.......And Justice for All (narrative write-up)
Jul 3, 2019 15:42:14 GMT
Dorian, Grimes, and 5 more like this
Post by Sunday on Jul 3, 2019 15:42:14 GMT
(Varis/G'Lorth/Sundilar and Sunday - with some additional grunts from Darius)
*A few days after the finale of the Amaranthiad*
Beyond the open front of the small stable, torrents of water pour from the eaves of the red-tiled roof. From their stools just inside, surrounded by the smell of hay and horse sweat, two men sit and watch the water stream onto the hard-packed earth of the training yard. The older of the two, broad shoulders straining against a simple white shirt, lowers his clay mug and wipes the foam from his salt-and-pepper beard.
“Some weather you have here, lad.”
The younger man smiles, watching as raindrops the size of copper pennies batter the ground in front of them. Despite the rain, the air is still warm, though the sudden downpour seems to have subdued some of the mugginess of the morning. “Some of my more learned friends tell me it’s the mountains to the west - the Sunset Spine. Traps the clouds that rise from the sea and means we get more rain than most, even in summer.”
The older man nods slowly, fingers tapping a measured tattoo on the enamelled shield propped against the stall beside him – an unblinking eye peering out from the otherwise plain surface. “Makes sense I suppose. Must be good for farming.”
The green eyes of his companion twinkle. “Yes. But bad for sparring.”
A wry smile crosses the older man’s lips, and he downs the rest of his ale, rising from his stool and setting the empty mug in his place. “Come on - the god of war doesn’t wait on the sunshine. Fighting’s an all-weather business.”
The younger man snorts, rising to follow and placing his own still largely full mug down on his seat. “Careful, soldier - you’re getting poetic in your old age.”
The other man laughs, a deep, rich sound that seems to echo in his broad chest. “No danger of that, youngling. And I keep telling you: ex-soldier!”
Together they gather shields and blunted training weapons, but just as they are about to step from the shelter of the stables into the deluge of the yard, the rain stops abruptly and sunshine pours through the breaking clouds. Both men step out into the puddles that have formed atop the hard-packed earth, looking up in simple wonder. There is a moment of suspension, both seeming to hold their breath as wisps of vapour begin to rise from the walls and roofs around them. The older man speaks first, his voice barely audible.
“Well, would you look at that.”
As they stand staring at the sky, they hear a small splash to their left. With honed instincts, both men turn, guards coming up smoothly and the younger taking a single precise step to place himself ahead and slightly to the left of his companion. As quickly as they reacted, both men relax, a short laugh escaping from the younger as he eyes their erstwhile attacker - a small green-and-gold squirrel, clutching a fat hazelnut in both paws. Lowering shield and sword, he walks over to where the creature sits gnawing its prize in a pool of muddy water. “Hello, friend. Do you have a message for us? Or perhaps you are the message?”
The older man joins him, settling his long spear over one shoulder. “Friend of yours? Or did I hit you in the head a little too hard in that last exchange?”
“Not hard enough, if anything. You shouldn’t pull your blows, old man - he’ll never learn if you do.”
Both men look up to the source of the new voice. Perched precariously on the slick red tiles of the stable roof is a short, lilac-skinned Tiefling woman, her cornflower yellow tresses falling freely over an intricate wooden breastplate sporting the same green-and-gold colours as the squirrel. A beautiful, forest-green cloak sits pooled around her as steam rises from the clay tiles.
The younger man shakes his head in amused bewilderment. “Sunday, if you put a hole in my roof-“
“Yes, yes, you’ll be very cross. I’m quaking in my oversized boots, darling.” She points to the giant red boots on her feet, grinning expectantly at the young man. When he returns nothing but a steady stare, she rolls her eyes, sticking out her tongue at him in mock disgust. “Oh alright, I’ll come down then.”
Rising from her crouch, she lifts her arms like a dancer, springing to the ground, hair trailing out behind her as she pirouettes down through the air…and fails to account for the large puddle of mud and water she is landing in, her feet flying from under her as she lands flat on her back with an audible thud. There’s a moment of silence while all three consider the scene before them – the diminutive Tiefling woman, resplendent in her armour and cloak, now coated head to toe in muddy water. Then Sunday lets out a howl of laughter that seems to briefly startle the two men, and before long all three are bent double with mirth.
Wiping his eyes, Varis Nailo, Grandmaster of the Order of the Crimson Fist, pulls Sunday to her feet, and turns to his older companion. “Sunday, this is Darius. Darius, this is Sunday. Or-“ He turns back to look the question at his friend. “-Is it Lady, once again?”
“Just Sunday. Plain old Sunday. But your man here and I have met before; just a couple of nights ago.”
“Well,” says Darius, scratching his beard, “I wouldn’t say we met; more….”
“Oh nonsense!” interrupts Sunday, “we’re firm friends. I told Darius all about the end of the games. Shame you couldn’t join us, Varis. There wasn’t much fighting - which is a good thing, I suppose - but it would have been good for you to get out and about. I know you’ve been busy but don’t forget to live a little.” She turns to look at Darius once again. The older man is wearing a bemused smile, as though not quite sure what to make of this creature before him. “He’s a good drinking partner,” she says, throwing a sly look at the clay mugs abandoned atop their stools in the stable. “But you knew that already.” Her face brightens, like the sun emerging from behind a cloud. “Speaking of drinking partners: we got Grimes drunk last night! I consider it my greatest achievement.”
Over Sunday’s head, Darius raises an eyebrow at Varis, who shrugs slightly, the hint of a smile quirking his lips, as though to say “your guess is as good as mine.”
Oblivious to this exchange, Sunday barrels on. “Talking of great achievements, I hear you’ve been building a refuge for orphans? What’re you two doing now? Let’s go see it. What’s it called? Is it open yet?”
Darius looks quizzically at his sparring partner, a slight frown furrowing his brow as he appraises the young Half-Elf in a new light. The older man’s posture has changed slightly. He leans back, his body language more closed, the mirth gone from his eyes, replaced with a kind of distant calculation.
Sunday is still talking.
“Is that why you’ve not been able to come on any adventures with us recently? Must be quite a task - building something like that. It’s doing you the world of good, though. You seem….sunnier….than usual.” She turns to look at Darius, who hasn’t stopped watching Varis. “Is that your fault, Darius? Have you been helping our ‘Godslayer’ come out of his shell? An unexpected cheerleader, I must say. Ah well, joy can be found everywhere so who am I to question that! I’ve been trying for a year to get him to lighten up,” she jerks her head towards Varis. “You’ve managed it in less than a quarter of that time. You should have seen the edges on him back then. Always brave, always steadfast - but damn a conversation was hard work. Or maybe its your new focus, Varis,” Sunday switches her gaze to the young Half-Elf, “this orphanage project seems important to you.”
Varis has been mostly ignoring this verbal avalanche, his eyes fixed on Darius, straw-coloured hair stirring gently in the breeze. He looks down; choosing his words with care, then meets the other man’s gaze steadily.
“I know what you’re thinking, but I’m no hero, Darius. No saviour, I know that. I’ve seen enough wrong done - hells, done enough myself by some people’s reckoning - to want to put a little good back into this world. Balance the scale.”
He waits for the other man to respond. When Darius says nothing, he raises an eyebrow. “You seem uncomfortable, friend.”
Darius shifts his weight, eyes drifting from warrior in front of him to somewhere else - somewhen else - for a moment before refocusing on Varis.
“Son, I’ve probably killed more men than you’ve met in your whole life. I’ve never known one who did good just for the sake of it. People usually have two reasons for doing a thing - a good reason and the real reason. Now, I know I’m new to town and you’ve been very hospitable with your ale and food and company; maybe I’m starting to get the measure of you - maybe not - and I don’t mean to offend, but if my years selling my skills have taught me anything, it’s that if a thing sounds too good to be true, that’s probably because it is.”
Silence settles between the two fighters for a few moments - then Sunday, blowing air through her lips in an exaggerated expression of discomfort, breaks the tension. “Getting pretty intense here. Wind it in, boys. C’mon, Dary, let’s go see Vary’s new project. You can talk about your dark and mysterious past later.” Turning on her heel, she strides off through the arch and out into the street, not stopping to check if they are following her.
Varis turns to Darius, extending his hands, palms upwards. “Will you come and see what I have built?”
The older man stands for a moment, sucking his teeth as he looks around, then shrugs and begins following Sunday out of the arch. Varis exhales a breath he did not know he was holding and joins them on the street. Sunday smiles, seeing them both emerge from the yard, linking arms with the two men and almost dragging them off down the street.
“Sunday,” Varis protests lightly, “It’s the other way!”
“Sure, sure - I just want to make a stop on the way.”
Sunday guides the small group towards the middle of town, talking non-stop along the way about everything and nothing. The moment she steps into Daring’s central square, however, the chatter stops and her face instantly takes on a grim aspect. Varis, used to this behaviour, makes no reaction; Darius, eyes always moving, notices and lets his hand drift to the hilt of the knife at his belt. Sunday takes no heed of either and heads towards the memorial for the victims of the Lassitude. The men follow.
From the other side of the square, a single figure is also approaching the cenotaph: one of the townsfolk, an elderly woman, clutching a simple, faded wreath of ivy and holly. Nearing the monument, she sees the three armoured figures, however, and stops in her tracks - backing up slightly.
Sunday gently raises her hand, “Please. Approach. Our apologies for disturbing you.” She withdraws 20 feet or so, taking the two men with her. The older woman tentatively moves to the base of the memorial, keeping a wary eye on the trio. She pauses in front of the obelisk, before running her fingers along one of the names carved into the stone. She remains motionless for a minute, and then she kneels and places the wreath alongside a few other tokens of loss. She stands in silence for while, head bowed, before casting one last, hesitant glance at the group and hurrying away.
Sunday watches her leave – bright tears in her eyes and running freely down her cheeks. She walks slowly over to the faded wreath and crouches beside it, muttering a few words in Sylvan: the holly berries gradually turn a vibrant, healthy shade of red, and the ivy’s hue shifts to a verdant, lustrous green; new stems and shoots start to grow and bud. Sunday sits back on her haunches, watching the foliage bloom, and begins to talk in unusually muted tones.
“I despise plagues. I loathe them. They rob people of their vitality; their energy. Their joy. Give me a clean death any day. Not some slow, lingering, helpless wasting away. I regret not being here to help when it happened. It sounded fucking horrendous. So many innocents.”
She looks up at the sky; tears gone, replaced with a look of quiet rage.
“And all in the name of a game. I only just found out yesterday who was responsible. I’m ashamed I took part at all in the games. He was there the whole time, as though nothing had happened - as though he hadn’t just murdered hundreds of people to win a few points. Why has no-one done something? I don’t blame the people who played for him or who have dealt with him - they probably didn’t know. But this creature murdered the people we’re supposed to protect.”
Varis is silent for a moment, face calm and thoughtful. Then he nods once, turning to face Sunday.
“So it was Ulorian then? I was there when we rescued Dr Greenclaw, the Kundarii woman who devised the cure. The place they were holding her looked like Moradin’s work, but then, it had been recently captured.”
He narrows his eyes, mind almost audibly whirring with the implications.
“Where did you come by this information? I have steered clear of their games, but I know a little of the Fey courts. It would not be uncharacteristic of them to plant intelligence like this in order to make things more difficult for a rival.”
Sunday remains sat in front of the memorial, eyes moving over the hundreds of names.
“You’re right, the Fey are duplicitous. But it was Rholor who told me: he may be many things, but he’s not a liar or a fool. I’ve heard Ulorian’s name mentioned elsewhere in connection with this, too. The Duchess has also intimated in her own special way that it was him. I know it wasn’t Titania - and I doubt it was Sarastra. The Snow Queen might have been involved but I feel her approach is more direct. Either way, it’s a starting point. Do you think we should go to the council on this? It’s justice for the town; and we can’t embark on anything that would have repercussions for Daring without Daring’s consent.”
Varis frowns, thinking, and then nods slowly. “I agree. If anything is to be learned from Nowhere’s War, it is that the people have a right to know what is being done in their name.” He looks down at Sunday, the green of his eyes suddenly burning with intensity. “But something must be done. The River King has committed crimes against the people of Kantas, and he must face justice. Not only that these crimes might not go unpunished, but so that any other members of the Fey aristocracy will see the price of meddling in the lives of our people.”
He pauses, looking at Darius. “If you wish no part of this, I will understand. War with one of the Faen Courts is no small thing.”
“Technically,” Sunday chips in, rising to her feet, “I’m already currently at war with two of them. Another can’t hurt.”
“There will be danger,” Varis continues, “But also reward, and...forgive me a poetic turn, my friend” he smiles self-deprecatingly “you and I both know, hot fires forge the strongest steel.”
The older man is silent a long while, seeming lost in thought. Then, slowly, he nods, a wolfish grin on his face as he looks up. “Never cared much for Kings myself. And I’m not one to run from a fight. I’m with you, lad.”
Varis smiles, turning to Sunday. “Then we are three. We must be smart. One does not simply walk into the Feywild and demand the head of a Fairy King. We will need allies.”
The Tiefling nods, grinning, a hint of her old wildness creeping into her eyes. “I know just where to start...”
*A few days after the finale of the Amaranthiad*
Beyond the open front of the small stable, torrents of water pour from the eaves of the red-tiled roof. From their stools just inside, surrounded by the smell of hay and horse sweat, two men sit and watch the water stream onto the hard-packed earth of the training yard. The older of the two, broad shoulders straining against a simple white shirt, lowers his clay mug and wipes the foam from his salt-and-pepper beard.
“Some weather you have here, lad.”
The younger man smiles, watching as raindrops the size of copper pennies batter the ground in front of them. Despite the rain, the air is still warm, though the sudden downpour seems to have subdued some of the mugginess of the morning. “Some of my more learned friends tell me it’s the mountains to the west - the Sunset Spine. Traps the clouds that rise from the sea and means we get more rain than most, even in summer.”
The older man nods slowly, fingers tapping a measured tattoo on the enamelled shield propped against the stall beside him – an unblinking eye peering out from the otherwise plain surface. “Makes sense I suppose. Must be good for farming.”
The green eyes of his companion twinkle. “Yes. But bad for sparring.”
A wry smile crosses the older man’s lips, and he downs the rest of his ale, rising from his stool and setting the empty mug in his place. “Come on - the god of war doesn’t wait on the sunshine. Fighting’s an all-weather business.”
The younger man snorts, rising to follow and placing his own still largely full mug down on his seat. “Careful, soldier - you’re getting poetic in your old age.”
The other man laughs, a deep, rich sound that seems to echo in his broad chest. “No danger of that, youngling. And I keep telling you: ex-soldier!”
Together they gather shields and blunted training weapons, but just as they are about to step from the shelter of the stables into the deluge of the yard, the rain stops abruptly and sunshine pours through the breaking clouds. Both men step out into the puddles that have formed atop the hard-packed earth, looking up in simple wonder. There is a moment of suspension, both seeming to hold their breath as wisps of vapour begin to rise from the walls and roofs around them. The older man speaks first, his voice barely audible.
“Well, would you look at that.”
As they stand staring at the sky, they hear a small splash to their left. With honed instincts, both men turn, guards coming up smoothly and the younger taking a single precise step to place himself ahead and slightly to the left of his companion. As quickly as they reacted, both men relax, a short laugh escaping from the younger as he eyes their erstwhile attacker - a small green-and-gold squirrel, clutching a fat hazelnut in both paws. Lowering shield and sword, he walks over to where the creature sits gnawing its prize in a pool of muddy water. “Hello, friend. Do you have a message for us? Or perhaps you are the message?”
The older man joins him, settling his long spear over one shoulder. “Friend of yours? Or did I hit you in the head a little too hard in that last exchange?”
“Not hard enough, if anything. You shouldn’t pull your blows, old man - he’ll never learn if you do.”
Both men look up to the source of the new voice. Perched precariously on the slick red tiles of the stable roof is a short, lilac-skinned Tiefling woman, her cornflower yellow tresses falling freely over an intricate wooden breastplate sporting the same green-and-gold colours as the squirrel. A beautiful, forest-green cloak sits pooled around her as steam rises from the clay tiles.
The younger man shakes his head in amused bewilderment. “Sunday, if you put a hole in my roof-“
“Yes, yes, you’ll be very cross. I’m quaking in my oversized boots, darling.” She points to the giant red boots on her feet, grinning expectantly at the young man. When he returns nothing but a steady stare, she rolls her eyes, sticking out her tongue at him in mock disgust. “Oh alright, I’ll come down then.”
Rising from her crouch, she lifts her arms like a dancer, springing to the ground, hair trailing out behind her as she pirouettes down through the air…and fails to account for the large puddle of mud and water she is landing in, her feet flying from under her as she lands flat on her back with an audible thud. There’s a moment of silence while all three consider the scene before them – the diminutive Tiefling woman, resplendent in her armour and cloak, now coated head to toe in muddy water. Then Sunday lets out a howl of laughter that seems to briefly startle the two men, and before long all three are bent double with mirth.
Wiping his eyes, Varis Nailo, Grandmaster of the Order of the Crimson Fist, pulls Sunday to her feet, and turns to his older companion. “Sunday, this is Darius. Darius, this is Sunday. Or-“ He turns back to look the question at his friend. “-Is it Lady, once again?”
“Just Sunday. Plain old Sunday. But your man here and I have met before; just a couple of nights ago.”
“Well,” says Darius, scratching his beard, “I wouldn’t say we met; more….”
“Oh nonsense!” interrupts Sunday, “we’re firm friends. I told Darius all about the end of the games. Shame you couldn’t join us, Varis. There wasn’t much fighting - which is a good thing, I suppose - but it would have been good for you to get out and about. I know you’ve been busy but don’t forget to live a little.” She turns to look at Darius once again. The older man is wearing a bemused smile, as though not quite sure what to make of this creature before him. “He’s a good drinking partner,” she says, throwing a sly look at the clay mugs abandoned atop their stools in the stable. “But you knew that already.” Her face brightens, like the sun emerging from behind a cloud. “Speaking of drinking partners: we got Grimes drunk last night! I consider it my greatest achievement.”
Over Sunday’s head, Darius raises an eyebrow at Varis, who shrugs slightly, the hint of a smile quirking his lips, as though to say “your guess is as good as mine.”
Oblivious to this exchange, Sunday barrels on. “Talking of great achievements, I hear you’ve been building a refuge for orphans? What’re you two doing now? Let’s go see it. What’s it called? Is it open yet?”
Darius looks quizzically at his sparring partner, a slight frown furrowing his brow as he appraises the young Half-Elf in a new light. The older man’s posture has changed slightly. He leans back, his body language more closed, the mirth gone from his eyes, replaced with a kind of distant calculation.
Sunday is still talking.
“Is that why you’ve not been able to come on any adventures with us recently? Must be quite a task - building something like that. It’s doing you the world of good, though. You seem….sunnier….than usual.” She turns to look at Darius, who hasn’t stopped watching Varis. “Is that your fault, Darius? Have you been helping our ‘Godslayer’ come out of his shell? An unexpected cheerleader, I must say. Ah well, joy can be found everywhere so who am I to question that! I’ve been trying for a year to get him to lighten up,” she jerks her head towards Varis. “You’ve managed it in less than a quarter of that time. You should have seen the edges on him back then. Always brave, always steadfast - but damn a conversation was hard work. Or maybe its your new focus, Varis,” Sunday switches her gaze to the young Half-Elf, “this orphanage project seems important to you.”
Varis has been mostly ignoring this verbal avalanche, his eyes fixed on Darius, straw-coloured hair stirring gently in the breeze. He looks down; choosing his words with care, then meets the other man’s gaze steadily.
“I know what you’re thinking, but I’m no hero, Darius. No saviour, I know that. I’ve seen enough wrong done - hells, done enough myself by some people’s reckoning - to want to put a little good back into this world. Balance the scale.”
He waits for the other man to respond. When Darius says nothing, he raises an eyebrow. “You seem uncomfortable, friend.”
Darius shifts his weight, eyes drifting from warrior in front of him to somewhere else - somewhen else - for a moment before refocusing on Varis.
“Son, I’ve probably killed more men than you’ve met in your whole life. I’ve never known one who did good just for the sake of it. People usually have two reasons for doing a thing - a good reason and the real reason. Now, I know I’m new to town and you’ve been very hospitable with your ale and food and company; maybe I’m starting to get the measure of you - maybe not - and I don’t mean to offend, but if my years selling my skills have taught me anything, it’s that if a thing sounds too good to be true, that’s probably because it is.”
Silence settles between the two fighters for a few moments - then Sunday, blowing air through her lips in an exaggerated expression of discomfort, breaks the tension. “Getting pretty intense here. Wind it in, boys. C’mon, Dary, let’s go see Vary’s new project. You can talk about your dark and mysterious past later.” Turning on her heel, she strides off through the arch and out into the street, not stopping to check if they are following her.
Varis turns to Darius, extending his hands, palms upwards. “Will you come and see what I have built?”
The older man stands for a moment, sucking his teeth as he looks around, then shrugs and begins following Sunday out of the arch. Varis exhales a breath he did not know he was holding and joins them on the street. Sunday smiles, seeing them both emerge from the yard, linking arms with the two men and almost dragging them off down the street.
“Sunday,” Varis protests lightly, “It’s the other way!”
“Sure, sure - I just want to make a stop on the way.”
Sunday guides the small group towards the middle of town, talking non-stop along the way about everything and nothing. The moment she steps into Daring’s central square, however, the chatter stops and her face instantly takes on a grim aspect. Varis, used to this behaviour, makes no reaction; Darius, eyes always moving, notices and lets his hand drift to the hilt of the knife at his belt. Sunday takes no heed of either and heads towards the memorial for the victims of the Lassitude. The men follow.
From the other side of the square, a single figure is also approaching the cenotaph: one of the townsfolk, an elderly woman, clutching a simple, faded wreath of ivy and holly. Nearing the monument, she sees the three armoured figures, however, and stops in her tracks - backing up slightly.
Sunday gently raises her hand, “Please. Approach. Our apologies for disturbing you.” She withdraws 20 feet or so, taking the two men with her. The older woman tentatively moves to the base of the memorial, keeping a wary eye on the trio. She pauses in front of the obelisk, before running her fingers along one of the names carved into the stone. She remains motionless for a minute, and then she kneels and places the wreath alongside a few other tokens of loss. She stands in silence for while, head bowed, before casting one last, hesitant glance at the group and hurrying away.
Sunday watches her leave – bright tears in her eyes and running freely down her cheeks. She walks slowly over to the faded wreath and crouches beside it, muttering a few words in Sylvan: the holly berries gradually turn a vibrant, healthy shade of red, and the ivy’s hue shifts to a verdant, lustrous green; new stems and shoots start to grow and bud. Sunday sits back on her haunches, watching the foliage bloom, and begins to talk in unusually muted tones.
“I despise plagues. I loathe them. They rob people of their vitality; their energy. Their joy. Give me a clean death any day. Not some slow, lingering, helpless wasting away. I regret not being here to help when it happened. It sounded fucking horrendous. So many innocents.”
She looks up at the sky; tears gone, replaced with a look of quiet rage.
“And all in the name of a game. I only just found out yesterday who was responsible. I’m ashamed I took part at all in the games. He was there the whole time, as though nothing had happened - as though he hadn’t just murdered hundreds of people to win a few points. Why has no-one done something? I don’t blame the people who played for him or who have dealt with him - they probably didn’t know. But this creature murdered the people we’re supposed to protect.”
Varis is silent for a moment, face calm and thoughtful. Then he nods once, turning to face Sunday.
“So it was Ulorian then? I was there when we rescued Dr Greenclaw, the Kundarii woman who devised the cure. The place they were holding her looked like Moradin’s work, but then, it had been recently captured.”
He narrows his eyes, mind almost audibly whirring with the implications.
“Where did you come by this information? I have steered clear of their games, but I know a little of the Fey courts. It would not be uncharacteristic of them to plant intelligence like this in order to make things more difficult for a rival.”
Sunday remains sat in front of the memorial, eyes moving over the hundreds of names.
“You’re right, the Fey are duplicitous. But it was Rholor who told me: he may be many things, but he’s not a liar or a fool. I’ve heard Ulorian’s name mentioned elsewhere in connection with this, too. The Duchess has also intimated in her own special way that it was him. I know it wasn’t Titania - and I doubt it was Sarastra. The Snow Queen might have been involved but I feel her approach is more direct. Either way, it’s a starting point. Do you think we should go to the council on this? It’s justice for the town; and we can’t embark on anything that would have repercussions for Daring without Daring’s consent.”
Varis frowns, thinking, and then nods slowly. “I agree. If anything is to be learned from Nowhere’s War, it is that the people have a right to know what is being done in their name.” He looks down at Sunday, the green of his eyes suddenly burning with intensity. “But something must be done. The River King has committed crimes against the people of Kantas, and he must face justice. Not only that these crimes might not go unpunished, but so that any other members of the Fey aristocracy will see the price of meddling in the lives of our people.”
He pauses, looking at Darius. “If you wish no part of this, I will understand. War with one of the Faen Courts is no small thing.”
“Technically,” Sunday chips in, rising to her feet, “I’m already currently at war with two of them. Another can’t hurt.”
“There will be danger,” Varis continues, “But also reward, and...forgive me a poetic turn, my friend” he smiles self-deprecatingly “you and I both know, hot fires forge the strongest steel.”
The older man is silent a long while, seeming lost in thought. Then, slowly, he nods, a wolfish grin on his face as he looks up. “Never cared much for Kings myself. And I’m not one to run from a fight. I’m with you, lad.”
Varis smiles, turning to Sunday. “Then we are three. We must be smart. One does not simply walk into the Feywild and demand the head of a Fairy King. We will need allies.”
The Tiefling nods, grinning, a hint of her old wildness creeping into her eyes. “I know just where to start...”
