The sun is only just properly risen over Thulrum's sprawling cityscape when you exit your shop the next day, the morning chill sneaking past your coat and brushing against your skin. You count your blessings that the downpour has finally let up, leaving behind puddles strewn all throughout the city, kaleidoscopic as they reflect Thulrum's chaotic burst of colors. The fountain square is alive with activity even so early in the morning, as Ishavak scripture denotes the Day of Renewal as a day of community.

Children scramble through the streets in throngs, eliciting from their mothers yells as frustrated as they are fond. Along the Ward, profusions of folding chairs spill out of residential patios and onto the walkways, cards and coins tossed down under the shade of protruded roofs. You breathe in the morning air, redolent with the scent of pollen and whatever it is the baker's got going in the oven, and let out a contented sigh as you stride down the street.

You exchange greetings with the local residents as you plan for the day ahead. ${yusuha} and Eli said they would meet you in the Seat, and from there you would go to the highcity together. Ostensibly by carriage; you imagine the Church's stables would be happy to arrange a ride for such an occasion. This apparent highcity is elusive enough that you haven't so much as heard whispers about it among the clergy, despite your frequent business in the Seat. You can only surmise that its existence is not made known to the rank-and-file, though the question still remains on how [i]a whole city[/i] can remain a closely-guarded secret, even amongst the apparent administrators of the theocracy.

You ponder the question absently as you cross into the High Ward, ringing the edges of which is the bustling market square, home to the vast majority of Thulrum's commerce.

The Day of Renewal is, generally speaking, a day of rest. But for the market square, it is anything but.

*page_break

The sheer mass of people crowding the square as you approach it beggars belief. Untethered from their duties for the week, Thulrum's citizens have descended upon the square like starved vultures—and despite the discomfort they presently endow you, the sweltering press of bodies against your own, you find you're unable to blame them. The market is always busy, always lively, but on Renewal it sheds its old coat of produce and linens and fish, tossing aside with it the fetid odors of goods baking in the musty heat. In its place are instead the sprawling tents and colorful awnings of the Moving Market, a procession of caravans carrying goods from all over Arvanand and beyond. The object of the city's collective excitement—though lately the Market has begun to grow so choked with people that many choose to retreat to their respective wards, their excitement stoppered, their day of rest whiled away in peace.

Not enough of them, you wryly think, fighting a sneeze drawn out by some maiden's wind-buffeted hair. You navigate the crowd to find a rare pocket of space off to one side of the main street, beside a tent from which wafts the scent of foreign spices. It is the first in a long series, each with a smiling merchant perched at the flap, their voices carrying with the same luring, siren-sweet tone. You squint towards the distance and spot there your next point of refuge, a clearing in the crowd around a sacred tree blessed by the Church. Well and good. You draw a long breath and steel yourself for the next stretch; alas, you don't manage even a single step before someone barrels into your side at such speed as to topple you over.

Or they would have, had you not managed a last-second dodge, nimbly landing on your feet a  step away. The figure slams onto the ground where you once were, his body smashing against the puddled cobblestone, the crowd around him yelping as they begin to retreat. The fallen figure cranes his neck up, and you see then that he's a hawk-nosed man with a scar down the side of his face; he lets out an impressive string of profanities as he pushes himself to a sitting position, the mud-water left behind by the night's rain staining his garments.

Garments which, you duly note, mark him as a clergyman of the Ishavak Church.

*temp savepriest false
*choice
    #I offer to help him up.
        *set noble %+ 15
        "Are you alright?" you ask, extending a hand towards him.
        
        He grasps your proffered hand with his own, though the scowl never leaves his face. "You should've caught me before I fell, dammit," he grumbles.
        *choice
            #You know what? I withdraw my hand.
                To the man's surprise, you yank your hand from his grip before he can regain his footing, and wide-eyed and cursing he goes tumbling once more. Falling on his behind onto the puddle-stained stones below.
                
                "What are you, mad?" he demands shrilly, eyes bulging with anger.
                
                "My hand slipped," you declare, scowling.
                
                "Tch, never mind. I have bigger fish to fry." He shifts his gaze around, then, and they finally land upon a boy off to one side of the crowd, upon whose face is etched such horror that you're surprised he hasn't fled from—whatever it is that's scaring him. Something—call it a gut feeling—tells you it might be the mud-stained priest at your feet, who now points a gnarled finger at the boy, his scowl having grown even more severe. "You!" he snarls. He staggers to his feet and begins to march in the boy's direction.
            #I take his comment in stride. Someone in his position is bound to be grumpy.
                *set savepriest true
                The man dusts himself off when he gets back on his feet. A futile attempt given the thorough drench of his clothes, though you won't be the one to tell him that. You get the feeling his is the sort that would shoot the messenger every time.
                
                "Damn this blasted day," he growls, wild-eyed as he gives up on his garment and instead casts a searching gaze through the crowd. A couple of passers-by shrink back at the expression on his face, but none are more horrified than a boy off to one side of the crowd. You note the terror etched onto his features, so palpable that it's a wonder he hasn't fled from—whatever it is that's scaring him. Something—call it a gut feeling—tells you that it might be the mud-stained priest who now stands beside you. Your suspicion is soon confirmed, as the man points a gnarled finger at the boy, his scowl having grown even more severe. "You!"
    #I ask him what his problem is.
        *set noble %- 15
        The man barks out a dry laugh. "And why do [i]you[/i] want to know?" he demands. "Haven't even the decency to catch a man while he's falling. A [i]priest[/i], at that! Presume not to ask questions of your betters, vagrant."
        
        Vagrant? So the man presumes you a traveler merely passing through. You suppose your manner of dress is simple enough that the path of his thoughts is understandable. Still, it speaks much of him—that is, the lowliness of his station—that he doesn't know the [i]ashai's[/i] infamous guest when @{pronvar he's|she's|they're} staring him in the face. He must not run in the clergy's inner circles then, likely serving instead as some clerk or other within the Church's vast bureaucracy.
        
        "Woe is me," you say mockingly, sneering down at him. "I must be Thulrum's most wretched refuse, seeing as my better is supping on dung-streaked mud as we speak."
        
        The man trembles with rage for all of a second before, to his credit, managing to rein himself in. "Bah, I haven't the time to quarrel with you. Begone!" He casts a searching gaze through the crowd, then, causing a couple of passers-by to shrink back at the expression on his face. But none are more horrified than a boy off to his left, upon whose face is etched such terror that you're surprised he hasn't fled from—whatever it is that's scaring him.  Something—call it a gut feeling—tells you it might be the mud-stained priest at your feet, who now points a gnarled finger at the boy, his scowl having grown even more severe. "You!" he snarls. He staggers to his feet and begins marching in the boy's direction.
    #I simply walk away.
        *set charming %- 15
        What do you care for a foul-mouthed priest in the middle of nowhere? The man nearly took you down with him, but perhaps Isha is watching over you the way Jove never could, for he received his comeuppance swiftly. The wrong is righted, and you've no more stake in this strange affair. Satisfied, you turn your back on the man even as the curses stream from his mouth, intent on using the precious window of empty thoroughfare provisioned to you by the commotion.
        
        Your ill luck holds, alas. A boy who looks to be in his twelfth or thirteenth year stumbles into your path and ducks to one side of your body, as if to use you as cover. You note the horror etched onto his features, so palpable that you're surprised he hasn't straight up fled from—whatever it is that's scaring him. Something tells you it might be the mud-stained priest you nearly bumped into. A reluctant look back confirms your guess, for the man is pointing a gnarled finger at you—no, [i]through[/i] you, at the boy—a prominent scowl pulling at his lips all the while. "You!" he snarls. He staggers to his feet and begins to march in the boy's direction.

The boy backs away, but not quickly enough—his arm is soon seized by the priest, making the former whimper in fear. "L-let me go!"

"What have you to say for yourself, urchin?" the priest demands. "The icon is shattered by your hands, and you've humiliated me besides."

"I didn't break your icon," the boy offers weakly. "You dropped it yourself—and you fell by yourself, too."

"Because you ran into my path, fool!" the priest yells, spittle flying from his mouth. "That icon was the work of a master craftsman, worth your weight in coin, and now it lies scattered in the middle of the square. Shards crushed under refugee shoes! Have you any idea what you've done?"

A sallow-faced woman hesitantly breaks from the crowd, then, a frown pulling at her mouth. "You can't do this to him, Holiness. He's just a child."

"I can do whatever the hell I please," he says. "I'm a priest of the theocracy, lest you forget. The very haven which rescued you from your pitiful existences. More the fool us, for this is how we are repaid!"

"I'll—I'll work the debt off," the boy grates, valiantly keeping his voice from breaking. The priest's reminding of his status as a refugee must have gotten to him; you can feel his worry like a physical emanation, doubtless fearing that he might be tossed out of the city for the alleged crime. "Whatever the Church needs doing. I'll do it."

The man's rage subsides at the promise, but the satisfied cast of his features leaves little doubt that he intends to wring the boy for all he's worth.

*temp priestresolve ""
*choice
    #I won't allow it. I chide the man and publicly humiliate him.
        *set priestresolve "chide"
        You've rubbed elbows with the nobility enough times to witness your share of abuses of power, but few have been so egregious as this one. You yank the hawk-nosed man's hand off of the boy, scowling down at the former as you do. "That's quite enough. You haven't the right to do this."
        
        *if (savepriest)
            A vicious gleam enters his eyes as he turns to you. "You would dare?" he says, anger rasping his tone. "You may have lent me a hand, vagrant, but do not think my gratitude boundless. You would do well to know your place."
            *label andyours
            
            "And yours?" you sneer, glancing down at the cloth braid tied across the front flap of his robe. A mark of his position within the Church, though that fact is seldom known to outsiders. Despite his claims, he is a half-decade away from being ordained as a full priest—provided the Church doesn't relieve him of his position first. A prospect which grows likelier by the second. "What power is held by an acolyte of the third order? One who has yet to complete his initiation, at that."
            
            The acolyte reels back in surprise, a hand instinctively clutching at his braid. "My rank matters little," he says through gritted teeth. "The Church still speaks through me, and so I've authority enough have you jailed—"
            
            "Indeed? Then do so. Bring me before your [i]razerai[/i], and let us have her adjudicate the matter."
            
            When the acolyte next speaks, panic is slurring his words. "She shouldn't have to sit through such—"
            
            "Why not? Surely she will make time for one of your stature and influence. Unless, of course, you possess neither." You take a step forward, and the acolyte obligingly completes the dance. A stagger backward, an arm raised in front of his chest—as if that much could protect him from your words. "I will recount your duties and powers as a third-order initiate, since it seems you need the reminder. You are to tail your master-acolyte on their day-to-day duties, serve as their clerk, and run errands for whomever in your order has need of such services. The Church's raiments you may don, but there ends your honor. You've power over no one—not the [i]razerai[/i], not the jailer, not even the indentured criminals scooping grime from the Seat's gutters. And if your master-acolyte learns that you have claimed otherwise, you may be certain that the Seat will bar its doors to you with great swiftness."
            
            In a moment of hard-won wisdom, the man offers no rebuttals, fury and embarrassment painting his skin red. "I see your words have failed you. Were that they did so sooner," you say cuttingly. "The cost of replacing the icon shall come from your pockets. Now be on your way, [i]priest[/i]."
            
            The man bites his lips hard enough to draw blood, but eventually does as you bid.
            
            *page_break He goes.
            
            You watch him retreat and disappear into the crowd. Had he a tail like other dogs of his kind, odds are high that it would be dragging behind him.
            
            You feel a tug on your
            *if (gender = "female")
                skirt,
            *else
                trousers,
            and you glance down to find the boy there, lips pursed uncertainly. "Um…thank you," he offers, brief and sincere, before ducking into the crowd and slipping out of sight. You let him go—it's clear the day's events have taken its toll on him, and he ought be allowed the space to lick his wounds privately.            
            *goto imeeting
        *else
            A vicious gleam enters his eyes as he turns to you. "You would dare?" he says, anger rasping his tone. "Unhand me, vagrant, lest my mercy find its end. You would do well to know your place."
            *goto andyours
    #I reason with the priest and persuade him to leave.
        *set priestresolve "persuade"
        *set charming %+ 15
        It should be clear to all watching that the man's behavior is decidedly unpriestly, and that the Church's reputation stands to suffer for it. If he hasn't the sensibility to recognize that for himself, then perhaps you'll need to serve as his educator.
        
        "Come now, Holiness," you say, smiling as you shove yourself between him and the boy. "It wouldn't do to cause such a commotion on the Day of Renewal."
        
        The man turns his scowl towards you. "What are you still doing here? Scram," he grates. "The urchin has bitten the hand which feeds him. He must be made to suffer the consequence."
        
        "Ah, but you would besmirch the Church's honor in the process. Thulrum's protection is given freely; a priest should know better than to be exacting over it," you say. The man ignores your words, attempting instead to circle you—you jerk sideways then, blocking his advance. Your proximity allows you to catch sight of the cloth braid tied across the front flap of his robe. A mark of his position within the Church, though that fact is seldom known to outsiders. You suppress a grin as you realize that the man is not a priest at all, but an acolyte—one who has yet to complete his initiation, at that. Good. You can use this.
        
        "Move, @{pronvar man|woman|fool}!" the priest growls. "My patience runs thin."
        
        So he doesn't respond to a polite appeal. Time to switch tactics. "This is unbecoming, Holiness. To stir up such a commotion—what would your master-acolyte say?"
        
        The acolyte reels back in surprise, a hand instinctively clutching at his braid. "You know not of what you speak."
        
        "Indeed. I'm just a foolish vagrant passing through. Without the knowledge that one could lodge a complaint against initiates in the Common House," you say with a smile. "I'd be happy to stay that foolish vagrant, if you would kindly let this matter pass."
        
        "I'm well within my rights—" the priest rasps, fuming. "Who would believe your words against mine?"
        
        You pointedly gaze about the square, at the murmuring crowd surrounding you. "Your words against mine alone? Perhaps none," you say, privately relishing in the lie. "But we are many strong in this square, priest. I should think a few would submit their testimonies to accompany mine."
        
        The sallow-faced woman from earlier solemnly takes a step forward, nodding as she meets your gaze. A few others shortly follow suit, breaking from the crowd, each one causing the fight to leave the priest's form.
        
        "I'll remember this," the man says, in the end, a furious glaze in his eyes. An empty threat meant to salvage what face he can; you've little doubt he lacks the means to follow through on it. The man spins around then, ears red with burning anger as he stalks away.
        *page_break He goes.
        You watch him retreat and disappear into the crowd. Had he a tail like other dogs of his kind, odds are high that it would be dragging behind him.
            
        You feel a tug on your
        *if (gender = "female")
            skirt,
        *else
            trousers,
        and you glance down to find the boy there, lips pursed uncertainly. "Um…thank you," he offers, brief and sincere, before ducking into the crowd and slipping out of sight. You let him go—it's clear the day's events have taken its toll on him, and he ought be allowed the space to lick his wounds privately.            
        *goto imeeting
    #I just pay the man in the boy's stead.
        *set priestresolve "pay"
        *set noble %+ 15
        Because that's all that it boils down to, isn't it? Something precious has been broken, and the priest is now in need of someone to blame. The solution is easy enough to glean, and you have the means to bring it to bear.
        
        "Did you say this icon of yours was glassworked?" you say, regarding the man. Combing through what glassforgers you knew to be in the Church's employ for a moment, you arrive at a likely name. "The cratfsman in question wouldn't happen to be East Ward's Faladan, would it?"
        
        The man scowls at you, but you don't miss the hint of surprise in his eyes. "What's it to you?"
        
        "I'll take that as a yes," you say. "The man is a master of his art, as you say, but he offers a significant discount to the Church. For an icon of the like you speak of, the commission would total—what, two gold, three?"
        
        "Two gold and five silver," the man admits, before catching himself. "If you've business with the blasted man, go to him yourself. Cease blathering at me over—"
        
        The man quiets as you yank his hand from his side and plop the coins onto his palm. Exactly two gold and five silver. 
        *if (thulshopvar = 1)
            You sigh as the priest's fingers clasp around the coins. Were you a simple tavern keeper as you claim to be, that amount would leave a sting on your ledgers for weeks. But compared to the small fortune Tahlia awarded you for Aulain, that much would scarcely be felt.
        *elseif (thulshopvar = 2)
            You sigh as the priest's fingers clasp around the coins. There goes three full days' earnings of your humble botanical shop. Luckily, you have a small fortune to fall back on—courtesy of Tahlia's coffers following your services in Aulain. 
        *else
            Given the profits you're raking from your illicit dealings, this much would scarcely be felt. You resolve to think of it as…a donation. For the Church of Ishavak, which has kindly looked the other way as your slice of Thulrum's commerce thrives within its domain.
        
        The man balks at your offer, wide-eyed even as he pockets the coins. "Thank you kindly," he offers begrudgingly, before shooting one last, withering look at the cowering boy. "Your luck holds, urchin. You'd best be profuse in your gratitude to Isha."
        
        *page_break He goes.
        You watch him retreat and disappear into the crowd. Had he a tail like other dogs of his kind, odds are high that it would be dragging behind him.
            
        You feel a tug on your
        *if (gender = "female")
            skirt,
        *else
            trousers,
        and you glance down to find the boy there, lips pursed uncertainly. "Um…thank you," he offers, though he still looks to be on the edge of tears. "I'll pay you back…"
        
        "Never mind that," you sigh, ruffling your hand through the boy's hair. "You're alright?"
        
        The boy nods quickly. "Mm. I…" his voice breaks, then, and he hisses to tighten the dam. "Thank you, again. Really."
        
        He bows to you, quick and low, before ducking into the crowd and slipping out of sight. You let him go—it's clear the thought of crying in front of strangers causes him distress, and so you allow him the space to do so privately.
        *goto imeeting
    #I haven't the patience for this; I'm leaving.
        *set noble %+ 15
        This is a matter which does not concern you, and you will treat it as such. If you stopped to poke your nose into every conflict in this great, jostling beast of a city, the day would pass before you so much as lay eyes on the Seat.
        
        You extract yourself from the space between the priest and the boy, turning your back on the pair and slipping into the uneasy, murmuring crowd. They willingly make way for you, their pliant silence edged with a sullen air. As if they had expected you to step up on the boy's behalf, given how proximate you were to the situation already. How trite. You know well the cost of self-sacrifice, and that's not a mistake you're keen to repeat. If they held such sympathy for the boy, they ought to stop the priest themselves, instead of deploying you to appease their collective conscience.
        
        You feel their attention peeling away as the priest's yells resume behind you. A prick at the back of your neck suggests that one set of eyes yet linger even after you sink deeper into the crowd, so far away that the conflict becomes a faint, distant din. You suppress a wry chuckle at the sensation—it seems old paranoias die hard.
        
        Sure enough, the sensation dissipates as you clear a bend in the thoroughfare, ducking through the mess of carriages splayed out under a groaning red awning. The very edge of the market, you note with relief. You stride forward, sticking to what shade is offered from the rising sun, and continue on your path to the Seat.
        
        *page_break
        
        ${yusuha} brightens in the Seat's front door as you stride through the approach. "There you are!" ${yhe} calls out, waving you over. Eli shoots you a smile beside ${yhim}, pushing ${ehim}self off the jamb ${ehe}'d been leaning on. "I was starting to worry. The market square can be disgusting on Renewal."
        *goto disgustrenewal

*label imeeting

The onlookers surrounding you disperse in susurrating clumps, giving the whole area a wide berth as if a murder had occurred. A few among them spare you glances as they leave—some with open admiration, others with passing interest—but soon they obey the diverting calls of the Moving Market, and so return to the rhythm of their activities.

But one figure remains where the aggregate once stood, dark eyes regarding you behind large, rounded spectacles. The figure steps towards you languidly, lips quirked into a friendly smile.
*set kander 1
*choice
    #One look at his eyes, quietly intense, and the facade falls apart.
        *set gander "male"
        *set ahe "he"
        *set ahim "him"
        *set ahis "his"
        *set atheirs "his"
        *set ahes "he's"
        *set avar 1
        *set ander "Ander"
        *set isander "Isander"
        Can you call it amateurish? Perhaps.
    #The ease of her stride is by design. A sinuous panther playing a deer.
        *set gander "female"
        *set ahe "she"
        *set ahim "her"
        *set ahis "her"
        *set atheirs "hers"
        *set ahes "she's"
        *set avar 2
        *set ander "Adine"
        *set isander "Isadine"
        Is it an amateur that stands before you? Perhaps.
If this were some @{avar conman|conwoman} or assassin you're beholding, ${ahe}'d be no better than average. Skilled enough to prey on hapless villagers and unseasoned merchants, but otherwise too free with ${ahis} tells, too forceful in applying the tricks of ${ahis} trade.

But there's a knowing glint in ${ahis} eyes, an odd curve to ${ahis} smile. As if ${ahe} knew ${ahis} bluff would be called—and all the better for it.

*if (priestresolve = "chide")
    The @{avar man|woman} comes to a stop a polite distance away, allowing you to get a proper look at ${ahim}.
    *if (gander = "male")
        You note the long scar etched onto the side of his chin, running down to disappear under his fine shirt. A palish contrast to his deep, dusky tan, and a farther one still from his rich black hair. It falls in haphazard layers over his forehead, nearly obscuring his eyes, and in the back it gathers into long, thin strands affixed by a simple ribbon.
        
        "That was well done," he says. "The good acolyte chose poorly."
    *else
        You note the long scar etched onto the side of her chin, running down to disappear under her fine blouse. A palish contrast to her deep, dusky tan, and a farther one still from her rich black hair. It comes down to her shoulders in choppy layers, gathering in the back to form a high, squat ponytail.
        
        "That was well done," she says. "The good acolyte chose poorly."
    *if (charming > 50)
        
        "It was I who did the choosing," you remind ${ahim}, brandishing a smile of your own. "I don't believe we've met."
        
        "Where are my manners?" ${ahe} chuckles, ${ahis} eyes flickering over you. Sizing you up. "I am called ${ander}. A visitor to Thulrum, after a fashion."
    *else
        
        "It was I who did the choosing," you remind ${ahim}, staring at ${ahim} impassively. "And you are?"
        
        "A visitor to Thulrum. After a fashion," ${ahe} says, ${ahis} eyes flickering over you. Sizing you up. "I am called ${ander}."
*elseif (priestresolve = "persuade")
    The @{avar man|woman} comes to a stop a polite distance away, allowing you to get a proper look at ${ahim}.
    *if (gander = "male")
        You note the long scar etched onto the side of his chin, running down to disappear under his fine shirt. A palish contrast to his deep, dusky tan, and a farther one still from his rich black hair. It falls in haphazard layers over his forehead, nearly obscuring his eyes, and in the back it gathers into long, thin strands affixed by a simple ribbon.
        
        "That was well done," he says. "You parried the good acolyte most expertly."
    *else
        You note the long scar etched onto the side of her chin, running down to disappear under her fine blouse. A palish contrast to her deep, dusky tan, and a farther one still from her rich black hair. It comes down to her shoulders in choppy layers, gathering in the back to form a high, squat ponytail.
        
        "That was well done," she says. "You parried the good acolyte most expertly."
    *if (charming > 50)
        
        "It's not so impressive a feat. He hadn't much substance to him, when all is said and done," you say, brandishing a smile of your own. "I don't believe we've met."
        
        "Where are my manners?" ${ahe} chuckles, ${ahis} eyes flickering over you. Sizing you up. "I am called ${ander}. A visitor to Thulrum, after a fashion."
    *else
        
        "It's not so impressive a feat. He hadn't much substance to him, when all is said and done," you say, staring at ${ahim} impassively. "And you are?"
        
        "A visitor to Thulrum. After a fashion," ${ahe} says, ${ahis} eyes flickering over you. Sizing you up. "I am called ${ander}."
*else
    The @{avar man|woman} comes to a stop a polite distance away, allowing you to get a proper look at ${ahim}.
    *if (gander = "male")
        You note the long scar etched onto the side of his chin, running down to disappear under his fine shirt. A palish contrast to his deep, dusky tan, and a farther one still from his rich black hair. It falls in haphazard layers over his forehead, nearly obscuring his eyes, and in the back it gathers into long, thin strands affixed by a simple ribbon.
        
        "That was quite generous," he says. "Is it your pockets which run deep, or your kindness?"
    *else
        You note the long scar etched onto the side of her chin, running down to disappear under her fine blouse. A palish contrast to her deep, dusky tan, and a farther one still from her rich black hair. It comes down to her shoulders in choppy layers, gathering in the back to form a high, squat ponytail.
        
        "That was quite generous," she says. "Is it your pockets which run deep, or your kindness?"

    *if (charming > 50)
        
        You meet ${ahis} smile with your own. "Both prongs have run dry for the day. If it's coin you're after, I must disappoint you."
        
        "Perish the thought. I seek only your acquaintance."
        
        "Is that right?" you say, tilting your head. "Perhaps you ought to begin with your name."
        
        "Of course—where are my manners?" ${ahe} says, ${ahis} eyes flickering over you. Sizing you up. "I am called ${ander}. A visitor to Thulrum, after a fashion."
    *else
        
        You cross your arms, your stare impassive. "You don't stand to benefit from either."
        
        "You're mistaken. I don't seek your coin—merely your acquaintance."
        
        "And you think it will be freely given?" you say dryly. "You haven't even told me who [i]you[/i] are."
        
        "Of course—where are my manners?" ${ahe} says, ${ahis} eyes flickering over you. Sizing you up. "I am called ${ander}. A visitor to Thulrum, after a fashion."

You note the name with some surprise. The association you make is immediate: a folktale which first took shape in western Salantira, though such was its sway that by now, every child in Arvanand could recite it with ease. The story holds that ${ander}'s namesake had founded the flourishing village which would become Salantira City, in the process felling a hundred wild beasts with only netted pits and wooden pikes. A tale of heroism if ever there was one, a testament to human ingenuity in the face of Arvanand's dangerous wilds.

And yet you've discovered no other who bore the name in your life, for no sane parent would grant it to their own child. After all, the ${ander} of legend would go on to commit a sin so cardinal that the Jovian and Ishavak are for once unified in their condemnation.

Patricide.

*page_break

"Your parents have quite the sense of humor," you remark stiffly.

"Oh, no. He's a stone wall, by all accounts," ${ahe} replies lightly. "But I'll receive the compliment on his behalf, and with gratitude."

"[i]You[/i] chose the name?"

"Yes, but don't take me as a monster," ${ahe} says with a smirk. "He still draws breath, never you fear, and my hands remain clean of his blood."

Which grim implication to point out? Neither, you decide in the end. Already the conversation veers too morbid for a first encounter.

The @{avar man|woman}'s eyes yet hold on you, ${ahis} smile expectant. $!{ahe}'s waiting for you to return the favor.

*choice
    #I give ${ahim} my name.
        *set andername true
        *if (alias)
            "${fakename}," you supply. "A resident."
            
            "Scant on details, though that much is fair enough," ${ahe} remarks. "A pleasure. ${fakename}."
            
            *if (charming > 50)
                Something in the way ${ahe} says it creates a pit of discomfort in your stomach. You feel your smile straining.
            *else
                Something in the way ${ahe} says it creates a pit of discomfort in your stomach. You feel your stance absently shifting.
            "I assume there's a reason you were eager to approach me."
            
            *label witness
            ${ander} nods in confirmation. "I witnessed your entire conversation with the acolyte. The breadth of your knowledge on the Church's inner workings makes one thing clear: you are a member of the Church yourself," ${ahe} says. "I would know why you rushed to confront him, a fellow @{pronvar man|person|person} of the cloth, when you were essentially uninvolved in the situation."
            *goto whyjan
        *else
            "${fname}," you supply.
            
            The @{avar man|woman}'s eyes flash with interest.  "Like the Hero of Sienan?"

            "Like ten thousand others littering the breadth of Salantira." The clarification is practiced, and comes easily to you these days. You don't even need to fake your amusement.
            
            "You must be tired of explaining as much," ${ahe} acknowledges. "My apologies for having added to the pile."
            
            "Accepted. Now—I assume there's a reason you were eager to approach me."
            
            *goto witness
    #I give ${ahim} nothing.
        *if (charming > 50)
            "Charmed, ${ander}," you counter, pointedly saying nothing further.
            
            "The honor is mine," ${ahe} says, after a beat. "Dare I ask for your name?"
            
            You'd accuse ${ahim} of being thick, but all signs point to the contrary. Relentless, then. "You'd have to buy me a drink first."
            
            "I'd happily do so," ${ahe} says, mirth flashing in ${ahis} eyes. "But I sense that you'd turn me down."
            
            You whistle. "Some sense you have. Ever considered a career as a hunter?"
            
            "I don't sleep well in the mud," ${ahe} laughs. "Very well, then—no name. But I would ask a question, if you're agreeable."
            
            "I can guarantee an audience, but not an answer."
            
            *label verywell
            "Very well. I thank you all the same," ${ander} cedes, dipping ${ahis} head to belabor the point. "The question, then. I witnessed your entire conversation with the acolyte. The breadth of your knowledge on the Church's inner workings makes one thing clear: you are a member of the Church yourself. I would know why you rushed to confront him, a fellow @{pronvar man|person|person} of the cloth, when you were essentially uninvolved in the situation."
        *else
            "I see," you say simply. "What do you want from me, ${ander}?"
            
            If ${ander} feels rebuffed, ${ahe} does not show it. "Your name, for one, if I may be so bold."
            
            You'd accuse ${ahim} of being thick, but all signs point to the contrary. Relentless, then. "I didn't give it to you for a reason."
            
            "Aha. I beg pardon for my forwardness," ${ahe} says. "Yet I must impose upon you once more. I would ask you something, if you're agreeable."
            
            "That much I'll grant, but I can guarantee no answer."
            
            *goto verywell

*label whyjan

You tilt your chin at ${ahim}, considering. The question is an odd one, but—at least as far as you can tell—harmless enough.

*temp whim false
*choice
    #"The boy could offer no resistance to the injustice. That's reason enough."
        *set anderredqueen true
        *achieve redqueen
        The @{avar man|woman} regards you with interest. "And it matters none that his tormentor was a clergyman?"
        
        "This is a foul world we live in, and there's rot everywhere you look," you say. "The Church is no exception."
        
        "Interesting. I would've thought one of your station would be more zealous."
        
        *label sniff
        You sniff at that. "Are you criticizing me?"
        
        "Hardly. Quite the opposite, in fact," ${ander} says. $!{ahe} jams a hand into ${ahis} pocket then, fishing out a red marble-like object from its depths.
        *if (andername)
            *if (alias)
                "Thank you, ${fakename}.
            *else
                "Thank you, ${fname}.
        *else
            "Thank you.
        This has been more instructive than you know. Here, for your trouble."
        
        You inspect the small, translucent sphere after ${ander} hands it to you, and find yourself momentarily transfixed by it. Iridescent, viscous liquid is imprisoned within, and adrift within the solution is a gold leaf shaped into a crown. An inscription of silver lettering curls around the bottom of the sphere. [i]The Red Queen - For Use at The Inn.[/i]
        
        Your eyes widen, surprised by the precious gift. Kantena's famous Inn is named so ironically; instead of beds it has on offer expansive shelves and cabinets filled with libations of all persuasions,
        *if (thulshopvar = 1)
            from the bottom-shelf ale you serve at your own establishment
        *else
            from the bottom-shelf ale Old Gogia serves in his run-down tavern
        to rare vintages shipped from as far out as Yire. It is perhaps the single most affluent locale in all of Kantena, barring the duke's own castle, and finds its custom among the creme of the merchant caste who hold much of Param's wealth in their grimy hands.

        A special currency is exchanged in The Inn, lending an air of mystique to the glamorous establishment. The Red Queen you hold in your hands is the rarest of them all; exchanged, it would allow you to purchase any two bottles from the Inn's shelves at no further cost.
        
        ${ander} chuckles as ${ahe} notes your expression. "I take it you're familiar with The Inn, then. You're quite well-traveled," ${ahe} says. "The gift may prove useless to you, alas. Kantena is half a continent away. But I hope not." The @{avar man|woman} shrugs. "It could still fetch you a pretty penny, if you've a mind to sell it."
        
        "Why me?" you ask, knitting your brows. "Why this?"
        
        *if (whim)
            "Call it a whim," ${ahe} says with a wink. "I leave for Kantena in two days' time. Should the winds carry you to that city, and by some twist of fate our paths cross again, then I hope we can treat one another as friends."
        *else
            "'Tis just what I have on my person. No deeper reason than that," ${ahe} says with a wink. "I should mention, though: I leave for Kantena in two days' time. Should the winds carry you to that city, and by some twist of fate our paths cross again, then I hope we can treat one another as friends."
    #"He was slandering the Church through his actions. I put a stop to it."
        "Indeed. His behavior had been unbecoming, to say the least," the @{avar man|woman} agrees. "May I presume that few in the Seat shares his disposition?"
        
        "Few across the [i]Three Continents[/i] do," you scoff. "His is the lowest kind of filth."
        
        "But the Church [i]did[/i] take him on," ${ander} points out, ${ahis} expression thoughtful. "After some rigorous selection process, I'd wager."
        
        "Those can only be so exhaustive."
        
        "The excess among the Church's ranks is accidental, then?" ${ander} asks amusedly. "How zealous."
        
        You sniff at that. "Is that criticism?"
        
        "Merely observation," ${ahe} says, chuckling.
        *if (andername)
            *if (alias)
                "Thank you, ${fakename}.
            *else
                "Thank you, ${fname}.
        *else
            "Thank you.
        This has been instructive."
        
        How so, you cannot fathom. But you've wasted enough time as is. "Then if that's all…"
        
        "I hope our paths will cross again," ${ahe} says, ${ahis} smile impenetrable. ""In the meantime, I'll be sure to send any wayward acolytes I encounter your way."
    #"No reason in particular. I just felt like cutting him down to size."
        *set anderredqueen true
        *achieve redqueen
        *set whim true
        "A whim, then," the @{avar man|woman} muses. "But too often whims are born of something deeper, more permanent."
        
        "Perhaps. I just did as I pleased, at any rate."
        
        "And you pursued the path with abandon," ${ander} says, looking somewhat…pleased? "Interesting. I thought one of your station would be more…considerate. Of the Seat's interests, I mean."
        
        *goto sniff
    #"I have no loyalty to the Church, and I resent the implication."
        *set anderredqueen true
        *achieve redqueen
        ${ander} makes no effort to hide ${ahis} surprise. "Indeed? A rare sentiment in this city, I should think."
        
        "Their good deeds for the city are many," you concede. "But there's a cost to everything."
        
        "So there are. But your words carry the tone of someone personally afflicted."
        
        You give ${ahim} a tight smile, and say nothing further.
        
        "The Church demands much from its own ranks, I see," ${ander} muses, looking somewhat…pleased? "I'm sorry for your predicament."
        
        You feel your gaze turning sour. "You don't look it."
        
        "Apologies. It's been said that I smile too easily," ${ahe} says, schooling ${ahis} expression into something more appropriate. A frown—too little, too late. "In any case, I must
        *if (andername)
            *if (alias)
                thank you, ${fakename}.
            *else
                thank you, ${fname}.
        *else
            thank you.
        This has been more instructive than you know. Here, for your trouble."
        
        $!{ahe} jams a hand into ${ahis} pocket then, fishing out a red marble-like object from its depths. You inspect the small, translucent sphere after ${ander} hands it to you, and find yourself momentarily transfixed by it. Iridescent, viscous liquid is imprisoned within, and adrift within the solution is a gold leaf shaped into a crown. An inscription of silver lettering curls around the bottom of the sphere. [i]The Red Queen - For Use at The Inn.[/i]
        
        "I leave for Kantena in two days' time. Should the winds carry you to that city, and by some twist of fate our paths cross again, then I hope we can treat one another as friends."
    #"My reasons are my own."
        "So they are," the @{avar man|woman} sighs, plainly disappointed. "So they are."
        
        Bristling at ${ahis} tone, you begin to step away. "Then, if you're quite done prodding."
        
        "Ah, yes. I've held you up long enough," ${ahe} says, ${ahis} polite smile returning. "Thank you for humoring me."
        
        "Not much humoring was done," you point out.
        
        "Your acquaintance was blessing enough," ${ahe} says, ${ahis} smile impenetrable. "I hope our paths will cross again. In the meantime, I'll be sure to send any wayward acolytes I encounter your way."

The @{avar man|woman} presses two fingers against ${ahis} temple and jerks them away in an odd salute, and then ${ahe} stalks off, disappearing into the thoroughfare.

Your gaze trails in ${ahis} wake for a while. The strange encounter leaves your thoughts cast with a strange haze, which persists even as you turn turn on the balls of your feet and make for your own destination.

*page_break

${yusuha} brightens in the Seat's front door as you stride through the approach. "There you are!" ${yhe} calls out, waving you over. Eli shoots you a smile beside ${yhim}, pushing ${ehim}self off the jamb ${ehe}'d been leaning on.

"The morning rush held you up, huh?" ${yusuha} continues. "The market square can be disgusting on Renewal."

*label disgustrenewal
*choice
    #"If you knew as much, you should've dispatched a carriage."
        "Aha, but that would require me to submit a request to the stablemaster," ${yhe} says. "Unfortunately, our relations are presently…complicated."
        
        "Philanderer," Eli murmurs beside ${yhim}.
        
        ${yusuha} makes a point of ignoring the healer. "In any case, we're all here now. We can start making our way down."
        
        "Down? To the [i]highcity[/i]?"
        
        "Yes." Eli grins. "It'll all make sense soon, I promise."
        
        You let the pair whisk you through the Seat's familiar, cavernous halls. The conversation which takes shape on the journey is pleasantly dull, centering largely on the Moving Market and the wares it has on offer. In passing you mention the commotion in the square, and Eli and ${yusuha} both leap upon the topic with great swiftness. As you tell them the tale, they both react—predictably—with indignity. ${yusuha} takes particular interest in the acolyte's characteristics, and judging by the dark look on ${yhis} face, you hazard a guess that the acolyte won't get away with just a slap on the wrist.
    #"The morning rush was fine. But there was an incident with an acolyte..."
        Eli perks up beside ${yusuha}, ${ehis} interest piqued. "Yeah? Nothing bad, I hope."
        
        "Consider your hopes dashed."
        
        "Ah, damn it," ${yusuha} mourns. "You'll have to tell us about it on our way down."
        
        "Down? To the [i]highcity[/i]?"
        
        "Yes." Eli grins. "It'll all make sense soon, I promise."
        
        You let the pair whisk you through the Seat's familiar, cavernous halls, all the while regaling them with tale of your encounter with the acolyte. The both of them react, predictably, with indignity—${yusuha} asking after the acolyte and Eli after the boy. You answer their questions in order—the acolyte is easily narrowed down owing to the cloth braid denoting his rank, but not so for the boy—and leave them to stew in their own thoughts. Judging by the dark look on ${yusuha}'s face, you hazard a guess that the acolyte won't get away with just a slap on the wrist.
    *if (kander = 1) #"I met someone strange downtown, and lost track of time talking."
        Eli tilts ${ehis} head beside ${yusuha}, ${ehis} interest piqued. "Strange? How so?"
        
        "Well for one," you say, "${ahe} called ${ahim}self ${ander}."
        
        ${yusuha}'s brow quirks up. "Like the father-slayer?"
        
        "The very one."
        
        "An eventful morning, indeed," ${yusuha} muses. "You'll have to tell us about it on our way down."
        
        "Down? The [i]highcity[/i]?"
        
        "Yes." Eli grins. "It'll all make sense soon, I promise."
        
        You let the pair whisk you through the Seat's familiar, cavernous halls, all the while regaling them with tale of your encounter with ${ander}. The both of them respond with only the most passing of interests. While it's clear ${ander}'s opinion on the Church isn't high, the institution's enemies are many, and a passerby who so carefully shares ${ahis} distaste ranks low on the list. The matter naturally falls away as your path leads you deeper into the Seat.
        *if (anderredqueen)
            The Red Queen sitting forgotten in your pocket, you let the matter fall away as your path leads you deeper into the Seat.

${yusuha} and Eli lead you through a twisting series of nondescript passageways, until you come upon an area where—amazingly—neither priest nor acolyte haunt the halls. Dust mottles the stained-glass windows, and cracks spiderweb along one side of the walls. You had passed no barrier in getting here, no imposing door forbidding entry, but still the air has to it a strange weight. As if this is a place known to few.

A stairway ten paces across spills out from the end of the path, in a gloomy nook barely-touched by the glass-filtered daylight. You cross into its threshold and follow the way—down, as ${yusuha} had promised—until the obsidian walls transition into ones of jagged limestone, the slipshod masonry speaking of architecture which predates modern civilization. As the last of the daylight retreats overhead, you come to the acute realization that you're being led somewhere underground.

*choice
    #"Say, should I be concerned?"
        Eli blinks hard, as if only just realizing the poor optics of the whole affair. "I…would never seek to harm you," ${ehe} says, in the end.
        
        "And neither would I. Though it's presumptuous to think that I [i]could[/i]," ${yusuha} adds. "I've seen you in battle, ${fname}. And I should hate to be on the wrong side of your spells."
    #"I ought to keep this place a secret, I'm guessing."
        "That would be appreciated, yes," ${yusuha} hums. "It would save us a lot of trouble."
    #I say nothing, focusing on the path ahead.
        *set charming %- 15

The stairway opens into a cavernous shaft, the air laden with moisture but smelling of sweet blooms. A series of torches lit with Everfire line the walls in place of lamps, and the three of you follow its guidance to enter a small, circular chamber at the end of a dark hallway.

The room's decor reminds you instantly of Thaubal Altinier's laboratory, with bookshelves lining the walls on all sides and distinctly magical contraptions—whose functionalities are foreign to you—strewn haphazardly about the room. At the chamber's center stands a circular raised platform, five paces wide and humming with the tell-tale thrum of magical energy. Engraved onto its smooth stone surface is the runic symbol for [i]gate[/i].

${yusuha} places a hand upon the platform, mana spilling from ${yhis} palms like ichor, and at once the rune blazes to life.

"This way," Eli says, gesturing towards the platform. Obliging, you move to join ${ehim}.

Sweat begins to mat ${yusuha}'s hair as ${yhis} spell continues, the rune under ${yhim} glowing with a lustrous red sheen. The room reverberates under the weight of ${yhis} power, and in a second it is as if the ground has been pulled out from under you. A dizzy spell hits you as the room spins out of focus, and then the bright red of ${yusuha}'s mana fades, leaving you in an entirely new locale.

*page_break

You involuntarily take a step back, balking at the sight before you.

"What the…"

At this point, you had expected 'highcity' to be a misnomer, a fond alias given to some other building in the Seat's complex, or perhaps an underground base. But the scale of the sight before you assures you that it's anything but. For stretching out as far as the eye can see is an expanse of [i]green[/i], trees and brambles and vines crawling up the sides of marble-white buildings. Spires and pillars crack where the wood makes its home, and though segments of the walls have since turned into rubble, there is a stateliness to the whole affair: that these buildings have chosen to live [i]with[/i] the wood, instead of over it.

And yet, even among all the foliage and marble walls in disrepair, most glaring of all were the runes—pulsing and humming with luminous blue mana, carved into every rock face and tree trunk and building—

Spelling out the ancient word for [i]float[/i].
*page_break
You gulp as you turn your head around, and your suspicions are confirmed: the ground ends less than twenty steps from where you're standing, and beyond that is the vast indigo emptiness of the night sky.

${yusuha} and Eli exchange amused glances, their conspiracy satisfied.

"Welcome to the highcity," Eli says.

"Otherwise known," ${yusuha} adds, with catlike satisfaction, "as Arcadia."

*page_break
*goto_scene Checkpoint_9-2