The noise is quiet at this distance, but you hear it with piercing clarity given the somber air. A solitary scream that grows and expands like ripples across a pond as others join it in chorus. Smoke continues to billow in the meantime, the sparks rising past the distant treetops as vibrant as fireflies.

Down on the knoll, the priests gathered around its perimeter snap to attention, a few of them immediately beginning to run towards the source of the commotion. The priestess at the center calls out to them, and they pause and turn to her. You cannot hear her words past the whipping winds and the din of panicked voices, but it is easy enough to guess her concerns.

You have been in her place before, after all. Diversion is one of the most powerful tools of war, and a sensible officer will always take that into account. When a fire breaks out in the distant stables, the first thing one must do is tighten the security around the war command tent and the grain storage. It follows that when chaos unfolds away from the main attraction, where the vast majority of festival-goers are currently gathered, it would be foolish to relieve Departure of its security personnel.

Just as the thought crosses your mind, you feel a small pulse of magical energy coming from within your lantern. Turning your gaze down, you spot a wreath of mana floating around the Everfire at its center, appearing to have been projected from the spell circle at the lantern's base. You're just about to lift the lantern higher for a closer inspection when something completely unexpected happens.

The lantern [i]speaks[/i].

*page_break

Specifically, it speaks with a voice that you recognize—that belonging to one Tahlia Mateus. "This is [i]Ashai[/i] Tahlia of the Ishavak Church," the voice speaks, and immediately a ripple of murmurs rise from the astounded crowd. It appears that this particular feature of the lantern is news to them, as well. "There has been an incident at the riverside area near the floating markets. I implore every civilian on the premises to evacuate immediately towards the direction of the Seat. Everyone else, please remain calm and maintain order. A number of templars and priests alike have been dispatched to investigate and resolve the incident; in the meantime, every major area in the festival is presently secured by a number of the Seat's personnel, who are to remain in their positions. I repeat, please remain calm and maintain order as we look into the incident. Thank you for your cooperation."

With Tahlia having said her piece, the wreaths of mana around the Everfires dissipate into nothing, leaving a befuddled and wonderstruck crowd in their wake. The crowd's worries regarding the incident—as Tahlia had put it—persists, but a good deal of tension has left the air.

*choice
    #I remain alert, watching my surroundings closely for anything that might be amiss.
        *set optimistic %- 15
        Tahlia's announcement is doubtless an effective crisis management tactic, but it will have alerted friend and foe alike to the Seat's response. If indeed something foul is brewing, the would-be perpetrators would have been tipped off that their distraction gambit has failed. They may elect to pursue their plans regardless—and if their goal is to sow chaos or destruction amid the festival, none would make for a better spot than the site of Departure.
        
        You give the crowd around you a quick scan, searching faces for signs of frustration, or irregular movements in the sea of static bodies. You've only just landed your gaze on a potential lead when you hear a rough, gravelly voice beside you which seizes the whole of your attention.
    #I ponder Tahlia's sterling reputation among the citizens. Inspiring such trust is no small feat.
        *set optimistic %+ 5
        You're positioned to know better, but as far as the common citizenry knows, Tahlia is only an [i]ashai[/i]—a priestess of the Ishavak Church. Nine others share her standing, and all of them serve under one of the Church's three bishops, who in turn report to the Archbishop. Further, Tahlia's role is generally not a public-facing one—that typically falls to Myst's technical superior, who serves under a different bishop from Tahlia's—but she has nevertheless cultivated an impressive rapport from the populace. You can only surmise that emergencies such as this one, where Tahlia's been forced to drop pretense and red tape alike to address the citizenry directly, is a less-than-rare occurrence in fledgling Thulrum.
        
        You're snapped out of your contemplation by a rough, gravelly voice beside you, speaking words which seize the whole of your attention.
    #I'm curious about the nature of Tahlia's long-distance communication. Is it a work of arcana?
        *set optimistic %+ 5
        It's the easy conclusion to come to, given the sheer scale of the feat. At your best, you could have faced down perhaps ten armed combatants at once using combat magic. But with ${phant1} at your disposal, hundreds fell with every spell cast. Would the same not hold true for non-combat applications?
        
        What gives you pause, of course, is the fact that Tahlia's also shown herself to have dominion over the realm of death. She was able to resurrect you—for true, rather than the pale imitation necromancers play at—a feat thought to be so impossible that even the most ardent of spiritists have long since abandoned the effort. Moreso than this talking Everfire, that seems to be the miraculous work of arcana. Two possibilities exist, then. The first is that Tahlia's mastery over magic is so advanced that she could manage feats far beyond the ken of even your expertise; the second, that she is able to harness the powers of [i]multiple[/i] arcana. You're not sure which possibility is more terrifying.
        
        You're snapped out of your contemplation by a rough, gravelly voice beside you, speaking words which seize the whole of your attention.
        
"Heh. I guess we shouldn't have expected to pull a fast one over the great and mighty [i]ashai[/i]."

You look sharply to your left, beholding there a scarred, muscular man with a sinister glint in his eyes. He bears an orb-like artifact in his hands and grins as he lifts it up, the air around it swirling with dark, ominous energy. Taking in his posture and line of sight, it seems he means to hurl the orb down towards the knoll, where the mourners are gathered.

A sickly feeling, fueled by years' worth of wartime instincts, permeates your gut as you watch his arm swing down. It strikes you that should the man be allowed to see his plan to fruition, disaster will be visited upon the crowd below.

*temp orbchoice 0
*choice
    #I immediately hurl a magical blast at the man.
        *set orbchoice 1
        It is more intent than spell, in the end, mana forcefully jammed through your ducts without so much as a rune to conduct them into the space in front of you. But coming from a battle-seasoned mage such as yourself—and with the element of surprise on your side—it does the trick as well as any full thaum spell.
        
        Light floods your surrounding as the blast fires off from your hand, catching the man square in his belly and bowling him over for good measure. The orb in his hands clatters to the ground between you, and as rapidly as you can, you smash the thing underfoot. Shards pierce through your the slim base of your Church-issued sandal, and you feel them drawing blood as the spell contained within wafts listlessly in the surrounding air. The threat, as best as you can tell, has been neutralized.
        
        The scarred man before you grunts in anger as he shakes off the residue of your attack, your mana trailing off of his form in wisps. "Just my luck," he growls, drawing the blade strapped onto his hip. "One of them demons, in the flesh."
    #I prepare a spell to destroy the orb during its descent.
        *set orbchoice 2
        The man swings down, and the orb falls.
        
        Half-formed runes manifest in the air at your will, set aglow by the mana forcefully jammed through your ducts. Tendrils of energy—more force of intent than spell, in truth—emerge from them, shooting through the air and chasing the artifact as it falls. You feel the impact like a physical tug when your mana makes contact with the orb, relief flooding you as you feel the spell piercing through the glass and dispersing the spell within.
        
        You spot a burst of movement out of the corner of your eye, and it is only your war-trained reflexes that allow you dodge the man bearing down on you, meaty fists clenched. You scramble out of the way, nearly falling flat on your behind as you try to create distance. Thankfully, the man doesn't immediately press his advantage, instead opting to draw the blade strapped onto his hip. "One of them demons, in the flesh."
    #I try to identify the artifact so that I can devise an appropriate countermeasure.
        *set orbchoice 3
        Luckily, the artifact is not entirely foreign to you. The orb proper is plainly forged of alchemical glass, as indicated by the swirls of thin mist just beneath its surface, which curl to form a series of runes. Though you haven't the time to properly study the runes, you manage to identify one of them—an esoteric one seldom seen in actual practice—which allows you to make an educated guess. The artifact's orb component is likely identical to the one on the Dread Soul, that artifact of terror you had fought against during the liberation of Sienan.
        
        On the Dread Soul, the orb functioned as an amplifier, magnifying the effects of the spell within by an incalculable amount. But whatever effect the artifact is meant to produce has yet to manifest, meaning that the spell, though likely primed, is [i]not yet cast[/i].
        
        The man tosses the orb down, and you rush forward to observe its fall, your chest pressed up against the banister. Mana seeps from your form, so small in amount so as to be inconspicuous, and forms a spell circle overhead. As soon as you catch the spell beginning to manifest, you force your spell to completion. A Glyph of Dispel forms under the artifact, catching it in the split second before the spell within is magnified. The artifact continues its descent past your Glyph, shattering into pieces as it makes impact with the ground.
        
        Nothing happens.
        
        You let go a long-held breath, though your relief does not last for long. You spot a burst of movement out of the corner of your eye, and it is only your war-trained reflexes that allow you dodge the man bearing down on you, meaty fists clenched. You scramble out of the way, nearly falling flat on your behind as you try to create distance. Thankfully, the man doesn't immediately press his advantage, instead opting to draw the blade strapped onto his hip. "One of them demons, in the flesh."

*choice
    #I scoff, pointing out I wasn't the one about to kill countless innocent lives.
        *if (orbchoice = 1)
            "Who between us is the demon, truly?" you retort, making a point to press down on the shards under your heel. "I wasn't the one attempting a massacre against unarmed civilians."
        *elseif (orbchoice = 2)
            "Who between us is the demon, truly?" you retort, casting a sideways glance towards the abyss below, where the artifact has shattered uselessly on the ground. "I wasn't the one attempting a massacre against unarmed civilians."
        
        He smirks. "That you could tell as much at a mere glance…stumbled across quite a big fish, have I?" He drops into a battle stance, then, prompting you to flood the air around you with runes and mana. "Let's see if I can't cut you down to size."
    #I ask him plainly the reason that he's done this.
        "You attempted to massacre a whole field of unarmed civilians," you remark, meeting the man's gaze evenly. "Why? What have they ever done to you?"
        
        "Hah. This ain't the first time your kind's tried to portray themselves as some kind of innocent victims, so you can spare me the song and dance," he says. "You've made things go sideways for me, and I'll never hear the end of it from [i]them[/i]. I hope you're prepared to pay the price."
    #This is no time for words. I immediately move to attack him.
        *set charming %- 15
        The man's eyes glint with recognition as you bring your spell to bear, and he responds in kind, charging at you with a ferocious snarl. He moves forward with supernatural speed, his curved blade glinting as it catches the fireworks' light. It's plain he intends to run you down, and when he is upon you in a second, it is all you can do to detonate half of your runes in a half-hearted explosion of mana. You bite back a curse as the spell dissipates, leaving only half the runes primed for casting, but your maneuver achieves desired effect. The impact of the explosion derails the trajectory of the man's assault, forcing him into a stumbling lunge; his blade cuts a shallowwound in your right arm as you twist away, chanting furiously as his momentum carries him down. With his back exposed to you, you begin completing a spell that would all but certainly mark the end of his life—
        *goto clatter

*page_break

And with that, the man charges at you with a ferocious snarl, his curved blade glinting as it catches the fireworks' light. He is [i]supernaturally[/i] fast, moving with a speed you've never seen even amongst Salantira's elites. The man is upon you in a second, and you are forced to detonate some of your runes in a half-hearted explosion of mana, while others still remain fully primed for casting. The impact derails the trajectory of the man's assault, forcing him to a stumbling lunge; his blade cuts a shallow wound in your right arm as you twist away, chanting furiously as his momentum carries him down. With his back exposed to you, you bring to bear a spell that would all but certainly mark the end of his life—

*label clatter
A clatter of steel as he drops his blade, and you feel the man's shoulder slamming against your jaw, setting your teeth to ringing. Your eyes bulge in surprise—he had reoriented himself with, again, unbelievable agility—and is now poised to slam you against the low tower wall. In the haste of his maneuver, the man had let his blade slide a fair distance away from you, and it's a blessing that you won't need to worry about it. But still, your assailant is incredibly bulky and strong, and in a bout of fisticuffs like the one you're poised to have, you're at a considerable disadvantage.

Your spell hums with energy behind him, interrupted but not dispelled—though a lesser mage would have long lost their focus on the runic formula. Despite your disorientation, it would only take a few seconds for the spell to manifest in full—and for you to turn the tides.

Unfortunately, the man before you seems to know it. "Think I'll just stand here and take it, do you?" he snarls as he stares you down. His pupils are dilated, and there's a frantic quiver to his voice—it reminds you of the most zealous of Sister's followers, who were all too ready to lay their lives down for her cause. "'Fraid I can't oblige you, [i]Arcadian[/i]."

And with that, the man slams you backward and presses the full weight of his body onto your chest, tipping the both of you over the top of the wall. Your fingers instinctively stumble for purchase onto the surface as you skid over, but it's in vain; you feel blood trailing from your fingers as you clear the lip, the man still bearing down on you as the both of you tumble into the darkness below.

Through sage instinct, you manage to retain connection to your burgeoning runes, their outlines aglow in the night sky as they streak through the air after you. There's only a short window of time until you hit the ground hard, but with a half-spell already brewing, you may yet save your own life.

*label orbfight
*choice
    #I cast Seagod Spiel.
        Considered an eclectic spell in thaumaturgy's offensively-minded library, Seagod Spiel allows its caster to construct a dome of turbulent water with which to imprison and immobilize targets. Importantly, the water actively responds to the caster's commands, typically to recede from certain points so that a clean strike could be made against the target. In this instance, however, it would serve a different purpose—to ensure that the dome rearranges and reconstructs itself following the path of your fall, absorbing the impact along the way. 
        
        Will you cast Seagod Spiel?
        *choice
            *selectable_if (thaum > 66) #Yes, I'll cast this spell.
                The runes blaze to life as you settle on the decision, emitting bursts of water which race to form a massive bubble under you. You feel yourself crashing against the surface with dizzying force, nearly coming out the bubble's other side; a lucid burst of willpower allows you to keep your focus and reshape the bubble, the water pooling under you and continuing to break your fall. Before long, you reach a point where you float as one with the bubble as it floats down, scaling the length of the tower before depositing you gently onto the rolling grass below.
                
                Along, unfortunately, with the man who had caused your fall to begin with.
                
                He's on his feet in a second, gasping and choking as the water of Seagod Spiel drips from his mouth. "Yeah, that's what I thought you'd do," he says, dropping once more into a fighting stance. "Real saintly of you to save the both of us. Though I suppose you didn't have much of a choice, what with your spell covering half the Jove-forsaken city."
                
                You pull yourself to your feet, vaguely cognizant of the unbridled chaos unfolding around you—panicked screams and spells singing through the air, a few awed gasps at the fact that you've survived your fall. You pay them no mind; the last time you had allowed yourself to get distracted, your opponent had managed to catch you off guard—a mistake that nearly cost you your new lease on life.
                
                This time, you give him no such opportunity. Mana surges through the air as the man leaps forward into a charge, hands balled into fists before him. But this time, you're ready for him.
            #No, I'll cast another spell.
                What spell will you cast?
                *goto orbfight
    #I cast Glyph of Protection.
        The Glyph of Protection is among the most elementary of Enchantment spells, oft taught to novices as a last-resort defense when forced into melee situations. However, an enchanter with an excess of skill and mana both would be able to transform the spell into a formidable tool of defense—one that may be enough to shield you from the impact of the fall.
        
        Will you cast Glyph of Protection?
        *choice
            *selectable_if (enchantment > 66) #Yes, I'll cast this spell.
                The runes blaze to life as you settle on the decision, spitting out a frantic burst of mana that forms the Glyph in your immediate vicinity. You feel its protection settle over you like a second skin, at once lightweight and rock-solid. Operating on pure instinct, you bolster the spell any way you know how—mana injection, runic modification, the works. Mere seconds later, your body makes impact with the ground, landing foot-first with an impact that forces you to your knees and shatters the earth underfoot. Disorientingly, you feel no pain despite it all, for the Glyph holds strong and absorbs the whole of the impact, leaving you unscathed, 
                
                Along, unfortunately, with the man who had caused your fall to begin with.
                
                The fall has left him with light injuries, owing to the fact that he had only been on the Glyph's peripheries. Nevertheless, he's back on his feet in a second, paying no mind to the odd tilt of his injured leg. "Yeah, that's what I thought you'd do," he says, dropping once more into a fighting stance. "Real saintly of you to save us both."
                
                "A mistake," you scoff. "One I'll be quick to rectify."
                
                You pull yourself to your feet, vaguely cognizant of the unbridled chaos unfolding around you—panicked screams and spells singing through the air, a few awed gasps at the fact that you've survived your fall. You pay them no mind; the last time you had allowed yourself to get distracted, your opponent had managed to catch you off guard—a mistake that nearly cost you your new lease on life.
                
                This time, you give him no such opportunity. Mana surges through the air as the man leaps forward into a charge, hands balled into fists before him. But this time, you're ready for him.
            #No, I'll cast another spell.
                What spell will you cast?
                *goto orbfight
    #I cast Zone.
        Given Zone's ability to change the properties of materials, it should be feasible for the ground under you to be directly transmuted—into a softer material, something that could break your fall. It will take a great amount of control and mana both to accomplish the feat in the narrow window of time you have, but a skilled alchemist may be able to accomplish it all the same.
        
        Will you cast Zone?
        *choice
            *selectable_if (alchemy > 66) #Yes, I'll cast this spell.
                The runes blaze to life as you settle on the decision, spitting out a frantic burst of mana which immediately settle upon the air under you. Briefly you had considered modifying its property instead—that is, create some form of wind tunnel that could counteract your downward momentum—but you've not the sense to so quickly calculate the necessary speed, and it would be a gamble to see whether the fall would be sufficiently broken. Instead, you jam as much mana through your ducts to create a more dramatic transformation—into moonchirper down, an alchemical component you've often worked with, and the softest material you could think of.
                
                You barely feel it when you make impact with the top layer, though the clusters of down explode on either side of you as you sink through. It consumes an incredible amount of mana, enough to set your veins and lungs to burning,but achieves the intended effect: you cease your downward momentum before you hit the ground. Your mana ducts all but sigh in relief as you let the spell dissipate, and you are deposited onto the ground below, unharmed.
                
                Along, unfortunately, with the man who had caused your fall to begin with.
                
                He's on his feet in a second, smirking as he brushes off clumps of down from his clothes. "Yeah, that's what I thought you'd do," he says, dropping once more into a fighting stance. "Real saintly of you to save us both."
                
                "A mistake," you scoff. "One I'll be quick to rectify."
                
                You pull yourself to your feet, vaguely cognizant of the unbridled chaos unfolding around you—panicked screams and spells singing through the air, a few awed gasps at the fact that you've survived your fall. You pay them no mind; the last time you had allowed yourself to get distracted, your opponent had managed to catch you off guard—a mistake that nearly cost you your new lease on life.
                
                This time, you give him no such opportunity. Mana surges through the air as the man leaps forward into a charge, hands balled into fists before him. But this time, you're ready for him.
            #No, I'll cast another spell.
                What spell will you cast?
                *goto orbfight
    #I cast Spirit Gate.
        Spirit Gate is normally a complex spell requiring precise calculations and runework, and so attempting it in such a narrow window of time requires no small amount of ambition. But given the fact that your destination is merely the ground underneath you, a spiritist of great skill would likely be able to manage the feat.
        
        Will you cast Spirit Gate?
        *choice
            *selectable_if (spiritism > 66) #Yes, I'll cast this spell.
                The runes blaze to life as you settle on the decision, spitting out a frantic burst of mana that forms a Spirit Gate in the path of your fall. You project the path that you intend it to take—a process that involves more guesswork than you'd normally be comfortable with—and power it with what you hope is an appropriate amount of mana. In both cases, you settle on an amount just shy of your actual guess, for it would be no problem to land several paces above the ground, and take the fall from there. Overshoot the mark, however, and you may find yourself buried underneath the ground.
                
                You make impact with the Spirit Gate, feeling the cold tendrils of mana wrap around your body as you sink into the spell's depths. A familiar sensation washes over you, like a waking dream where you lose control of your faculties, and then you emerge on the other side. Two paces above the ground.
                
                You land in what would have been a bad way had you not fallen from a trivial distance away, your shoulder blades meeting a rocky patch of the ground and digging into a bed of sand underneath. And though you feel the sting in the patch of skin there all the same, you have regardless been deposited, mostly unharmed, onto the ground below.
                
                Along, unfortunately, with the man who had caused your fall to begin with.
                
                He's on his feet in a second, smirking as he brushes off clumps of down from his clothes. "Yeah, that's what I thought you'd do," he says, dropping once more into a fighting stance. "Real saintly of you to save us both."
                
                "A mistake," you scoff. "One I'll be quick to rectify."
                
                You pull yourself to your feet, vaguely cognizant of the unbridled chaos unfolding around you—panicked screams and spells singing through the air, a few awed gasps at the fact that you've survived your fall. You pay them no mind; the last time you had allowed yourself to get distracted, your opponent had managed to catch you off guard—a mistake that nearly cost you your new lease on life.
                
                This time, you give him no such opportunity. Mana surges through the air as the man leaps forward into a charge, hands balled into fists before him. But this time, you're ready for him.
            #No, I'll cast another spell.
                What spell will you cast?
                *goto orbfight
        
*label galefork
*choice
    #I cast Galesong.
        Amongst the most difficult of thaum spells to master, Galesong establishes a zone around the caster in which the very winds will obey the caster's every command. Though costly and requiring tremendous finesse to initiate, the spell can neither be exhausted nor interrupted over the course of its runtime. That is, so long as the caster is in possession of their faculties, they would be able to lambast their opponent with powerful wind magic without supplying further mana.
        
        Will you cast Galesong?
        *choice
            *selectable_if (thaum > 74) #Yes, I will cast Galesong.
                *set galesong true
                *goto galesong
            #No, I'll cast another spell.
                What spell will you cast?
                *goto galefork
    #I cast Glyph of Reaping.
        The Glyph of Reaping is one of the more difficult Glyphs to cast in the enchanter's repertoire, due in no small part that it is comprised of both an enchantment and a curse. The caster would imbue their own body with the spell's enchantment portion, placed there to memorize every injury and pain that the body sustains. Its matching pair—the spell's curse component—would instead be cast on another person. Both portions will last a finite amount of time; at the end of the spell's duration, its curse component will activate, inflicting pain and injury onto its bearer proportional to that sustained by the caster. 
        
        While the Glyph itself confers no protection upon the caster as they withstand the onslaught, a skilled enchanter would be able to use it in concert with other, more minor enchantments, such as the Glyphs of Strength and Protection. Should you manage to apply all three at once, you stand a good chance of withstanding whatever onslaught the man has in store for you—and return the favor with great interest, at that.
        
        Will you cast Glyph of Reaping?
        *choice
            *selectable_if (enchantment > 74) #Yes, I will cast Glyph of Reaping.
                *set glyphofreaping true
                *goto glyphofreaping
            #No, I'll cast another spell.
                What spell will you cast?
                *goto galefork
    #I cast Unmaker.
        Where Zone allowed one to rapidly transmute the properties of inanimate objects and materials, Unmaker instead focuses on transforming the living. Given the complex nature of its goal, the spell carries significant limitations. First, even attempting the spell required tremendous amounts of mana, concentration, and understanding of organic transmutation. This necessarily means that one would have to simplify the process as much as possible, such as by ensuring that the transformation's final product is inanimate and of simple make. Second, the spell is so complex so as to leave no room for projectile or positional runes, necessitating the caster to localize the spell onto their own body.
        
        In practice, this means that you will need to fight the man up close, so that you can reach him with your palms and transmute parts of his body into inorganic materials. A single activation of the spell would immediately alert him to your designs; as such, you'll need to activate it all at once, when you've placed the spell on all the necessary spots to put him out of commission.
        
        Will you cast Unmaker?
        *choice
            *selectable_if (alchemy > 74) #Yes, I will cast Unmaker.
                *set unmaker true
                *goto unmaker
            #No, I'll cast another spell.
                What spell will you cast?
                *goto galefork
    #I cast Heartrender.
        A subtle but deadly spell, Heartrender calls upon the service of a malicious spirit to possess the target's body and seep into their heart. This would begin a process of corruption in the organ, all the while warding signals sent to the brain regarding its decay. Those who fell victim to the spell would gradually weaken over the course of its duration, as their blood begins to slow its circulation. And true to its name, the spell would culminate in the total destruction of the heart, and in turn the end of the target's life.
        
        While the spell is costly to maintain and slow to act, it is also incredibly subtle, such that it is nigh undetectable in the heat of combat. So long as you can keep the man distracted while the spell takes shape, you will likely have slain him before five minutes have passed.
        
        Will you cast Heartrender?
        *choice
            *selectable_if (spiritism > 74) #Yes, I will cast Heartrender.
                *set heartrender true
                *goto heartrender
            #No, I'll cast another spell.
                What spell will you cast?
                *goto galefork
        
*label galesong
You give your surroundings a cursory glance and discover that, blessedly, the area you'd fallen into had been reasonably vacant. People had clustered here to watch others sending light en masse, farther out on the plains. This means that when danger became apparent, this was the first place from which people fled—aside from those up on the tower, who would have come out through the main stairway on the other side. Even now you spot a great cluster of people some ways away from where you stand, interspersed by knights fighting shadowed figures—likely ones your opponent counts as companions—meaning that, for the most part, you need not worry about collateral damage.

You plant your feet solidly and let the spell manifest with a violent surge of mana, the air around you twisting, [i]vibrating[/i] as it begins to take hold. It takes great effort to do so, especially since your fall from the tower has left you winded, and the amount of mana the spell consumes is enough to leave you lightheaded. Still you persist, feeling the winds begin to shift and mold according to your whims, like clay in a potter's hands. You know instinctively when the spell is fully brought to bear, and you stare your opponent down as he closes the distance.

Your first attack consists of three simple blades of wind, not unlike a Boomerang Gale in form, meant to test the capabilities of your opponents. They emerge without warning from the air around him, and he manages an impressive dodge by sliding himself into the space between the blades. He lands onto the ground again, mostly unscathed, though the momentum of his charge is broken. "You're a tricky one," he snarls, though the sound of his voice is almost [i]thrilled[/i]. "I resent that."

As he says this, a burst of blinding light begins to manifest over his body, crackling furiously against his skin. It takes you a moment to identify it as [i]lightning[/i], skidding and trailing from his form like sparks from a campfire. His eyes are aglow now, a vivid yellow hue, and it almost hurts for you to look directly at them. He drops into a running start, and begins his charge anew.

This time, you can barely see him move.

*page_break

Powering through your surprise, you manage a second attack against the man—this time, a high-pressure blast of air from your hand, aimed directly at what you think to be the man's path of advance. You feel it instinctively when the blast makes contact with him—a glancing blow, perhaps catching him on a limb—but it is all you need. You morph the spell into a swoop of raging winds, and force it to bend into a barrier of sorts in front of the man, making him pay in injury for every inch he advances. Continuously you pull new layers out of the air and set them in front of the existing barrier, and you can [i]feel[/i] them digging into the man's skin, the cuts deep enough to draw blood.

But still your opponent powers through. He emerges from your spell in a frantic burst of speed, bloodied and battered, lightning-cloaked fist aimed directly at your jaw.

You put up a sphere of wind beside you and will it to [i]push[/i], giving you much-needed momentum as you clumsily dodge the attack. The fist proper misses you by a hair's breadth, though lightning catches along the right side of your neck and scorches the skin there. Unfortunately for you, the man is quick to redirect his momentum. He pivots on the ground and twists in his assault, his free hand becoming engulfed in lightning, crackling as they gather into a sphere on his palm. You get the distinct sense that if you allow him to run you through with it, his hand would come out clean through your back.

You have to risk it all the same. Bursts of turbulent winds gather right in front of your torso, literally summoned out of thin air, as the man launches his arm forward, lightning and all. The winds flay his skin, blood spraying like droplets off a crashing wave; he pays no mind to the butchering of his limb, and in a second you feel his blow connect. Dampened by the force of your winds—but still forceful enough to knock the wind out of you and send you careening backwards.

*page_break

You taste blood at the back of your throat as you sail through the air, your vision swimming violently. Still, you had [i]chosen[/i] to take that blow. For when the man had been distracted, the humble sphere of wind you had used to dodge his initial assault had grown and twisted into countless wind blades, rapidly approaching your opponent from his blind spot.

Your back hits the ground, [i]hard[/i], and though you sport a fresh gash of a wound just over your chest, you still manage the strength to be back on your knees in a hurry. Just in time for you to catch the wind blades making contact with the man's form, lacerating him in twenty different places, adding to his already significant injuries. You watch with faint satisfaction as the man is brought to his knees, one mangled arm pushing against the ground to keep him upright while the other lays limp at his side.

Harnessing the last remnants of Galesong's influence, you construct a dome around the man, meant to imprison him with its sharp, rotating gales. At your will, the dome would collapse into itself and bring the wind blades to bear against your opponent, doubtless spelling the end of his life.

"You fight like @{pronvar a man|a woman|you're bloody} possessed," he says grimly, bright yellow eyes watching as you rise to your feet and begin to approach him. "If people like [i]you[/i] are who we're up against…hah. We were doomed from the start."

*choice
    #"You're defeated. Surrender, and I will let you keep your life."
        "So that your leaders can torture and interrogate me for all I'm worth, I reckon," he scoffs.
        
        "Ultimately, your actions today have claimed no lives," you point out. "They may yet find mercy for you, so long as they fInd you suitably cooperative."
        
        "Like hell they will," the man says, shaking from exertion. "I'd sooner toss myself off the top of that tower."
        
        "If it's death you seek, there's a less roundabout way to achieve it," you say, letting mana trail off your form in thick rivulets. A threat, one he's learned you can make good on. "I will oblige you, if you insist."
        
        The man's lips—inexplicably—twist into a smirk. "Do it, then," he says. "Though you might want to take a look around first."
        *goto lookaround
    #"Who is it that you work for? What are your designs? Tell me!"
        *set emotional %+ 15
        "You got it backwards, you fool," the man says, taunting even as he heaves from exertion. "You should save that bit for after they're done torturing me. Might be that I'll feel more like singing then."
        
        "Do you not understand the situation you're in?" you demand, letting mana trail off your form in thick rivulets. A threat, one he's learned you can make good on. "I've no interest in dragging this out. But if what you need to start talking is torture, then you'll find there are few who can better oblige you."
        
        "How terrifying," the man scoffs, though his lips—inexplicably—twist into a smirk. "Do it, then. Though you might want to take a look around first."
        *goto lookaround
    #"You wage combat like no Arvanian I know. Who taught you how to fight?"
        "Wouldn't you like to know," the man scoffs, his voice shaky from exertion. "You lot are strong enough as is. I'll drop dead before telling you things that might make you even [i]more[/i] of a monster."

        "Whose secrets are you protecting, that you would so eagerly take them to the grave?"
        
        "Thick in the head, are you?" he asks. "Go ahead, keep asking me these questions. Maybe I'll feel generous enough to answer one of them eventually."
        
        "Do you not understand the situation you're in?" you demand, letting mana trail off your form in thick rivulets. A threat, one he's learned you can make good on. "I've no interest in dragging this out. But if what you need to start talking is torture, then you'll find there are few who can better oblige you."
        
        "How terrifying," the man scoffs, though his lips—inexplicably—twist into a smirk. "Do it, then. Though you might want to take a look around first."
        *goto lookaround

*label glyphofreaping
*set glyphofstrength true
*set glyphofprotection true
You give your surroundings a cursory glance and discover that, blessedly, the area you'd fallen into had been reasonably vacant. People had clustered here to watch others sending light en masse, farther out on the plains. This means that when danger became apparent, this was the first place from which people fled—aside from those up on the tower, who would have come out through the main stairway on the other side. Even now you spot a great cluster of people some ways away from where you stand, interspersed by knights fighting shadowed figures—likely ones your opponent counts as companions—meaning that, for the most part, you can move freely in this space.

Well and good. You plant your feet solidly and let yourself be bathed in a flood of mana, feeling the Glyph settle over you like a second skin. Your opponent does not notice as the enchantment's matching pair etches itself onto him. You feel a burning in your lungs, like they've been shot through with gouts of flame, and you realize that the effort of breaking your fall had left you winded. Still you push through, shrouding yourself in Strength and Protection, that you may weather whatever your opponent has in store for you.

You leap forward and meet him head-on, dropping into a melee stance you had off-handedly learned during your stint in Leon's rebellion. You must look to your opponent, a true fighter, like a babe still finding its footing. Good. Better that he underestimate you, and pay the ultimate price for it.

When the distance is properly closed, the man swings down with a monstrous right hook, meaning to catch you in the jaw. You swat his arm away with a Strength-assisted block, with Protection absorbing the force that would have likely dislodged your shoulder. The man looks [i]excited[/i] that you're able to put up a fight, and immediately launches into a series of quick lunges. You're immediately pushed on the defensive, as you lack the technique to properly deal with his assault, let alone mount a counterattack. Though your Glyphs fill in where your skill is lacking, you are still struck once in the stomach, and another time on the side of the head. Your skin stings in silent protest, the Glyph of Reaping cast over you humming. A promise of retribution.

Having established a false rhythm—that you're a true novice, all but powerless in the face of a true expert—you change things up. You pivot on the ground the moment there's a lull in his attacks, launching yourself back forward with a Strength-assisted leap. You harden your fist and slug him in the side of his neck, focusing your enchantments on the blow to enhance its power. The man reels briefly from your assault, having barely collected himself when your foot meets the side of his head, slamming with such force that it would've sent a lesser fighter flying. Your opponent is made of sturdier stuff, however, and instead holds ground before attempting to grapple you, meaty arms closing in around your torso.

You kick him in the chest just in time, the backward force allowing you to disentangle yourself from him and recreate distance between you. Your opponent doesn't press his advantage, remaining still as you make you retreat. "You're a tricky one," he snarls, though the sound of his voice is almost [i]thrilled[/i]. "I resent that."

As he says this, a burst of blinding light begins to manifest over his body, crackling furiously against his skin. It takes you a moment to identify it as [i]lightning[/i], skidding and trailing from his form like sparks from a campfire. His eyes are aglow now, a vivid yellow hue, and it almost hurts for you to look directly at them. He drops into a running start, and begins his charge anew.

This time, you can barely see him move.

*page_break

He is upon you before you can think to react, managing to land a clean blow on your chest that knocks the air out of you and propels you backward. As you sail through the air, lightning lurches across your skin where his fist had made contact, setting the bruised skin there alight, and you feel the pain like a physical shattering. You cough out blood, trying to regain your bearings as your Glyphs resettle over you. Reaping [i]howls[/i] with stored power, and you know instinctively that it won't be long until the spell is released. [i]Ten seconds[/i].

The man doesn't deign to give you a break, catching up to you by employing a lightning-fueled dash. He raises his knee up, trying to catch you in the back, his hand forming a palm atop your stomach. He means to [i]break[/i] you, to crack your ribs and crush your organs. You do not give him the chance.

You desperately grab onto his shoulder as he approaches, using Strength to propel you sideways in attempt to bring your own knee to his ribs. In lieu of properly blocking your attack, he instead gathers lightning to his side and lets it explode with a loud crackle, singing the skin there, drawing more blood out of your mouth. Overwhelmed, you're forced to allow his shin to connect with your side, sending you hurtling backwards, skidding as you connect with the ground. [i]Four seconds[/i].

You scramble away as the man lands beside you, his fist cocked back, crackling, promising death. [i]Four.[/i]

His fist connects with the ground. Lightning explodes from the impact, the radiance blinding. [i]Three.[/i]

The man sneers as he straddles you, so radiant that, through the haze of your vision, you might mistake him for lightning itself. [i]Two.[/i]

The man balls his hand and angles it towards your face, plainly meaning to bash your head in. [i]One.[/i]

He brings his fist down; you close your eyes and instinctively turn your face away, for all the good that will do. For a split-second you worry that the spell might trigger too late, and that your victory would be a pyrrhic one. But in the next second, it is as if some monster had swallowed the sun, for the blinding radiance of the man had suddenly gone dark.

*page_break

You feel the man spasming on top of you as the Glyph of Reaping terminates, inflicting him with what must be an unthinkable amount of pain. You open your eyes to find his skin tearing open, chunks of flesh dug out from his chest, his stomach, his cheek—all the places where he managed to land a blow against you. Blood dripping from his mouth and bereaved of even the strength to keep himself up, the man falls backwards, hitting the ground headfirst. You quickly extricate yourself from him, watching as his spasms continue for a few seconds more. To his credit, he kept from screaming through it all.

The man manages—after a great effort—to draw himself up to his knees, though it's obvious to you that he's not anywhere near fighting condition. You let your mana bleed out into the air just in case, spell circles half-formed, ready to intercept any move he makes. Your opponent's shown an incredible propensity for catching you off guard, and you rather mislike the thought of him doing so again.

"You fight like @{pronvar a man|a woman|you're bloody} possessed," he says grimly, bright yellow eyes watching as you rise to your feet and begin to approach him. "If people like [i]you[/i] are who we're up against…hah. We were doomed from the start."

*choice
    #"You're defeated. Surrender, and I will let you keep your life."
        "So that your leaders…can torture and interrogate me for all I'm worth, I reckon," he says, grinning. Blood colors his teeth—the Glyph hasn't been kind on him.
        
        "Ultimately, your actions today have claimed no lives," you point out. "They may yet find mercy for you, so long as they fInd you suitably cooperative."
        
        "Like hell they will," the man bites out, his voice weaker than his words. "I'd sooner…toss myself off the top of that tower."
        
        "If it's death you seek, there's a less roundabout way to achieve it," you grunt, making a point to intensify the haze of mana trailing off your form. A threat, one he's learned you can make good on. "I will oblige you, if you insist."
        
        The man's lips—inexplicably—twist into a smirk. "Do it, then," he says. "Though you…might want to take a look around first."
        *goto lookaround
    #"Who is it that you work for? What are your designs? Tell me!"
        *set emotional %+ 15
        "You got it backwards…you fool," the man says, taunting even as blood drips from his mouth. "You should save that bit for after they're done torturing me. Might be that I'll…feel more like singing then."
        
        "Do you not understand the situation you're in?" you demand, making a point to intensify the haze of mana trailing off your form. A threat, one he's learned you can make good on. "I've no interest in dragging this out. But if what you need to start talking is torture, then you'll find there are few who can better oblige you."
        
        "How terrifying," the man scoffs, though his lips—inexplicably—twist into a smirk. "Do it, then. Though you…might want to take a look around first."
        *goto lookaround
    #"You wage combat like no Arvanian I know. Who taught you how to fight?"
        "Wouldn't you like to know," the man says, taunting even as blood drips from his mouth. "You lot are strong enough as is. I'll drop dead before telling you things…that might make you even [i]more[/i] of a monster."

        "Whose secrets are you protecting, that you would so eagerly take them to the grave?"
        
        "Thick in the head, are you?" he asks. "Go ahead…keep asking me these questions. Maybe I'll feel generous enough to…answer one of them eventually."
        
        "Do you not understand the situation you're in?" you demand, making a point to intensify the haze of mana trailing off your form. A threat, one he's learned you can make good on. "I've no interest in dragging this out. But if what you need to start talking is torture, then you'll find there are few who can better oblige you."
        
        "How terrifying," the man scoffs, though his lips—inexplicably—twist into a smirk. "Do it, then. Though you…might want to take a look around first."
        *goto lookaround

*label unmaker
You give your surroundings a cursory glance and discover that, blessedly, the area you'd fallen into had been reasonably vacant. People had clustered here to watch others sending light en masse, farther out on the plains. This means that when danger became apparent, this was the first place from which people fled—aside from those up on the tower, who would have come out through the main stairway on the other side. Even now you spot a great cluster of people some ways away from where you stand, interspersed by knights fighting shadowed figures—likely ones your opponent counts as companions—meaning that, for the most part, you can move freely in this space.

Well and good. You channel mana through your veins, strong and turbulent, like the currents of a rushing river. Your opponent will not know of the power brewing within—not before it's too late. But you must weather his assault in the meantime. A task easier said than done.

You drop into a melee stance you had off-handedly learned during your stint in Leon's rebellion, the spell percolating on your palms. You must look to your opponent, a true fighter, like a babe still finding its footing. Good. Better that he underestimate you, and pay the ultimate price for it.

The man comes to you at a blinding speed, swinging down with a monstrous right hook meant to catch you in the jaw. You tighten your stance and block the blow with your open palm, twisting so that your hand glides over a good portion of his forearm. By modifying the properties of his muscles in that split second of the blow connecting, you were able to dampen its force. And by the time the man withdraws his fist, his muscles will have been restored again. Too quickly for him to register the change, the arcane influence now percolating under his skin.

You spy confusion in the man's eyes—you must have seemed like a practitioner of some strange martial art—but quickly redoubles his assault. Two punches aimed for the sides of your head, and a knee raised to your stomach. The first punch you ward with your hand, willing your spell to cover that limb, as well; the second you let take you cleanly on the jaw. The more important thing was not to be sent flying by his kick, which you manage to swat away with your free palm. Your spell crawls up that limb, too, though with you still reeling from the man's blow, the work is sloppily done.

With your last, near-botched attempt, the man finally notices that something's amiss with the way you're fighting. He disengages from the fight, dust kicking up where his feet land some paces away. "What have you done?"

You grunt, giving him nothing.

The man meets your silence with a snarl. "You're a tricky one," he says, and though he grits his teeth together, his voice sounds [i]thrilled[/i]. "I resent that."

As he says this, a burst of blinding light begins to manifest over his body, crackling furiously against his skin. It takes you a moment to identify it as [i]lightning[/i], skidding and trailing from his form like sparks from a campfire. His eyes are aglow now, a vivid yellow hue, and it almost hurts for you to look directly at them. He drops into a running start, and begins his charge anew.

This time, you can barely see him move.

*page_break

He is upon you before you can think to react, managing to land a clean blow on your chest that knocks the air out of you and propels you backward. As you sail through the air, lightning lurches across your skin where his fist had made contact, setting the bruised skin there alight, and you feel the pain like a physical shattering. You land on the ground—[i]hard[/i]—grass and soil bunching up behind your back as you slide on the ground. Your vision is a blur, and your chest feels as if it's collapsed upon itself.

A necessary sacrifice, for you had [i]meant[/i] to take that blow. In that split second before you're launched to the air, you managed to reach forward and land your palm on his chest, at the meeting of his ribs. A vital spot, if ever there was one.

The man, merciless, lurches forward to finish the deed. Unfortunately for him, you have what you need.

*page_break

You bring the full brunt of Unmaker to bear, feel the spell [i]singing[/i] from within the man's limbs, his torso, obeying your call for them to change. You force yourself up onto your elbows, so that you can observe your handiwork, confirm the success of your ploy. You watch as the man loses his momentum, falling as parts of his left leg is spirited into rocks, water, air. They clatter and drip and blow away, leaving a malformed chunk of flesh where his knee once was, the corruption crawling up to his thigh, and down to his shins.

The hands come next, and [i]these[/i] conduits had been perfectly placed. The skin there melts away cleanly into flesh-colored water, so thorough that you can see the bones of his fingers and forearm peeking out. And next, of course, comes his torso, slowly evaporating into a thick cloud of smoke. By the time Unmaker resolves, there is a gaping hole just under the man's shoulder blades, the flesh that remains there so thin that you think you might feel his heart beating underneath.

It's as thorough an Unmaking as they come. You had expected the man to die then and there, but he somehow manages to hang on to his consciousness, albeit at great effort. Light streams from his form, a whole host of it gathering to close the gap in his chest, softly crackling like the embers of a pyre. Regardless, it's obvious to you that he's not anywhere near fighting condition—a fact you plan to fully take advantage of.

You let your mana bleed out into the air just in case, spell circles half-formed, ready to intercept any move he makes. Your opponent's shown an incredible propensity for catching you off guard, and you rather mislike the thought of him doing so again.

"You fight like @{pronvar a man|a woman|you're bloody} possessed," he says grimly, bright yellow eyes watching as you rise to your feet. "If people like [i]you[/i] are who we're up against…hah. We were doomed from the start."

*choice
    #"You're defeated. Surrender, and I will let you keep your life."
        "So that your leaders…can torture and interrogate me for all I'm worth, I reckon," he says, grinning. Blood colors his teeth—Unmaker hasn't been kind on him.
        
        "Ultimately, your actions today have claimed no lives," you point out. "They may yet find mercy for you, so long as they fInd you suitably cooperative."
        
        "Like hell they will," the man bites out, his voice weaker than his words. "I'd sooner…toss myself off the top of that tower."
        
        "If it's death you seek, there's a less roundabout way to achieve it," you grunt, making a point to intensify the haze of mana trailing off your form. A threat, one he's learned you can make good on. "I will oblige you, if you insist."
        
        The man's lips—inexplicably—twist into a smirk. "Do it, then," he says. "Though you…might want to take a look around first."
        *goto lookaround
    #"Who is it that you work for? What are your designs? Tell me!"
        *set emotional %+ 15
        "You got it backwards…you fool," the man says, taunting even as blood drips from his mouth. "You should save that bit for after they're done torturing me. Might be that I'll…feel more like singing then."
        
        "Do you not understand the situation you're in?" you demand, making a point to intensify the haze of mana trailing off your form. A threat, one he's learned you can make good on. "I've no interest in dragging this out. But if what you need to start talking is torture, then you'll find there are few who can better oblige you."
        
        "How terrifying," the man scoffs, though his lips—inexplicably—twist into a smirk. "Do it, then. Though you…might want to take a look around first."
        *goto lookaround
    #"You wage combat like no Arvanian I know. Who taught you how to fight?"
        "Wouldn't you like to know," the man says, taunting even as blood drips from his mouth. "You lot are strong enough as is. I'll drop dead before telling you things…that might make you even [i]more[/i] of a monster."

        "Whose secrets are you protecting, that you would so eagerly take them to the grave?"
        
        "Thick in the head, are you?" he asks. "Go ahead…keep asking me these questions. Maybe I'll feel generous enough to…answer one of them eventually."
        
        "Do you not understand the situation you're in?" you demand, making a point to intensify the haze of mana trailing off your form. A threat, one he's learned you can make good on. "I've no interest in dragging this out. But if what you need to start talking is torture, then you'll find there are few who can better oblige you."
        
        "How terrifying," the man scoffs, though his lips—inexplicably—twist into a smirk. "Do it, then. Though you…might want to take a look around first."
        *goto lookaround

*label heartrender
You give your surroundings a cursory glance and discover that, blessedly, the area you'd fallen into had been reasonably vacant. People had clustered here to watch others sending light en masse, farther out on the plains. This means that when danger became apparent, this was the first place from which people fled—aside from those up on the tower, who would have come out through the main stairway on the other side. Even now you spot a great cluster of people some ways away from where you stand, interspersed by knights fighting shadowed figures—likely ones your opponent counts as companions—meaning that, for the most part, you can move freely in this space.

You plant your feet solidly and let your mana crest around you to manifest the spell—a call to one of the spirits beyond this realm, who sups on your magic and moves to obey you. The spirit enters the realm with a flourish of dark energy, and slips silently through the air in the direction of your opponent. He is ignorant of it all, focused only on beating you into the ground, and all but [i]greets[/i] the spirit in his advance. You feel it instinctively when your spell has settled around his heart. All you need do now is to keep him occupied, and leave the spirit you've summoned to its deathly work.

The man comes to you at a blinding speed, swinging down with a monstrous right hook meant to catch you in the jaw. You do not allow him the satisfaction, responding quickly with Spirit Cloak—a spell that bestows upon you a split-second of incorporeality, such that his blow phases harmlessly through you. The man, though unaware of what you had done, is suitably enraged; he pivots on his feet and swings his other arm towards you, this time an uppercut aimed at your chest. You scramble forward and edge away, the Cloak's remnants trailing behind you like an afterimage, new spell circles drawn up; unfortunately, your divided focus does you in. Your opponent manages to grab your neck with his missed uppercut, gripping around the side and pushing down hard, his knee raised to meet your stomach as you fall.

You quickly reappropriate the spell you had been casting into another Spirit Cloak, freeing yourself from the man's grip and knee-kick both. The moment the spell fades, you shove your foot onto the man's knee and push hard, leaping backwards and landing in a clumsy stumble. Not the most graceful way you could have disengaged, but you've at least put some distance between you once more.

The man gnashes his teeth together, plainly tired of your games, and takes a step forward for another bout. He [i]sways[/i], and you know for certain then that the spell's begun to take effect. He blinks twice, hard, hands reached up to vaguely feel around his torso. "You've done something to me," he accuses.

You grunt, giving him nothing.

The man meets your silence with a snarl. "You're a tricky one," he says, and though he grits his teeth together, his voice sounds [i]thrilled[/i]. "I resent that."

As he says this, a burst of blinding light begins to manifest over his body, crackling furiously against his skin. It takes you a moment to identify it as [i]lightning[/i], skidding and trailing from his form like sparks from a campfire. His eyes are aglow now, a vivid yellow hue, and it almost hurts for you to look directly at them. He drops into a running start, and begins his charge anew.

This time, you can barely see him move.

*page_break

He is upon you before you can think to react, managing to land a clean blow on your chest that knocks the air out of you and propels you backward. As you sail through the air, lightning lurches across your skin where his fist had made contact, setting the bruised skin there alight, and you feel the pain like a physical shattering. You land on the ground—[i]hard[/i]—grass and soil bunching up behind your back as you slide on the ground. Your vision is a blur, and your chest feels as if it's collapsed upon itself.

The man, merciless, lurches forward to finish the deed. He's heaving from exertion by now—it should be mere seconds before Heartrender does him in—though that will mean nothing if he manages to bash your head in first. You forge a hasty spell circle as the man launches himself into a mad dash in your direction, the air rippling with dark energy as Fist of the Dark Lord is brought to bear. The spell launches itself forward with a violent screech. You had meant for it to bludgeon the man in the chest, launching him backwards; incredibly, he manages the strength and agility to [i]climb on top[/i] of the tangled mass of darkness, his steps quick as lightning as it dashes across the spell's length. The skin of his feet are made raw by the spell's influence, and [i]still[/i] he manages to make it to the end and move into a leap—

*page_break

And he succumbs to Heartrender in midair.

Blood sprays from your opponent's mouth as his heart is crushed by the spell, stray bolts of lightning dancing in the air as he falls from the Fist. He meets the ground with a loud thud, dust kicking up around him, blood pooling underneath his form.

And, incredibly, he yet lives.

He manages to lift his head—ever so slightly—and regard you with that same set of glowing yellow eyes, breathing slowly as lightning courses through his body. Whatever this process is that's keeping him alive, you can be certain that he's not anywhere near fighting condition. A fact you plan to fully take advantage of.

You let your mana bleed out into the air just in case, spell circles half-formed, ready to intercept any move he makes. Your opponent's shown an incredible propensity for catching you off guard, and you rather mislike the thought of him doing so again.

"You fight like @{pronvar a man|a woman|you're bloody} possessed," he says grimly, watching as you rise to your feet and begin to approach him. "If people like [i]you[/i] are who we're up against…hah. We were doomed from the start."

*choice
    #"You're defeated. Surrender, and I will let you keep your life."
        "So that your leaders…can torture and interrogate me for all I'm worth, I reckon," he says, grinning. Blood colors his teeth—doubtless the work of Heartrender.
        
        "Ultimately, your actions today have claimed no lives," you point out. "They may yet find mercy for you, so long as they fInd you suitably cooperative."
        
        "Like hell they will," the man bites out, his voice weaker than his words. "I'd sooner…toss myself off the top of that tower."
        
        "If it's death you seek, there's a less roundabout way to achieve it," you grunt, making a point to intensify the haze of mana trailing off your form. A threat, one he's learned you can make good on. "I will oblige you, if you insist."
        
        The man's lips—inexplicably—twist into a smirk. "Do it, then," he says. "Though you…might want to take a look around first."
        *goto lookaround
    #"Who is it that you work for? What are your designs? Tell me!"
        *set emotional %+ 15
        "You got it backwards…you fool," the man says, taunting even as blood drips from his mouth. "You should save that bit for after they're done torturing me. Might be that I'll…feel more like singing then."
        
        "Do you not understand the situation you're in?" you demand, making a point to intensify the haze of mana trailing off your form. A threat, one he's learned you can make good on. "I've no interest in dragging this out. But if what you need to start talking is torture, then you'll find there are few who can better oblige you."
        
        "How terrifying," the man scoffs, though his lips—inexplicably—twist into a smirk. "Do it, then. Though you…might want to take a look around first."
        *goto lookaround
    #"You wage combat like no Arvanian I know. Who taught you how to fight?"
        "Wouldn't you like to know," the man says, taunting even as blood drips from his mouth. "You lot are strong enough as is. I'll drop dead before telling you things…that might make you even [i]more[/i] of a monster."

        "Whose secrets are you protecting, that you would so eagerly take them to the grave?"
        
        "Thick in the head, are you?" he asks. "Go ahead…keep asking me these questions. Maybe I'll feel generous enough to…answer one of them eventually."
        
        "Do you not understand the situation you're in?" you demand, making a point to intensify the haze of mana trailing off your form. A threat, one he's learned you can make good on. "I've no interest in dragging this out. But if what you need to start talking is torture, then you'll find there are few who can better oblige you."
        
        "How terrifying," the man scoffs, though his lips—inexplicably—twist into a smirk. "Do it, then. Though you…might want to take a look around first."
        *goto lookaround


*label lookaround
*page_break

You consider the man for a moment, but eventually do as he bids.

The field is all but deserted by now, with the festival-goers having fled back in the direction of the river. You can make out distinct sounds of combat somewhere in the distance—steel against steel, likely the templars' longswords meeting the assailants' daggers—leaving you alone in the field with your opponent.

Or so you had thought. Huddled in the shadow of the tower, some thirty paces from you, are a group of hooded figures who doubtless count themselves among the man's allies. In contrast to their dark apparel, clearly meant to give them camouflage in the night, the daggers they bear are bright silver, the color of moonlight. As if they're [i]meant[/i] to be seen, even in the darkest shade.

And each of those daggers are pressed up against the throat of a civilian.

You grit your teeth at the sight. "Hostages."

The man before you begins laughing with a crazed, frantic air. "You reproached me for condemning these [i]innocent civilians[/i] to death. Let's see if you're any better," he says. "Let me and my men go, and no harm will come to them. Resist, and they will be slaughtered where they stand."

Your jaw tightens as you take in the sight of the hostages. A teenage girl with mottled skin and a broken nose, whispering prayers under her breath; a portly woman who openly meats your gaze, mouthing pleas for you to rescue her. A bone-thin older man, who only looks resigned as the dagger pressed deeper into his throat.

The lightning-wielder's eyes glint in anticipation of your choice. "Well then. Show me your true face, [i]demon[/i]."

*page_break

You bite back a curse, considering your options. You could feasibly attack the man's underlings from this distance—something quick and desperate to strike at their knife-grip or blast them away entirely. But they're watching you carefully, hyper-aware of your every movement; it's more likely that they'll at least be able to make good on their threat, and still have time to scramble for escape. To make no mention of your exhaustion and injury, which may well interfere with your spellwork enough to catch the hostages in the crossfire.

Reluctantly, you decide against that course of action. Meaning that you're forced to take the man's bargain at face value. You can slay the man here, and likely his compatriots as well, doubtless removing important resources from their masters' disposal in so doing. The man [i]had[/i] been a terrifying combatant, and had he faced up against a common templar instead of you, he likely wouldn't even have sprained a muscle. It'll be hard for him to be placed under another's mercy, the way he is currently placed under yours.

But those hostages. You catch sight of the woman's desperate pleas—[i]I beg you, I have children[/i]—and it leaves a foul taste in the back of your mouth.

And yet, if you let these assailants escape, there's no telling what monstrosities they would visit upon others, where you would not be able to protect them. They had been organized and powerful enough to attempt an attack on Thulrum, the seat of Arcadian power. There's no telling what havoc they could wreak upon a place like Merdel Village, defended only by a ragtag militia surviving off of Silcur's scraps.

*label sparegarilofork
*choice
    *disable_reuse #"How do I know that you'll keep your word?"
        "You'll just have to take that chance, won't you?" he says. "If nothing else, even if we don't keep our word, you'll at least get to spare your conscience. That you had [i]tried[/i] to save these poor fools, rather than simply leave them to their fate."
        
        "You are an absolute wretch," you retort.
        
        The man manages a half-shrug—the best his injuries would allow. "I've long been aware."
        *goto sparegarilofork
    #I let them go.
        *set optimistic %+ 15
        *comment garilolives = true
        *if (galesong)
            Reluctantly, you command Galesong to cease, watching bitterly as the winds dissipate harmlessly around the man.
        *elseif (glyphofreaping)
            Reluctantly, you lift your hands up as if in surrender. A gesture of acquiescence, though you make it plain that you're none too happy about it.
        *elseif (unmaker)
            Reluctantly, you lift your hands up as if in surrender. A gesture of acquiescence, though you make it plain that you're none too happy about it.
        *else
            *comment heartrender
            Reluctantly, you lift your hands up as if in surrender. A gesture of acquiescence, though you make it plain that you're none too happy about it.
            
        He smirks up at you. "Thank you kindly," he says as he gingerly rises to his feet, powering through his injuries in a stunning display of willpower. Lightning streams from his form, crackling loudly, and you could have sworn that his injuries began to [i]heal[/i].
        
        He motions for one of the cloaked figures, and they immediately stow their dagger and shove the teenage girl to the side. She trips over her own feet and falls down on her back, collapsing into a blubbering, relieved mess on the ground. You then feel a spike of mana from the assailant, knowing then that they had been a mage. A spiritist, to be exact, who even now is constructing a Spirit Gate.
        
        The man limps over to his companions, violet streaking against his skin as he approaches the Gate's crackling light. He summons a sphere of lightning around his palm, then points it down at the hostages as his companions withdraw their knives. A threat—that should you try anything in these last moments of the deal, the hostages' lives are forfeit.
        
        The Spirit Gate completes, and the man positions himself in front of it, staring you down. "I'm the one they call Garilo," he calls out, his voice carrying through the open plains. "Remember it well, demon. When next we meet, I'll be sure to take your head."
        
        And with that, the four figures retreat into the Spirit Gate, and disappear into its depths.
        *goto spared
    #I kill the man, and hunt down his underlings.
        *set optimistic %- 15
        *set garilolives false
        You swallow as you settle on the decision. It feels like molten lava crawling down your throat.
        
        *if (galesong)
            You will the dome to collapse. The man's laughter carries on the wind even as the spell digs into his flesh, even as he dies in its embrace. It mixes into a foul, discordant cacophony with the shrieking of the hostages. It must have lasted less than a second, in truth, but the sound haunts your mind even as their bodies fall slack to the ground, even as you quickly move to dispatch their murderers.
        *else
            *label howdo
            *choice
                #I cast Glyph of Subjugation.
                    It would be a Glyph easily resisted by a man of power, and your opponent certainly fulfills that description well. But he is beaten and battered, and you suspect it would only be child's play to you now. To use that power against him; to make him take his own life.
                    
                    Will you cast Glyph of Subjugation?
                    *choice
                        *selectable_if (enchantment > 49) #Yes, I will cast Glyph of Subjugation.
                            *set glyphofsubjugation true
                            You will into existence a Glyph of Subjugation, knowing that the man has not the strength left to resist its influence. You force him to jam his own fist into his injured chest, lightning leaping from the impact, scorching the skin—and the heart within. The man's laughter carries in the wind even as life slips away from him. It mixes into a foul, discordant cacophony with the shrieking of the hostages. It must have lasted less than a second, in truth, but the sound haunts your mind even as their bodies fall slack to the ground, even as you quickly move to dispatch their murderers.
                        #No, I'll deal with him another way.
                            How will you do this?
                            *goto howdo
                #I cast Flametongue.
                    It's hardly the most elaborate spell in your repertoire, and a man of your opponent's strength would normally never need to worry about fatality from the thing. But he is dancing at the edge of death as is, injuries open and weeping, eyes hazy as he struggles to hang onto consciousness. In his state, you suspect a well-placed Flametongue will serve just as well as the blade of a guillotine.
                    
                    Will you cast Flametongue?
                    *choice
                        *selectable_if (thaum > 49) #Yes, I will cast Flametongue.
                            *set flametongue true
                            You watch grimly as spell circles flare to life in the air around the man, brimming with energy, eager to escort him to his fate. There is a flash of radiance, red and hot, as you bring the spell to bear upon him, burning him alive. The man's laughter carries in the wind even as life slips away from him. It mixes into a foul, discordant cacophony with the shrieking of the hostages. It must have lasted less than a second, in truth, but the sound haunts your mind even as their bodies fall slack to the ground, even as you quickly move to dispatch their murderers.
                        #No, I'll deal with him another way.
                            How will you do this?
                            *goto howdo
                #I cast Dance of Decay.
                    One of the more morbid spells in the spiritist's repertoire, Dance of Decay calls forth a host of vicious spirits which feed upon one's weakness and despair, growing stronger the more they are fed this way. When used against one healthy and whole, the spell will be as a puff of wind against their skin. Leveraged against ones with severe injuries, however, it may as well be a death sentence.
                    
                    Will you cast Dance of Decay?
                    *choice
                        *selectable_if (spiritism > 49) #Yes, I will cast Dance of Decay.
                            *set danceofdecay true
                            A spell circle flares to life under the man's form at your bidding, brimming with energy, eager to escort him to his fate. A cacophony of vile, screeching noises carry on the wind as the spirits cross over into this realm, surrounding him like swirls of wind, before closing in and [i]consuming[/i] him. The man's laughter even as life slips away from him. It mixes into a foul, discordant cacophony with the shrieking of the hostages. It must have lasted less than a second, in truth, but the sound haunts your mind even as their bodies fall slack to the ground, even as you quickly move to dispatch their murderers.
                        #No, I'll deal with him another way.
                            How will you do this?
                            *goto howdo
        
        Hawkishly evaluating your injuries and the fact that you're outnumbered three-to-one, the cloaked figures move into an offensive formation. The two up front brandishes their daggers and moves quickly to intercept you, while the one in the back drops their dagger to instead draw up spell circles. With your mana spent and your body injured, you forego the flashier, more powerful spells in your repertoire, opting instead for reliable ones that have served you well time and time again.
        
        *if (galesong)
            *set moranaswail true
            *set flametongue true
            *set thunderstrike true
            You feel a blast of frigid air as Morana's Wail emerges from the air around you, barreling forward with great force, aiming directly for your enemies. It is immediately clear that they aren't a fraction the fighter their commander was, as they struggle to avoid the spell as it lumbers towards them. You catch one of the assailants in the side of their chest, breaking their momentum and sending them hurtling sideways. And while the other manages to twist themselves enough to manage a narrow dodge, they hadn't counted on your spell [i]shattering[/i]. Shards of jagged ice bear down on them like a rain of daggers, slicing chunks of flesh off their limbs and torso. With both your opponents prone, you unleash a series of rapid Flametongues upon them, enough so that you can be certain they're knocked unconscious—if not entirely dead.
            
            The mage of the trio manages to complete their spell in the meantime, sending a burst of dark energy hurtling towards you with a furious hum. You fire off a quick burst of wind onto the ground, allowing you to blast upward and twist away from the spell's center, taking only the spell's weaker edges as it scathes across your arm. You forge a malformed spell circle in the time it takes for you to hit the ground again, something that an apprentice mage would be ashamed to turn in to their master—but make up the difference by shoving as much mana as you could muster into the spell.
            
            Thunderstrike emerges from the spell circle, grand and furious, a far cry from the targeted blast it's typically intended to be. It hits the ground just shy of the mage, reflecting off the earth with a shower of sparks and stone. The mage yelps as they try to scramble away from it, but by then you've managed to recalibrate the angle and ensure that the spell hits them [i]square[/i] in the chest.
            
            The last of your opponent is blasted away by the sheer force of your spell, shrieking as they hurtle through the air and smash into the tower with a sickening crunch.
            
            *page_break It's over.
            
            Having spent the last of your strength, you crash down onto the knoll, hitting the ground in a sitting position. You behold the wreckage and destruction around you—hunks of grass trampled and charred, corpses strewn across the field, broken and mangled. You try not to look at the hostages' body, huddled in a cluster by the tower. You find that you can picture them clearly all the same.
            
            Victory is yours this day. It is a difficult one to celebrate.
        *elseif (glyphofreaping)
            *set glyphofweakness true
            You cast the spells in rapid succession: a Glyph of Strength for yourself, and Glyphs of Weakness for the two combatants up front, before rushing to meet them in combat. After facing down against their commander, the pair seem almost pitiable in their flimsy attempt to best you. Their stances are stiff and overly proper—as if borne out of rote memorization rather than proper battlefield experience—and the grip of their hands are infirm. A simple feint have them both stabbing air; not that it would have mattered, given the lack of strength behind their arm swings.
            
            Had they even realized they'd been afflicted with a Glyph? You take the back of their heads and smash them against each other, mustering all the strength your Glyph has endowed you. Blood sprays from the impact as you feel skulls giving way, and the pair falls down to the ground, then. Whether dead or merely unconscious, you can't be bothered to ascertain. Their strength is too trivial for them to be a concern.
            
            The mage of the trio manages to complete their spell in the meantime, sending a burst of dark energy hurtling towards you with a furious hum. You plant your feet on the ground at an angle and push with Strength, making a mad dash sideways, dodging the trajectory of the spell. The mage tries to recalibrate their spell circle, enough so that the mass of darkness would trail after you and chase you down. It's not a particularly complex maneuver; had they been your equal in spellcraft, they would have easily succeeded. Instead, they succeed only in botching the spell's foundational runes, making the spell dissipate from existence.
            
            And that completes the trifecta. Your opponents, it would seem, are the greenest of the green. It gives you no pleasure to slaughter them so.
            
            You close the distance quickly to the panicked mage, who futilely tries to scramble away. You twist their neck before they can so much as take their third step, and the mage is likely dead before they hit the ground.
            
            *page_break
            
            With your grim task seen to, you let the Glyphs leave you, like puffs of smoke from a dying fire. You cras down onto the knoll, then, hitting the ground in a sitting position. You behold the wreckage and destruction around you—hunks of grass trampled and charred, corpses strewn across the field, broken and mangled. You try not to look at the hostages' body, huddled in a cluster by the tower. You find that you can picture them clearly all the same.
            
            Victory is yours this day. It is a difficult one to celebrate.
        *elseif (unmaker)
            *set claycannon true
            Tahlia had implied that your stay in Thulrum would be a peaceful one, and so you've neglected to concoct potions—and indeed, alchemical clay—to use in combat situations. Regardless, you've come a long way as an alchemist since your days wandering the Esteram Forest, avoiding Elyssian beast tracks. For as simple a spell as Clay Cannon, humble patches of dirt will do just as well.
            
            You lean down and dig into the soil with your fingers, enveloping them with your mana and willing the spell circles to come into existence. Your opponents appear to be the nimble-footed sort, eager to sidestep any projectile you throw their way, and so you let loose a whole [i]array[/i] of Clay Cannons, speeding towards them in a chaotic tableau.
            
            It soon becomes clear to you that the man's underlings aren't even a fraction the combatant he was, for despite struggling wildly to dodge your assault, they fail in spectacular fashion. One is caught by two cannonballs in quick succession, first in their shoulder, then in their hip—while the other takes a blow directly to the face, blood spouting like a fountain from their nose. Another burst of mana, and two more cannonballs depart from your palms, barreling forward as if eager to finish the job; they bound for the pair and [i]smash[/i] into their forms, forcefully sending them backwards to slam against the tower wall.
            
            The bodies slide to the ground, leaving a trail of blood down the masonry. Whether they're unconscious or dead, you find it difficult to tell.
            
            The mage of the trio manages to complete their spell in the meantime, sending a burst of dark energy hurtling towards you with a furious hum. and you dart quickly in attempt to dodge it. The spell manages to catch you in the side of your arms, the skin there shot through with a painful, burning sensation. But that the spell hadn't bent [i]at all[/i] to catch you in a vital spot tells you all you need to know. This person, too, is a mere greenhorn, and casting such a demanding spell will have left them winded. Unable to mount a proper defense.
            
            You scoop another bit of earth as the spell whooshes past your head, imbuing it with what remains of your magic, and toss it hard in the mage's direction. As it sails through the air the susbstance thickens and expands into a full cannonball, one that collides with great force against the mage. You feel their bones cracking under the duress as the spell pushes them backward, making contact with the ground just a few paces shy of where their companions laid. This time, you are certain—your spell has bashed their ribcage in and taken their life.
            
            *page_break
            
            Having spent the last of your strength, you crash down onto the knoll, hitting the ground in a sitting position. You behold the wreckage and destruction around you—hunks of grass trampled and charred, corpses strewn across the field, broken and mangled. You try not to look at the hostages' body, huddled in a cluster by the tower. You find that you can picture them clearly all the same.
            
            Victory is yours this day. It is a difficult one to celebrate.
        *else
            *comment heartrender
            *comment visions of the damned, possession
            Tahlia had implied that your stay in Thulrum would be a peaceful one, and so you've neglected to concoct potions—and indeed, alchemical clay—to use in combat situations. Regardless, you've come a long way as an alchemist since your days wandering the Esteram Forest, avoiding Elyssian beast tracks. For as simple a spell as Clay Cannon, humble patches of dirt will do just as well.
            
            You lean down and dig into the soil with your fingers, enveloping them with your mana and willing the spell circles to come into existence. Your opponents appear to be the nimble-footed sort, eager to sidestep any projectile you throw their way, and so you let loose a whole [i]array[/i] of Clay Cannons, speeding towards them in a chaotic tableau.
            
            It soon becomes clear to you that the man's underlings aren't even a fraction the combatant he was, for despite struggling wildly to dodge your assault, they fail in spectacular fashion. One is caught by two cannonballs in quick succession, first in their shoulder, then in their hip—while the other takes a blow directly to the face, blood spouting like a fountain from their nose. Another burst of mana, and two more cannonballs depart from your palms, barreling forward as if eager to finish the job; they bound for the pair and [i]smash[/i] into their forms, forcefully sending them backwards to slam against the tower wall.
            
            The bodies slide to the ground, leaving a trail of blood down the masonry. Whether they're unconscious or dead, you find it difficult to tell.
            
            The mage of the trio manages to complete their spell in the meantime, sending a burst of dark energy hurtling towards you with a furious hum. and you dart quickly in attempt to dodge it. The spell manages to catch you in the side of your arms, the skin there shot through with a painful, burning sensation. But that the spell hadn't bent [i]at all[/i] to catch you in a vital spot tells you all you need to know. This person, too, is a mere greenhorn, and casting such a demanding spell will have left them winded. Unable to mount a proper defense.
            
            You scoop another bit of earth as the spell whooshes past your head, imbuing it with what remains of your magic, and toss it hard in the mage's direction. As it sails through the air the susbstance thickens and expands into a full cannonball, one that collides with great force against the mage. You feel their bones cracking under the duress as the spell pushes them backward, making contact with the ground just a few paces shy of where their companions laid. This time, you are certain—your spell has bashed their ribcage in and taken their life.
            
            *page_break
            
            Having spent the last of your strength, you crash down onto the knoll, hitting the ground in a sitting position. You behold the wreckage and destruction around you—hunks of grass trampled and charred, corpses strewn across the field, broken and mangled. You try not to look at the hostages' body, huddled in a cluster by the tower. You find that you can picture them clearly all the same.
            
            Victory is yours this day. It is a difficult one to celebrate.
        *goto notspared

*label spared
Church personnel begin piling into the field once more after a while, as the fighting elsewhere in the city begins to wind down. The first man on the scene is a graying, bespectacled priest who looks as if a strong wind could knock him over. He yelps upon finding you by your lonesome in the ruined field, bearing grievous wounds with no readily apparent cause. It's a moment before he finds his own explanation for what had happened in his head, and—satisfied—he kneels by your side and attempts a clumsy patching of your wounds. The tourniquet he eventually treats you with is clumsily applied, but given how earnest he'd been with the whole affair, you find it difficult to begrudge him for it.

He eventually motions for another to approach, and the one to answer his call is a burly older man with salt-and-pepper hair, a still-bloody greatsword strapped to his back. His features are angular and harsh, and old scars run down his cheek as if a harpy had decided it made a nice scratching post. But there's a kindness to his eyes, and the sound of his voice as he kneels by your side is unexpectedly gentle. "You look like you're in a bad way, kid."

*choice
    #"Dunno what you're talking about. I've never been better."
        *set charming %+ 15
        As you speak the words, you feel a spike of pain in the wound under the tourniquet. You groan and place a hand over it, as if that would help things any.
        
        "Some life you must have led, then," the man says, amused. "We should get you inside the tower. Find a nice flat surface you can lay on until a proper surgeon is freed up."
        *label briefconsider
        
        You briefly consider the state of your body, and whether you'll be able to make the trip. None of your injuries are life-threatening, but you're in pain all over, both from your injuries as well as from general exhaustion. You could presumably get to the tower yourself, though you'd risk your body giving out halfway and falling on your face on the way. It would do your injuries no favor, and more importantly, you'll likely never live it down.
        
        Presumably, the man is here to offer you help. And judging by the expectant look in his eyes, the [i]extent[/i] to which he will help appears to depend on your request.
        *choice
            #I ask him to help me up and let me lean on him.
                "I'd appreciate some help," you say, reaching up a trembling hand. Jove, that hurts. "Can't get there by myself."
                
                The older man smiles and obliges you. You get up with his support, slinging your arms over his broad shoulders. Your legs scream in protest of the effort; you tighten your jaw and bear with it all the same. "You got a name, kid?" he asks as he leads you towards the tower.
                
                "${fname}," you say. "A guest of the [i]ashai's[/i], or something like that."
                
                He grunts. "Aye, I've heard of you. For someone who's supposedly a guest, you've sure done a lot of heavy lifting around here. Fought a few of them off, didn't you? Wouldn't have gotten injuries like those, otherwise," he says. "Myst's been singing your praises. I figured she'd been blowing smoke, but I see now that you live up to her words."
                *label uptowords1
                
                You tilt your head. "You know Myst?"
                
                "My daughter," he says, grinning. "She never mentioned me? Kindly old Faustus, runs the only good barbershop in town?" He laughs. "I should give her a talking-to. She never thinks about her old Pa, that girl…"
                
                You blink at his words, before turning your gaze on the greatsword strapped to his back. That's no hobbyist's weapon, to say the least, and judging from the blood coating it, he knows how to use the weapon well. You had expected him to be a warrior of some sort—a mercenary, at least, if not a full templar. "I don't know that I would trust you with scissors by my neck," you tell him plainly. "Seems to be a bit of a risk."
                
                Faustus grins. "Oh, come off it. You got nothing to fear from me, brat. Unless you plan on rampaging in the city during the most important festival of the year."
                
                "Well," you say, gesturing faintly in the direction of the patch of land you've just wrecked. "I don't know if [i]plan[/i] is the word I would use."
                
                "Fair enough," he chuckles. "In all seriousness, come by my shop when you have the time. T'be honest with you, you look as if you've been through hell and back. Could do with a little fixing up."
                
                You give him a look. "A sales pitch? Now, of all times?"
                
                Faustus clutches at his heart, as if physically wounded. "Is that what you think of me, brat?" he says, shaking his head. "It'll be free of charge. As thanks for helping my Myst out."
                
                You sigh, relenting. "I may take you up on that offer."
                
                "See that you do," he says, grinning.
                *goto backtotower
            #I imply that I might need to be carried inside.
                "Don't know that I even have the strength to walk, old man," you sigh. "Cleaning up around here took a bit out of me, as you can see."
                
                The older man guffaws at that. "Aye, I figured you fought a few of them off. Some real nasty pieces of work, too, judging by the look of these wounds." He turns around, then, showing you his back. "Get to it, then. That tower's not getting any closer, you know."
                
                You take him up on his offer, grunting as you hoist yourself up onto his back. You stomp down on the embers of shame you feel, deep inside. There's no shame in asking for help when you need it, especially after you've been essentially conscripted into the city's service the whole day.
                
                The man stands up gingerly—he seems to have sustained a wound himself, somewhere on his legs—but nonetheless manages to carry you in the direction of the tower. "You got a name, brat?" he asks, seemingly by way of small talk.
                
                "${fname}," you say. "A guest of the [i]ashai's[/i], or something like that."
                
                He grunts. "Aye, I've heard of you. For someone who's supposedly a guest, you've sure done a lot of heavy lifting around here," he says. "Myst's been singing your praises. I figured she'd been blowing smoke, but I see now that you live up to her words."
                *goto uptowords1
            #I insist on walking in on my own.
                "I can do it myself," you say, waving him off.
                
                The man gives you a once-over in response, and sighs. "Listen, kid. There's no shame in asking for help. Especially after what you've done for us here," he says, noting the mess you've made of the field. "You fought a few of them off, didn't you? Wouldn't have gotten injuries like those otherwise."
                
                You give him a look, and—powered by spite—manage to summon the strength to stand up on your own. As soon as you take the first step, however, a sharp pain flares from the general area of your stomach, bowling you over. The man is quick on the uptake and moves his shoulders under your arm, lending you support.
                
                You groan. Your rescuer doesn't [i]quite[/i] say [i]I told you so[/i], but you can hear him think it all the same. You allow him to lead you in the direction of the tower, him basking in the silence, and you in your embarrassment.
                
                The man, doubtless having realized your discomfort, makes an attempt at small talk. "You got a name, kid?"
                
                "${fname}," you say. "A guest of the [i]ashai's[/i], or something like that."
                
                He grunts. "Aye, I've heard of you. For someone who's supposedly a guest, you've sure done a lot of heavy lifting around here," he says. "Myst's been singing your praises. I figured she'd been blowing smoke, but I see now that you live up to her words."
                *goto uptowords1
    #"They've patched me up already. Find someone else to bother."
        *set charming %- 15
        As you speak the words, you feel a spike of pain in the wound under the tourniquet. You groan and place a hand over it, as if that would help things any.
        
        "Think I might have to bother you," the man says, giving you the hint of a smile. "We should get you inside the tower. Find a nice flat surface you can lay on until a proper surgeon is freed up."
        *goto briefconsider
    #"Help me out, would you? Jove, I hurt all over."
        *set optimistic %+ 15
        As you speak the words, you feel a spike of pain in the wound under the tourniquet. You groan and place a hand over it, as if that would help things any.
        
        "I can see that, aye," the man says, amused. "We should get you inside the tower. Find a nice flat surface you can lay on until a proper surgeon is freed up."
        *goto briefconsider
    #I let my mana bleed out, threatening. I don't know this man.
        *set optimistic %- 15
        You feel a spike of pain in the wound under the tourniquet as you do so; clearly, your body is protesting the exertion. You groan and place a hand over it, as if that would help things any. Your mana does not let up in the meantime—a testament to your willpower if ever there was one.
        
        "I don't mean any harm, kid," the man says, holding his hands up in an attempt to pacify you. He then motions to the field at large, where people have already begun to gather, civilians mixing with members of the Ishavak clergy. "I do anything sideways to you, you can just scream, yeah? With how on edge everyone is, you'd have the templars on me in a second."
        
        You consider him for a moment, before conceding to his point with a sigh. "I suppose."
        
        The man smiles. "We should get you inside the tower," he says. "Find a nice flat surface you can lay on until a proper surgeon is freed up."
        *goto briefconsider

*label notspared
Church personnel begin piling into the field once more after a while, as the fighting elsewhere in the city has begins to wind down. The first man on the scene is a graying, bespectacled priest who looks as if a strong wind could knock him over. He watched agape at the scene of destruction and death before him, though—to his credit—he quickly regains his composure. He takes one look at your wounds and rushes over to help, producing a tourniquet from the folds of his robe, before quickly motioning for another to come.

The one to answer his call is a burly older man with salt-and-pepper hair, a still-bloody greatsword strapped to his back. The two of them speaks in hushed whispers, with the priest gesturing to the bodies in the field. They're close enough that you could plausibly make out what they're saying, but you find it difficult to find the energy to care.

The priest heads off elsewhere after their discussion, giving you a quick nod by way of goodbye. The other man kneels by your side instead, and offers you a sympathetic smile. His features are angular and harsh, and old scars run down his cheek as if a harpy had decided it made a nice scratching post. But there's a kindness to his eyes, which inexplicably soften when they properly take sight of you, and the carnage that you've caused.

"You look like you're in a bad way, kid."

The man before him had been content to work in silence, leaving you to stew privately with the things that you've done. From the look in this man's eyes, it seems that luxury has come to an end.

*choice
    #"Huh. I wonder what gave it away."
        *set charming %+ 15
        As you speak the words, you feel a spike of pain in the wound under the tourniquet. You groan and place a hand over it, as if that would help things any.

        "Let's call it a hunch," he says with a small smile. "Had my own share of injuries, back in the day. Only a couple of times were they ever this bad." 
        
        You grunt in what might have been perceived as amusement. In truth, you can feel nothing but a stubborn numbness, weighing upon you like an anchor. Somewhere behind the man, a priestess kneels down by the corpses of the three refugees you'd abandoned to their fate. You forcibly turn your head away, fixating on a patch of grass some distance away.
        
        "We should get you inside the tower," the man says after a while. "Find a nice flat surface you can lay on until a proper surgeon is freed up."
        *label briefconsider2
        
        You close your eyes, resigned. You get the sense this man won't leave you alone until he gets his way.
        
        You briefly consider the state of your body, and whether you'll be able to make the trip. None of your injuries are life-threatening, but you're in pain all over, both from your injuries as well as from general exhaustion. You could presumably get to the tower yourself, though you'd risk your body giving out halfway and falling on your face on the way. It would do your injuries no favor, and more importantly, you'll likely never live it down.
        
        Presumably, the man is here to offer you help. And judging by the fact that he hasn't hauled you in just yet, the [i]extent[/i] to which he will help appears to depend on your request.
        *choice
            #I ask him to help me up and let me lean on him.
                "I'd appreciate some help," you say, reaching up a trembling hand. Jove, that hurts. "Can't get there by myself."
                
                The older man smiles and obliges you. You get up with his support, slinging your arms over his broad shoulders. Your legs scream in protest of the effort; you tighten your jaw and bear with it all the same. "You got a name, kid?" he asks as he leads you towards the tower.
                
                "${fname}," you say, acquiescing to the small talk. The man plainly means to make a distraction out of it, and you find yourself increasingly willing to oblige him. "A guest of the [i]ashai's[/i], or something like that."
                
                He grunts. "Aye, I've heard of you. For someone who's supposedly a guest, you've sure done a lot of heavy lifting around here," he says. "Myst's been singing your praises. I figured she'd been blowing smoke, but I see now that you live up to her words."
                *label uptowords2
                
                You raise your brows. "Myst, the Quartermaster?"
                
                "And my daughter," he says, grinning. "She never mentioned me? Kindly old Faustus, runs the only good barbershop in town?" He laughs. "I should give her a talking-to. She never thinks about her old Pa, that girl…"
                
                You blink at his words, before turning your gaze on the greatsword strapped to his back. That's no hobbyist's weapon, to say the least, and judging from the blood coating it, he knows how to use the weapon well. You had expected him to be a warrior of some sort—a mercenary, at least, if not a full templar. "I don't know that I would trust you with scissors by my neck," you tell him plainly. "Seems to be a bit of a risk."
                
                Faustus grins. "Oh, come off it. You got nothing to fear from me, brat. Unless you plan on rampaging in the city during the most important festival of the year."
                
                His words take you by surprise, and you turn your head away, conflicted. "I…"
                
                "Oh, damn it," the man says, gritting his teeth. "I'm sorry, kid. Myst always did say I've a habit of putting my foot in my mouth. Seems I should start taking her seriously." He sighs, shaking his head. "Look, kid. It ain't hard to piece together what happened there. I saw the marks on those corpses, and I saw their daggers. You were put in a real tough spot. One you should've never been in to begin with, and that's our fault for failin' you."
                
                You press your lips together. "You don't need to dress this up for my sake. I know what I did, what I'm responsible for."
                
                "Then you know what you've achieved as a result, yeah? The lives you've probably saved, somewhere down the line," he says. "It's thankless work, doing this. The people you've saved will never even know what you've done for them. While they…" he trails off, and there's a morose, distant look in his eyes. He shakes his head, and turns to look at the fallen refugees. Tended to now by a group of acolytes, who are covering the bodies up with hempen sheets. "[i]They[/i] will probably stay with you, some way, somehow. It don't get easier, making these choices. But someone's got to make them, and if it helps any, you're the sort I'd trust with making the right call."
                
                "You've had to make this choice, too," you say. It's not a question, and so Faustus elects not to answer. But his wistful smile tells you all you need to know.
                
                "You look a mess, brat," he says, apropos of nothing. He gives you a discerning look up and down, and shakes his head for good measure. "I mean no offense. But you really could do with a little fixing up."
                
                You humor him, allowing for the shift in topic. "Let me guess: I'll find exactly what I need at the finest barbershop in town," you say. "Hell of a time for a sales pitch, old man."
                
                Faustus clutches at his heart, as if physically wounded. "Is that what you think of me, brat?" he says, shaking his head. "It'll be free of charge. As thanks for helping my Myst out."
                
                You sigh, relenting. "I may take you up on that offer."
                
                "See that you do," he says, grinning.
                *goto backtotower
            #I imply that I might need to be carried inside.
                "Don't know that I even have the strength to walk, old man," you sigh. "I've been having a rough time of it."
                
                The older man guffaws at that. "Aye, I can see. They did you in something fierce." He turns around, then, showing you his back. "Get to it, then. That tower's not getting any closer, you know."
                
                You take him up on his offer, grunting as you hoist yourself up onto his back. It stays with you, that feeling of numbness, and so you can't even feel embarrassed when you draw the stares of the surrounding passers-by.
                
                The man stands up gingerly—he seems to have sustained a wound himself, somewhere on his legs—but nonetheless manages to carry you in the direction of the tower. "You got a name, brat?" he asks, seemingly by way of small talk.
                
                You oblige him, if only to distract yourself from the thoughts haunting you. "${fname}," you say. "A guest of the [i]ashai's[/i], or something like that."
                
                He grunts. "Aye, I've heard of you. For someone who's supposedly a guest, you've sure done a lot of heavy lifting around here," he says. "Myst's been singing your praises. I figured she'd been blowing smoke, but I see now that you live up to her words."
                *goto uptowords2
            #I insist on walking in on my own.
                "I can do it myself," you say, waving him off.
                
                The man gives you a once-over in response, and sighs. "Listen, kid. I don't know what you think you look like right now, but I can tell you it's not good. Swallow your pride for a second, yeah? There's no shame in accepting a helping hand."
                
                You give him a look, and—powered by spite—manage to summon the strength to stand up on your own. As soon as you take the first step, however, a sharp pain flares from the general area of your stomach, bowling you over. The man is quick on the uptake and moves his shoulders under your arm, lending you support.
                
                You groan. Your rescuer doesn't [i]quite[/i] say [i]I told you so[/i], but you can hear him think it all the same. You allow him to lead you in the direction of the tower, him basking in the silence, and you in your embarrassment.
                
                The man, doubtless having realized your discomfort, makes an attempt at small talk. "You got a name, kid?"
                
                You oblige him, if only to distract yourself from the thoughts haunting you. "${fname}," you say. "A guest of the [i]ashai's[/i], or something like that."
                
                He grunts. "Aye, I've heard of you. For someone who's supposedly a guest, you've sure done a lot of heavy lifting around here," he says. "Myst's been singing your praises. I figured she'd been blowing smoke, but I see now that you live up to her words."
                *goto uptowords2
            #"They've patched me up already. Find someone else to bother."
                *set charming %- 15
                As you speak the words, you feel a spike of pain in the wound under the tourniquet. You groan and place a hand over it, as if that would help things any.

                "And what a fine job they did, too," he says with a small smile. "Poor Lefen did what he could, I suppose. But from the looks of it, you'll need a proper surgeon to take you on, if not a theurge altogether." 

                You grunt, non-committal. You've seen worse in your days in the resistance, and it still took a full pyre to finally do you in. You'll survive this, with or without their help, though it's not like you could say as much to the man.

                (Somewhere behind the man, a priestess kneels down by the corpses of the three refugees you'd abandoned to their fate. You forcibly turn your head away, fixating on a patch of burnt grass some distance away.)

                "We should get you inside the tower," the man says after a while. "Find a nice flat surface you can lay on until someone useful is freed up."
                *goto briefconsider2
            #"Not going to ask what happened here?"
                "I figured there'd be time enough for that later," he says with a small smile. "When you're not bleeding out in the mud, preferably."

                "Maybe you should let me," you reply. "I let those people die. Hell, I might as well have killed them myself."

                There's a beat of silence as the man looks into your eyes, his gaze scrutinizing. Somewhere behind him, a priestess kneels down by the corpses of the three refugees you'd abandoned to their fate. You forcibly turn your head away, fixating on a patch of burnt grass some distance away.

                "We should get you inside the tower," the man says after a while. "Find a nice flat surface you can lay on until a surgeon is freed up."
                *goto briefconsider2

*label backtotower
*page_break

As promised, Faustus drops you off on the tower's first floor, where a flurry of clergy is working to set up a makeshift sickbay. Wooden boxes have been set together in groups of six and covered with thick, plush sheets—a crude imitation of a bed, but one that'll do well enough in a pinch. A couple of wheelbarrows stacked high with medical supplies stand near the edge of the room, surgeons digging haphazardly through the piles as acolytes attempt some measure of organization. And of course, patients have begun filtering into the tower in various states of injury and distress. Most of the injuries you catch sight of are stab wounds and lacerations, though you spot a couple instances of spell damage. Blessedly, it does appear that the arcane amplifier you disabled had been the only one of its kind brought by the assailants. You dare not imagine the scale of the damage had another one been set off.

You catch from the murmurs of the clergy that proper triage centers had been set up in both the Common House and the Seat of Isha, which were already equipped with medical facilities. It seems this makeshift sickbay is something of a last resort, for those too far away to be transported to the main centers.

The knowledge fills you with both relief and worry. It meant that Thulrum is more than equipped to deal with the injured, but also that the damage had been incredibly widespread. How many civilians are being treated in the other centers? How many dead?

You purse your lips, stewing over the question. A wretched thing was done this day; you can only hope Tahlia and her people had managed to stymie the worst of it.

Faustus takes his leave after finding you a bed, doubtless off to find more injured to carry and bother with his
*if (garilolives)
    relentless good cheer.
*else
    unsolicited wisdom.
And so you are left alone in that place, staring at the ceiling as the groans and cries of the wounded resound through the air around you. A medic does eventually come around to treat your injuries and feed you draughts of
*if (noble > 50)
    recovery, despite your insistence that your wounds look worse than they actually are, and that they should see to other patients first.
*else
    recovery, which you accept without event.
Eventually they leave you be long enough for the exhaustion to truly sink in, and then even amidst the hustle and bustle of a busy infirmary, you find yourself finally falling asleep.

*page_break

You awaken to a warm sensation crawling up your bandaged arms, and the sight of a familiar @{yvar man|woman} at your bedside. A shock of Yotai-red hair falls over ${yhis} forehead in clumps, brown eyes distant and distracted. It seems the events of the night has left even the unflappable, ever-put-together ${yusuha} haggard.

Having felt you stir, ${yusuha} turns ${yhis} gaze on you and offers a weak smile. "I'm sorry," ${yhe} says, holding a hand up over your arm. A small host of light gathers underneath ${yhis} palm, glowing a soft red—the color of ${yhis} mana. Where it passes, you can feel your pain begin to weaken, if not entirely done away with. "I tried not to wake you."

You shake your head, dismissing ${yhis} apology. "You practice theurgy," you say, watching ${yhis} hand. You considered breifly the possibility that ${yhe} merely employed the same arcana Tahlia had, but that process had felt raw and striking—invasive, even. No, what ${yusuha} is doing feels softer, more gentle. As if [i]coaxing[/i] your body to stitch itself back together. It puts you to mind, inexplicably, of Ilya—though her healing had been much more effective than this.

"It would be an insult to theurgy to call it that," ${yusuha} says. "A pale imitation, perhaps. But it can be useful in a pinch." $!{yhe} withdraws ${yhis} hand, then, and you feel ${yhis} power hum within you, like a second heartbeat. "Rough night, huh?"

*temp supportyu false
*choice
    #"If all your festivals are this eventful, I'm catching the next caravan to Tenerei."
        *set charming %+ 15
        "Take me with you," ${yusuha} says, grinning. "I could use a vacation. Maybe when I'm no longer here, ${falco} will even come to realize how useful I am, and come begging to have me back. Imagine that…"
        
        "You've quite the imagination," you remark. From what you know of the @{fvar man|woman}... "Far more likely that ${fhe}'ll take your tasks up ${fhim}self, and become even more of a grouch for it."

        ${yusuha} shivers dramatically. "Terrifying. Poor Myst will sprout gray hairs at twenty-five."
        
        "I don't doubt it," you say, chuckling. There's a lull in the conversation, then, and despite the lighthearted air, your thoughts inevitably drift back to the night's events. And judging by the pensive look on ${yusuha}'s face, it appears the same holds true for ${yhim}. After giving it some thought, you decide to ask ${yhim} about it. "How bad was the damage?"
        *label surpriseq
        
        If ${yusuha} is surprised by your question, ${yhe} doesn't show it.
        *if (garilolives)
            "Thirty-two dead so far," ${yhe} says. "Fifteen among them had been assailants. Five templars on our side. The rest…civilians."
        *else
            "Thirty-nine dead so far," ${yhe} says. "Nineteen among them had been assailants, including the four you dispatched. Five templars on our side. The rest…civilians."
            
        You nod grimly. Any life lost is a tragedy, but given the scale of the operation, the number of casualties are mercifully, even shockingly, low. "The injured?"
        
        "Hundreds. The vast majority will pull through, or so I'm told." ${yusuha} pauses, wringing ${yhis} hands. "Some thirty assailants were captured alive. They've been transported to the dungeons, up in the Seat. Awaiting the judgment of the Church."
        
        "This should be a good thing," you remark. "But you seem troubled."
        
        ${yusuha} purses ${yhis} lips, uncertain. "The [i]razerai[/i] typically holds dominion over matters of justice, but in this case, the [i]ashai's[/i] been given leave to decide on a punishment. Isha knows I respect her, but she's not a merciful woman, ${fname}. I fear these people's fates may be sealed."
        
        "You would see them spared?"
        
        "You fought off some of them, too, ${fname}. You noticed, didn't you? Most of them were untrained, barely able to tell hilt from blade," ${yhe} says. "I…spoke with some of them, while I was bringing them in. Isha-on-high, ${fname}, they're not [i]villains[/i]. They're farmhands, masons, war orphans—pressed into a difficult choice by the times, brainwashed by lies spun by those in power."
        
        *choice
            #"They killed refugees. There's no excusing that, no matter how sad your story is."
                *comment supportyu = false
                ${yusuha} casts ${yhis} gaze downward. "I get what you're saying. I do," ${yhe} says. "It's just…we help our own kind—Arcadians—because they've been given an unfair lot in life. Poverty, starvation, abuse—the sorts of things that drive people to thievery, to murder. And plenty of them have. Been driven to these things, I mean. And we shelter them anyway, because we understand that it's the fault of circumstance. That they would've chosen differently, had they been given the option." The redhead pauses, steely gaze meeting your own. "If we're to extend that courtesy, it should be to [i]everyone[/i]. Not just those who happen to have the right bloodline, suffer the right kind of abuse."
                
                "You do these assailants too much credit, and your own people too little," you say. "They planned a [i]slaughter[/i] here, ${yusuha}. It's not the same, and you know it."
                
                "Not in practice, perhaps. But in principle…" ${yhe} shakes ${yhis} head. "I don't know why I'm bothering you with this. I suppose I wanted to sort my own thoughts out." $!{yhe} rises from ${yhis} seat, then, and turns around to leave. "Sorry to leave you like this, ${fname}, but from what I can tell, you should be fine with a little rest. Call for Senz should you feel any lingering pain. And thank you for what you did last night."
                
                You look up at ${yhim}, scrutinizing. "Where are you going?"
                
                "To the Seat. The dungeons, to be specific," ${yhe} replies. "It should be some time yet before the [i]ashai[/i] arrives."
                
                "You mean to plead to her on their behalf."
                
                "I mean to do [i]something[/i]," ${yhe} says. "It just doesn't feel right, leaving things like this."
                
                You take a moment, considering. And then, "I'll go as well."
                
                ${yusuha} startles at that. "What? Why?"
            #"I share your opinion. There should be space for mercy."
                *set noble %+ 15
                *set ryusuha %+ 10
                *set supportyu true
                ${yusuha} all but deflates in relief. "Right. I'm glad we have outside perspective for once," ${yusuha} says. "Not that you aren't Arcadian, of course. It's just that when you live in Thulrum long enough, your perception of Paramis and Salantirs alike gets a bit warped. I mean, I understand it, given what so many of our people have been through before coming here. Their resentment runs deep—justifiably, at that." The redhead pauses, then, steely gaze meeting your own. "But there has to be a way to break the cycle. I refuse to believe otherwise."
                
                "I won't debate you on that. But this is something of a hard sell, you realize," you point out. "There's no denying what they did here was horrific, whatever their circumstances might have been."
                
                "I know that," ${yusuha} sighs. "I was prepared for you to call me a fool—and a callous one, at that—to say their lives should be spared while their hands are still stained with blood. But this…this [i]brutality[/i] with which we treat one another serves no one, in the end." $!{yhe} shakes ${yhis} head. "I don't know why I'm bothering you with this. I suppose I wanted to sort my own thoughts out." $!{yhe} rises from ${yhis} seat, then, and turns around to leave. "Sorry to leave you like this, ${fname}, but from what I can tell, you should be fine with a little rest. Call for Senz should you feel any lingering pain. And thank you for what you did last night."
                
                You look up at ${yhim}, scrutinizing. "Where are you going?"
                
                "To the Seat. The dungeons, to be specific," ${yhe} replies. "It should be some time yet before the [i]ashai[/i] arrives."
                
                "You mean to plead to her on their behalf."
                
                "I mean to do [i]something[/i]," ${yhe} says. "It just doesn't feel right, leaving things like this."
                
                You take a moment, considering. And then, "I'll go as well."
                
                ${yusuha} startles at that. "What? Why?"
            #"You should speak with the [i]ashai[/i], try to see if you can soften her stance."
                *set optimistic %+ 15
                *set ryusuha %+ 5
                *set supportyu true
                "I can't say I haven't considered it," ${yusuha} admits. "But as I'm sure you've noticed, she's a very…self-assured woman. And we disagree often on our approaches, though we share the same goal. I fear that if anything, my presence will only make her [i]less[/i] inclined to opt for mercy."
                
                "Surely she's more rational than that," you say, brows knitting. "Else you would've left her service long ago."
                
                ${yusuha} purses ${yhis} lips. "I think we do important work. Things no one else cares enough to do in this entire continent," ${yhe} says. "And the [i]ashai[/i] runs a tight ship, has the results to show for it. Had I been in her shoes…had it been [i]my[/i] decisions guiding Thulrum, the city probably would've run itself to the ground several times over."
                
                "You're exaggerating, I'm sure."
                
                ${yusuha} gives you a weak grin. "Thanks for the vote of confidence. But I've seen quite a bit of evidence to the contrary." The redhead rises from ${yhis} seat, pacing. "I guess a big part of what bothers me is that deep down, I know the [i]ashai[/i] is right. As far as saving Arcadians go, at least…it's become apparent that [i]some[/i] amount of sacrifice needs to be made. But where do you draw the line? When is an act be merciless enough to give you pause?"
                
                "It sounds to me like exactly the sort of thing you should counsel her on," you say. "Tahlia's been able to accomplish so much because she's been ruthlessly efficient. Because she presumes to know everything and have all the answers, and never pause to consider if another way might be pursued." You shrug. "Perhaps she'll dismiss you this time and move ahead with whatever decision she's already settled on. Still, I think it's important to never let her go unchallenged. Especially with how extreme you portray her stances to be."
                
                ${yusuha} stews over your words in silence, for a while. When ${yhe} meets your gaze once more, you spot resolve in ${yhis} eyes that hadn't been there before. "You're right, ${fname}," ${yhe} says. "I…I'll never have the [i]ashai's[/i] acumen for big decisions and policies, but perhaps that just isn't my role."
                
                "No," you agree. "Your role is to be an annoying but valuable resource with a chronic bleeding heart. Someone whose prattle Tahlia is forced to suffer—and maybe eventually consider, if you keep at it long enough."
                
                "Wow, tell me how you really feel," ${yusuha} says, managing a grin. "Still, thank you, ${fname}. I had lost sight of something important back there, and you helped pull me out of it." The wind mage turns around, then, looking ready to make for the door. "There should be some time yet before the [i]ashai[/i] arrives in the dungeons. I should leave for the Seat straightaway."
                
                You take a moment, considering. And then, "I'll go as well."
                
                ${yusuha} startles at that. "What? Why?"
            #"Your faith is misplaced. People will say anything to avoid their just desserts."
                *set optimistic %- 15
                *set ryusuha %- 5
                *comment supportyu = false
                "I'm sure that holds true for some of them," ${yusuha} concedes. "I've seen my fair share of their type. When the opportunity is presented to slaughter our people wholesale, they take it eagerly. But when they discover that we're capable of resistance, they shirk from their conviction, turn to blame one another."
                
                "And you think them a rarity among those who attacked last night?"
                
                "I do," ${yhe} says, without missing a beat. "Isha-on-high knows, ${fname}, that I brought in youths who were shaking in their boots. Afraid, doubtful of their course. They wouldn't have chosen this course willingly—not if they had another option."
                
                "They always have another option," you say, gritting your teeth. "Even if it had meant falling upon their own swords. These refugees have suffered [i]enough[/i], ${yusuha}. To even entertain the thought of killing them—even to save your own skin—requires you to not even see them as humans. See [i]us[/i] as humans."
                
                "Can you say you would have chosen differently?" ${yhe} demands. "If you had been raised on the belief that Arcadians are demons incarnate, then presented the choice they were? To wage a holy battle in the name of Jove, or die from hunger in some distant corner of a war-ravaged nation?"
                
                "And so it is the similarly weak and destitute who must pay the price of their ignorance," you say. "And by averting from these criminals their proper punishment, you'd be saying they [i]deserved[/i] it, too."
                
                "That's not fair, and you know it," ${yusuha} hisses.
                
                "I don't know that I do."
                
                The redhead considers you for a long moment, then rises from ${yhis} seat, a resolute gaze in ${yhis} eyes. "I'm sorry—I don't know why I bothered you with this when you're still recovering." $!{yhe} turns around, then, making to leave. "I should be heading to the Seat, make my complaints to the person actually responsible for the call."
                
                "You mean to plead with her on their behalf."
                
                "I mean to do [i]something[/i]," ${yhe} says. "It just doesn't feel right, leaving things like this."
                
                You take a moment, considering. And then, "I'll go as well."
                
                ${yusuha} startles at that. "What? Why?"
                *goto whatwhy
    #"Just par for the course for me, sadly."
        "You have my sympathies, for what it's worth," ${yhe} says. "And here I was about to complain about how difficult I had it. To a bedridden patient, if you can imagine! Myst would never let me hear the end of it, if she found out."
        
        "If?" you ask. "I mean to tell her the first opportunity I get."
        
        ${yusuha}'s jaw drops at your betrayal. "And here I thought we were friends, ${fname}. Looks like ${falco} isn't the only one eager to see my downfall."
        
        You scoff at that. "Implying, of course, that you still have somewhere left to fall."
        
        ${yusuha} is silent, for a moment. When ${yhe} speaks again, ${yhis} tone has grown wistful. "How cruel," ${yhe} finally says. "Though I have to admit…it's hard to feel great in the aftermath of all this."
        
        You look at ${yhim}, considering. In the end, you decide it'd be best to just ask ${yhim} outright. "How bad was the damage?"
        *goto surpriseq
    #"They nearly did me in, you know. All of you owe me a big one."
        "I can see," ${yusuha} says, smiling wrily. "For what it's worth, I apologize. Twice now you've been forced into the heat of things due to our incompetence."
        
        You can't help but feel some surprise at ${yhis} earnest response. You had expected ${yhim} to divert the topic into some lighthearted joke or other, as ${yhe} is wont to do. "Well, as long as you know," you say, a little uncertain.
        
        ${yusuha} nods vaguely at that—it seems you've caught ${yhim} in a truly somber mood. Tiring of the atmosphere, you eventually decide to ask ${yhim} the question that's been niggling at the back of your mind—and one ${yhe} surely expects you to ask. "How bad was the damage?"
        *goto surpriseq

*label whatwhy
*choice
    #"Given how much help I've been, Tahlia should also hear my input on things."
        "I…hadn't considered that," ${yusuha} says. "Of course, you'd have every right to do so. We kept you incredibly busy yesterday, ${fname}. On your first Day of Arrival, no less…"
        
        "I'm glad we're in agreement," you say. "Then I take it Tahlia wouldn't object to my presence?"
        
        "No, I don't think she would. Still…" the wind mage gives you a once-over, ${yhis} lips pulling into a frown. "I don't know that it would be wise, given the state you're in. We should get Senz to look at you first, at least."
        
        "I'll likely miss your [i]ashai's[/i] little court in the meantime. Besides, he has more urgent patients to look after; best that we leave him be," you say. You press your palms on the makeshift, bed, then, and gingerly push yourself up into a sitting position. The most severe of your injuries flare up in pain, as if in protest of the act. Still you push through it all, keeping your expression flat all the while.
        *goto mostlyfine
    #"I want to see what'll happen to these people with my own eyes."
        "I…can understand that," ${yusuha} says. "In fact, I think we're rather similar in that way. It would be hypocritical of me to stand in your way, wouldn't it?"
        
        "I don't know that I'd go that far," you say. "Still, I played a big role in how everything went down. I think it's only right that I be present to see how it ends."
        
        "I'm of the same mind. Still…" the wind mage gives you a once-over, ${yhis} lips pulling into a frown. "I don't know that it would be wise, given the state you're in. We should get Senz to look at you first, at least."
        
        "I'll likely miss your [i]ashai's[/i] little court in the meantime. Besides, he has more urgent patients to look after; best that we leave him be," you say. You press your palms on the makeshift, bed, then, and gingerly push yourself up into a sitting position. The most severe of your injuries flare up in pain, as if in protest of the act. Still you push through it all, keeping your expression flat all the while.
        *goto mostlyfine
    #"I want firsthand insight on how Tahlia does things."
        "This incident with the Arrival ceremony hasn't been the first time I've been pressed into the Church's service, and I daresay it won't be the last," you say. "If that's the case, I should like to know firsthand how ti operates, and what it stands for. It'd be irresponsible for me to do otherwise."
        
        ${yusuha} tilts ${yhis} head, considering. "I hadn't considered that," ${yhe} confesses. "You're right, of course. It wouldn't be right for me to stand in your way when you likely did more for the city last night than even I did."
        
        "I'm glad we're in agreement," you say. "Then I take it Tahlia wouldn't object to my presence?"
        
        "No, I don't think she would. Still…" the wind mage gives you a once-over, ${yhis} lips pulling into a frown. "I don't know that it would be wise, given the state you're in. We should get Senz to look at you first, at least."
        
        "I'll likely miss your [i]ashai's[/i] little court in the meantime. Besides, he has more urgent patients to look after; best that we leave him be," you say. You press your palms on the makeshift, bed, then, and gingerly push yourself up into a sitting position. The most severe of your injuries flare up in pain, as if in protest of the act. Still you push through it all, keeping your expression flat all the while.
        *goto mostlyfine
    #"I'm tired of lying around in bed. I just want to be out and about."
        "I understand the feeling," ${yusuha} says. "But I don't know that it would be wise. Not until we manage to get Senz to look at you, at least…"
        
        You give ${yhim} a look. "Leave the man be. He has more urgent patients to look after," you say. "Besides…"
        
        You press your palms on the makeshift bed, then, and gingerly push yourself up into a sitting position. The most severe of your injuries flare up in pain, as if in protest of the act. Still you push through it all, keeping your expression flat all the while.
        *label mostlyfine
        
        That you had managed the feat so soon after wrecking your own body is something of a minor miracle; it's plain to that ${yusuha} and the priests who tended to you had been hard at work. And yet the thought of having to entertain a post-combat recovery period feels foreign. Ilya's healing has truly spoiled you rotten, you realize.
        
        You swing your legs over the edge of the bed and stand up; ${yusuha} rushes to lend you ${yhis} shoulder for support, which you accept without issue. Again, there's a pervasive sense of pain which still lingers throughout your body—but it's nothing you haven't powered through before. "I'm mostly fine, as you can see. Just a couple of aches here and there," you say. "I can make the trip to the Seat."
        
        *if (supportyu)
            "Are you sure?" ${yusuha} asks. Try as ${yhe} might to keep ${yhis} tone neutral, there's still a bit of [i]relief[/i] that seeps through. You hazard a guess that ${yhe}'d be glad to have someone to echo ${yhis} opinion, once ${yhe} makes ${yhis} case to Tahlia.
            
            "Positive," you say, obliging ${yhim}. "I'd rather get some rest on a proper bed, anyway. I've had my fill of these boxes."
        
            ${yusuha} laughs at that, and makes a show of bowing to you, an arm outstretched towards the tower's exit. If nothing else, it seems ${yhis} mood has picked up; that alone may be worth the hassle of the trip. "After you, @{pronvar My Lord|My Lady|Honorable One}," ${yhe} says.
        
            You scoff and wave ${yhim} off, even as ${yhe} falls into step beside you. And just like that, the both of you make the journey up to the Seat of Isha.
        *else
            ${yusuha} presses ${yhis} lips into a thin line, conflicted. It's not difficult to guess what's running through ${yhis} mind. Given how starkly your opinions differ, ${yhe} must be worried that you'll undermine ${yhis} efforts when ${yhe} pleads with Tahlia. To ${yhis} credit, ${yhe} doesn't protest your decision. "If you're sure," ${yhe} says, tone carefully neutral. $!{yhe} motions vaguely for you to follow ${yhim}. "We'll be going by carriage, but it's still a long way to the Seat. Tell me if the journey proves to be too much; we'll be passing the Common House and the Holy Barracks on the way, which I'm sure will be happy to find you accommodations."
            
            You make a soft noise—not quite a scoff, if only just barely. "It's beginning to sound like you don't want me along."
            
            $!{yhe} shakes ${yhis} head. "You wound me," ${yhe} says, a little too mirthlessly to be believable. "I'm only thinking of your health."
            
            You make a point to stand a little bit straighter. "Worry no more, then—I'm the very picture of health."
            
            "As you say," ${yusuha} says, admirably managing a wan smile as ${yhe} leads you out of the tower. And just like that, the both of you make the journey up to the Seat of Isha.
    *selectable_if (supportyu) #"Moral support. You look like you could use it."
        *set ryusuha %+ 10
        ${yusuha}'s lips pull into a smile—${yhis} first real one since you'd begun talking. "I…would appreciate it," ${yhe} says, before giving you a once-over. "I'm not sure it's wise, though. You still need to rest…"
        
        You press your palms on the makeshift bed and push yourself up into a sitting position, trying not to wince from the sting of your wounds. That you had managed the feat so soon after wrecking your own body is something of a minor miracle; it's plain that ${yusuha} and the priests who tended to you had been hard at work. And yet the thought of having to entertain a post-combat recovery period feels foreign. Ilya's healing has truly spoiled you rotten, you realize.
        
        You swing your legs over the edge of the bed and stand up; ${yusuha} rushes to lend you ${yhis} shoulder for support, which you accept without issue. Again, there's a pervasive sense of pain which still lingers throughout your body—but it's nothing you haven't powered through before. "I can make the trip to the Seat," you say.
        
        "Are you sure?" ${yusuha} asks—a mere formality, more likely than not. It's hard to miss that hopeful glint in ${yhis} eyes. 
        
        "Positive," you say, obliging ${yhim}. "I'd rather get some rest on a proper bed, anyway. I've had my fill of these boxes."
        
        ${yusuha} laughs at that, and makes a show of bowing to you, an arm outstretched towards the tower's exit. If nothing else, it seems ${yhis} mood has picked up; that alone may be worth the hassle of the trip. "After you, @{pronvar My Lord|My Lady|Honorable One}," ${yhe} says.
        
        You scoff and wave ${yhim} off, even as ${yhe} falls into step beside you. And just like that, the both of you make the journey up to the Seat of Isha.

*page_break
Tahlia glides into the dungeon with a templar on either side of her, stone-faced as she regards the sight before her. She stops just where the day's first light filters in at an angle through the high window above—a knife-slit of radiance over her blood-red eye.

"These are the people responsible for the devastation we saw last night?" she asks of the templar on her right.

"That is correct, [i]ashai[/i]," the templar says, blond hair falling over her forehead as she nods—low and respectful, as if she were bowing. "What remains of them, at any rate. Many of them had fallen last night, wreaking havoc in the city all the while. Much as it shames me to admit it, had it not been for the Saber and ${fname}—that is, your guest—the damage the city sustained would have been far worse."

"Your shame is undeserved. I know well how pressed for manpower you are at present," Tahlia replies, waving the templar off. "You did well, given the circumstance."

It's plain to you that the templar disagrees with her generous evaluation, but she dutifully elects not to press the issue. "We will do our best to live up to your words, [i]ashai[/i]."

Tahlia acknowledges her words with a nod, before turning her attention on you. "I have heard multiple accounts that you played an instrumental role in containing the chaos last night. You have our gratitude."

*choice
    #"There's no need. I only did what was right."
        *set noble %+ 15
        "How selfless. And yet, I must insist," she says. "Thulrum has ever been a place where one's service is appropriately rewarded, and I intend to keep things as such. I will confer with the relevant personnel on the sum of your rewards. I expect you will not be disappointed."
        
        You glance at ${yusuha}, who has been silent beside you all this time. Were circumstances different, you would've expected ${yhim} to chime in with some snarky jibe or other—[i]what about penniless ${yusuha}, who had[/i] also [i]been instrumental in the fight[/i], or something to that effect—but given what's at stake, ${yhe} instead pensively keeps ${yhis} silence. Watching, like a hawk.
    #"I expect to be suitably compensated, given how [i]instrumental[/i] my role was."
        *set noble %- 15
        "Naturally. I do not have the authority on my own to decide on a sum," she says, and you have to stop yourself from rolling your eyes. "But I will work out the details with the relevant personnel. I expect you will not be disappointed."
        
        You glance at ${yusuha}, who has been silent beside you all this time. Were circumstances different, you would've expected ${yhim} to chime in with some snarky jibe or other—[i]what about penniless ${yusuha}, who had[/i] also [i]been instrumental in the fight[/i], or something to that effect—but given what's at stake, ${yhe} instead pensively keeps ${yhis} silence. Watching, like a hawk.
    #"I should earn my keep, after all, lest I inspire you to [i]send me off[/i]."
        *set charming %+ 15
        "I hope that was said in jest," Tahlia says, and if you didn't know better, you'd swear she's holding back a sigh. "You are no slave, ${fname}. Had you done nothing last night and simply let things pass, you would suffer no reprisal—save, perhaps, for that of your own conscience." She shakes her head. "In any case, I will work out the details of your compensation with the relevant personnel. II expect you will not be disappointed."
        
        You glance at ${yusuha}, who has been silent beside you all this time. Were circumstances different, you would've expected ${yhim} to chime in with some snarky jibe or other—[i]what about penniless ${yusuha}, who had[/i] also [i]been instrumental in the fight[/i], or something to that effect—but given what's at stake, ${yhe} instead pensively keeps ${yhis} silence. Watching, like a hawk.
    #I shrug it off. I was only looking out for myself.
        *set charming %- 15
        Another person might have mistaken your response as humility, but you know Tahlia to be more perceptive than that. "Whatever the motive behind your actions, the fact remains that you have saved the lives of countless citizens. Thulrum has ever been a place where one's service is appropriately rewarded, and I intend to keep things as such. I will confer with the relevant personnel on the sum of your rewards. I expect you will not be disappointed."
        
        You glance at ${yusuha}, who has been silent beside you all this time. Were circumstances different, you would've expected ${yhim} to chime in with some snarky jibe or other—[i]what about penniless ${yusuha}, who had[/i] also [i]been instrumental in the fight[/i], or something to that effect—but given what's at stake, ${yhe} instead pensively keeps ${yhis} silence. Watching, like a hawk.

Having said her piece, Tahlia turns back towards the criminals—some of whom regard her with open anger, while others still tremble in fear. A few among them try to speak—whether to bargain, reason, or condemn Tahlia, you can't be sure—but the gags wrapped around their mouths render their words unintelligible.

"Your crimes are many," Tahlia says, her voice cutting through the din of muffled speech. "You launched an unprovoked attack on Thulrum on the Day of Arrival, causing injury and death to temple personnel and civilians alike. You have darkened a day of joy and refuge into one of chaos and despair, and in so doing, you have extended the suffering of a marginalized people. We have further gleaned that you belong to a group which has long stood in opposition to the establishment of Thulrum as a safe haven, and the welfare of the Arcadians at large. For the wickedness of your deeds, there can only be one recourse."

The captives are driven into an uproar by Tahlia's words—fury and desperation mixed into one. Tahlia's expression remains impassive as she solemnly gives the order to her templars.

*page_break "Kill them."

Almost as soon as the words leave her mouth, ${yusuha} immediately breaks ${yhis} silence. "[i]Ashai[/i]…is there no other way?" ${yhe} says, though it registers to you as more whimper than protest.

Tahlia takes a moment to study the redhead. "I would hear your case, but I suspect I already know the contents," she says. "You would have me spare them, sentence them to some manner of incarceration or hard labor, so that they may rethink their stance on the murder of innocents."

*choice
    *selectable_if (supportyu) #"Would that be so bad? To allow them a chance for penance?"
        *set noble %+ 15
        *set ryusuha %+ 8
        "What a kindly gesture," Tahlia remarks wrily. "One I should be glad to extend to those deserving of it."
        
        "You don't think they do," you say.
        
        Tahlia meets your gaze evenly. "In your benevolent judgment, does a point exist where a soul has been so tarnished so as to be beyond redemption?" she asks. "If so, on which side of it lies the murder of innocent refugees escaping a lifetime of oppression?"
        
        "They are a product of their environment, the conditions of their birth," you reason. "You or I might have gone down the same path, given their circumstance."
        
        "Then do not deny me the consequence of [i]my[/i] circumstance, as overseer of a broken people whom these criminals would see eradicated entirely."
        
        ${yusuha} starts, ${yhis} eyebrows knit in distress. "[i]Ashai[/i], that's not—"
        
        "You have contained much of their slaughter, and for that you have my gratitude. But lest you forget, even now our priests are surveying the cemeteries for vacant spots. The youngest of the fallen had been a boy of only nine, come here after months of harsh travel from Param's southernmost lands. He took a blade to the chest, and died gasping in his mother's arms. I wonder if you would be able to tell her, as I was unable to do, that his murderers deserved [i]mercy[/i]."
        
        ${yusuha} grits ${yhis} teeth, but still manages a weak protest. "And so we become murderers in turn, giving justification for [i]their[/i] children that we ought be slaughtered."
        
        "Let them come," Tahlia says coldly. "As they have done for centuries."
        
        She gestures once more to the templars beside her, and they grimly see to their morbid duty.
    *selectable_if (supportyu) #"At the very least, there should be a trial. Their guilt is not equally shared."
        *set ryusuha %+ 8
        "Would that they had shown us a modicum of the same discretion," Tahlia answers wrily. "Had they only slain armed knights in their assault last night, I would have considered your proposal."
        
        "You don't need to match their brutality," you argue. "You could be [i]better[/i]."
        
        "And show our would-be slaughterers that we will scarcely resist their blades," Tahlia says. "You may well think me a tyrant, but this is the surest way for me to ensure the safety of Thulrum's citizens. I'll not suffer these bandits and murderers going unchecked, thinking the worst thing that could possibly await them is a cell and a slap on the wrist." She shakes her head. "The youngest of those who fell last night had been a boy of only nine, come here after months of harsh travel from Param's southermonst lands. He took a blade to the chest, and died gasping in his mother's arms. I wonder if you would be able to tell her, as I was unable to do, that we will allow his murderers to keep their lives. Even knowing that they may one day visit their brutality upon others like him."
        
        ${yusuha} grits ${yhis} teeth, but still manages a weak protest. 'We could watch over them, ensure their transgressions aren't repeated."
        
        "And strain the coffers of Thulrum in so doing. Funds we currently use to accommodate the transport and lodging of refugees, such that they may live a dignified life within our walls. To say nothing of the personnel who could have been put to work elsewhere," Tahlia says. "You ask overmuch of a fledgling state, ${yusuha}. You may clear your conscience that you have plead their case as best as you can, for I will not be moved on this point."
        
        A moment of silence, and then ${yusuha} turns ${yhis} face away. If Tahlia sees the wretched expression on the wind mage's face, she makes no mention of it. Instead, she motions to the templars beside her, and they grimly see to their morbid duty.
    *selectable_if (supportyu = false) #"You do them too much credit, thinking they can be reformed."
        *set optimistic %- 15
        *set rtahlia %+ 8
        *set ryusuha %- 8
        ${yusuha} gives you a look. "I thought you'd be above such sweeping declarations, ${fname}."
        
        "I don't make them lightly," you say. "But it's difficult to have faith in a band of insurgents who would target unarmed civilians in the middle of a festival. The mere thought of extinguishing an innocent life in such a way should be enough to give any decent person pause. That they would actually [i]pursue[/i] the act with so much abandon can only mean one thing: they don't see the people of Thulrum—or rather, Arcadians—as humans. You would spare your conscience today should you let them keep their lives, but another innocent may well pay the cost of your hesitance."
        
        "An insightful judgment," Tahlia remarks, before turning to ${yusuha}. "I will not begrudge you your tender heart, but know that it is a luxury. I had seen things from your point of view, once, but I know now the cost of such naivete."
        
        ${yusuha} starts, ${yhis} eyebrows knit in distress. "[i]Ashai[/i], that's not—"
        
        "Enough, ${yusuha}. Lest you forget, even now our priests are surveying the cemeteries for vacant spots," Tahlia chides. "The youngest of the fallen had been a boy of only nine, come here after months of harsh travel from Param's southernmost lands. He took a blade to the chest, and died gasping in his mother's arms. I wonder if you would be able to tell her, as I was unable to do, that his murderers are good people, deep down. That they may one day lay down their burdens and walk the land freely, even as she grieves her son's passing for the rest of her life."
        
        ${yusuha} grits ${yhis} teeth, but still manages a weak protest. "And so we become murderers in turn, giving justification for [i]their[/i] children that we ought be slaughtered."
        
        "Let them come," Tahlia says coldly. "As they have done for centuries."
        
        She gestures once more to the templars beside her, and they grimly see to their morbid duty.
    *selectable_if (supportyu = false) #"You would risk too much by sparing them."
        *set noble %- 15
        *set rtahlia %+ 13
        *set ryusuha %- 5
        ${yusuha} gives you a look. "You would have them put to the sword on account of crimes they may one day commit."
        
        "As well as the one they've [i]already[/i] committed, lest you forget," you say, shaking your head. "Perhaps today we kill a person who may one day make amends and lead a clean life; it does not erase the fact of what they've done today. Conversely, anyone we spare will have already shown they have the hatred and capacity to kill an innocent on account of their blood. En masse, at that—you and I both know that casualties would have been much higher, had they been allowed to have their way. You would see these people released one day, hoping for the best that their redemption is genuine. But it wouldn't be [i]your[/i] life you gamble with. It would be that of some powerless innocent, whose existence you may never even learn of."
        
        "We must also think of those who would follow in their steps," Tahlia says grimly. "You protest the cost of our actions, but what of the cost of inaction? Of bandits and slaughterers undeterred by a cell and a slap on the wrist?" She shakes her head. "The youngest of those who fell last night had been a boy of only nine, come here after months of harsh travel from Param's southermonst lands. He took a blade to the chest, and died gasping in his mother's arms. I wonder if you would be able to tell her, as I was unable to do, that we will allow his murderers to keep their lives. Even knowing that they may one day visit their brutality upon other innocents."
        
        ${yusuha} grits ${yhis} teeth, but still manages a weak protest. 'We could watch over them, ensure their transgressions aren't repeated."
        
        "And strain the coffers of Thulrum in so doing. Funds we currently use to accommodate the transport and lodging of refugees, such that they may live a dignified life within our walls. To say nothing of the personnel who could have been put to work elsewhere," Tahlia says. "You ask overmuch of a fledgling state, ${yusuha}. You may clear your conscience that you have plead their case as best as you can, for I will not be moved on this point."
        
        A moment of silence, and then ${yusuha} turns ${yhis} face away. If Tahlia sees the wretched expression on the wind mage's face, she makes no mention of it. Instead, she motions to the templars beside her, and they grimly see to their morbid duty.

*page_break

You walk the halls of the Seat in a daze, persistent aches still lingering in your bones. A fussy young acolyte had taken you by the sleeve as you exited the dungeons, and—with a nervousness that wouldn't allow her to meet your eyes—led you to your room, urging you to properly slumber and recover. Some plan that had been. Try as you might, what you'd witnessed in the dungeon does not linger so gently in your mind that it'd allow you sleep.

And so it is that you find yourself exiting your room and wandering aimlessly through the Seat. This place had technically been your home for the past week; still, you had spent the majority of that time unconscious. And even if you weren't, the sheer [i]scale[/i] of the structure would likely have rendered large swathes of it unfamiliar to you all the same.

You come upon a large foyer at the end of the hall, with walls of carved obsidian and—incredibly—a full [i]waterfall[/i], powered by a constellation of condensation artifacts affixed onto the temple's roof. The scale of the thing is incredible to behold; it's wide enough to cover five armspans, and tall enough that merely imagining it leaves you dizzy. It descends from the Seat's highest floor, some four levels above where you currently are, flowing down to feed a gutter at the temple's base, four levels below. It would break in two directions there, hugging the walls to its left and right, to be funneled into other places in the temple. You theorize that it probably feeds much of the temple's plumbing and garden irrigation, which would explain the distinct lack of water carts coming in and out of the Seat.

The sound of rushing water follows you as you cross the length of the foyer, echoing off of the walls in the large, empty space. A wide stairway hugs the wall to the waterfall's side, climbing up the structure in distinctly blocky and orderly flights; you follow it up all the way, occasionally pausing and leaning on the wall to catch your breath. This high in the Seat, the throngs of acolytes and priests who normally swarm the halls have thinned out to a trickle. And much of [i]that[/i] traffic ceases three levels from the top, which houses the work chambers of the Archbishop and his associated officials.

You peer into the the depths of the level from your perch on the steps, past an ornate doorway with carvings all around its edges. Several hours have passed since Tahlia's bloody work in the dungeons—you suppose you might be able to find her in one of these rooms, doubtless poring over reports of last night's events and taking care of the aftermath.

You absently ponder her role—her [i]true[/i] one—within the Church. You had initially assumed her to be a high-ranking official afforded special privileges, on account of her arcane knowledge and general capability. And yet, even on last night alone, she'd managed to supersede the authority of both the Archbishop in addressing the Thulrum populace through the lanterns, as well as that of the [i]razerai[/i]—the Church's chief justice administrator—in rendering judgment onto the captured assailants. Given all this, you must contend with the likelihood that Tahlia's role within the Church's structure is a mere facade, and that her true post is that of Thulrum's sovereign.

*choice
    #Good. Thulrum's in need of a strong leader, and she fits the bill perfectly.
        What Thulrum's managed to accomplish in the last few decades—presumably with Tahlia at its head for the bulk of it—should have taken generations to accomplish. It has engaged in a series of bold policies, enduring an explosive population growth that would have brought a less capably-led city to its knees. Thulrum's leadership has keenly weaponized magical sectors to absorb its growing workforce and sustain its fledgling economy: from magic stone mining to artifact engineering, from alchemical botany to potion-making, Thulrum has done it all. As well, the Ishavak Faith has been growing at an astonishing rate beyond Thulrum's borders, especially among Salantira's wealthy noble and merchant castes. You harbor no illusions that Thulrum's leadership had no hand in the trend, not when they stood to gain so much from the faithful's tithes. An act of religious virtue, and in the right circles, an unimpeachable status symbol.
        
        But perhaps most impressive of all is the fact that the city has suffered no repercussions for its unchecked growth. When Thulrum was granted its independence, it was little more than ruined buildings and rolling hills, capable of housing and sustaining no more than fifty families, if even that. But in such a short time, it's managed to grow into a shade of its former glory, diverting trade from Parami and Salantir cities, establishing competition to the once-unchallenged Jovian Faith, and—most crucially—relieving fiefs throughout Arvanand of their Arcadian workers, who were slaves in all but name.
        
        By all rights, it's a wonder that the city hasn't been torched to the ground once more, or bureaucratically pressed into subservience under Salantira, its former master. Likely by way of Tahlia's machinations and ruthless decisions, the city had managed to stay a bastion of peace and refuge, even as war raged relentlessly in the surrounding lands.
        
        That changed yesterday, when innocent blood once more spilled onto Thulrum's streets. You've no doubt that Tahlia considers it a personal failure, and that she will stop at nothing to avert similar incidents from happening.
    #I'm conflicted. She pursues an honorable goal, but her means must be moderated.
        What Thulrum's managed to accomplish in the last few decades—presumably with Tahlia at its head for the bulk of it—should have taken generations to accomplish. It has engaged in a series of bold policies, enduring an explosive population growth that would have brought a less capably-led city to its knees. Thulrum's leadership has keenly weaponized magical sectors to absorb its growing workforce and sustain its fledgling economy: from magic stone mining to artifact engineering, from alchemical botany to potion-making, Thulrum has done it all. As well, the Ishavak Faith has been growing at an astonishing rate beyond Thulrum's borders, especially among Salantira's wealthy noble and merchant castes. You harbor no illusions that Thulrum's leadership had no hand in the trend, not when they stood to gain so much from the faithful's tithes. An act of religious virtue, and in the right circles, an unimpeachable status symbol.
        
        By all measures, the work of Thulrum's leadership has been [i]incredible[/i], and it's all been to the benefit of Arvanand's most disenfranchised people. But you see now the blood price of such success. The ruthlessness it would have doubtless required, for Thulrum to secure its lucrative trade agreements, its burgeoning industry, its enduring peace. Tahlia hadn't so much as blinked as she ordered the execution of some fifty people in a single breath. Inevitably, it's put you to mind of the Salantir invasion, which she has admitted to have a hand in causing. Had it caused her even a bit of grief, knowing what she set into motion would doubtless claim the lives of countless innocents?
        
        You think of ${yusuha}, defeated as ${yhe} hangs ${yhis} head, ever insistent that there must be a better way. You're inclined to agree with him: Thulrum cannot continue to walk so bloody a path, no matter how noble its goal is.
    #Left to her own devices, she will [i]ruin[/i] Arvanand. She must be stopped.
        You feel as if you've begun to peek behind the curtain of Thulrum's successes. You've only borne witness to a small fragment of Thulrum's inner workings, but already you can glean its bloodstained history.
        
        And really, you should have pieced the picture together sooner. What Thulrum's managed to accomplish in the last few decades—presumably with Tahlia at its head for the bulk of it—should have taken generations to accomplish. It has engaged in a series of bold policies, enduring an explosive population growth that would have brought a less capably-led city to its knees. Thulrum's leadership has keenly weaponized magical sectors to absorb its growing workforce and sustain its fledgling economy: from magic stone mining to artifact engineering, from alchemical botany to potion-making, Thulrum has done it all. As well, the Ishavak Faith has been growing at an astonishing rate beyond Thulrum's borders, especially among Salantira's wealthy noble and merchant castes. You harbor no illusions that Thulrum's leadership had no hand in the trend, not when they stood to gain so much from the faithful's tithes. An act of religious virtue, and in the right circles, an unimpeachable status symbol.
        
        These are not strides one can accomplish without a staggering degree of ruthlessness, so that Thulrum can secure its lucrative trade agreements, its burgeoning industry, its enduring peace. Tahlia hadn't so much as blinked as she ordered the wanton slaughter of some fifty people in a single breath. You imagine she'd do much of the same to merchants who step out of line, nobles who refuse to bend the knee to her demands, netters who ask too many of the wrong questions. Anything to give Thulrum and its citizens even the slightest edge, to place even one more barrier to secure her fledgling state.
        
        And this is to say nothing of the Salantir invasion, which she has admitted to have a hand in causing. Had it caused her even a bit of grief, knowing what she set into motion would doubtless claim the lives of countless innocents?
        
        You feel a shiver running down your spine. It increasingly seems to you that Tahlia would see the whole of Arvanand burn, if it meant that Thulrum would flourish in its ashes.
    #I know too little of the big picture to form a proper opinion.
        It's difficult to gain insight on Tahlia's means of rulership—and indeed, the extent of her ruthlessness—from her judgment of the captives alone. Despite it having shaken ${yusuha} so—along with many of the Church's priests and acolytes, if the whispers around the Seat is to be believed—Tahlia's decision had not been unreasonable. She put to the sword a host of individuals who struck at the heart of her city, killing innocents during a sacred event held dear by the people and the Faith both. Many rulers across the Three Continents would have likely agreed with her decision, and those who didn't would have at least acknowledged her decision as [i]sound[/i]. Of course, it may well mean that Tahlia's cruelty extended to those undeserving of it. But until you are presented with evidence of that, you find it wise to reserve judgment.
        
        What you [i]do[/i] know for sure, is that Tahlia—presuming that she is indeed Thulrum's true ruler—is a competent leader, if not necessarily a benevolent one. What Thulrum's managed to accomplish in the last few decades should have taken generations to accomplish. It has engaged in a series of bold policies, enduring an explosive population growth that would have brought a less capably-led city to its knees. Thulrum's leadership has keenly weaponized magical sectors to absorb its growing workforce and sustain its fledgling economy: from magic stone mining to artifact engineering, from alchemical botany to potion-making, Thulrum has done it all. As well, the Ishavak Faith has been growing at an astonishing rate beyond Thulrum's borders, especially among Salantira's wealthy noble and merchant castes. You harbor no illusions that Thulrum's leadership had no hand in the trend, not when they stood to gain so much from the faithful's tithes. An act of religious virtue, and in the right circles, an unimpeachable status symbol.
        
        How far Thulrum has come as a state truly beggars belief. The blood price for such a resounding success remains to be seen, however, and you'll be sure to watch Tahlia and her compatriots carefully.

You continue up the stairway, rising past the Seat's two topmost levels—beautiful atriums of glass and white-painted stone, which had apparently once served as places of congregation and liaison between the Ishavak Church and Arcadia's dynast caste. Now, however, these rooms stand deserted, completely barren but for a smattering of ancient marble statues which had been joined onto the floor. Sculpted by Arcadia's famed highmasters in ages long gone, they depict noble figures in various states of action—some of them casting spells atop a carved spell circle, while others still brandish their blades, glowering at enemies unseen.

Strangely, the sight of them only makes the rooms even more desolate. A solemn reminder that, for all Thulrum's growth in the five decades since its independence, it still has a long way to go before it lives up to Arcadia and its towering legacy.

You crest the last flight of stairs and emerge onto Thulrum's very top layer, an open-air viewing deck set against the base of its ostentatious crystalline roof. It's a massive space for what it is, easily spanning fifty paces in all directions. White-painted wooden benches are set in orderly lines along its length, interspersed with potted greeneries and squat rectangular tables. You've been told that the Church's personnel often come up here to relax and get some fresh air, when they're not otherwise engaged. But on the foot of last night's attack, the Seat has been driven into an absolute frenzy, priests and acolytes tripping over themselves to survey the damage to the city, draft plans for reconstruction, and otherwise deal with the aftermath. As a result, the viewing deck is completely deserted, leaving only the sound of blowing wind to accompany you as you walk to its edge.

Leaning against the banister, you come to realize that the deck offers an excellent vantage point over much of the city. Not only are you at the highest point of Thulrum's tallest building, but the Seat itself is also built upon the city's highest hill. As such, vast swathes of the city are laid out before you, the mud-brick buildings appearing as if they were pebbles, and the stream of people bending around them like lines of ants. But as you peer over the city, you can't help but feel that there's something…odd about it. A persistent wrongness, like blots of ink on a fine piece of tapestry…

*page_break [i]There.[/i]

Amid the disorderly sprawl of buildings which forms a block of the city, with their garishly colored roofs and the elongated porches, is a vast [i]emptiness[/i]. A foundation of black stone smashed to bits and thrown every which way, so thoroughly destroyed that the soil it was built on peeks through the large gaps. Sizable enough that you can make it out from your perch. It stretches for a good portion of the street, crawling from a lamppost and ending just short of a temple. At the terminus, you can make out the hollow shell of what once had been a building. That same garish roof, and that winding, disorderly porch, spilling out onto the shattered street.

This had been a residential building—and so were, presumably, the houses next to it, which were now completely flattened with the ground. It seems to you, from the arc of their remnants, that they had been blasted away by a single blow. What had happened to the people within?

It had been difficult to spot from this distance, but when you see one, you see them all. Various spots in the city turned into voids, as if the earth had opened up underneath them and swallowed them into its depths.

*if (garilolives)
    [i]Thirty-two dead[/i], ${yusuha} had said. [i]Mercifully low…[/i]
*else
    [i]Thirty-nine dead[/i], ${yusuha} had said. [i]Mercifully low…[/i]
*comment choice?

An image burns through your mind—of a family gathered together around a wooden table. Five people in all—two parents, a son and a daughter, and an elderly man who bore a strong resemblance to the father. They have their hands lifted in prayer on the most auspicious of days—they had no light to send on Arrival, and Grandfather had complained of leg pain. And so it was that they had decided to spend the Day of Arrival in, together. It is a cozy, pleasant day, and nothing could bring them more joy than this. Nothing…

And then they are consumed.

A violent wave of dark energy, crackling like lightning, bursts through their house; the force of it uproots the floorboards and turns their sturdy mud-brick walls into debris, racing past them in a fraction of a second. And when it passes, nothing there remains but that wretched, awful emptiness. An entire family, extinguished in a single eyeblink.

You stumble away from the deck's edge, breath heavy as the vision terminates. Steadying yourself upon the low wall, you clutch at your heart and will for it to [i]calm[/i].

*page_break And it does.

You feel your heartbeat quieting underneath your palm, the heaviness leaving your mind. In fact, it seems as if all the pain and aches permeating your body is slowly draining from you, repelled by a strange force coiling in your muscles, wrapping around your bones. It feels at once foreign and familiar…

Footsteps resound behind you, and you turn quickly to behold their source. There you catch sight of her—striking red eyes, a shift that sways with the wind, a cascade of pale blond hair. Tahlia stands before you, mana trailing from her form, painting the air with a pale red hue. Drifting towards you. [i]Healing[/i] you.

"Tahlia," you say. Then, after a moment of consideration, "[i]Ashai.[/i]. That vision…you did that, didn't you?"

The priestess nods, her expression grim. "A memory. Taken from a piece of mud-brick that had once been part of the wall," she says. "Even when the people pass on, the city remembers. The city remembers it [i]all[/i]." For a moment, her eyes adopt a distant look, unfocused—it vanishes as quickly as it had appeared. Tahlia then strides past the deck's wooden benches, and move to join you by the edge. "You may forgo usage of my title, if you wish. You exist outside of the Church's command structure, and so are not bound by its etiquette."

Briefly you think of asking her about the vision—what this memory she speaks of is, and how she could show it to you—but the scene is still so fresh in your mind, so raw. A wound that promises to bleed should you so much as poke it.

So you fall into step with the rhythm of her words, if only to afford yourself distraction. "I've heard citizens refer to you as [i]ashai[/i], instead of Tahlia."

"And so they do. A habit, more than anything else," she says. "I would not take issue were they to call me by name."

"How unconventional," you remark. "One would think titles are important between the ruler and the ruled."

Tahlia halts her steps and considers you for a moment. Though her expression is perfectly neutral, you find the intensity of her blood-red eyes unnerving. "You have arrived at some conclusions about me, I see."

"And are those conclusions correct?"

"I would have you relay them to me in full," Tahlia says. "Along with any other question you may yet harbor. You are owed that much, given what you've done for us."

You give her a skeptical look. "And you'll tell me the truth?"

"Upon the Arbiter's light, I shall not lie to you," she says. "But I will keep my silence, where I feel it is proper."

You figure it's as good a deal as you're likely to get from her. "Fine."

*temp retainers false
*temp deedscost false
*temp tahliexpocount 0

*label tahliaexpo

*choice
    *disable_reuse #"Are you Thulrum's ruler? Do you hold more authority than the Archbishop?"
        *set retainers true
        "Thulrum is a theocracy, and so rulership rests upon the hands of the Archbishop, as head of the Church," Tahlia says. "However, he has graciously given me leave to handle the finer points of day-to-day administration. He has judged that my acumen and disposition are particularly well-suited for the role, and I accepted the post willingly."
        
        You give her a skeptical look. "You'd have me believe you're some sort of administrative clerk for the Archbishop?"
        
        "It's easy to underestimate such a position," Tahlia says. "But it endows me with the authority to assign duties and tasks to members of the clergy, even those who technically outrank me. I am also able to mobilize the knights-templar at my discretion, and disburse funds from the Church coffers. Finally, I am given leave to keep a number of individuals as personal retainers, and secure for them positions in the Church. ${yusuha} and ${falco} count themselves among this number."
        
        "It rather seems to me," you say, "that the Archbishop has bestowed upon you every last bit of power he has."
        
        "Of course, I must obtain his approval for every major decision I make, where it is logistically possible," she says. "I am, in essence, a political advisor who has been given certain executive privileges. But should the Archbishop disregard my counsel and opt for a different decision, I am structurally bound to follow his directive."
        
        "And has it ever happened? The Archbishop disagreeing with you."
        
        "No," Tahlia says simply. "We are often of the same mind."
        
        "Because you made it so?"
        
        "I can be very persuasive," she says, the ghost of a smile playing on her lips.
        *set tahliexpocount +1
        *goto tahliaexpo
    *disable_reuse *if (retainers) #"Tell me about these personal retainers of yours. How many of them are there?"
        "Twenty-five, in all. Though the number fluctuates every now and again," she says.
        
        You knit your brows at that. Tahlia has leave to manage an entire platoon of retainers by herself—and judging by what ${falco} and ${yusuha} are capable of, the Church might as well have given her an entire [i]army[/i]. "The Archbishop trusts you a great deal," you say. "Many in his position would have feared you growing too powerful. Enough so that you might conceivably vie for his position."
        
        "His Holiness is wise, and sees the ridicule in such a notion. As do I," she says. "As leader of both the Church and state, his post necessitates the obliging of various ceremonial and diplomatic trappings. He spends half his time poring over scriptures and resolving doctrinal disputes, and the other half currying favor with some foreign dignitary or other. I haven't the patience to suffer his responsibilities; not when there is more urgent work to be done."
        
        "Doubtless with the help of this standing army of yours," you point out. The templar who'd been at Tahlia's side earlier had alluded to it—some force which had helped tremendously in quelling the chaos last night. "The Saber, was it?"
        
        Tahlia nods by way of confirmation. "They do important, perilous work," she says. "They directly liberate Arcadians from their tormentors—from the shadows, where the knights-templar cannot go. They are the Church's eyes and ears all throughout Arvanand, a constant finger on the continent's pulse. And," here Tahlia pauses, to meet your gaze evenly, "they remove threats to Thulrum and Arvanand as a whole before they can grow unruly."
        
        "Assassinations," you accuse.
        
        "Careful excisions," she says, "of those who would see the slaughter of innocent life persist."
        
        You fear a chill run down your spine. The thought of ${falco} and ${yusuha} lurking in the shadows, catching you unaware…you're uncertain you'd be able to keep your life. "And they're all able to wield arcana?"
        
        Tahlia shakes her head. "The vast majority of them are merely normal mages and combatants," she says. "But they are as skilled as they are motivated, and Thulrum has prospered greatly from their work."
        *set tahliexpocount +1
        *goto tahliaexpo
    *disable_reuse *if (deedscost) #"Where do you draw the line on the cost of your deeds?"
        "Liberation is difficult work," Tahlia says vaguely. "Fraught with difficult choices."
        
        Opaque though it was, her answer tells you all you need to know. The supposed nobleness of Tahlia's cause has likely tempered her conscience. She'll be able to plumb the depths of depravity to see her goals made manifest.
        
        The priestess watches you carefully. "Tell me, ${realname}. Do you think me a monster?"
        *choice
            #"You are a leader. And it is the charge of leaders to make monstrous choices."
                *set noble %- 15
                *set rtahlia %+ 8
                Your words appear to give Tahlia pause—the first you've seen from the normally unflappable priestess. "A generous evaluation. I've not been shown so much grace by even those I seek to liberate."
                
                You knit your brows, turning to regard her. "I find that difficult to believe."
                
                "It is not only the bodies of Arcadians which have been chained, but the minds as well. Long have they been taught about the supposed evils committed by their forebears, the tainted blood flowing through their veins," Tahlia says. "They have been made to pay for crimes they never committed. And so if blood is spilled in service of their liberation, I consider that a balancing of the scales."
                
                "History will remember you as a tyrant, you realize."
                
                "They may say anything they want. I accept my lot, and will not shy from my duty."
                
                You purse your lips together, mulling her words over. "And what of your own people? You said they resent you for spilling blood in their name?"
                
                "Some of them do. But I will show them that it's possible, for our kind to live like [i]humans[/i] again." Tahlia walks up to the edge of the platform, then, and casts her gaze out over the city. [i]Her[/i] city, which she's made flourish with her own two hands. Her gaze appears to linger on the areas where the damage had been heaviest. Pockmarks upon her paradise. "They have been broken, made weak. It will be my duty to teach them strength again."
            #"Your cause is just, but your means must be moderated."
                Tahlia regards you with that set of too-red eyes. "Why?"
                *choice
                    #"Because there are other avenues available, if only you would look for them."
                        "You speak of diplomacy, demands of redress," Tahlia says. "The pursuit of incremental changes, bestowed upon us by nobles who think themselves charitable for having allowed us to rise above squalor. Doubtless they will keep the ledgers on their generosity, and exact the price when the time comes."
                        
                        "The world's not as bleak as you paint it to be," you say. "There are plenty of good people in positions of power, who would be willing to make the necessary concessions. Not because it would benefit them down the line, but because it is [i]right[/i]." You think of the White Fangs, who risked their lives to help curb the moonvein plague. The late, kindly King Julius, who spoke passionately of bringing an end to Param's tyranny, of making amends for its bloodstained legacy. "You do them far too little credit, Tahlia. You're not the only one who has been working towards Arcadian liberation."
                        
                        Tahlia takes in your words, and appears to consider them as she walks to the edge of the platform. There she casts her gaze out towards the city—[i]her[/i] city, which she's made flourish with her own two hands. Her gaze appears to linger on the areas where the damage had been heaviest. Pockmarks upon her paradise. "If a peaceful path truly exists, then I will leave it for better people than I to walk," she says. "I have not the faith to do the same. I've heard these promises in countless amounts, and they have been broken each time. It is easy to see the morality in our liberation; it is another thing entirely to bear its cost. And in my time, I have seen many an ally turn their coats, when push came to shove."
                        
                        "Then condemn [i]them[/i] for their betrayal, rather than the ones who are [i]still trying[/i]."
                        
                        "Ones who even now benefit from the labor and toil of Arcadians, partake in their pilfered wealth," Tahlia says. "I condemn them all. I take no pleasure in doing so, but my conscience is clear, and my path firm. I will not bend from this course."
                    #"Because you're becoming the very thing you seek to destroy."
                        Tahlia heaves a long, drawn-out breath, her posture straightening as she answers your accusation. "I understand your position," she says, "though you'll forgive me for not sharing it."
                        
                        You meet her gaze evenly. "You think you're better than them, even as you respond to their bloodshed in kind. Even as your schemes led to a war that ravaged the lives of countless innocents."
                        
                        "I did so to preserve a people who have been treated like refuse for centuries," she says. "You protest the ravages that have been visited upon the Parami and Salantir. But it was Arcadian hands that built their walls and fed their people. It was Arcadians who toiled tirelessly under noble whips, who returned to their hovels beaten and bleeding while their betters supped on the fruits of their labor." Tahlia shakes her head. "If there were a peaceful means of liberating Arcadians that would not extend their suffering, I would take it in a heartbeat. As its stands, if I am to repel the efforts of Arcadia's enemies, then I must stoop down to their level. Partake of the mire, fight in the bloody stages they've created. Such is my lot, my duty; I refuse to shy away from it."
                        
                        "You don't know that this is what it takes," you protest, gritting your teeth. "You've cast every last Parami and Salantir as your enemies, and refuse to see it when they prove themselves otherwise."
                        
                        "They have proven themselves consummate traitors. I will not risk the lives of my people on their fickle hearts, their token efforts," she says. "It gives me no pleasure, doing all this. But my conscience is clear, and my path firm. I will not bend from this course."
            #"Yes. There's no justifying the havoc you've wreaked, and will continue to wreak."
                *set noble %+ 5
                *set rtahlia %- 5
                Your reproach seems to slide off of Tahlia like water. If she is at all affected by them, she does not show it. "Well and good that you should think that, ${realname}. This world is constantly in want of good people, those with noble souls who will cherish every life in equal measure." Tahlia goes up to the edge of the platform, then, and casts her gaze out towards the city. [i]Her[/i] city, the one she's made flourish with her own two hands. "I am unable to become that person. Not when I've experienced firsthand the abject depravity of Arcadia's enemies, and the lengths they would resort to, that the last of her people might at last be extinguished. If their efforts are to be repelled, then [i]someone[/i] must stoop to their level, partake of the mire, fight in the bloody battlefields they have created. I have accepted this to be my lot; I would not ask for it to be yours."
                
                She falls silent for a moment, before continuing. "It is my duty to lead a broken people, and I will do so boldly. I'll not ask them to weather their misery for a few generations longer, to beg for scraps at the table of progress. To hope that their masters will find their humanity in time, that a life of dignity may one day be afforded of their descendants."
                
                "For one who protests oppression so fiercely, you're a real natural when it comes to justifying it."
                
                "It is my goal to dismantle a bloodied, corrupt system. It is theirs to preserve it for eternity," Tahlia says. "It gives me no pleasure, doing all this. But my conscience is clear, and my path firm. I will not bend from this course."
        *set tahliexpocount +1
        *goto tahliaexpo
    *disable_reuse #"Who was responsible for last night's attack?"
        "A many-headed beast. One we have yet to gain the full measure of," Tahlia says. "We have suffered a great number of disturbances, of late. Our trade routes harried, our diplomats sacked, our priests denied the license to preach. They seem at first to be independent misfortunes, but it has become increasingly clear that there is a concentrated effort behind all this. A disciplined and well-organized one, for we have gleaned little of its true nature. We deemed it a lesser concern compared to organizing the evacuation of Arcadians to Thulrum, and preparing the means of welcoming them. We have long endured this type of petty sabotage, and have placed many failsafes in preparation for such an event. Doubtless we would have endured them yet again."
        
        You feel your jaw tighten. "But that changed yesterday."
        
        "The Seat's personnel is still processing preliminary evidence—of both the assault on the caravan as well as the festival. They have yet to come to a conclusive result." She casts her gaze out towards the horizon, and keeps it there, as if in search of something. "It remains to be seen if responsibility can be attributed to our mysterious saboteurs, but I would be hard-pressed to believe otherwise. They risk overmuch by engaging in such a blatant act of aggression; they would've needed to be confident in their capacity to outmaneuver our detection."
        
        "You think they've only been testing you all this time. That this is their first true move."
        
        Tahlia nods. "They think us to have shown all our cards," she says. "They are sorely mistaken, as they'll soon discover."
        
        "Spoken like someone who's already made headway in the investigation," you say. "Surely you have [i]some[/i] idea of who's responsible."
        
        Tahlia adopts a pensive look. "It is a complex tableau. The trail is properly obfuscated, and there's some force at play there that we cannot yet glean," she admits. "But the leads we [i]are[/i] able to follow…well, they lead to Param."
        
        You regard her sternly. "You're certain?"
        
        Tahlia nods, her expression grim.
        *set tahliexpocount +1
        *goto tahliaexpo
    *disable_reuse #"What precisely do you intend to do with me?"
        There is a beat of silence before Tahlia replies. "Something foul is brewing in the winds, ${realname}. A force that threatens not only Thulrum, but all of Arvanand," she says. "Our investigations are still progressing, and so our understanding of it is limited at this point. I cannot yet disclose the Seat's full knowledge, in any case. But I am in need of personnel—those who have proven themselves capable in fighting the unknown."
        
        You feel your eyebrows knitting. "You revived me for this purpose? So that you can assign me some mission you can't even articulate yet?"
        
        Tahlia shakes her head. "I've sung the Song of the Dead in part as penance for our role in your passing. I have only the capacity for a single Song, and you were the one most wronged by Mireil's deeds. It felt only proper, then, to extend you this courtesy," she says. "The other reason, as you doubtless have gleaned, is that we have hope. That you will one day come to support our cause." Tahlia raises her hands over the banister, then, and beholds the city below. "Our operations are far from perfect, and any misgivings you may have are understandable. Expected, even. And so we will not press you into doing our dirty work."

        "So you found some other chore for me to do instead."
        
        Tahlia closes her eyes, "One year," she says. "This is how long it will take for the Song to fully complete. Until that time comes, it will be my magic that sustains your existence in this realm. The process weakens me, makes me ill-suited for the battlefield." She turns to you, then, holding your gaze in her own. "I would ask that you replace my role there, while I work to properly tether your soul. I'll not deny that your work will be dangerous, but you will never be asked to move against the undeserving. You will be monetarily compensated for your time, and aided by the very best of my retainers."

        "And after this Song of yours is complete?"
        
        "Then our agreement expires, and you will be free to do as you wish," Tahlia says. "I will be frank: it is my hope that, once you gain insight into the necessity of our operations, you will properly join our cause. But if, at the end of the term, you wish to leave, then we will visit no repercussions upon you."
        
        You purse your lips, considering. "Assuming, of course, that our chosen paths don't set us against each other."
        
        Tahlia nods. "Should that day come, I will do what I must—and I expect you to do the same. If one of us perishes in defense of our convictions, let us agree not to begrudge the other."
        
        You release a breath, and feel your temple beginning to ache. Jove, but this is a lot to take in at once. "And what about the periods in between these missions of yours? Will you press me into the Church's service?"
        
        Tahlia shakes her head. "You have been promised rewards for your services yesterday, I believe. I will see to it that the amount is enough for you to establish yourself comfortably in Thulrum," she says. "This is a quickly-growing city, open to people from all walks of life. I believe you'll find something with which to divert yourself before long, and you would be welcome to pursue it."
        *goto tahliaexpo
    *if (tahliexpocount = 5) #"Fine. That covers all the questions I had."
        Tahlia pulls away from the railing, satisfied. "Very well. It is good that we had this talk, ${realname}. Pray give proper consideration to my words," she says.
        
        Having said her piece, Tahlia turns around and makes for the stairway. You hear the clack of her footsteps as she goes, growing more and more faint by the second, until you can hear it no more.
        
        Leaving you alone on the viewing deck.
    *if (tahliexpocount < 5) #	(Skip the rest of the explanation. The game will treat you as if you have heard the answers to all the questions.)
        Tahlia pulls away from the railing. "It is good that we have this talk, ${realname}. Pray give proper consideration to my words," she says.
        
        Having said her piece, Tahlia turns around and makes for the stairway. You hear the clack of her footsteps as she goes, growing more and more faint by the second, until you can hear it no more.
        
        Leaving you alone on the viewing deck.

*page_break

You feel as if your thoughts had been upended. Tahlia has given you much to chew on.

*comment choice?
Above you, the cloud moves to obscure the sun, casting a shade over the Seat. The masses of white stretch well beyond the horizon, feeling as if it would go on for eternity.

[i]One year[/i]. It's not a terribly long time, considering. You'd spent much longer fighting under the banner of Leon's resistance, and more still being on the run from Sister.

And yet…there is an uncertainty to the whole affair that leaves you uncomfortable. You would be placing yourself at Tahlia's mercy, a woman who's plainly admitted to her own ruthlessness. For all that she presents herself as reasonable, she is still powerful and dangerous. What will you be made to do under her direction? And what will happen to you if you refuse?

A gust of wind picks up around you, carrying the pleasant morning warmth, nipping at your skin. You take a deep breath and release it; slow, and steady. [i]Peace. One step at a time.[/i]

You stay up on the viewing deck a few moments longer, drinking in the sight of that bustling, discombobulating city, before making your own journey down to the Seat.

*page_break
*goto_scene Checkpoint_6-End