistake my grace for cowardice."

Fez smirks at that, and if you've the right measure of his character, he's likely decided you're worth at least a modicum of respect. "This is acceptable, for the time being."

"I'm glad we've come to an agreement," you say. "Fetch from that table the signing quill, and then we can discuss the first shipment…"

*page_break

Fez removes himself from your shop not an hour later, leaving you alone as you open the blinds once more and resume your shop's activities. You entertain the trickle of custom gawking at your curios from behind the counter, absently scratching notes on a piece of parchment all the while. Your deal with Fez is perhaps the biggest step you've taken so far, and his is an influence sizable enough to change the face of your distribution chain. Upcoming contracts will need to be recalibrated, and soon you'll likely be in want of a second artificer. Your tasks stretch out before you in what seems to be an endless multitude, but you find that you enjoy the process. Not the least of which because a bottomless pot of gold awaits you at the end of the road.

The business day comes to an end with the dying of the sun, and after closing up shop you retreat to a corner desk, quill and parchment in hand. There are missives to draw up and inquiries to pursue, now that the biggest piece of the puzzle has fallen into place. Luckily, you no longer need to turn much of your attention to Salantira's labyrinthine mess of veiled truths and covert alliances. Indeed, securing Fez's cooperation had been a triumph, one that allows you now to focus on easier, less delicate matters.

You perform your task with such single-minded focus that the hours slip away from you, crossing without event that partition between days. In the end, what finally draws you from your work is neither hunger nor exhaustion, but the sound of your door creaking open. As it does, the cool night air steals into the room, scented of dew and—strangely enough—of blood.

You do not bother turning your gaze up to face the intruder, focusing instead on fashioning a magic circle in your mind's eye. "We're closed," you say flatly, betraying no tension. "We open again three hours past dawn."

There's a rustling of fabric, and in your peripheral vision you catch the figure lowering their hood. "Peace," they reply, their voice pleasantly smooth and—familiar. "It's me."

You swing your gaze onto the figure proper, behold ${fhis} shock of white hair and piercing golden eyes, and feel tension and spell both release. ${falco} may be but a stranger to you, but one with a clear and singular reputation—that of unwavering loyalty to Tahlia. That makes ${fhim} a predictable creature. And right now, you predict that ${fhe} wouldn't do anything to harm you, lest ${fhe} draw the ire of ${fhis} beloved master.

You rise to your feet and slip into the slice of moonlight offered by the open door. Convinced that ${fhe}'s past the danger of falling victim to your spell, ${falco} slips in and shuts the door behind ${fhim}. It does not escape your notice that the @{fvar man|woman} is thoroughly tainted by road grime and specks of dried blood. By your guess, ${fhe} has only just returned from ${fhis} weeks-long mission chasing down Heesa, the girl kidnapped from the refugee caravans. A mission which has, apparently, come to an end.

${falco} takes a cursory glance around your shop, seemingly unimpressed by the ragtag collection of goods you have on offer. "This is what you choose to do with your time. I see."

*choice
    #"My shop is mine to do with as I please."
        ${falco} scoffs at your words. "I never said otherwise," ${fhe} says simply, though the judgment still steals into ${fhis} tone. $!{fhe} slides ${fhis} attention from the display, then, and regards you with that set of piercing golden eyes. "I'm not here to shop, in any case. There's business to discuss."
        
        "I gathered as much," you say, sighing. "Let's be on with it, then."
        
        *goto shutcurtain2
    #"${falco}, right? Care for a cup of tea? I'll put the kettle on."
        *set noble %+ 15
        ${falco}'s brows twitch at your offer, and ${fhe} replies to the offer just a beat too soon. "Not necessary," ${fhe} says. "I'm here on business."
        
        "I gathered as much, but it would only be polite to offer," you say, chuckling. "Let's be on with it, then."

        *goto shutcurtain2
    #"Say, has anyone ever told you how rude you are?"
        "Yes," ${falco} says, flat and unabashed.
        
        You cross your arms at ${fhim}. "It was a rhetorical question."
        
        The look ${falco} gives you is one you normally reserve for lackwits and bumbling nobles, and you rather mislike being on the other end of it. Regardless, it is clear what ${falco}'s come here for, and so you obligingly fall into step with ${fhim}.
        *goto shutcurtain2
    #"You have business here, surely. Let's hear it so you can be quit of this place."
        *set noble %- 15
        If ${falco} takes offense with the shortness of your tone, ${fhe} does not show it. Not that ${fhe} would have the right to, given ${fhis} own foul temper.
        
        "Fine," is what ${fhe} says, arms crossed. "To business."
        
        *label shutcurtain2
        You shut the shop's curtains and blinds and motion for ${falco} to follow you to the parlor table, whereupon sits the sprawl of missives you've been drafting prior to ${fhis} arrival. The sheets containing your work are shoved into a messy pile on one side, while a second chair upon which ${falco} is to sit is produced from behind the proprietor's counter. Finally, you trade candlelight for the overhead oil lantern set just above the table, the wick of which you set afire with a simple cantrip.
        
        ${falco} looks approvingly at the state of the room, and adds ${fhis} own contribution: a Glyph of Silence, which will serve to protect your words against would-be eavesdroppers. Well and good. The state of the mage suggests that whatever discussion ${fhe} seeks would best be held in confidence. And for your part, it would not do for the shop to cultivate a reputation for welcoming blood-soaked vagrants in the middle of the night.
        
        ${falco} takes the place that's been offered to ${fhim}, breath heavy with exertion.
        *goto flickerfire

*label postelireveal
*page_break
*goto_scene Checkpoint_7-1