<div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">Jazzy</div><div class="spoiler_body">   On second thought, maybe you shouldn't have interrupted High Lord Whatsit's fox hunt. Sure hte poor creature was terrified, and you knew damn well His Lordiness wasn't going to eat the creature. Hell, maybe you would have gotten away with it too if you hadn't tried to liberate the fat baron's horse while htey were encamped! How were you to know the party had a keen lookout who was surprisingly good with a rope?<br/>   So here you are, in a damp little cell somewhere on Restov. It's chilly, the kind of chilly that isn't enough to be "cold" but certainly is a far distance from "warm." Your hands are bound in a pair of iron mittens, and your only company is the tribe of pillbugs that live in the mossy mortar of the walls. As if that weren't bad enough, it's pouring rain outside, which just makes your cell even more damp<br/>   Oh. And you're to be hanged for banditry, assault upon a lord's person, and blasphemy at noon. You probably earned that last one. You can hear the constant tok-tok-tok of laborers putting the scaffold together, though. This is a hell of a way to go, isn't it? You try to rescue one horse with a bad back, and the humans think you need to swing. Who will feed Runt?<br/>   Your musings are interrupted by the sound of a key and the creak of rusted hinges as the gaol door swings open. Some of your fellow prisoners clatter their manacles in their cells to see who it might be, bust most are listless; they're bandits too, and there's enough rope to go around. Hard-soled boots clack on the old stone floor, coming down the hallway, towards... Your cell, apparently, since that's where they stop.<br/>   The viewing window to your cell opens, letting in a beam pf light. There's murmuring, "Yes, that's the one." A moment later, more keys rattle and the whole door swings open, spilling a sudden lake of light into your face from the lanterns the two men are carrying. One of Ghlen, the jailer. He's a large man, with wild grey hair and about as many teeth as fingers - but he's also a decent fellow, as jailers go, so you haven't been able to hate him... they thought of every thing! <br/>   The other fellow... is most assuredly not Ghlen, or anyone like him. Tall, even by human standards, in a brocaded, high-collared green jacket with matching tricorne, boots so new they almost moo, and a curved sword worn in the Aldori style. He nudges the peak of his hat up, giving you a glimpse of grey ice-chip eyes.<br/>   He cuts right to the point. "You're going to hang today, gnome." His voice is soft, but seemingly indifferent to your plight. "I can change that outcome, though." Under a thin mustache, his lips form a smile.</div></div><br/><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">Sophia</div><div class="spoiler_body">   The village has no name; it was just a place to stop during the winter for your people. Now that the thaw has come and new green is filling the trees, your tribe is preparing to move once again. It would be easier if the constant slow train weren't turning the ground into mush. The Kellids don't complain about the weather though, and man, woman, and child all work to get the tribe's winter-thinned belongings in order and prepared for the spring travels.<br/>   That makes this the worst possible time for the warning-horns of your tribe's lookouts to sound. The sodden quakes from the approach of hooves. You're one of the few in your camp quick enough to grab a weapon before the horsemen are on you - it's only a wooden mattock, but in your hands, it could do real damage.<br/>   But no attack is forthcoming. The men who ride into camp are clearly more scared of you than you are of them, judging from the armor and shields, but thier weapons are not drawn, unless you count the pointed tips of the pennant-poles, each displaying the double-headed red dragon of Brevoy; at least you think they do, the cloth is soaked htrough and mostly hangs limp as an old man after too much airag.<br/>   The head of the procession stands out; He's not unarmored, but he wears only a breastplate and chain for his arms and legs. A heavy oilskin cloak rests over his shoulders, and he carries no shield - just a long, curved blade. He holds up a chainmailed hand, and calls out in a voice that's probably too light to give commands on a battlefield.<br/>   "Peace, friends, we are emissaries.  We come to your... camp in search of a woman. The one known as..." He checks a slip of parchment. "Peace Bond." He scans the uneasy crowd with cool grey eyes, as if waiting for a response. Behind him, his mens' horses step, feeling their rider's tension.</div></div><br/><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">Calim</div><div class="spoiler_body">   Lake Reykal is the nosiest god-damned lake in the Inner Sea. That you're sure of. The ice is just now breaking up, and the lapping water on the shore carries the rattle and tinkle of ice chips and slush with every little wave. Now and then a more distracting crack or distant boom tells you that even more is breaking up. You have a lot of time to think about this because there you are, standing in the chilly courtyard of Silverhall, awaiting the audience you were summoned for. Your line might be of little account, but neverhteless Dame Sarrona seems to have found reason to call you to the House's ancestral holdings.<br/>   When the time comes, a servant boy in the house's bluer-than-blue livery fetches you. The lad has a very serious face and moves with all the expectant caution of a page doing his very best to do his very best. When you step inside, your skin prickles from the warmth; Silverhall has no shortage of fireplaces keeping the air inside a delightful contrast against the camp chill outside. Gods above know why they had you wait in that cold.    The page brings you to a great door, made of a fine-grained mahogany, no doubt from the finest trees Mwangi could offer. Set above it is a mosaic of glass and lapis depicting the crest of your family, "Success Through Grace" set in scrollwork beneath it; at least you think it does, the sigil is so old that the Taldane is some archaic dialect. You get hte idea, though.<br/>   "Come in, come in," comes a woman's throaty voice, and the page ushers you in, closing the door as he departs. The first thing that catches your eye is the painting; A framed, ceiling-to-floor depiction of some battle or other, Taldane Legions on one side, Qadiran horsemen on the other. Seated at a heavy desk in front of this is a woman of middling age, her blonde hair just starting to catch some grey to it. Her face bears the features you've come to know from women of your family, the high cheeks, strong chin and almond-shaped green eyes. Less familiar is the gentleman in a green coat seated in an overstuffed chair at an angle to the Dame of the house, a tricornered hat resting on his lap. You feel you've seen him before, but you can't place a name to the face.<br/>   "Calim, nephew," the woman greets you without rising. The relation is a little more convoluted than that, but whatever. "This is Sir Timofei Aldori," She gestures to the man, who bows his head slightly in greeting. "And he bears an... interesting proposal I think you may be suited to."</div></div><br/><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">Wladyzlaw</div><div class="spoiler_body">   Things were getting uncomfortable. You're not one to back down from a fight to be sure, but the political climate in New Stetven was getting the better of you. A constant parade of names to remember, faces to watch, courtiers to sup with, courtiers to never share a drink with, all while the tension between Issia and Rostland grew. You had the distinct, unpleasant sensation that better politicians than you were maneuvering you into a corner. No idea why they would, but in the courts of the capital, even small victories can be triumphs for someone. It was time to relieve yourself of the city.<br/>   Which is why you're sitting in a tavern in Restov, enjoying a midday constitutional; You can't get greasy, delicious sausage and plain, heady beer like this at a court dinner, for sure. You have to admit that the atmosphere could be better; the tavern's floor is wooden slats and straw over dirt, the day is overcast and wet, and to top it off, the constables are putting together a gallows in the square just outside. Already a crowd is gathering for the spectacle. Wretched creatures.<br/>   "Pardon my tardiness," a soft voice interrupts your train of thoughts, its owner taking hte liberty of seating himself at your table. You recognize him; Lord Timofei, your contact. "I had a prior engagement, pertaining to the matter." He tugged off his calf-skin cloves and waved for the barmaid to bring him a helping of what you're having. "I've spoken with the Mayor on your behalf, and all the arrangements have been made. Plus some..." He waves a hand and another figure steps over from a corner, moving with a lithe, dare I say... feline grace...</div></div><br/><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">Saruma</div><div class="spoiler_body">   The orders from your lord had been explicit enough. "Find my damned brother before he gets himself killed." There was more to it than that of course; Lord Bazyli had worked himself into a fine temper about his brother-in-law, three different cousins, the price of timber, and the dreadful weather all at once. Privately you thought maybe he ought to ease back on the maple whiskey, but far be it from you to say as much. <br/>   The point is, the lord of your household commanded you to track down his brother and make sure he didn't end up poisoned by some Rostlander noble or another. The trail was actually easy enough to follow - Wladyslaw had tried to cover his tracks, but he was never the most subtle son of the household. That trail led straight to some Aldori knight or another, and this is where you were surprised; the swordlord was waiting for you ,and he was more than happy to take you to Lord Wladyslaw... if you would hear his proposal first.<br/>   So now here you are, following this Issian human through the muddy streets of Restov, waiting for his cue... there. Some dank little tavern, he's sitting with the knight you've been seeking; You hadn't believed at first that Lord Wladyslaw would be seeking to quit Brevoy to go on some mad adventure in the barbarian lands of the south, but the aldori knight had made a fine case for you to join that same endeavor. Go figure. At the swordlord's gesture, you approach...</div></div><br/>