"...it's a quick job Cormac. The guys a tramp - a no good bum. Just get the coin and meet the contact right here. It'll be fine..." He'd been starting to think this was all behind him. Kasimir hadn't asked him to do any 'under the table' sort of work since Thalaman lost interest in him. Things had been dry. That'd been just fine, amends wouldn't be made easy but he'd been trying. And by now he'd come to terms with the fact that some people would never see him as anything but a brute, a thug, or a letch with too many wives. These thoughts didn't cross his mind as he put his breastplate and helmet on. Though he found himself unable to meet Isolde's gaze as he left the commons to do the thing that the cowardly knaves had bade. He checked that he had his knife, a pointy stiletto blade - a knight's dagger - that he'd kept over from that Lathanderite's trove. A memento of sorts, sentimental. He thought of her briefly. It didn't take him too long to find Everett in the farmlands. The old man might've been clueless as he went about his chores. Cormac's mood had grown even and dispassionate. The sullen look in his stormy grey eyes hidden behind the iron mask he'd taken to wearing, and cast in shadow by the last light of the dying day. It crossed his mind that the old farmer might not see another. The old man threw another hay bail onto the stack in his barn. The palaver was brief. Cormac gruffed, conversational - but blunt "Everett, isn't it? This your barn?" The startled man let out a shallow yelp and wheeled to look at the much taller man who'd surprised him. He calmed and spoke finally "Ah! Yarp, my barn." "...and that's your house over there near the cliff? All these beeves yours?" He spoke in the same gruff tone as he took a few more paces towards Everett. "That's right. All mine." The old man didn't back away, he just stood there like an idiot and answered chummily. He mopped his brow with a rag and then pulled out a wooden pipe, lit it, and began to puff. Cormac was a little put out by this, he was trying to be at least a little bit intimidating and this bumpkin geezer was making his shakedown seem like his fifteen minute break. Cormac's jaw clenched. He kept his composure and continued his inquiry. "...doing well for yourself. These beefs bring in a lot of coin?" ... and so the talk went back and forth for a while, yes - and no - and something about an old nobleman, an Ashald, in the city who bought cans of milk by the dozen. Eventually the Skald-turned-thug turned to the old man and said the words that he surely knew were coming. "It's time to pay. The money loaned to you, the five thousand." The even chumminess had turned to an unkind rasp, the sound that maybe a rough-scaled snake might make as it coils about some tame thing that had come to the end of its days. "It's time to pay" he repeated. Everett the cattle farmer puffed on his pipe, puffed and puffed - seemed maybe he wouldn't stop puffing. The orange glow in the bowl was like the birthing of another galaxy now that the sun had fallen behind the walls of the city and left everything in darkness. He took the pipe from his lips and said quite friendly enough "Sorry, I don't have it". He'd looked like he might've gone on with his excuses, some mewling nonsense about how times are hard and maybe about the price of feed. There was none of it, Cormac wouldn't stand for any of it. The lies, the blubbering - the blathering, it made him sick right to the back of his throat. The big man's nostrils flared, and he lashed out the only way that made sense to him. He punched the man, not on the chin or crosswise on the jaw - but squarely in the mouth. The sharp studs on his gauntlet turning the old man's face into something akin to ground beef, and Everett's knees went out immediately. Cormac wouldn't let him fall though, and held the yokel up by his shirt and backhanded him once, twice, and a third time before permitting him to drop. The whimpering broken faced man was trying his darndest to crawl away, he wouldn't get far. Cormac squatted nearby and retrieved the old man's pipe, and he puffed on it himself as he rose and strode close behind the desperate farmer. When the bowl was good and hot he tossed the pipe into the barn, into the hay that had been stacked. The whole thing ignited quickly, white and orange flames sprung up - choking smoke billowed out from under the roof. The evil barbarian leaned down and gripped Everett by the shag of hair on his head and turned the bumpkin's face toward the fire by force. Dragged him to the fire, and held him there till his eyes boiled out of his skull and nothing remained of his face but a charry grin. Such was deserved of those who didn't pay their debts; of those who lied to him. The ragged sobbing breaths of the ruin that had been a cattle rancher not even ten minutes ago were silenced when Cormac pulled out his remaining pistol and put a hole in the man's chest. After all, he wasn't a cruel man - not Cormac. Over the sound of his kettle-drum heartbeat and the rough, animal breathing from his heaving chest, the words came it seemed from another world..."and they took Esmerelda, my prize cow. My daughter could tell you more about it" Everett's words snapped him out of the thought. He stared at the old man, his dark eyes blazing and his teeth clenched at the vivid premonition, at the apparition before him. "GEORGE!" the old man cried. "GET OVER HERE AND TELL THE STRANGER WHAT YOU SAW!" And there she was, the plump and heavy chested milkmaid daughter of the man Everett. A frosty cold sensation came to Cormac's gut, he felt like turning away and running from this mad place, from the beautiful girl named George. He softened, and listened to her words like she was reciting poetry in that weird accent of hers. Where the bad men went, how many there could've been - and of course she knew her numbers for who but she would count the cans of milk. He swallowed the wet lusty feeling down and assured them both that he'd do what he could to get the prize cow back, and he'd even pay their debt in full today for two or three beeves tomorrow. Cormac and Everett shook hands, and parted on friendly terms. The debt would be paid, no bones broken - no blood spilled. None of the old man's at least... When he'd finally return to the city he found he could meet Isolde's gaze again. Perhaps there'd been a change somewhere along the way after all.

The local shepherd of the Tiller fields finds herself today out of armor for a change, wearing slacks and getting her hands dirty pulling out weeds, helping out the farm closest to the kobold lands, often beset by unwanted kobold visitors. While working, she would recollect the story of how her and a few others had found the secret lair to where the kobolds kept all their eggs, that had seemed to be protected by lizard folk and Yaunti. How three brave souls including herself had went deep to confront the forces there. She'd communicate to how they had the opportunity to destroy all the eggs if they desired to deal with the kobold plight, but chose not to. Should the farmer inquire, Varya would likely reply, "Sometimes in life you have two choices. The right thing to do, and the necessary thing to do. For the longest time even for me, often choosing the right one has been a struggle. Sometimes while you might think one is the right one, and one is the necessary one, sometimes they get flipped on their heads. In the Grain Goddess' love, her being a goddess of fertility and life, as much as she is of agriculture, I made the decision to put what I felt the right decision ahead of the necessary one... and they bother us to this day." Whether the farmer would be bothered by the reply or not, she'd apologetically smile and added, "We have our little invasions here now and then, but I've trained a lot of people here to deal with them if need be.... as grim as it may sound, at least the foolish ones here that do try and attack have made great fertilizer so far. Yet... for years upon years since that incident we've had no large scale invasions, attack attempts, or disruptions. Sometimes showing mercy to those you think that would want nothing more but to see you said can be appreciated... even by those you'd think would never appreciate it. These are lessons we all need to remember, including myself." Her fingers like leather, having wielded weapons for most her life would continue to plow into the earth, drawing out the weeds and putting them into a wheel barrow to be dried out and mulched later continued to dig in and out. Visible scrapes and cuts on the back of her hands though there the rigors of hard work doing things like this were more prevalent though, yet the shepherd wouldn't complain. The evening prayers would be provided, and though there wasn't a feast day, Varya's mother had always been known to use her blessings to provide extra food to eat, now being served by a friendly face who once could not be bothered to do such, now making an effort to realize how important she once thought were the little things in life truly were.

Dear diary. There is an old poem I like; "For everything there is a season, a time for every activity under heaven. A time to be born and a time to die. A time to plant and a time to harvest. A time to kill and a time to heal. A time to tear down and a time to build up. A time to cry and a time to laugh. A time to grieve and a time to dance. A time to scatter stones and a time to gather stones. A time to embrace and a time to turn away. A time to search and a time to quit searching. A time to keep and a time to throw away. A time to tear and a time to mend. A time to be quiet and a time to speak. A time to love and a time to hate. ... A time for war and a time for peace." I heard someone recite this once - it really stuck with me. I think because it resonates with my druidic beliefs? The trick is - understanding the time. With murmurs about war with Highhold, and the demon Razzi casually being permitted in and out of Peltarch, I currently feel times have changed, but I'm not sure if the wind of time has filled my sails to make my actions align with them. Varya Tiller has fallen out of favour with her goddess - the Grain Mother Chauntea (bless her name). This is heart breaking for me as the land will be a poorer place without Chauntea's power moving through one of her servants. But what specifically strikes at my heart is the cause of her fall from Chauntea's grace. It was Varya's intolerance of those who cooperate with demonic forces that caused her to fall. She was so blinded by hatred that she is now out of step with nature. My prayers have now become dominated with pleas for her atonement and restoration to grace. For now I will do all I can to aid her redemption. But I've had to look into my own heart. I have personally felt that Razzi should have been slain. I was not convinced by her "escape" from the abyss and she has demonstrated no evidence of repentance, or remorse over her decision to join the demonic horde as one of it's leaders, nor any change in character. The only thing I have seen of her is disgust at the temple Helm we brought her to for her safety. I had once followed her using a Gnomish Positioning Scroll, but she has discarded that since leaving the temple, and appeared in Peltarch under the cloak of invisibility. I have every reason to believe she is not on a path of redemption and means all of us only harm. I do not feel I was a blinded by "righteous" as Varya Tiller was, but still ... Id happily fertilise the grass in the commons with Razzi's blood at this point. "Murder" being illegal, and the slightest of doubts that I am right about her, is the only thing staying my sling. I believe in redemption. I shall be meditating on it more deeply. I can't afford to lose natures grace upon me as Varya did.

After a curious encounter with a strange gnomish bard out on the Great Dale amongst a seemingly endless stream of medusas and grimlocks, Juniper returned to the ship some time later. She brought on board a gift from the gnomish bard after impressing him with her version of a folk song she sings to keep ear worm melodies out of her head. Her gift, a silent songbird in a small cage, seemingly malnourished and lacking a few feathers. On board she set about cleaning up his iron cage, and feeding him bits of toast and dried fish. It was here on the Opportunity she would keep her new birdie friend because, she didn't want her cat, Mojo the Cat back at her family camp in the old Romani Pass, to think her birdie friend was a kitty treat. The poor songbird was dubbed, Tweetie.

It only takes a couple drinks at the Mithril Mug deep in the warm cavernous expanse under the Nars named Oscura for her to release her mind from paranoia. There is always Rothe meat cooking and plenty of privacy to enjoy some with a drink in the side booth. The small room goes suddenly dark. The air mutes. The sounds of the tavern disappear. And the shadows start talking behind her, ''You're actually lying for me. I'm still going to kill you, though''. "What do you wantt? Cormac? Anything! Killing me would be a waste but I'm not going to tell you what to do. You can have me, even!" Raazi has turned around to see Shay, an armoured figure always clad in a skull mask. His amusement at her eagerness to not only betray what seems to be a friend but also her desire to serve herself recklessly hangs in his voice, ''I don't want you. You should have listened to Cormac though and kept your distance. Don't you understand?'' "Do I have to understand"? Raazi is kindly feeding Shay's desire to talk, to speak about himself. He's turned around chuckling once again at her enthusiasm, ''You probably wouldn't. Whore. But understand you're in the way of a something that cannot be stopped. I have to say though, you are quite amusing and-''. when Raazi pulls out the old man's dagger, and utters a divination to lead her dagger true, straight into Shay's back. She thrusts with enthusiasm and purpose. It penetrates. He shouts in thunderous anger, ''WHERE DID YOU GET - THAT -'', Shadows outstretch from him and pin Raazi up against the booth's wall by the neck till she sees the narrow, static tunnel. Shay rips the dagger out of his back, looking at it, absolutely stunned. He turns it on her. ''You don't understand. I cannot be stopped. He is - MINE -. There is - NOTHING - that can be done.'' His rage hasn't released enough for her to speak till now. "If you haven't killed me yet, then, I submit." she gambled once more with a weak voice and was now before him without any thing to back her confidence. And with that he drops her. Shadows laughing out of his mouth, ''Remember everything I said'', and dissipates. Filtering reality back in around her. The light. The sounds of people enjoying their time, unaware. Raazi wanders to the bar and orders a drink. All she can say for her rocked, bruised appearance is, "Is it illegal to work one out or something?" The bartender does not reply... Eventually though the shadows stop watching just enough for her to slip into the Oscuran Library weeks later. She searches endlessly for even seemingly useless information. She would spend a night or two a week merely trying to find slightest clue to help out Cormac. Forbidden knowledge. Secrets of shadow entity's. A weakness. A weapon. Anything. The lights dim, the atmosphere goes still, and so cold it hurts and sucks the life out of you. Which is not ideal for reading, so she feels her way along the bookshelves, cursing the library staff for these studying conditions till she's deep into the library. A hand attempts to grab at her but is just barely too far away- making the hairs on her body stick up. Reaching the end she turns around and hears the only other sound in the void. Soft breathing through a skull mask but its impossible to see. A shadowy arm extends from the figure and swipes at her face like a bear trying to snap an easy meals spine. She manages to sense the presence and takes an awkward duck backwards, "GUARDS!". The city's peace keepers look in the darkness blindly while Raazi throws books and calls out to them more. ''BAH!'', grunts the masked assassin, thrusting a dagger now to deal with her rightly, but a guard manages to be in the way and it finds its way into him instead. When the lights return the killer is gone and Raazi talks herself out of being the prime suspect. The guards merely wanting normalcy to return and be about their business. She runs the old bridge and waits for the old man to come simply to hear her, but does so at a loss. She prays even, but with no result other than the sound of the river. So she makes her way back down with an inspiration and retrieves the knife from the guards who're desperate for less work. By now, no one knows what to assume of Raazi and Cormac. Amongst themselves they've grown close, unable to share the details of the Shadowy Entity. Unity in the woven lies they've created for their safety. Second floor, Third door, On the left. Dressed in red. Anointing a master quality caribou mask with her own blood and wearing it on her head. Her heart and intentions are projecting to the Goddess while snuffing out a candle's flame with her open wound. Shay stubs his toe which may or may not be related It maybe incidental, because not long after her prayers she is teleported to somewhere familiar, but in increasing intensity. Cold. Darkness. A grim, muscular man wearing Shay's Skull Mask sits on the throne broodingly while carefully watching her curiously walk around, hugging her arms...''If you stare too much into the darkness, you'll get lost..Grr.. don't ask how I know..'' Her hips sway a bit as she walks up to him with her mask still wet. ''I did it..'' Cormac says with little enthusiasm, waiting for her to show some sort of reaction. As she takes her headdress off off she smooths her lipstick using her lips and straddles him on his seat, elated the nightmare is over. The time is now. The aching within her compelling her mouth to meet his finally. From behind her back whips that dagger aimed directly for the side of his neck. Eyes wide open in the darkness to see nothing. Time decelerates till it's just the sound of heartbeats for what feel like an eternity in each other's embrace while the blade drives slowly, just barely into his dermis till the pain from - That Dagger - was too much to bear. And she finds herself back in the Regal Maid. Second floor. Third door on the left. No throne. It's too much to bear, the failures and burned bridges. He wont hear her prayers. So her neck swallows the dagger. Her corpse wasn't there when Cormac heard her apologetic, desperate prayers. Arriving to the conclusion he should return to the prime by her side minutes too late. Unexpected warmth drips over her as her vision fades and sinks into the bed and pounding sound of her heart returns as a dimming, ever increasing in distance sound till it goes away into haze of static and closing light. This time she does not find herself in the fugue, but a bar manifested from her memories she cant tell from reality. End of the queue. Why not order a drink. Sit down. And hate everything. and not realize that old man is sitting across from you, watching you. ''I'm going to give you a choice. You can go on, and I understand why you do... Or, you can just give your heart a break, and return, and keep trying'', he speaks her through till he leaves her with the ultimatum. She thinks for a long time after disclosing her hopeless outlooks with confidence, before closing the door behind her- waking up in the Regal Maid full of tears and screaming out of angst. Neck ate her dagger. At least it's there for later.. Was it a dream? She runs desperately with tears down her eyes to a grave to find him there, and hugs him into a long, elated, rest. The grave capturing the warmth of their bodies during the cold Nars night..

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q15sZK-8sPw My Morning Jacket - Wordless Chorus

//Just to let folks know. I haven't forgotten about this and I am not taking off with your goodies! I just got wrapped in work and will hopefully get this solved soon.\

Name: Kenna. In the far east of Faerun - in Kara-Tur - word 'Ken' means: 'Sword' and 'Na' means: 'No'. Use the Sword or not? She was so peace-loving girl that parents told her she should become a warrior-ess. Only a peace-loving people can wield weapons responsibly, after all. 'Na' at the end of a sentence also means seeking confirmation, learning. In this case it implies following the Way of the Sword (Ken-na), becoming One with the chosen weapon. 'Na' is also related to 'Onna', which means: 'woman'. So, the word-suffix 'Na' is also a sort of a feminine form too. Age: 24. Gender: Female. Race: Human. Description: Small yet athletic build, this young woman seems carefree - calm and happy. Open to befriending others, as well as ready to help everyone a little. She can be seen wearing either training outfit or armour. She has simple yet beautiful Katana sword in a sheath at her belt. Background: Born and raised in Damara, at the age of 17 she went on a pilgrimage to Kara-Tur where she sought Teachers of the Katana Sword, Teachers of Unnarmed Martial Arts, and the Teachers of Peace Meditations. At her age of 23 she returned to Narfell, where her life 'truly started'. Spirituality: Tempus, Lord of Battles (god of war, primarily concerned with honorable battle, forbidding cowardice and encouraging the use of force of arms to settle disputes), Red Knight (deity of strategy and battle tactics). More than deity worshiping, she also meditates and seeks liberation (from suffering) and elightenment - as many people in kara-tur do.

//Rewards can be chaotic, I know I didn't get to everyone because some of you had to leave early. If you didn't get a place reward, or received 'nothing at all' from the tourney send me a /tell in game or private message me here on the forums or on Discord and we can arrange an IG meeting.

Scoffs I was agreeing with you, and was being respectful. mocks a bow Just stating facts. Shrugs and wanders off. ///If it were a "private" meeting, you should have sent a PM.

Dorakhan displacer hide tanning requirement reduced from 445 to 435.

The apartment is empty. Dark, but for the last rays of light falling in through the window. The fire in the hearth completely doused, no candles lit. The room is orderly, however, awaiting the inhabitants' return. On the desk lies one more page, written by a familiar hand and long since dried. I have survived and made it home. Home from the Abyss. Back from doing the impossible. Freeing one soul captured there and returning a soul to a succubus. The realm's chaos was horrifying. The desert's heat alone was enough to kill you if not protected. To say nothing of the rest of the environment. Empty eye sockets carved into stone everywhere, shooting fireballs if whatever was watching from those endless pits caught sight of you. Crystal formations that would hurl lightning endlessly at those who came too near. Jungles filled with those cursed roses that started it all. And then there were the creatures native to the plane. The ekolids at home were an annoyance. The ekolids there were more of a handful than our Fell trolls. Half scorpion, half humanoid creatures with hides as thick as a bulette's roamed the desert by the dozens. All the demons I'd seen and fought before, in the hundreds. None of us would have lasted an hour out there if not for these strange armours Nenufar loaned us. They protected us. To a point. They did nothing special against a blade edge, poison or disease. They could not keep all the fire from our skin, or the lightning from running through us. There was a contingency, however. If we were damaged, the armour would heal us. Not the instant relief of healing magic, but the constant itching and pain of a healing wound, sped up. If we were at death's door, it would drag us back, though it could only manage this three times. So there we went. Burned and healed. Shocked and healed. Cut and healed. Again, and again, and again. All the wounds I've taken in my entire career, tenfold, and no choice but to press on and take the next wound while the old ones were still tender. That realm is horror. The equipment a boon? No, a curse. In the end, I was thankful to be rid of it. I haven't spoken about it yet. As with the Reachful Hands, I do not know where to begin. Sleep again comes difficult, as my mind wanders ever back. Meadow noticed. She suggested a ship of our own. A quiet getaway, sailing down the Scar towards Thesk. I obliged, despite Rey's unsubtle hints one of the city's ships will be my responsibility soon. A ship to my name has always been one of my goals, and gods know I could use some respite. I still am only human. H'resh noticed, too, I think. He might not know the finer details, but he knew the look I got when he asked me to report. His praise there was more than just professional. I think. Still, despite what seemed an insurmountable nightmare, we made it back. K defeated, friends returned. You'll note I said returning a soul to "a" succubus, while the lofty goal was returning souls to both succubi. I wasn't there at the very end. As it turns out, the armour did not protect one from being knocked out and taken. What others have told me was that Nenufar chose to remain. Depending on who you ask, it was a tragic self sacrifice. Where Miranda's soul could be saved because most of it had been kept sheltered, Nenufar was her soul, as most demons are, and she was as corrupted as she appeared. The image of her former self in the magic mirror was just that. An image. There was no returning for her, so better she sat on the throne as she was the more benign. The other version is that Nenufar's words were merely an excuse, and we have all been had. I can see where that sentiment comes from. Some things do seem very convenient. The Abyssal roses along with the notes that were amateurishly meant to point towards Nenufar while they only grow in K's realm. This was relatively easy to figure out for the arcanists. Nenufar being the one to deliver the location of Carly and Lucille being tortured to Six, where we found the list that made Nenufar seem targeted. Shortly after, Nenufar being "banished" to the Prime and appearing to be powerless, right into the middle of a bunch of adventurers, including a paladin that could easily have tried to kill her. One more thing to cement the idea that someone wanted her dead Was she powerless, though? We never truly tested. Sure, I took a swing at her once, but how badly did I really wound her? Then her little off hand remark when we questioned her in the Defender headquarters. We'd come to the conclusion K was implicating Nenufar in the hopes that the adventurers would do the job for her and kill Nenufar. Then Nenufar stated that it felt like a plan she herself would have come up with. And there we were. A bunch of adventurers traipsing into the Abyss, all for our own reasons. Hope, the desire to do good, the desire to protect a home under siege. Doing Nenufar's job in ousting the implicated ruler of the 500th so she can now rule both layers. In truth, Nenufar ruling two layers is no skin off my back. Demons are endless and so is the Abyss. At least this one bears us no particular ill will. I agreed with that line of thought. I still do. That is not the problem. What bothers me is how muddy the start of it all is. To Isolde, it all comes down to Miranda. Whether Nenufar remained out of avarice or selflessness, this appears to be true. One part of Miranda's soul in life, when she was named Jenna, had been safeguarded by Lliira's magic, in a house frozen in time. The other had been kept in an amulet which Nenufar claimed K wore and managed to snatch from her in the final fight. When it all was over, Nenufar allowed Miranda to leave and mend her soul, not even trying to convince her to stay. That still says nothing of how it all began. Did K truly strike at Nenufar? Or did Nenufar instigate the fight? Provoking K into attacking her and whipping us into action by drawing the conflict onto the Prime. When I mentioned this near Nate, he seemed to agree. Zero, the planeswalker, came around to deliver gifts from Nenufar. He overheard and said it was a likely conclusion. Demons will, after all, be demons. If so, the price was steep indeed. All the people she allowed to be killed to instill a sense of urgency and foment resistance against K. The pain, the fear, the destruction. The friend that has made a choice to remain there forever, driven into Nenufar's waiting arms by the horror of the Hungering Star. There will be no more lazy, weirdly philosophical conversations, late at night with a bunch of smokes in the dreary Peltarch rain. All things Nenufar willingly sacrificed for her sister's sake. No particular ill will? She did enough damage without it. Even so, the only alternative was to let her rampage through this land. On the other hand, maybe Isolde is right. Maybe I am being paranoid. Why would a demon rely on mortals to fight another demon that might as well be a god to us unless she had no other options? The young man that wrote it is leagues away. Standing on a hill that overlooks the ruins of a town. An area once ravaged by devils and demons both. The ghosts, however, have no answers. He turns and heads into the temple. There will be no definite answers there, either, but he does find comfort.