Chapter 1

Prologue
Welcome to Sylvatir

Once in a thousand years, when the sun is settled in the sky in just the right way and when the moon and stars align perfectly, there are born children of destiny. Ages ago, or so the stories tell, the Great Maker of Creation brought forth the land, sea, and sky and formed it into a beautiful world of bounty and plenty. The Maker, loving this world, breathed life into it, filling the waters and land with all forms of creatures. For a while, the Maker was amused. Quickly, though, the Maker realized the beauty of the world would be improved a thousand-fold were it to be given to a race of thoughtful, loving creatures. Thus, the Maker created man to rule the world, and for a time man ruled wisely.

Yet over the ages, man disagreed with man. Squabbles, conflicts, and war began to tear apart the world in ways the Master did not – could not – foresee. The beauty of the world shattered and broke, torn apart by man’s jealousy, pride, and hubris. The Maker looked upon this world and grieved, for each time the Maker saw war and hurt and suffering, the Maker would turn away and hope that the people below would learn to shun war and live in love again. Yet never would the people satisfy these wishes.

Eventually, the Maker decided the only way to preserve the beauty of his world was to forever separate the warring people, for man had divided itself in twain: two continents, Sylvatir and Thirshalon, locked in endless and unceasing battle. The Maker, in a final act of creation, sent power deep into the world. Terrible earthquakes struck the planet; horrifying tsunamis ravaged the coastlines. Still, though, did the people live on, and when they were finally able to look upon their reshaped world anew, they saw what the Maker had achieved: Thirshalon was gone, and to mark its destruction, a strange glyph of light eerily shone down from the sky above.

Sylvatir moved forward in history. Its people grew to accept that the Maker had chosen them as beloved, blessed people who were destined to own the world under a divine right to rule. Thus did the people of Sylvatir submit to unbending laws that all would follow to please the Maker as a symbol of their thanks for the destruction of Thirshalon and the end of the war. As a means by which to encourage the people to forever remember their past, once in a thousand years, a series of glowing lights come floating down from the sky: one red; one blue; one yellow; one purple; one grey.

Thus, once in a thousand years, when the sun is settled in the sky in just the right way and when the moon and stars align perfectly, there are born children of destiny.

The story begins in the city of Ushad, Iquai. It is a town mostly known for agriculture. Ushad is a smaller city located in the middle of a major road which joins two of the largest cities (Tezef and the capitol, Siraj) in Iquai. As a result, Ushad is passed through frequently by people on business between the cities, as well as by adventurers looking to earn coin by undertaking tasks and odd jobs for people who frequent the area.

People find themselves in Ushad for a myriad of reasons. Perhaps they are passing through on their way to the capitol of Siraj or to Tezef on the other side; perhaps they are looking for work in the fields; perhaps they are a beginning adventurer looking for fame and glory; or perhaps they have heard tell of a certain underground resistance faction and are looking to make contact with someone.

The sun is beginning to go down on Ushad. In the farmland off in the distance, the farmers are gathering their tools and beginning to leave the fields for the day. The pub nearby, the Grainhouse, is beginning to get noisier as weary workers slip in for end-of-day festivities. The stores up and down the street are putting out their Closed signs in almost perfect unison. And there's an orc beating the shit out of a middle-aged man on the side of the road.

A pair of human men leap onto the orc to pull him off, but no sooner have they done so than three more orcs appear, knocking the humans to the ground. The men try to push themselves up quickly, but the orcs beat them savagely down to the ground before placing handcuffs on them and dragging them away.

A shopkeep nearby sighs almost imperceptibly, her face disapproving. She turns from the scene, closes her shop like all the others, and walks away down the dusty street in the opposite direction of the Grainhouse.

Nearby, a pair of human adults carry a conversation in soft tones. "It's shameful," one says, looking at the orcs with disgust. "The police used to be better than that."

"They're not all bad, though. Just upholding the laws," replies the other.

“What's the point of a law if you beat down your whole populace? Mark my words, they're dangerous folk, them Rorgh. The sooner they and the Elyde are gone--"

"Those are dangerous words, stranger," says the second, turning and walking quickly away. "I don't know who you are, but we never talked."

"Saleth, I was at your birthday party last weekend." "Clearly not," replies the other.

Many, many orcs in Slyvatir belong to a group called the Rorgh Clans. Once a roaming, pillaging people, they now largely work as a powerful police presence that enforces the will of the Elyde Senate, the rulers of Sylvatir.

The Elyde demand complete compliance; the orcs demand satisfaction for their bloodlust. The Elyde allow the Rorgh to uphold their laws through any brutality they wish, so long as it keeps the people respecting the law.

The Group Gets in a Bar Fight
Oren sits alone within the bar. He orders food, and asks what they have that's cooked.

The bartender at the Grainhouse nods at the human and offers a menu. It shows a standard fare of things you'd expect to find by a farm; dishes with chicken, beef, and pork; breads abound, and there are a variety of beers.

Votig also sits alone. The dwarf heads into the pub, asking for their most dwarvish ale. None of that watered down stuff.

The bartender moves from Oren and offers a nod and curt grin to Votig. He gestures toward the Dwarvish ales and asks, "Rockbiter or Mudshot?"

“Rockbiter,” Votig answers.

The bartender calls for his assistance as the Grainhouse is getting busy, and asks for a Rockbiter for Votig. He places the ale in front of the dwarf.

Oren waits awkwardly, pretending he hasn't made up his mind yet, until the bartender is no longer busy. Eliam sits alone, poorly playing his lute and trying to attract the attention of the barmaids.

The bartender gestures down the bar to Oren and asks, "Special tonight is a light grain ale, hasn't got a name yet. We're taking suggestions for it to name it next week. Want to try that?"

He nods, and politely orders a meal with beef. He looks around suspiciously and eyes everybody, trying to see who looks dangerous so he can avoid them. The bartender gives the thumbs up to him to acknowledge the order as the mage looks around the room.

A barmaid walks lightly over to the human bard and stares at his lute. She giggles when he hits a wrong note, but flutters her eyelashes at him and smiles warmly. Her clothes are plain, with some tatters at the edges and a patch or two that shows she's worked in these clothes for a while, but on her chest bounces a necklace with a shining gemstone.

Drunkenly, Eliam announces he'd like to buy everyone a round. Votig slams down his beer and cheers. Free beer is the best beer.

The bartender exclaims, "Really?! Hey, everyone, we got a round for the bar all on this guy!” The bar cheers for Eliam. Oren looks around wondering why everyone is cheering.

The bard, thriving on the attention, informs everyone in the bar that they're wonderful, like brothers to him, and he loves them all. He also makes sure to compliment the barmaid on her necklace.

Oren glances around the bar nervously. He notices no concealed weapons, but gets an odd feeling from a bard halfway across the room...

Time passes. A plate of food containing beef, corn, and bread arrives at Oren's place while the barmaid continues to fawn over Eliam and Votig enjoys his extra free beer. The mage takes it to a table that's further away from the bar and other people, where he's not too close to anyone suspicious.

Suddenly, there is a commotion outside. Whatever is happening is loud, and it's enough to cause a wave of quiet to gradually pass over the Grainhouse.

Oren frets at the commotion, and Votig grumbles in annoyance. Who ruins such a good time?

"Little puny man," intones a deep voice. "Did you think breaking laws would go unpunished?"

Eliam looks outside to see who they're talking to. He sees a trio of orcs surrounding a single man, who is on his knees and trembling.

Oren takes the remainder of his food, wrapping it up and storing it in his pack. He decides it is best to leave sooner rather than later.

"P-please!" comes the nervous response. "I did nothing wrong!"

"You did something wrong if we say you did something wrong," replies one of the officers. "And we do."

"I-I-I just wanted to get a drink after work," answers the man, quivering fearfully.

"Guess you shouldn't have disrespected the Rorgh while you did it," answers the second orc. "We've been looking to find the person who painted that graffiti on the west side barn and lookee here... Red fingers."

"T-this... You think this is paint? It's ... No, it's blood! I was killing chickens for meat for the Grainhouse, I was going to wash my hands when I got inside!"

The orc smiles nastily. "I have seen blood. This doesn't look like blood. Think you can prove it?"

The man goes white. "I... How can I prove that it's--"

"Oh, I know how!'''" shouts the third orc. He grabs the man by the''' neck and slams his head through one of the Grainhouse's window. Blood cascades onto the ground. "Now let's compare. Uh-oh," he says maliciously as the blood soaks the dirt. "Littering."

Votig downs the rest of his beer. He asks the bartender for another, and to hold his seat for a minute. He walks to the doors, pushing them open. "Oi, what's all this ruckus, eh? Can't I enjoy some fine rockbiter after a long day of travel?"

The orcs are stunned that someone just waltzed out and approached them. Votig takes out his pipe and lights it up, blowing some smoke in their general direction.

Oren goes up to the bar and pays for his meal. However, the bartender is too distracted to accept his payment. Oren slides exact change across the bar and leaves it next to his hand, and walks towards the door near a wall. He quietly waits for the people who are in the way to move so he can slink out past the orcs.

"So. Brave man thinks he's big enough to take on three officers of the law," sneers the first orc as he looks at Votig.

"ALL YOU SCUM IN THE BAR," shouts the second orc. "GET IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROOM WHERE WE CAN SEE YOU."

Oren ignores the orc's command. He does not go to the middle of the room, for he is not scum and the orc is clearly not talking to him. Eliam complies, edging towards the back of the crowd to try to hide and blend in. He is determined to not be noticed by the police.

"Big enough?” Votig says, “Well, I wouldn't say that, now. Tough enough though, I suppose, if'n it came to it."

"Oh-ho. Oh-ho-ho-ho. I like you, little one. I'll like you more when you're broken in a cell," responds the first orc. "You two," he says to his companions. "Go in the bar and make sure none of the rabble interrupts us. I'm looking forward to watching a dwarf break."

Votig chuckles, and takes another puff of his pipe as the other two orcs go inside. "You'll regret that, I reckon."

As Votig stares down the orc outside, the other two orcs walk in. As they step inside, Oren quickly sneaks past them outside the bar. However, as he slinks through the front door, he is immediately spotted by the orc outside engaging with Votig. Oren walks over to the injured man and begins to tend to his wounds.

"Hey! HEY!" shouts the orc. "I SAID KEEP THEM ALL INSIDE." One of the orcs comes back out and sees Oren beginning to tend to the wounded man.

"Stop," he shouts, "you are aiding a criminal!"

"It's okay,” Oren answers as he bandages the man's wounds. “I'm a doctor."

Both of the orcs outside draw their weapons, huge clubs with metal-tipped ends. "You're going to have to be after this!"

The third orc stands at the entrance to the bar, preventing anyone from leaving. He sighs. "I always miss the good fights. Maybe some good fighting music will lift my spirits." He looks around the bar and spots Eliam's lute. "YOU. BARD. Play me a rollicking fighting tune."

Eliam badly scratches out a scale, unsure of how to actually play the instrument. The orc is enraged over his disappointment. "I can't fight outside, and I can't hear good fightin' music?! I have to fight someone! He draws his club and stares at the bard. "Maybe you can use that for something other than music.”

"Sir, I think you'll find this whole thing is just a misunderstanding. Surely we can talk this through and reach some kind of... arrangement?" Eliam flashes some coin at him, hopeful the orc is willing to be bribed.

Outside, Oren lifts the injured man up against the window to make it less obvious who has attacked. He puts his hand through the broken window, and shoots a shadow dagger at the orc inside. The shadow dagger impales the orc within on the left arm.

The orc outside raises his massive club and roars, excitement coursing through his veins, his heart pounding. Muscles twitching, he brings the club down in a wide arc, and enjoys seeing the club strike Votig on the shoulder.

Oren drops the man he used as cover and backpedals away, taking a defensive stance.

The orc inside is confused; he took damage from a shadow dagger, but isn't certain where it came from. He's dumb enough that he isn't certain if he should blame the bard he was previously upset at, but he definitely feels like he can take it out on him.

However, as the orc tries to see where the shadow dagger originated from, Eliam quickly seizes the opportunity and channels an arcane blast through his bow, going for the element of surpriseThe speed of the attack is too much for the orc to handle. He takes the attack square in the chest. The orc staggers from the weight of the blow, but stays on his feet.

The second orc that was outside is advancing on Oren; as he is too far away to be struck, he runs at him to close the distance.

The third orc in the bar furiously leaps forward, swinging his club laterally at Eliam. Eliam nimbly back steps away from the clumsy swing as it misses him entirely. “Nice try!” Eliam taunts as the club sails by.

Votig shrugs the hit to his shoulder off and gets into a fighting stance. He jukes towards the orc, aiming a punch at what's closest to him: one of his knees. Votig's inner rage boils over from the blow to his shoulder and he counters with a flurry of devastating punches. The first blow cripples the orc's knee, and he howls in pain. The second blow shatters his other kneecap, causing him to fall to all fours. As he raises his head, he sees Votig standing over him, preparing to swing one final punch to his face. "Only a pansy needs a weapon,” Votig says. Votig's fist connects with the orc's jaw with a resounding, sickening crunch. The orc's head flops backwards as though his neck has been disintegrated. The orc falls to the ground, and stirs no more.

A strangled cheer arises from the watching crowd in the Grainhouse, as though the people are ecstatic but terrified to admit to it.

Oren fires an arcane blast that explodes on the remaining orc from close range. Momentarily, he is stunned, but shakes it off quickly. The mage moves toward Votig, attempting to position himself behind the fighter.

After gracefully avoiding the orc's wild swing, Eliam draws his bow and channels arcane energy through it. He releases it like an arrow and it strikes true. The bolt of magical energy strikes the orc over the heart. For a moment his legs seemed to have not realized his chest has stopped, for they seem to take another step before all life fails them and the orc collapses to the ground, slain. Wasting no time, Eliam begins to move towards the door.

The second orc follows Oren as he runs toward Votig. He is scared and upset as his two fellow officers have just dropped. Wisdom would tell him to flee, but bloodlust tells him to fight. He swings his club toward Oren after moving into range but Oren, completely alert, sidesteps the blow. The orc is unable to stop his swing, and he is forced to follow through and load all his weight onto one leg. At that exact moment, Votig leaps forward and lands a devastating punch to the knee that is supporting the orc's weight. With a splintering and shattering of bone, the orc's leg gives way, and he tumbles helplessly to the dirt. His head contacts the ground with a resounding crack, and the orc dies with nary an uttered sound.

The people in the Grainhouse stand and cheer, raising their voices in unison. They draw the fighters back into the bar and ask to shake their hands, patting them on the back, and buying them drinks. “Drinks?” Votig says as they offer. “Yes. Yes, drinks.”

The barkeep begins to flow drinks but his smile is gone. His eyes keep shifting over to the door as though expecting ill company. He serves drinks with a shaking hand. "So that business took care of my bar tab, I'm sure,” Eliam says to him, happy to stay for ale.

"I'm afraid your business is far from over, songsmith," the barkeep says, his voice shaking. His eyes dart once again to the door.

"Wait, are you joking? Did you not see what just happened?!” Eliam protests, misunderstanding him. “Well... suppose I can just run home and get my coin purse later."

Minerva Shows Up
The door creaks. A woman is standing in the door frame, illuminated by moonlight, dressed in a deep brown cloak and with a hood drawn over her head. The bartender sighs, relief clearly visible on his face. Votig is too busy to notice, laughing up a storm as he drinks with some of the bar's regulars.

"You can do that," she says in answer to Eliam, "if you want to die. If you want to live... you should probably come with me." She eyes the orc corpses laying in the street - the one in the Grainhouse had been pulled out earlier - and she looks around the bar. She notices that the three fighters are surrounded by pints of beer: some full, and some empty, but far more than they are likely to have ordered themselves.

"Well I'd never turn down an invitation from a beautiful woman like yourself,” says Eliam, “but you'll have to wait until I finish my drinks."

She smirks at Eliam's line. "I don't wait for anyone, bard. Men wait for me." She gestures at Eliam, Oren, and Votig. "You, you, and you," she says. "I'm going to assume by the gifts you've been given that you made a fine example of those three orcs I see outside?"

"Orcs?” answers Votig. “Well, if that's what you want to call 'em, but I've seen rabbits that hit harder than they did. Right, lads?" He turns back to his pints, laughing with his new friends.

"Well, I hope you and your new friends are ready to skin a lot of rabbits," she says in a low tone. "Word has reached the Clans that three of their own were murdered at the Grainhouse tonight. A few dozen orcs, armed and armored, are on their way here right now to ... ah... apprehend whoever was responsible. They've blocked the roads out of town and plan on searching every building within a quarter mile of the Grainhouse. If you were looking to make a statement, you made it. If you weren't," she adds grimly, "you're idiots.”

“Like I said,” she continues, “You have two choices. You can stay here, fight, kill one or two, and die... or you can come with me and prove that your bravery wasn't a fluke." Her eyes flash. "Come with me, live... and join the Lyriad."

End of the Prologue
In the distance, a low rumbling sound echoes down the dusty streets of Ushad. The woman's warning, that the Rorgh Clans are coming to avenge their fallen comrades and uphold the law, rings in the ears of those who heard her. With her cloak fluttering from her movements, she turns on her heel and exits the Grainhouse, standing at the doorway.

"I have no intention of joining your cult, lady,” answers Oren. “I'm just going to get away from these orc cops."

"And I've got no mind to die tonight, so I reckon I'll be goin' with ye.” adds Votig. “Two for the road, eh barkeep? On these lads," he motions to his drunken compatriots beside him.

The woman glances up the road, then pauses to carefully listen to the growing footsteps. She nods at the group and says, "Cults are for those who have dreams after death. We have a dream for this life." She takes off down the street and says, "There's a barn two streets over we need to get to. We should be able to make it there before anyone happens to find us." The three fighters follow her.

The woman leads everyone across a road into a narrow space between two buildings. "The barn is but a quick sprint away. Once we get inside, we should have some time to discuss matters more freely."

As they approach the edge of the makeshift alley, Oren is alert enough to hear footsteps growing suddenly louder on the street they are about to enter. "Wait, they're over there," Oren whispers. He casts a spell and creates a wall of shadow within the alley. The spell causes the eyesight of passerby to slip over the space the party stands.

The woman freezes and curses softly under her breath. "This was not ideal," she mutters. However, as Oren's spell comes into effect, she grins confidently. "Oh, but you are something special, aren't you?"

The footsteps grow louder, revealing a half dozen full-armored orc officers thundering down the street. They turn to face the alley in which everyone hides. As the orc officers draw nearer to the group's position their eyes slip over the alley where they are hidden. The orcs pause momentarily, but a sudden shattering sound from the across the road catches their attention. Votig has mightily thrown his empty mug and the noise of its landing has drawn the officers away.

The woman smirks, beckoning everyone forward. "This way," she murmurs. "The barn is within sight." She leads on to a moderately-sized barn, paint peeling off its sides and a side door half off its hinges. It is run down and worn, but she beams as she draws near to it. She slips inside, eyes wary as she goes. Inside, bales of hay line one of the walls, and stables cover the rear. A couple of horses and a single cow rest inside.

"Welcome," she says softly, gesturing in the direction of the animals, "to the Lyriad."

"I'm startin' to think the mage be right, and this a cult after all,” Votig says. “Ya better start explainin' soon, miss. Why this barn? Ye best not be aimin' to do some crazy magical sacrifice now. I'd rather take me chances with the orcs."

"One thing about working with us," she offers, with the subtlest of winks at him, "is that you must learn to seek that which lies beneath. We have only gotten as far as we have through sticking to the underground... and so it is to the underground we must go." She steps into the stable with the cow, and beckons everyone closer.

"Are we sure this isn't a trap?" Eliam whispers.

Oren nods at him. "She's gonna turn us into cows,” he whispers in response.

She steps into the cow stable and beings brushing idly at the straw lining the bottom of the stable.

"The orcs weren't a lie at least. Though she could've brought them here,” Votig adds.

Suddenly, she stands up, excited, and turns back to face you. Something on her chest, beneath her clothes, is glowing. It's a small spot of green light. "And that's it!" she exclaims, waving a few fingers at you. "It'll last about forty seconds. Don't get left behind!" And with a flash of green light and a sound like rushing air, she has disappeared.

"Now that she's gone, what should we do?” Oren asks. “I say we take the horses and get out of town."

"Aye, we should,” Votig agrees.

Oren steps into the stall to look for her, unsure of exactly what magics are present here, but wanting to examine the spot to find out. As the others watch, he tentatively steps into the stall where the mysterious woman had been standing just a moment prior. He, too, vanishes before their eyes as a flash of green light briefly fills the barn.

"Well lad, we can't leave em to face off against these cultists alone can we? C'mon now." Votig stomps over toward the stall that Oren and the woman disappeared into, mumbling under his breath. "First orcs, now these cattle cultists, swear on me mum's beard all I wanted was an ale or five..." A flash of green light pierces the room, and he is gone.

"Well I'm not staying here alone with the orcs all gathering outside,” Eliam says to himself. The sound of hay rustling accompanies his footsteps as he slips into the stall, and with a final flash of green, the barn stands deserted, except for two horses and a cow.

The Group Meets the Lyriad
Years from now, when bards tell of this story, they will tell of the moment that the three fighters arrived in the Lyriad's safe house.

They will tell of Eliam, who gracefully landed on his feet, the strings of his lute resonating melodically with the magics that have just affected it.

They will tell of Oren, who appeared in mid-air, somersaulting to the ground in a burst of excess ambient magical energy that set off what looked like a light show behind him as he stuck the landing.

And they will tell of some dwarf who landed on his butt, burped, and then threw up on the floor.

"Sorry, should have warned you about that first step," the woman purrs. "It can really throw off your stomach if you're not ready for it." Quietly, Oren helps him up, as Votig begins wildly screaming. "Fucking cultist magic I swear put me in the ring with one of ya and then we'll see..."

"I thought dwarves could hold their liquor" Eliam interrupts, his tone smug.

The mage looks around, assessing the situation. The room is dimly lit and makes it difficult to ascertain details of the environment. However, he can tell he's in a room mostly made of wood. With a minor flourish, Eliam attempts to create an arcane lantern to cast light in the room. The light flickers once or twice in his hand, but fades quickly.

Their attention is drawn by an older man who is walking toward the group. He looks from Votig on the floor to the failed spell in Eliam's hand, then to the woman who has led you here. "You never were one for first impressions, were you, Minerva?"

"Shut up," she responds. "I saw the three of them kill a squad of orc officers, that counts for something. Well," she amends, "I heard about it."

"...From who?" Oren asks. "Because I didn't kill any orcs, I was only standing nearby while this dwarf killed three of them with his bare fists."

"Officers?” Votig guffaws loudly. “No way an orc that hits that soft could command anyone."

Minerva cocks an eyebrow. "The barkeep sent word that three orcs were dead thanks to the heroics of three patrons. He seemed to be impressed by you."

"Come now, we helped," Eliam says to Oren. He turns toward Minerva. "We are, of course, magnificent fighters - each of us took a separate orc, dazzling the other patrons with our heroics and working in tandem to save the entire bar. Excellent strategy, I know; I'll understand if you feel shy given how impressive we are."

"The bartender should mind his own business instead of reporting on his patrons. And the bard makes money making up stories. I didn't kill any orcs,” Oren protests. “I'm a law abiding citizen."

The older man looks from Minerva to the group of adventurers, and back again. Finally he sighs and relents, saying, "Little one, you'd best be right about them. I don't have time for bards who spin tales and dwarves who can't hold their liquor."

Minerva glares at him, but says nothing in response. Instead she looks at the three men, having fully bought into Eliam's story about being magnificent fighters. "I knew you had to be somewhat competent if you were able to defeat three officers. I look forward to seeing your prowess soon. For now, can I assume that you have some questions about ... this?" she motions to the room.

"Not really, clearly you're... some sort of cult..." Oren says, as he looks around for an exit.

The older man looks upset. "Cult?!" he roars. "We're no cult! We're the ones trying to free this world from the bullshit that the Elyde force upon us every day."

"Tell that to the cow, laddy, and I expect he'd disagree with ye," responds Votig.

"We hide our teleportation glyphs in obscure places because it makes it easier for us to stay connected and keep out of sight of the Elyde and the Rorgh," explains Minerva. "They don't usually care much about cows."

"What keeps the cow from teleporting?" Oren asks.

Minerva unzips the front of her vest, and draws out a small green pendant. "This pretty little accessory is actually an activation stone. It vibrates at the same frequency as our teleportation glyphs, and so activates its magic when I bring it near." She smiles. "The glyph lasts for the better part of a minute before the magics fade and it stops working again. I suppose technically the cow could teleport... but it doesn't like to get up once someone's in its stall."

As he listens to her explanation, Oren decides that doesn't sound right. However, he realizes he doesn't know enough about cows to dispute it. He continues to look around for the exit.

Minerva zips the activation stone back under her vest, as the older man notices Oren looking around. "Trying to find something?"

"The way out."

Votig points at the amulet, or where it was just a moment ago. "I reckon that be it, and they ain't wantin' us to leave." Oren quickly scampers behind him.

The old man shakes his head slowly. "No one's forcing you to stay,” Minerva says. “And if you want to leave, we'll send you right back out to the streets of Ushad. All we're asking is that you hear us out."

Oren whispers to the group, "Maybe we should pretend to listen until they let us out." Minerva and the old man notice him whispering, but allow him to continue without protest.

The old man draws himself up to his full height. "We are the Lyriad. We resist the Elyde Senate and their hired goons, the Rorgh Clans, as they enforce their so-called 'peaceful rule' on this country. For every blow against the people, we strike back. For every family torn apart, we land a blow. And we dream of a day coming when men and woman can walk the streets with their families and never need to fear for their children."

"I'm no soldier,” responds Votig. “I've no interest in fightin' your war or bein' a sacrifice to your cause."

Minerva scowls. "And when it's your family whose teeth they punch in for jaywalking? Whose legs they break because they didn't pay an arbitrary tax?"

"Well, what do you even want us to do?" asks Oren.

"Honestly," answers the old man, "we'd like you to help us take down the worst offenders in the Clans, the truly vicious monsters who treat people like trash and show neither remorse nor pity for any other being. There are very few people who are strong enough or brave enough to stand up to them."

"We see them in every city," Minerva adds, "from Ushad, to Tezef, to Siraj... from the Bramble to the Valley. The Elyde's control extends everywhere, oppressive and overwhelming. But if we can show the people that the orcs can be fought, that they're not all-powerful and that they can be defeated..."

"Then we can give the people hope that one day the Elyde can be overcome," finishes the man. He walks over to Votig, kneels to look him in the eye and says, "I'm looking for good men to do good work and bring some hope back to people who need it. My daughter thought that was you. I'm unconvinced."

"My family? MY FAMILY?" Votig bellows out at Minerva, "do not speak of me family, lest ye wish to end up like the orcs you heard about." He turns away to meet the old man's gaze. "I've no words to convince ya, unlike the bard. If ye want proof, you'll have to earn it yourself."

"Unyielding as stone," chuckles the old man. He draws out a picture from his pocket. It shows a large orc wearing scars and a frown. "This is Ish'an. He is a lieutenant for the Clans in Ushad. In the last two weeks he's murdered five people."

Minerva balls her hands into fists. "Two were out drinking too late at night and disturbed his sleep. One owed his underling some gold and couldn't afford to pay it. Two were desperate to avenge a previous murder and attacked him with the best weapons they could find, a scythe and a rake from their farm."

"My job," says the old man, "is to identify deserving targets in the ranks of the clans for... education." He grins wryly. "We teach them what it means to push around the less fortunate. Sometimes they take their lesson and learn from it... for a time. Others..."

"Others," says Minerva, "we ensure they harm no one again."

The old man stands up and steps over to the wall, where he lifts a broad, two-handed axe. "Enough talk. Tonight we believe Ish'an will be prowling the streets. There is a quiet place we believe he can be lured and... 'spoken' to. I intend to go and have this conversation."

"Join me,” he continues. “At the very least, the excursion will help you get closer to leaving the city. I can't imagine you'd make it very far with the patrols out tonight, anyway."

"And at most," the old man adds in a low tone, "We'll see some justice done for a number of lives that can't claim it for themselves."

"I s'pose I can see this out, at least tonight,” responds Votig. “If I stay though, and see this through to the end, I better get the recognition I deserve. And the first round will be on you."

For the first time, the man laughs, and holds his hand out to Votig. "See it through the night and the first two rounds'll be on me. I'm Samson, leader of the Ushad chapter of the Lyriad."

Samson looks around at Eliam and Oren and asks, "And you two? Are you prepared to do some good in the world? You spoke particularly bold words, bard."

"Well, I would hate to let you down,” answers Eliam. “I suppose I can help; I assure you, I'm quite the accomplished fighter. You won't be disappointed. Though I'm curious, besides satisfaction, is there any sort of... reward on the table?"

Minerva leans close to Eliam and whispers, "Well, aside from the fact that you'll be helping create a better world, you'll also be able to escape the streets of orc officers that are looking to murder you as painfully as possible. Does that count?"

"Point taken. I'm in."

"I'll come too,” adds Oren, “but we better not get caught. I have more important things to do than sit in jail. Or be dead."

Minerva nods grimly. "None of us have any intention of dying. I expect to see you live through this."

Samson turns and opens a door at the rear of the room. He gestures for everyone to follow him as he draws a small green stone from his pocket. "We've been laying the groundwork for our resistance for years. Each of the major cities in Sylvatir contains a network of teleportation glyphs, hidden seemingly at random. They all connect to underground centers of operations. We can pop in and out as long as we have these beauties." He holds up the activation stone between his fingers. "Fight well and prove your worth, and I'll see that you get some."

The room beyond the door is massive, much larger than the one everyone had been in previously. There are six or seven people milling about, either deep in conversation or studying maps on tables. On the floor around the walls of the room, glyphs have visibly been drawn at even increments. "Let's make this a night Ish'an will never forget," Samson says. Then, thoughtfully, he adds, "Unless we kill him. That would be okay, too. Tell me when you're ready to go looking for him."

"Aye, I'm ready," says Votig. The others nod in agreement.

Samson nods at Minerva, and activates the third glyph from the corner. "Forty seconds before it's inactive," he says. "We'll appear in a covered alleyway just outside the town square. Ish'an frequents the area. Let's go say hello."

The Group Fights with Samson
Samson hefts his battle axe in two hands, then disappears into the magics. Minerva allows the group to pass through first, so that she can ensure everyone gets through. When everyone appears on the other side, they are indeed standing in another alleyway, this time one with some sort of tarp or leather-like material hung over top. The group can't tell from the walls what types of buildings they are between, but what they assume is the town square lies ahead.

Samson warily approaches the edge of the alley. He looks back at the group with one hand gripping his axe. His face is inquisitive, and he gestures toward the square with his thumb.

Oren and Votig are able to detect some noises coming from somewhere in the square, though they cannot make out the words. Eliam listens intently, able to make out some words. "There's at least two ahead... they're saying something about going to The Bramble,” says Eliam as he listens. “Their wellspring is having problems, apparently."

"Are they guards?" asks Oren.

"Officers, I think. They say the wellspring is sacred."

Oren considers his knowledge of wellsprings. "Why do they want monster repellent?"

"I... why wouldn't you?” he answers. “Is that what those things do?"

Minerva leans in and whispers loud enough for everyone to hear, "That doesn't concern me as much as the magics of the wellsprings. If the Elyde are looking to gather magical resources, their grip on this country could become even tighter. We'd never see it free."

"I'm not sure about gathering it,” says the bard. “One of them mentioned they wanted to be part of the force to destroy it."

"Then we should stop them," Oren replies.

Samson snorts, despite himself. "Typical bloody orcs. Smashing whatever they don't understand." Minerva smiles and gazes at Oren with a look of approval. She seems oddly happy.

"The first step to stopping anything is to learn more. Maybe we can kill two birds with one stone," says Samson. "Alright. Our goal is to take down any officers protecting Ish'an, then subdue him for information. If his underlings know about something going on with a wellspring, he'll know."

"Then we can find out where the fountains are, and take their power for ourselves," says Oren.

Minerva's smile falters slightly. "Yes. And use it for the betterment of all peoples."

Samson looks at Oren suspiciously, but says nothing because at that moment, an orc officer draws near. The orc pauses as he passes the alleyway in which the group is hiding. He turns and notices Samson at the front of the alleyway, and grins a smile that reveals pointed teeth. "Quite a cozy alley," he grunts. "Hey boss! You wanna take a look at this?"

Strolling up to the alley come four more orc officers, one of whom seems to be wearing a quite impressive set of armour. They carry a variety of weapons: a mace, an axe, a baton... mostly bludgeoning tools.

The one in armour leans forward towards Samson and frowns. "I know this one. Dropped two of my best officers a week ago.”

"Wanted for questioning, wasn't he, boss?" says another, cracking his knuckles menacingly. The officers exchange glances, baring their fangs and gripping their weapons.

"Not at all, officer," replies Samson. "I was wanted for-" and Samson interrupts himself by sucker punching the armoured orc in the jaw, cracking his tooth. The orc steps back from the force of the blow.

"Captain!" shouts an orc upon seeing the blow land home.

"Forget questioning," the captain growls. "Kill that one, and all the rest but one. If we get answers from the survivor, great. If we don't... who cares."

Oren launches an arcane blast at an orc wielding a chainspike, who backsteps and leans to the left; the blast sails away harmlessly into the night and dissipates in the air behind him. Cautious now, the orcs all back away from the entrance to the alley, granting the group the ability to move into the square to engage them.

Eliam unleashes a blast of flame into the centre of the orcs, hoping to cause them to separate a little. He is successful in his gambit, and all five orcs have split into a rough semicircle which has, as its centre, the opening of the alleyway.

The orc wielding the chainspike begins spinning it in wide circles over his head. He suddenly transfers it into a vertical motion and whips it directly down atop of Samson, but as he is closest to the entrance, Samson leaves the alleyway and avoids the attack entirely. The orc, irritated at his failure, draws his chainspike back.

Minerva, angered by the orc's attack on Samson, flies out from the alleyway in a flash of speed and draws a pair of twin daggers against the chainspike orc. She is upon him before he can even react, and her assault not only draws blood, but the orc is knocked prone to the ground.

Votig notice a slight limp on the chain orc's left leg; he keeps his weight on his right side. Seeing Minerva launch herself into the fray, he follows with nary a moment's delay. Flying into battle, his fists a blur as the air cracks from the speed of his assault. Closing in on the prone orc, Votig deals a traumatic blow to his left leg. As the orc leans forward to grab his leg in pain, Votig meets his jaw with a devastating uppercut. The orc's head flies backward so quickly that it nearly detaches from his spine, and when his body contacts the ground, it does not stir.

The orc with the mace howls with bloodlust and rage and swings his weapon furiously at Votig, but his swing is slow and clumsy. Votig barely needs to move in order to watch the mace swing wide of his body.

Samson, his battle fever rising at seeing his allies begin the battle, yells and charges at the orc captain, his axe singing as it splits the air before his foe. The air is all that he splits, though, as the captain deftly avoids Samson's assault.

The axe-wielding orc turns on Votig and delivers a mighty blow with his axe, but he aims it in precisely the same place where the mace orc had attacked, and so Votig again slips away unscathed.

The orc captain, having just back stepped to avoid Samson's assault, now sees his opening. Samson's axe is large and heavy and leaves him vulnerable after an attack, which the captain can take advantage of. Closing the distance with surprising speed, the orc captain kicks Samson's axe to the side and scores a direct attack with his longsword. Samson reels from the attack as the captain's assault leaves him set up for further attacks.

The orc with the baton notes his captain's advantage and leaps into melee range to team up on Samson. Samson, off balance from the attack, is helpless as the baton orc delivers the butt end of his weapon directly into his stomach. Samson coughs blood, and his grip on his axe weakens as he places a hand on his midsection. The baton orc uses the handle of his weapon to catch Samson's axe and with a deft movement, he pulls at it, attempting to disarm the resistance leader. But his attempt is unsuccessful, and Samson, though wounded, remains armed.

Seeing Samson struggling, Minerva turns to see him caught against two orcs. Her resolve seems to waver as she sees his blood spill to the dirt. "...Dad...?"

Oren moves quickly, pulling him behind the party into the alley. He takes some bandages and begins to tend to his wounds.

Eliam unleashes a flame blast through the open alleyway entrance to cover their retreat, but the spell goes awry and rises into the night sky before it passes Oren at the front of the alley. The baton orc and captain chuckle with each other and advance on the alleyway.

Minerva is visibly upset; her focus is not what it was earlier on. Concern for her father is causing her to lose her edge. She dashes forward to the entrance of the alleyway to bring her daggers to bear on the orc carrying the baton. She manages a glancing blow on the orc's side while he is distracted advancing on the alleyway. Injured and enraged, the baton-wielding orc turns slowly to face her.

Votig lands a furious combination of punches on the axe-wielding orc, causing his target to stagger with the weight of the blows. The orc looks wounded, but also pissed off.

The mace orc's closest target is now Votig, and he is pissed at the amount of damage this unarmed dwarf is doing. The orc lets out a primal cry, and a shimmering energy seems to radiate from his body, almost like seeing waves of heat rising from stone on a summer day. The orc stomps the ground with his right foot, causing cracks to appear from the place he has touched. Before Votig can even process what has happened, the orc has closed the distance between the two and unleashed his mace in a might blow. The orc's mace scores a direct blow on Votig's body.

Samson rises to his feet unsteadily. He is unwilling to allow his daughter and her new allies to face the officers alone. Oren's healing has been sufficient to allow him to rise and hold his axe, though his grip is uncomfortable and his movements slightly unsteady. With one hand on his axe and other bracing against the wall to help him approach the orc captain, Samson grimaces in equal parts fury and pain. "You," he mutters through clenched teeth. "You think a blow that frail'll keep Samson down?!"

Samson rips his wound open again as he kicks off the wall, clearing Oren's body in the air as he flies down on the orc captain, his axe tearing a trail through the air over his head. Samson puts all his weight into his attack, unleashing a mighty blow on the orc captain with such fervor that his axe connects with the baton-wielding orc as well.

The ace-wielding orc attempts to strike out at Votig, but fails to come close to touching the boxer.

The orc captain, struggling a little from the results of Samson's attack, retaliates against Samson's assault by lashing out with his longsword. The longsword's edge barely nicks him. The baton orc similarly tries to attack Samson, but is simply too disoriented from the results of Samson's attack to connect.

Oren attacks from the alleyway. The captain ducks and Oren's arcane blast sails over his head. He seems to have recovered from Samson's heavy blow and is ready to retaliate.

Eliam draws back his power, concentrating magic power through his device. He releases the string, causing an arcane blast to soar through the air and crash into the captain's shoulder. The captain is forced backwards from the power of the attack. Eliam's power overflows from his first arcane blast and enough residual magic remains imbued in his bow that he fires off a second shot almost instantaneously. The captain narrowly sidesteps the second blast.

Minerva, seeing Samson well enough to re-engage in the battle, wastes no more time and dashes right up to the baton-wielding orc, who remains staggered from Samson's attack. She sheathes her left dagger so she can grab him by the vest with her left hand, and pulls his face close to hers.

"The Lyriad frees its people this day. May your death bring life to us all." The dagger in her right hand sinks true into the orc's chest. His blood spurts out into the streets as Minerva withdraws her weapon and allows his body to collapse to the ground, his life ebbing away.

Votig prepares to punch the axe-wielding orc, but the officer raises the flat of his axe and catches the punch effortlessly, almost as though he was neither trying nor paying attention.

The mace-wielding orc notes that the battle has gone very, very poorly for his allies, but hopes that if he can just fell one enemy, the resulting chaos may prove to be all he needs to slip away and escape with his life. He notes that Samson is currently the weakest of the party. The shimmering energy radiates from the mace-wielding orc again. He is choosing to put everything into this attack in the hopes of felling the resistance leader. He stomps the ground, and it cracks.

Samson sees the orc readying his attack, blinks, and suddenly the orc has vanished. A moment later, Samson feels a lethal blow as the bludgeoning weapon crushing the bones in his left arm and chest to pieces. He bounces off the wall and slouches to the ground.

Minerva cries out upon seeing the blow dealt to her father. All sense of self-preservation temporarily lost, she inadvertently drops her daggers as she begins to run toward where her father lies.

The axe-wielding orc cries out in joy and satisfaction upon seeing Samson fall. He turns his attention to Oren and prepares an attack. The orc's axe slashes out in a clumsy manner; Oren is able to avoid the edge and is instead bludgeoned with the flat of the axe.

The orc captain shouts a command in orcish to one of his officers.

The captain notices the efforts of his axe officer and turns on Oren; he doesn't need much convincing on the grounds that Oren's been firing arcane blasts at him all night. The captain's blade flashes out with the might of an experienced swordsman and scores a direct hit on Oren.

"Leave me alone!" Oren yells, moving backwards into the alley. He reaches the back of the alley and fires an arcane blast all the way to the front. The magic strikes the captain square in the chest. The captain drops to his knees, breathing heavily. His eyes seem unfocused, but he seems oddly happy.

Eliam unleashes an arcane blast but something about seeing Samson possibly dead on the ground unsettles him. The blast just barely scratches the captain.

Minerva is kneeling at her father's side now, gingerly touching him. She panics and is unable to compose herself to do anything.

As the axe-wielding orc looks down at Minerva and prepares to deal her a savage blow while she is completely inattentive to the world around her, Votig steps in and unleashes a savage right hook to his elbow, causing the orc to drop his axe. Votig's follow-up punch caves in the orc's ribs, and the aggregate of his injuries causes him to collapse to the ground, still. He does not rise again.

The mace-wielding orc has obeyed his captain's instructions and he bolts. He has dropped his weapon and he's just tearing away from the alley. You hear him shouting one word: "Ish'an! Ish'aaaaan!"

The orc captain has but one final move to make. With the last of his strength, he raises his longsword. The orc captain delivers a coup de grace on Samson, killing him instantly. Minerva howls as her father's blood splashes onto her and stains the street.

The captain can no longer raise his sword. He remains on his knees, awaiting death.

Oren attempts to stop the fleeing orc by placing a wall of shadow before him. "Stop or it'll kill you!" he yells at the retreating figure. The orc decides that if he stops, he is likely to be killed anyways. He chooses to take his chances, and runs into the darkness.

The bard attempts to finish the captain off. Eliam's arcane blast flies forth from his arrow, and at the moment the blast leaves his bow, he can tell the spell has gone wrong. In an instant, he knows that it's going to impact Minerva, who is kneeling beside the body of her father.

The captain's strength is no longer enough to keep him upright on his knees, and he begins to fall over. His torso falls between Minerva and the arcane blast, and Eliam's attack, miraculously, strikes true. With an awkward grunt, the captain suffers a crushing blow from the arcane blast. He collapses to the dirt, the dull thud of his body impacting the ground. It punctuates what should have been a victory, but does not feel like it.

Minerva is unreadable. One moment she seems like she's trying to keep herself together, the next she seems like she might slip into hysterics, and so she flips, back and forth. Eliam steps forward, placing his hand on her shoulder. "Hey, now, it'll be okay. Your father died for a good cause." he says to Minerva, trying to talk her down.

Minerva half-nods, like she's taking in the words but not really hearing them. "This... this isn't a good cause. This isn't fair," Minerva cries, her voice growing louder. "He was meant to save people, to fight bravely in front of the world and rally them to freedom. He wasn't meant to die in a dirty alley. This isn't fair. This isn't fair!"

Oren takes Samson's axe from his hands and spills a drop of his own blood on it. When he is done marking the axe, he places it back into Samson's hand.

"It's up to you to make it a good cause then, lass. Take your anger and use it," Votig advises. He searches the captain's body for anything of importance. He discovers some coin and an official-looking note, written in Orcish. "Minerva, do ye know of anyone who can read orc?"

Minerva seems not to hear him at first, but then she gives herself a little shake. She hasn't stopped looking at Samson. "Yes, t-there's a few people in the base who can speak it. It was valuable to recruit people who could speak Orcish since the officers so often use it for communications.

"Aye, good, then I'll hold on to this then,” says Votig. “Maybe it'll be useful."

Oren turns to Samson's body and begins to look for his necklace, recalling the one Minerva once showed them. She immediately mistakes Oren's meaning and tries to push his hands away. "What do you think you're doing?!"

"Did he have a teleportation necklace too?" Oren asks.

"Of course he did!" she replies.

“Take it off him. We don't want them to use it."

She looks a little ashamed at her outburst. Hands trembling, she unties the necklace and withdraws it from around Samson's neck. She goes to pocket it, but pauses as she does so. She looks at the mage. "I'm sorry for not trusting you. You have proven yourselves." With a shaking hand, she holds the activation stone out to him. "Will you take it?"

Oren pockets it before Eliam can speak, and begins to rummage through Samson's pockets. "We'll take care of it, don't worry," the bard answers for him.

Minerva grabs Oren's wrist as he reaches to ruffle his clothes. "You have the stone. Stop. Please."

"Does he have something that would tell them where the Lyriad is hiding? Or who you are?  Or anything you want to take?  We have to go before they get here," Oren explains.

Minerva's face is white. She looks like she wants to argue with him, but something is holding her back. In the quietest voice, she says, "I-I don't know." With what seems like the greatest effort, she makes herself stand up, and shakily, she turns her back on her father and leans against the wall at the end of the alley. "I'm watching the town square for officers. Please, be quick."

Samson has traveled light. He clearly expected to make it home today. Oren finds some coins in a small pouch. In the interior lining of Samson's vest, he discovers an old, frayed drawing. The image looks to be many years old. It seems to be a portrait of a woman with auburn hair sitting with a light brown-haired girl, who appears to be around ten.

Oren takes it all and gets up, walking to Minerva. He hands the money and picture to her. The tears that Minerva had managed to stop begin again immediately. She pushes the picture back into his hands and says, "No! Please, god, no. Not right now. Please."

He awkwardly shuffles to Eliam and hands it to him instead. "Do you want this?"

"Not particularly," he answers, unsure of what to do. "I uh... I suppose we can't just throw it away though."

The mage puts it in his pocket. "Maybe the people in the drawing will want it."

Minerva changes the topic immediately. With an occasional sniffle, she says, "One of the orcs got away. And there are bodies everywhere. We can't stay here. I can only think of escaping back to the hideout and inquiring about the letter, or about finding a new hiding place and trying to find Ish'an. What... what do we do?" Minerva is clearly forcing herself to think to avoid whatever Oren was showing her.

Without answering, Oren walks over to where the party teleported in.

"Well, by morning we'll have descriptions of us given to every guard in town,” says Eliam. “If they're truly upset, they'll be actively searching for us. This may be our last chance to leave the city before they organize"

Minerva hears Eliam's words and dimly recognizes the truth in them. "There's a glyph on the other side of the square. There are no officers in sight." She gestures toward a large tree about a hundred yards away. "There's a glyph beneath that tree that will get us back."

“How does this work?" asks Oren as he approaches the glyph.

Looking at Oren, she adds, "Warm the stone to increase its temperature; if you do so and it's anywhere over a glyph, the glyph will be activated for 45 seconds."

“Ready?" Minerva asks, without looking back. No one needs to ask why she's not turning around to check. Oren nods.

"We should be ready,” Eliam responds for him.

Votig looks to Minerva. "I can carry him back, so ya can have a proper burial."

She tries to ignore the waver in her own voice. "Father told all of us that we were never to bring the dead into the hideout. I don't know why but he made us all swear. All I want to do is bring him home but..." she clenches her fists, and squares her jaw. "Come on. We're running." And she takes off into the square.

The party bolts for the tree; somehow, despite the vicious battle, Votig has the energy to outrace Minerva, who had a head start, and his speed leaves the rest of the group impressed enough that they quietly offer him a gesture of approval. He arrives at the tree a moment before Minerva, and as she uses her activation stone, he spots a party of orcs down the road. There are about ten of them, and they are about a minute away at a run. Votig can just make out the mace-wielding orc who got away with them, animatedly motioning toward the square.

Minerva has activated the glyph as the orcs down the road spot you. She hesitates before stepping on the glyph. She seems to be waiting for someone to speak.

“Go,” Oren says, as he ushers her through and follows. Minerva disappears, as does the mage, in a flash of green light. Following their lead, Eliam and Votig disappear as well.

The Group Returns and Meets Linea
The party reappears in the Lyriad's hideout. Minerva leans against the wall, and without even pausing to look at anyone, shouts, "Healer!"

A woman and man step into the hallway in which you have appeared. The woman is wearing a blue silk overcoat, the man a white vest that looks to be made of a material like leather. The woman immediately walks over to the group and asks, "Who needs assistance?"

"Aye, I could use a touchin' up," answers Votig.

The woman casts some simple magic to repair any of the party's remaining wounds. The man begins chanting, and his hands glow blue. He holds his hands out, palms up, and waits for someone to hold one of his hands.

Everyone feels slightly awkward as this man with the blue hands stands there, waiting.

"Sorry lad, I'm married,” says Votig. “I'm sure someone will ah, one day hold your magic hands though."

Oren extends his hand. The glow disappears from the hand that that he has touched, and he is healed.

"Thanks,” Oren grins. “Can you teach me how to do that?"

The man seems offended at Votig's words, especially as he was only trying to help. He ignores Oren. "Don't worry," he says. "My dick is still glowing if you need some." And he walks off.

The woman sighs, rubbing her temples. "I apologize, sir. He's a little touchy and doesn't get along with people well. Or animals. Or anything." She looks around the group. "Minerva, where's Samson?"

Minerva walks past her and turns into a doorway. "He didn't make it," is all she manages before she disappears from the hall. The woman's eyes go wide and she blanches. She turns to the party for explanations. "What... Samson?"

"Aye,” answers Votig. “He went down fighting."

"We got into a bit of an... altercation with the guards,” Eliam explains. “Though of course, we handled the problem thoroughly, in a most spectacular fashion. ...Well, mostly. You, er, may see some increased patrols soon, through no fault of our own.”

The woman looks down at the floor, pensive. She absorbs what the party has told her, then replies, "Samson was a good man, who raised a good daughter. He lost his wife fifteen years ago to an orc raid. He was never able to forgive the Elyde for putting orcs in a position of authority, especially seeing them use the same tactics to 'keep the peace' as they did to pillage cities."

"Minerva never really forgot about her mother's death. She was ... what was it? Eleven? Twelve? She was young when it happened. She witnessed it, herself. Her mother hid her away with magic so the orcs wouldn't find her but she had no time to protect herself. If she witnessed her own father die, too... That's too cruel for anyone." The woman exhales a deep breath.

“We did get this, though." Votig holds out the slightly crumpled note he retrieved from Samson. "It's in orcish; no idea how important it is."

She accepts the letter from Votig. "I'm not perfectly fluent, but I know some common words. Might be enough to get the gist of this letter. Let me see..."

As she studies the letter, she says absent-mindedly, "My name's Linea, by the way. I'm one of the head healers for our chapter here in Ushad. How'd you get mixed up in all this?"

"Ah, well... some orcs interrupted me drinkin'" answers Votig.

"They tend to do that," Linea mutters dryly. "Here we are. I can make out a few words..." Linea traces a finger along the letter and mumbles the words she knows for certain. "Let's see... 'power'... 'magics'... 'weapon'... 'wellspring'... 'control'... Does any of mean something to you?"

"I overheard some guards talking about the wellspring in the valley,” Eliam answers. “They called it sacred and one of them said he wanted to be part of the squadron that destroys it.”

Linea's eyes go wide. "What? No. No, they wouldn't. No. You misheard them."

"Oren mentioned that it's used to keep monsters away, or something to that effect. Is it that important?"

The mage nods. "It's really powerful magic and we should protect it."

Linea shakes her head ever so slightly in disbelief. "A wellspring is not only a sacred place, but it is a source of magic in our world. It is a place of immense power and its destruction would not only allow the evils of the wilds to overflow our lands, but legends tell us that its disappearance would weaken all magic in the world, forever." She shudders slightly, thinking of her own healing magic. "The lives I would fail to save if my magic were to leave me..." She thinks back to the word, "weapon," that she read from the letter. "As terrifying as a wellspring's destruction could be, to see it harnessed by the Elyde or the Rorgh as a weapon would be sacrilegious at best... and genocidal at worst."

"Is there a way we could use it as a weapon against them?" Oren asks.

She looks legitimately offended at his question. She is momentarily speechless.

"That's a good idea lad,” says Votig. “Hit em before they hit us."

"Though at the same time... right now we're a nuisance to the orcs,” Eliam adds. “If we meddle too much they might get serious about chasing us down when we leave town."

"N-no! No no no! You mustn't do that. To weaponize it would be to destroy it as it stands now and weaken everyone's magic, ours included!" Linea protests. She pleads with the group. "Please... Please, if you know they are going to attack a wellspring, you must stop them. You must go there and save it, without weaponizing it."

“But we could genocide the orcs, and then lesser magic wouldn't be an issue right?” asks Votig. “Win/win for the dwarves. Thinkin' outside the box...”

“I mean... if it destroys lesser magic, maybe we could just learn greater magic instead” Eliam suggests.

Linea cannot believe she is having this argument. "You could kill off great swathes of them but any injury we took, any ally who fell, we would be powerless to sav-- NO," she says in shock. "No greater magic ever again! There would be no way to cast those spells! Magic itself would be wounded too greatly!"

"Greater... magic...?" Oren asks. "Explain."

"Do you know how a mage uses ice to cool his drink, or a healer uses life energy to seal a scratch? Destroy wellsprings, and that's the extent of what magic will be able to do. All magic."

"I never could pay attention to my tutors," the bard says with a shrug. "I never learned much magic beyond that anyways."

Minerva returns from the door she had gone through. Her face is set, and there is a determination there that has not been present since Samson died minutes ago. "You have done much for us, and I appreciate that. We never found Ish'an, and my father-" here her voice breaks momentarily "- my father will never make me smile again. But I will not give up on his dream. I will see our lands free, and I will do that by following the lead his life bought me. I will go to a wellspring, and I will see it secure. I would welcome your aid, but I will not blame you for choosing another path. If this is as far as we go together... then thank you for saving my life when I was unable to continue the fight earlier."

Minerva looks at the healer and asks, "Linea. Can you find anything in the letter about a location or place?"

Linea scans the letter once more and mumbles, "Hm... This isn't easy, you know." After a moment, she responds, "Just two: 'Bramble' and 'Saloria'."

"I heard them specify the bramble. But you can't seriously be thinking of going alone?" asks Eliam.

Minerva nods. "I understand," is all she says to the healer. To Eliam, she responds, "No, I am thinking of going with you. If you would prefer not, then I am forced to go alone. But I will not let my father's dream die with him. I will be stronger. I will save our people and our neighbors."

"I'm going,” Oren says.

After thinking it over, Eliam replies "We've all made it this far together. It would be foolish to just stop now after everything we've done. I'll join you"

"I couldn't live with meself if I left now. I'm going,” Votig agrees.

Chapter 2